Daddy Dearest [Zenethil/Merik] [Fin]

[Zenethil]

She really was naive. So easily led astray. So perfectly willing to shift her reality, because the Gerudo King showed her none of the troubles that Zenethil spoke of. And thus the process of her unraveling, becoming what she evidently was born to be. His eyes narrowed. Gone was his daughter. The feeling was both heart-rending and soul-destroying. Strange. He had expected it to hurt more. Battle adrenaline perhaps? Or because deep inside him, he had already prepared for the eventuality. It was a strange thought to him, but after his ordeal with Lorina, something that he did not disregard. He simply shook his head lightly. Once again, she threw her words against him. He took them in. And felt nothing. She was too far gone in her own delusion, crafted from Merik's words and actions, placing a veil over the horrors his people inflicted on Zenethil's.

If you had free thought, you would not jump so blindly from one 'truth' to another.

His words had barely left his mouth as she pivoted, a wheeling strike. Again, she turned away from him, her blade sweeping around. He simply allowed her to knock the blade aside, transferring the momentum to rotate himself and position the blade defensively again, parrying her attack, flames surging against the light, the two energies colliding with a sharp crack. His eyes locked with hers, as he focused again, eyes burning with light, the blade surging with light, knocking her blade back, before he stepped in again, before his palm, bathed in cascading holy energy snared out, grasping her face, pulsing with destructive power, not to kill, merely to shock sharply.

[Nairore]

x x

Nairore realized all too late what his plan was. He was much better at a range with his magics, but he wasn't intending to best her. No, instead he was looking to draw her, to bait her, and then use his magic sadistically. It was a side of him she hadn't known before so she hadn't even been expecting it, but as he blocked her sword and his hand outstretched, glowing with energy, her eyes shot wide with the realization. Furthermore she knew too well what this kind of magic could do. It didn't hit one area, but coursed through the body, and Nairore's condition meant that could be particularly lethal for the other inhabitant of her body.

She knew full well from her night spent with Lorina how that magic could flow through you.

So as his hand grasped her face, before the attack could discharge, she let her weight fall backward. It cost her her footing, but she escaped from the shock in time to avoid it doing any lasting damage. This fight was far too dangerous for her child; she needed to play it a lot more carefully. Her weight was thrown back over herself as she landed on her rump and she rolled backward, landing on her feet with a gap between them again. Zenethil had too much of an upper hand, but he didn't realize to what extent. He didn't know about her child; if he did his attacks would no doubt become focused.

With a heave of her chest she caught her breath, before closing the gap again. Naurlambe fell into a two-handed grasp as she moved and she brought it down in a strong diagonal slash. It was fully intended to be blocked, and she knew the logical guard would be high. The two swords clashed again in a shower of magical sparks, but Nairore was expecting it and she lashed forward, pivoting the sword against his so that the pummel struck him square in the face.

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[Zenethil]

She certainly had evasion. His ploy had worked perfectly, but unfortunately, her natural reflexes, almost born out of... Panic, saved her from what would have been quite a nasty, and probably very humiliating shock. And, if it were not for her roll, she would have done the job for him, and humiliated herself. That was all he sought to do. Humiliate her. Show her quite how lacking her training was. Unfortunately for Zenethil, she was more than capable at handling his gentler efforts. As she rolled backwards, he faced her again, focusing energy into the blade again, before watching as she closed the gap to him rapidly, swinging in a high arc.

He wasn't entirely prepared for the pommel strike, much like Nairore had not expected his shock attack. And like Nairore, he reacted on instinct. He allowed the pommel to strike, but turned his head so as to prevent blinding. He let the momentum of the strike roll him backwards. He hit the ground and flung his weight to pivot himself back onto his feet, gracefully almost, if it weren't for the angry welt on his face. The blade was still above his head, before he swung the blade downwards, energy cascading from his blade in a crescent shape of gold light surging straight for Nairore. It hit the blade, deflecting the damage, but driving her backwards, feet sliding across the concrete slabs.

Holding the blade in one hand, he did not relent in his attack, arm surging with gold light, before he swept his palm out towards her, eyes blazing with fury, still aiming only to shock, not to wound. A surge of light cascaded from his outstretched hand, surging towards her, followed by a second, and a third. After the third left his arm, he brought the blade back up into a guard, waiting for the inevitable push she would attempt through his spell barrage.

