61 Suan, 707
Where Torim had stopped growing in height, he began to fill out in width. Pash, on the other hand, a handful arcs into double digits in age, was still tall and lanky, his muscles lithe under his deeply bronzed skin, but far from bulky like his second cousin or even his father. The older boy was always his antagonist, and Pash loved to tease him that it was because he was the better looking or the faster or the one who built boats more skillfully. Torim did not agree, but more than anything else, he seemed to gain exceptional pleasure out of finding ways to beat his younger cousin at everything: eating, running, flirting, fighting.
Pash wasn’t a sore loser so much as he simply hated losing to Torim. Anyone else was fine, but losing to his second cousin was intolerable, painful, and wrong. He hated it immensely. Loathed it, even.
The blue-eyed youth stood in the center of the practice circle, feeling the beat of drums reverberate through the hull of his chest and the sweat roll down his bare back in the heat of Suan’s bright suns. He’d bested a younger friend, the girl grinning at him as he helped her up, if only because the loss had not made them enemies.
“One more, Pash.” Yarik’s gravely voice rang out over the drumming, instructing him to choose another opponent, welcoming him to advance in his practicing. If Pash did well to-trial, he’d be allowed to spar with the adults.
The tall boy smirked, tide pool gaze washing toward Torim like an unstoppable current. How he enjoyed seeing his older cousin on his back in the sand, though Pash had yet to best him on his own. He’d promised that one day, he would, and while Yarik had told him to set loftier goals, the young shipwright’s son still held a candle for this particular opportunity to win.
“Torim.” Pash requested, crouching in readiness, moving from one foot to the other with the tempo of drum beats and his own pulse, aware that the name he spoke was also his teacher’s youngest son. He was sure he could feel his father’s eyes on him, Traek standing in the circle to-trial instead of playing music. It’d been eight arcs since the shipwright had first brought his eldest to learn the ways of Biqaj hand to hand, and in those eight arcs, Pash had never held his older second cousin down into the sand of Lake Rea’s beach under his victorious grip. The larger boy wasn’t necessarily stronger or faster, though Pash had perhaps convinced himself that those things were true.
Yarik’s sea-weathered expression could only be described as a smirk, aware of the rivalry between his son and Traek’s eldest. It wasn’t anything heated or worrisome, the boys not out for each others’ blood so much as needing to one up each other around every turn. The older Biqaj smiled, nodding to his son and then waving his hand to open the circle to the two as he stepped back into the bodies making it.
The broader, shorter youth grinned at the invitation, stepping into the circle of sand and crouching in readiness, moving in similar fashion from foot to foot with the rhythm of the evening’s drummers, “Really, Pash? Are you forgetting your long list of losses against me?”
“Nope.” The shipwright’s son grinned, lagoon blue eyes fluttering closed for only a moment as he felt the music, praying not to U’Frek but to Zanik for strength. It was time to show his cousin what strength and prowess was always left underestimated in his lanky frame. Emerald and bright with mischief when he opened them, he began to circle his opponent, though he didn’t need to size up the bulkier boy. He knew what Torim was capable of. The question was—did Torim know his opponent as well as he thought? The older Biqaj was quite confident in his abilities, his father leading the small group, after all. He felt he had the advantage, not only in bulk but also in education, though of course his own ego was a heavy burden to bring into the circle. He didn’t know how much it could come to weigh him down. As much as Pash wanted to move up in his training, he also wanted to have fun. His older cousin was a challenge, and while they were considered rivals, the shipwright’s son did not attach anything negative to that connotation. He liked having a goal, even if that goal had a big mouth and a strong kick.
The pair spent a few moments in their circling motion before Torim stepped, well, leapt forward first, his already shorter body low to the sand with a high-arcing kick that swung for Pash’s shoulder. The taller boy stepped into the kick as if he was welcoming a dance partner and hooked his free leg over his opponent’s balanced leg, unbalancing him in an attempt to trip him into the sand. Torim was quick enough, however, and his lower center of gravity allowed him to keep his upright stance, turning on his hand and rolling backwards away from Pash, very close to crashing into the circle of bodies that defined their combat area.
The younger kept his momentum, turning to follow Torim by twisting his body after him, open-palmed strike raking through the air toward the older boy’s chest. Yarik’s son arched backwards, dropping to the ground in a graceful motion and literally flipping away, the tempo of the drums defining his quick motion. Pash grasped air with a frown, unable to hide his disappointment from his face, stepping back into his rhythm lest his frustration take over.
