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The sharp whizz of a knife through air. The feel of the smooth handle caught in a hand, so close to the wickedly sharp blade. The toss back to where it came from. The knife throwing of shon’ai has become almost second nature, the game now an essential part of the only life Duncan has left to live.
Duncan has long since lost track of how long they have been aboard this ship. It hardly seems to matter. His existence has narrowed to the monotony of cramped rooms and corridors, bare metal walls his entire world. One day is the same as any other, out in the void of space between stars. And there is Niun. Inescapably and always Niun. His companion. His cellmate. His teacher. His everything.
Catch, aim, release. Catch, aim, release. His eyes never leave Niun, judging the blades’ trajectory before they even arrive. The pattern is very nearly comfortable now. Never does he forget that these are weapons, so easily capable of death. But neither does he doubt Niun’s dedication to training him in all that it means to be Kel.
Then the alarm rings. The next jump has arrived. His concentration breaks, but it is a moment too late – Niun has already thrown one blade, and Duncan is not prepared to catch it. It flies at him and scores a gash in his cheek. Duncan has time only to gasp and press a hand to his face before everything is dissolving around him.
He has learned to cope better with the jumps – has been forced to, with all the medicine long gone at Niun’s hand. But neither has it become comfortable. And a wound does not make the experience any more enjoyable.
When it is over, reality reconstituted about him, Duncan lies down and curls up on the ground. He is nauseous and in pain, feeling as if his body has been turned inside out, even as he feels the wetness of blood sliding through his fingers. He’ll be fine. He just needs a minute – or hour or day – to recover.
Even through his haze of discomfort, Duncan hears the tap of Niun’s feet as he approaches. He groans, both at the pain and the anticipation of Niun’s lecture. Perhaps it is not very mri of him, but Duncan is most decidedly not in the mood for an enumeration of his mistakes in this moment. Later he will listen with equanimity to all he could have done better. But for now all he wants to do is lie here in his ball until everything stops feeling awful.
But the anticipated lecture doesn’t come. “Show me,” Niun says, even as he pulls Duncan’s hand away from his wounded cheek. Niun runs his slender fingers over Duncan’s face, uncaring of the blood spreading to his hand. Niun’s fingers are warm from their recent exertion, yet Duncan shivers at the touch.
As Duncan watches, tension seems to leave Niun’s body. A tightness Duncan hadn’t even realized suffused Niun’s features relaxes.
“It is minor. You will soon heal,” Niun says. But his hand remains on Duncan’s face. It is not quite a caress, yet also not quite an objective healer’s touch. Duncan only just restrains himself from leaning into the press of fingers. He finds, as if it is the resolution to a longstanding dilemma, that he wants Niun’s hands on quite a bit more of him.
But that can be dealt with later. For now, he feels far too ill for anything more strenuous than a nod. Their destination is one jump closer, but they have time yet. Perhaps hours, likely far more. They may never arrive anywhere at all. The future can remain this eternal liminal stretch of training.
With one last glance at Duncan, Niun pulls his hand away. Duncan misses its warmth immediately. He supposes that is all the acknowledgement he will get. But for the moment, it is sufficient.