[Nairore]

x x

^{(OOC: To keep the fight more interesting we're taking some liberties and going story mode)}

When Zenethil toppled backward she knew the resulting roll put too much distance between them to be safe. As he rose up he swept his blade, sending forth a beam. Merik had used a similar attack quite often with his swords, and Nairore had learned to block them. So her sword instinctively came up and the golden beam was batted aside oh so casually. But that beam hadn't been sent to do any damage to her. It was meant to keep her at bay as his hand rose and more spells were conjured and discharged.

Nairore felt the shock hit her in the leg and seize up her body. Oddly enough, though, they did not cripple her reflexes. Perhaps it was some residual resistance from Lorina's shock the day before, her own Gerudo blood's natural resistance to magic, the entire reason she was unable to cast spells. The first shock struck her and stung, but as the second was launched she was able to get her sword up to catch it, the sword absorbing the magic and dissipating it. The third one was caught with another twist of her wide blade, this time deflected off to the side.

Her mind raced as her body recovered from the first shock's minor inconvenience. Zenethil knew what kind of fighter she was, knew it intimately. What would she normally do here? Charge in, close the gap between them so that he couldn't cast any more spells. Her momentum would go into the attack for added strength. That was what he was ready for. Nairore's lips curled upward in a smirk as she decided on an alternate plan. She raced forward, straight for Zenethil, except as the distance closed she swept Naurlambe across to release her own blade beam forward.

Her feet carried her behind the beam, but instead of attacking directly after it she fell into a low roll right past Zenethil's guard, rising to her feet behind him and throwing a backward kick into his knee to topple him to the ground. She turned and swung again with the pummel of her sword straight for the side of his head, looking for the knock out blow, but he was able to get his hand up in time, the same sort of shock catching her momentarily as they made contact. In response her leg kicked upward into the other side of his head, not with near enough force to knock him out but enough to disengage the attack as she took a half-step back out of his reach, re-establishing her guard through weary, shocked muscles.

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[Zenethil]

She clearly had learned that predictability was going to get her nowhere. Hence the change of tack when she rushed in against him. Her own blade beam, which he read, and the energy simply fluttered harmlessly into nothing. Her roll past his guard wasn't expected. And it was too late to avoid. He clattered to the ground, swiveling himself to reflexively, instinctively turn and face her just before he hit the ground, hand shooting back out to grab her wrist, a surge coursing through her body, but before he could engage for long enough to incapacitate someone of Gerudo blood, her boot lashed out at his head. It caused his focus to break, head spinning for a moment, before he clambered to his feet, disorientation making his movements a little shakier. She, however, seemed to bearing up worse. Her guard was tired, too rigid, over-compensating for the fatigue he had forced into her system.

It was an advantage to press, his blade alight once again as he swung the flat of the blade to force her to maintain a guard, before, at the last minute, driving the blade downwards, energy dissipating from the blade at her feet, exploding upwards, throwing her backwards, giving him a little more space to work with, to recover his orientation fully. Having never released anything close to his full magical potential, much of what he displayed was completely new. He stared her down, watching for an opening.

For an instant, he saw one, her guard positioning over her stomach more, and in that instant, a small ball of light, a similar size to a crystal orb, materialised from his hand, flicked outward. She swayed to the side to avoid it, a graceful dodge. But not enough. A deft gesture in her direction and the glowing missile redoubled, careening into her head with a resounding crack of discharging energy, halting her attack momentarily. Another gesture, another crack, this one on her leg. Then her arm. His next gesture was met by her blade, which swept up, diffusing the ball, before the blade continued it's motion, a relentless flurry of attacks driving him on the defensive, yielding step after step as she rained down blows with her customary precision and fury. She caught his leg once, the flames searing his flesh a little, before her blade locked with his, driving it inexorably closer to his face, redoubling his defensive efforts, forcing energy to wash into his blade once more, deadlock approaching.

