A/N: Just a little post episode thing to tell my writer’s block it’s not the boss of me. And also cause it’s been three days since the episode and I can’t stop thinking of these two muppets.
Inside you’ll find visions and snuggles and swords.
It stings through her arms.
Every clash of the blade is heavy, erring on the side of too heavy, and her muscles shiver under the brunt. But it doesn’t stop. It can’t. If it does…
Emma simply has to up the ante.
One clang is followed by another, then a prang, a headlong slice as swift as she can make it; each blow pursued by yet another – from her, from the hooded figure. Every clattering shwing a burden on her strength.
(Both her physical and her emotional.
She’s seen this too many times, this exact sequence of events – she’s afraid of where she knows it leads.)
It doesn’t help that she can see her family racing towards her out of the corner of her eye, four darkly shadowed people through a bluey mist. But she has to duck, grit her teeth together and carry on, to let the sharp clatter of the fight ring in her ears.
The sharp clattering of her impending end, the Saviour’s end.
In Korea they say ‘fighting’ instead of ‘good luck’, or so she’d been led to believe by the girl from Seoul who slept in the bunk below hers when she was fourteen. Emma had always liked the message in that motivation. It gave someone the strength to believe in themselves, to power through on their own merits and know that no magical entity was going to do it for them. Both successes and failures were of your own making.
There are no magic pills in this world.
Strangely enough, she wishes it was the opposite way around this time.