Re: The Woods -> The Deck
The fairy tale was falling apart at the seams. In retrospect, it was never destined to last. Tonight had been an excuse to be something else when, in reality, the knight-not-knight was never very good at playing pretend. Maybe they weren't devoted enough to the idea of kneeling before and swearing fealty to a queen, if they couldn't be a real knight. Couldn't be what the queen wanted most. Yeah.
Maybe they weren't.
Heel raked into their shin, but there was no howl of pain, no cry of agony, just an inconvenienced snarl. Maybe it was the denim they wore, or maybe something else, but they didn't stagger maybe as much as they should have. It still burned, don't get that wrong. It was still distraction enough to loosen their grip, and nearly miss the knife drawn and pointed, until they caught the glint of metal in the dark.
Ever been in a car crash? How seeing an impact incoming slows everything down to bullet time, generally just long enough to think, oh, shit— before it all goes to hell? The tiny bit of reason in the knight's head was a passenger, trying to slam the brakes in a car already flying off a bridge. Reason screamed engaging was a stupid fucking idea. Listening to that? Counter to that literal liquid shot of courage. A knight had honor to preserve. A knight didn't back down. A knight was fearless.
Point was, there was no de-escalating this shit as the weapon was drawn. For all their chivalry, this knight was not squeamish about bare-knuckling it with a lady.
With the knife at their ribs, the knight sidestepped, quick and light on their toes. Hard to avoid the blade, even if the girl didn't take a real stab at it. There was the feeling of connection, of cloth catching and tearing, but difficult to know how deep the blade bit in the dark. The knight felt nothing, but that meant shit all in the grand scheme of things. Single-minded focus was on getting around the knife, and the girl. Behind the extended arm, the knight reached for wrist and elbow—fingers twisted and dug into tendons at her wrist while pushing pressure to her elbow, wrenching the arm forward. Classic disarmament, or at least enough to steer out of harm's way. All in one fluid motion, and clearly well-practiced.
The crowd milling about on the deck had thinned around them, but partygoers were starting to take notice. From behind, somewhere nearby, the low voice of the knight hissed, "Try harder," before lobbing the thick sole of a boot at the back of a knee.