[Nairore]

x x

One of the most important parts of sword play, Nairore had learned long before Merik arrived, as footwork. Each step you took, each slide, pivot or recovery, every single movement of your foot had to be precise and with purpose. To be off by an inch could be the difference between you losing your balance and thus losing ground on the recovery, or you being able to brace for an attack and fend it off successfully. Your foot controlled the movement of the rest of your body, it absorbed all impact you took and unleashed the bulk of your momentum. It was impossible to fight without moving your feet. Or rather it was impossible to win.

The thing was this bit of knowledge came with an important side effect. Knowing the importance of footwork allowed you then to know from your opponent's feet what the most obvious line of attack is to push them back. It also came with the knowledge that if you could control their feet you would have an advantage. Nairore kept her eyes locked on Zenethil as she pounded him with blow after blow, forcing him to relinquish ground without giving him any chance to recover. She kept going, watching him, and more importantly, watching his feet.

Every step back he took was a new position, and she was waiting for the right moment when his weight was distributed just right. When she saw what she was looking for, an off center balance, she lashed out with two attacks at once. Her sword came down on him to force his block. Meanwhile her leg kicked forward in a motion similar to stomping to kick at the leg that carried most of his weight. His attention on her diversionary attack she threw him off balance accordingly and took the opportunity to strike.

Wheeling around quickly once more she threw all of her weight into another roundhouse. Of course this meant she fell for her own tactics, but she wasn't expecting Zenethil to recollect his balance as quick as he did. He lashed out into the one leg she stood on as she kicked, forcing her to throw all of her weight into the kick. It caused a much harder hit to the side of his head which caused him to crumple to the ground, but at the same time she was unable to catch herself in mid-air and fell into the dirt, a bolt of pain shooting through her as she twisted like a cat to land on her shoulder, protecting her naval.

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[Zenethil]

Balance was key. Especially for one so disproportionately tall and slender as Zenethil. His centre of gravity, fortunately, was lower than one would expect for someone of his enormous height, but his armour offset it somewhat. Surprisingly nimble on his feet, bred from years of being lighter, weaker and less powerful than virtually all other warriors who cared to use a weapon, he could shift his weight around faster and more accurately than people dared to wager. Nairore, having never utilised any attempt to knock him off balance, so engrossed in blade form as she was during her training with him, had never witnessed this almost cat-like grace that Zenethil exhibited in the field of combat.

Every step he yielded was measured. But just before she knocked him off balance, he mis-timed a block, the force shifting his foot out of position for a moment. She pounced on the weakness, a momentary one, her strike almost careless, because her real target was his foot. Her stomping kick slammed into his calf, and he was immediately grateful of the armour which often weighed him down, but nevertheless was pushed further off balance as his leg buckled somewhat from the force of the attack.

Her true intent became clear as soon as her leg came up to lash out at him. All of these unarmed attacks confused him. Particularly as he was making telling strikes with his magic at every opportunity. He spotted a gap, her blade moved aside as she kicked to allow her free movement, and his weight shifted fully, his fresh leg sliding forward to change his stance, ducking down, all his weight on that leg, knowing full well he couldn't hope to block the swift retribution that her kick would be bringing, choosing instead to trade blow for blow, his 'weakened' leg, snapping out, catching her mid thigh, completely destroying her balance. Her response? To continue with the kick.

It slammed into the side of his head, knocking him clean off his foot, onto his back, dazed, before spitting blood from his mouth onto the ground, Acheron having cartwheeled away from him as his body was flung uncontrollably by the sheer force of her kick, combined with his utter lack of weight. A rare momentary error. One he corrected immediately, staggering to his feet, leaving his blade discarded. Through the haze the pounding of his blood surging through his head brought on, he set in motion another feint.

He feigned dizziness, or rather, exaggerated his condition, holding his head, swaying a little, moving towards Acheron. He had no intention of reclaiming the blade, so little was it actually doing during this conflict. He stooped down unsteadily, grasping the hilt weakly turning from Nairore, his eyes blazing more intensely than before, waiting for the moment that he would strike. She had risen to her feet, her shoulder red from the impact with the floor, moving forward, cautiously at first, before he turned from her, where she surged in, pommel aimed for the exposed back of his head. He heard her move, releasing the hilt and wheeling.

It was a three-fold move, crying out to the Goddesses, the Word of Glory revitalising him completely, a wash of gold encasing his body, before coalescing around his right hand. He warded to strike, her attack stopping dead scant inches from a knock-out blow. His timing had been perfect, his arm shaking as he resisted her relentless force. His eyes continued to burn with furious yellow-gold light, before his other hand struck, charged with power, striking her chest with the force of a thunderbolt, again seeking to drive her from him, to give him the opening to finish this fight, to bring her humiliation. And he knew exactly how to do it. To take away the one thing she had genuinely seemed to cherish even now that he had given her.

Naurlambe would not see the end of this fight.

[Nairore]

x x

Then he went and healed himself.

Nairore cursed under her breath as she saw Zenethil glow with the holy energy that rejuvenated him. What was she aiming to accomplish here? She knew he was a healer, renowned for holy magic. That same magic had fixed her up many times in the past, so she was quite familiar with it. So what was she aiming to accomplish if she knew any damage she did to him could just be healed up. Maybe her goal was similar to Zenethil's. Perhaps she was aiming to humiliate him just as she was aiming to humiliate her. She certainly didn't want to kill him, as it were.

He caught her attack and stopped it dead, then unleashed another shock square in her chest. She gritted her teeth through the sensations and dug her heels into the ground where she could as the blast sent her back. There was no fighting off a magic blast like that, she knew that much. She simply had to accept the momentum it forced her back with and attempt immediate damage control. Her heel caught in a loose cobblestone and she threw all her weight into that hold, stopping herself before any more distance could be created between herself and her father.

A flick of her hand cast off any residual shock running through her system as she gathered herself up again. She couldn't keep this up. His magic gave him a second wind but the continual shocks she was taking were easily accelerating the effects of fatigue on her muscles. She could fight for hours in the best of conditions, she had trained herself for endurance, for those long and grueling fights. But she was not in the best of conditions. Shocks going through her body and the hormonal imbalance keeping her in almost a perpetual state of fatigue was enough.

Still Merik's training was paying off. She had pushed herself when training with him, pushed away exhaustion and the pain it brought to her muscles. She had learned to ignore the urge to slow down, how to push herself as much as possible. Of course if she pushed herself too far she would only end up hurting herself, but her endurance and willpower combined to keep her going. With a quick glance back at the house, almost wishing Merik would glance out a window or something to see this battle, Nairore turned her attention back to her father, re-assuming her guard. She had to be more careful, to access her situation.

The real problem was how hard it was to predict magic before it was cast.

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[Zenethil]

The unpredictability of magic was both a blessing and a curse. It made it a nightmarishly complicated thing to learn, but an utterly merciless and ever-shifting weapon and tool with which you could wield perfectly, as though it were part of your own body, given enough practice and enough raw natural aptitude. Zenethil had both, as quite possibly the finest magic user in the Hylian Knights, and as such made him a dangerous opponent, a combination of defensive and offensive magic that made him able to face down most opponents with ease. Nairore had put up a better fight. But even she, as adept with the blade as she was, was tiring, yielding to his arcane dominance. She flew through the air away from him, and immediately, Zenethil began pressing this advantage.

His arms moved out to the horizontal, power wreathing itself around them, a gout of purest white flame in each hand, as he slowly began to raise his arms above his head, the two blazing manifestations of his holy mastery of magic growing larger and larger. They merged as the two met above his head, arms trembling as the two masses of flame grew larger still, seething and writhing, fighting against his control. His eyes radiated the arcane might that coursed through his veins, golden light pouring from them, replacing the sockets with pools of incandescent power. He spoke, his voice gaining a resonant, double-toned quality, commanding, powerful, otherwordly.

This is what comes of studying from a man who shares your weaknesses and your strengths so much.

The flames continued to grow, as she stood stock still, seemingly in awe of the powers he was bringing to bear. She had never seen him harness the Holy Fire, one of his most complex and destructive spells. Few had. He was deliberately slowing the casting, to control the flames, to ensure they hit his true target. Normally, he could conjure and unleash these ravening flames upon a target in a matter of moments, but he had no desire to immolate Nairore. Only to deny her the weapon she cherished.

You never learn to overcome your weaknesses. Nor cope with your strengths being removed.

The world seemed to go silent for a scant few moments. The crescendo of his spell had been reached, and now, the silence before the breaking of the storm. He strained against the furious energies that desired so much to simply annihilate everything in its path. But he was in control. She began to surge toward him, sensing the inevitable too late, as his hands drew back, pure white trailing behind them, before, with a cacophonous roar of rushing flames, he unleashed the spell, mind bent towards Naurlambe, the holy conflagration twisting and writhing as it poured from his outstretched hands, bathing Naurlambe in it's righteous fury.

[Nairore]

x x

Zenethil was harnessing all of his magic in a bizarre twist and dance that radiated with power. Nairore watched the magic swirl about him and she felt a long buried envy poke its head out from the ground. Envy she had long since conquered in her acceptance that she couldn't use magic. Yet seeing the might Zenethil was wielding now made her stomach flutter in a way it hadn't since she was a child, since before she'd known true discipline and come to terms with her own handicap. It caused a moment's hesitation before she buried it once more, but that moment was too long.

Nairore charged forward, looking to stop Zenethil before he completed his spell. As he unleashed it, however, she realized it was too late. Her feet dug into the ground and she skidded to a stop, watching the spell close in on her. Of course Nairore didn't know the true target of the spell, and immediately brought Naurlambe up in front of her to block the spell as best as she could. Zenethil's full might, she knew she wasn't going to be able to stop it, but Naurlambe was a magical weapon, it had a certain affinity with magic that allowed it to stop spells, or at least block them.

The spell struck Naurlambe and, to Nairore's surprise, the weapon stopped it from hitting her. Only then, after she slid backward several feet from the sheer impact, she realized that the weapon had taken the entirety of the attack because it had been meant to. And this was reflected by a giant crack across the weapon. Her eyes shot wide at the realization and she glanced up at Zenethil, no doubt wearing a smirk on his face as his goal was accomplished. The weapon began to shake violently in Nairore's hand and the fire on the blade disappeared. Raw energy glowed from within the crack, itching to get out, and the break across the blade began to spread.

"When you take back a gift, man up and do it yourself," Nairore grunted, digging her feet into the ground and throwing herself forward. The scimitar shook wildly but Nairore overpowered it just long enough to swing it's blunt side in for Zenethil's head. Zenethil did the obvious and raised his gauntlet up to block it. The impact of the blade against his armor was enough to finish the break, and the top half of the scimitar separated from the bottom half and all the energy that was locked up inside burst outward in a massive pulse of energy centered right on top of Zenethil: Nairore's goal.

What Nairore didn't account for was the sheer amount of force locked up inside the weapon. The two halves of the blade were practically disintegrated, with shards of metal blasting out in all directions. Both parties were blasted backward from the pulse, Nairore hitting the ground and rolling several times. She ended up on her back and grabbed at her left arm, gritting her teeth in pain as a two shards of the sword had embedded themselves into her skin, one near her shoulder and the other piercing through her forearm, blood already flowing freely. Instinctively she clutched at her stomach and found relief in the fact that the only wounds she knew were in her arm, but they still hurt like a bitch as Nairore writhed on the ground.

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[Merik Dragmire]

Merik's day had been fairly uneventful and he was a little glad for that. He had been awoken by one of the servants knocking with his breakfast. He had eaten alone and in peace before setting in to clean his armor. Once it was clean and nicely polished he packed it up and had one of the servants place it down with the horses.

Nairore had told him that she'd be talking with Zenethil and he was prepared for the worst to happen. And he was prepared...and prepared...and prepared...and after a few hours nothing had happened. Then lunch came and he ate again.

Shortly after lunch he read for a little while before the crash of steel on steel caught his attention from outside. Snapping to attention he jumped to the window and looked down as father and daughter traded blows, Frostbite and Flamestrike already in hand. After watching for a few seconds he was easily able to discern the truth of the matter: they were just warming up to spar. He knew Nairore's style well enough by this point to see she wasn't going full power just yet, and clearly Zenethil wasn't either; there was also the little niggling bit in his mind reminding him that Nairore was smart enough not to go into full combat with someone of the Knight's reported skill without backup in her condition.

So safe and secure in the knowledge that somehow the conversation from hell had managed to go right, the Gerudo King returned to his seat and resumed reading. That continued for a few more minutes before an explosion rocked the house and shattered the windows.

That was definitely not part of a simple sparring match. Jumping to his feet he charged and leaped from the busted window to the battlefield below, landing in a crouch between the two combatants.

(OOC: And cue kickass entry music)

As the dust blew around them he rose from his crouch, his appearance rippling like water as it flowed from the young Hylian form he had adopted into his natural form. Flamestrike appeared in his hand and he pointed the fiery blade at the downed Hylian as he took a few hurried steps towards Nairore.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly as he offered her his free hand while keeping an eye on Zenethil.

[Zenethil]

Three conflicting instincts pulsed through Zenethil's mind as the events unfolded. First, a sense of triumph, at as clinically, and spectacularly, having taken away her blade. The weapon, splitting under the combined energies of itself and his spell, continued to crack and threatened to explode. The second, confusion. Why was she attempting to attack him with a broken blade? Surely she knew that her weapon was almost entirely useless? The third was a peculiar one. It verged on admiration. It was the most audacious and bold idea she could have ever concocted. His reflexive block of the blade shattered it, the volatile energies screaming into life as they were released. For a split second, he looked into Nairore's eyes, contempt filling his own. Then he was flung backwards, his senses thrown into disarray.

He dimly felt his rough landing, then a second impact, a wall possibly? He could see nothing but a blur. Hear nothing but an incoherent din. His mind was befuddled, unable to think clearly enough to cast a spell to relieve his condition. Slowly, his senses began to clear. He vaguely registered the voice that spoke to Nairore. Through still-blurred eyes, saw the figure of a brute of a man, appearing in place of a much more diminutive one. Confusion registered in his still boggled mind. Who... Who was that. He said nothing, before dimly hearing the pounding of footsteps behind him.

A group of twelve Hylian Knights ran full tilt towards him, before intersecting the gap between him and his assailants. A wall of blades presented itself, before layers of magical protection flickered into existence, their healer attending to Zenethil. Healing magics washed around him, clearing his head. He began to stand, a little shakily at first, before completing the healing himself, an almost casual flick of the hand, taking up his blade once again, looking squarely at Merik and Nairore. Utter disdain was upon his face. Did her treachery know no limits? Was she without any sense at all? And the extension of the hand? This was far more than simply a teacher and pupil.

Why am I not surprised to see you here Merik. How touching. The master, taking care of his pupil.

His face was cold, his expression full of malice and fury, contempt and rage, all directed at the two of them. His daughter... No... No longer his daughter. Just another Gerudo. Just another Gerudo, under the thumb of this despicable viper, who dared to call himself a leader. His Knights formed up tightly around him, a dense phalanx, facing towards two Gerudo.

I hope you realise Merik that by coming here today, you have brought us ever closer to open war.

[Nairore]

x x

The pain was wracking her body, a throbbing sensation radiating from her left arm where the shard had embedded itself in her shoulder. Blood pooled around her and she could feel it against the back of her head, matting her hair. It was unlike any pain she'd experienced before, to say the least, and not the kind she could easily ignore. It was no minor wound. The shoulder injury was enough that she didn't even feel the one stuck in her forearm. Nairore writhed on the ground, her senses still scrambled from the explosion. She gritted her teeth and fought back every urge to cry out in pain. That wasn't her.

Then there was a figure standing over her, offering her a hand. Merik was there, standing defiantly against a wall of Knights who had come out of nowhere. And then there was Zenethil, back to his feet, like nothing had happened. Healers had been on the scene, ready. All that effort, even the loss of Naurlambe, and she had done nothing. Nor did she get through to him with any of it. True conviction. Or was it? She blinked as she tried to recollect herself, find her senses wherever they'd been blasted to by the explosion, but the pain in her shoulder made it so much harder. There were words being spoken, but it all sounded muffled, like they were trying to talk underwater. All she caught was Zenethil saying "open war".

Her eyes shot open. Open war. Was that what this would turn into? It'd always been about protection and control, but full on war would be totally different. And why? Because of her? Because she had betrayed her own father? Was there really a threat of open war just because she had run off on her own. She had been selfish, yes, she saw that. But could she accept the loss of all the lives that was inevitable during full, open war? Could she accept that on her head? Nairore reached up and took Merik's hand with her good arm, staggering to her feet as best as she could. They were still a little wobbly, but she managed to stand.

"Duty and selflessness?" she murmured to herself, hardly audible to anyone in the area. Temperance and honor were a given, but she understood the other two now. And she knew what she had to do. Her teeth clenched and she grabbed the shard of Naurlambe that was embedded in her forearm and pulled. It came out, painfully slow, with a new surge of blood. "I'll show you duty and selflessness," she said louder, though it would still take anyone in the area a second to understand what she said so slurred was it.

No lives would be thrown away because she had been selfish.

With a grunt against the pain as the shard cut through her right palm Nairore swung the blade point first to where Merik stood right next to her, straight for his throat that she could end all this right now. Her mind was blank, she didn't want to think as she swung, knowing full well this was just going to throw everything into more chaos, but it could be handled, it could be explained and there would be no war. She swung the shard like a dagger and aimed to open Merik's throat as much as possible while his guard was down and she had the chance.

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[Merik Dragmire]

"Coming here today? You blind fool, I've been living under your roof as your guest since we arrived in Castle Town, I'd probably still be enjoying my book if you two hadn't made so much noise out here." Merik growled, though he was smirking at Zenethil's mistake as he felt Nairore take his hand to rise. He contemplated staying for the fight but thought better of it as she wasn't in a good condition to stay"The horses are packed and I think it's time we make good our..."

It was the blessing he already held that saved him from death as the shard of Naurlambe tore into his throat. Oh the attack was still deadly and left alone it would kill him in time but he had unfinished business and he would not fall before these pathetic Hylians. He spun and in a flash buried Frostbite in his former student's stomach. As his eyes locked onto hers the pure hatred was palpable in his gaze before he swung and tossed her towards the Knights.

Taking a few steps back further from them he raises Flamestrike and drew the flat of the blade across his throat with a hiss as the burning flame overcame the kiss of cold steel.

"Take back your whore daughter Zenethil, she is too weak to bear my child and I retract my gift." he snarled, his voice more gutteral and darker than before. "Maybe she can help keep your Knight's occupied now, she's good for little else."

With that he turned and ran, his horse was already prepared and he now had a very important meeting to reach. But before his horse rode off he took a last second to hurl a bolt of flame into the stables to set them ablaze.

[exit]

[Nairore]

x x

Nairore felt the blade strike home. She felt the feedback as it broke through his flesh, slicing through her palm at the same time. She felt it dig in and drove it down with all the force she could to make the injury stick. A small smirk spread across her lips purely out of instinct, that familiar feeling of a blade rending flesh and the warm gush of blood that responded. What Nairore hadn't been expecting, simple enough considering the complete lack of thought that ran through her mind, was Merik's retaliation. In a sudden jolt she felt cold and emptiness deep inside of her.

Everything slowed down as she felt Frostbite dig through her innards. She could feel the hatred in his gaze but it didn't register. With a grunt he shrugged her off and threw her to the ground. An agonizingly long fall. She was just sort of drifting through the air. Then she was on the ground. She didn't feel the impact, she didn't even feel the ground beneath her. The clouds were high above her, unchanging as always, not a care in the world for these events that transpired below them. She could feel each breath she drew. In came the air, but it didn't seem to go anywhere. It was all empty.

There were words. Underwater words, muffled and lost. She couldn't understand them, but then Zenethil was by her side. He said something, she could feel it, but it didn't register. She couldn't find breath, all she could feel was that cold emptiness where Frostbite had stung her. She coughed and blood flowed down her chin and she managed to draw air. Enough to get words out, anyway, enough to get a single message across as her vision grew darker and the pounding of blood in her ears grew dimmer. "Titania . . . don't let him get to . . . Titania," she said, then coughed some more.

It was a surprisingly reasonable thought for a mind that had shut itself down moments before any of this happened, when she had blocked out all thought for sheer action and instinct. Or maybe it was instinct driven: she knew Titania helped Merik, and she knew Titania was a very potent healer. A wound like what she had inflicted on Merik would need healing. Either way as soon as the words left Nairore's lips she coughed again, more blood almost flowing freely as she clutched at anything, the cough sending pain wracking through her body.

Then with a shuddering breath the cold emptiness overcame her and she was unconscious.

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