The two continued a back and forth, give and take, series of motions, their bodies moving more like a dance than a fight, always a hair or a trill from making contact. It was not on purpose, however hard they tried, but Torim was surprised to realize that the two of them had somehow become more and more evenly matched over the arcs, much to his chagrin. They held each other’s eye contact, faces only barely serious.
Where Torim hit harder, Pash was perhaps more acrobatic. He felt the music in a way that his older cousin did not, for it sang with his pulse and moved his body. As he began to settle back onto his feet from a cartwheel, Torim moved in with an open-palmed swing toward his gut. Pash, still somewhere between the air and the sand, was forced to change actions, kicking outward in an armada pulada, struggling to keep his footing with the crescent motion of his outside kick. Again, they narrowly missed each other, and Yarik’s son dropped himself into a compasso, both hands in the sand and a heel spinning toward his younger opponent, while Pash copied the motion as an escape instead, using the weight of his heels to flip away instead of to aim a blow—so many of their motions both able to be used as offense and defense depending on the situation.
Opening up some space between them, the elder boy planted a hand in the sand, hoisting himself up and over into a macaco with a kick aimed straight toward the shipwright’s son’s prettier face. The contact was hard, as always, knocking the lanky youth to the sand with a grunt, inhaling sand and gagging. Torim smirked, crouching again as the boy didn’t even pause to dust himself off, scrambling into a roll toward his older cousin and sticking out a leg to sweep his feet in a powerful low kick. Balance thrown off in his smugness, Pash leapt into a high, roundhouse kind of snap kick, a martelo, catching the heavier youth right in the chest, though Torim used the crashing momentum to rush into a vingativa, countering with his weight and leverage in an attempt to topple the lankier youth, only to overshoot in his frustration and throw them both into the closest bodies of the circle.
“Torim!” Yarik thundered at his son’s frustrated move, which had only broken the circle and thrown off the whole rhythm of the game, “You only get one warning.”
“Sorry, father.” Grumbled the youth, the two boys returning to the center of the circle and their stances, rocking to the renewed beat of the drums.
Pash could definitely feel Traek watching him now, his father curious about how his son would play out his sparring match with Torim. He smiled then, watching his older cousin, dusting sand from his palms, studying his face. Their friends were watching, too, their game of give and take heavier with an air of their constant rivalry.
Again, Torim moved first, leaping forward onto one hand and swinging a hard heel, an au batido, at the lankier youth’s face again, grinning as he did so. Pash fell backwards onto one leg, an escala, feeling the rush of air from his elder’s kick pass over his sun-kissed hair. Laughing, he moved to counter-attack, leading swiftly inward with a fake lower kick, catching his cousin off-guard as his leg moved around and high instead, propelling his faster, slimmer body forward and following his kick through with an attempted sweep. Torim, while surprised, was still older and more experienced, reading the movements of Pash’s body and shifted into a low ponte, hand on the ground and a rasteira kick under Pash’s feet as he finished the fluid motion of his sweep.
Somehow, the older boy’s over-confidence managed to keep him just a trill from contact, giving his younger opponent a heartbeat to back away, putting distance between them with an unexpected back handspring. Torim kept moving forward with a dancer’s fluidity, arms swinging to make contact and knock Pash off-balance. Pash staggered, caught by an open-palm to the chest, exhaling with a smirk. Sweat and sand and Suan’s bright suns, the younger opponent didn’t allow enough space between them for another larger move, swaying into a liquid standing sweep, elbow jolting upward as he stepped into Torim’s personal space. Tangling their legs together with his continued momentum and landing his hard elbow into his older cousin’s collarbone, the younger Biqaj tossed both their bodies into the sand, pinning his heavier, bulkier cousin with a twist of his legs.
Torim grunted in surprise, Pash far stronger than he assumed, the youth not struggling under the defeat. He smirked instead and looked to his father.
“Well.” Yarik, who had been watching the whole game with a look of studious attention, smiled broadly, his gravely voice unable to hide his surprise, “Boys, it seems the tables have turned this season.”
Laughter erupted from the circle as the two youths stood and moved to shake hands, though Pash roughly hugged his cousin instead, still grinning and unable to ever obey the concept of personal space, even after a sound victory. Torim tolerated the expression of affection, chuckling.
“You’ve been quite the student over the past few arcs, Pash. It’s time to see how you fare with the other competent adults.”
“Thank you.” The young Biqaj wheezed, sand in places he didn’t like sand, excited emerald gaze looking to Track who smiled back.
Pash wasn’t a sore loser so much as he simply hated losing to Torim. Anyone else was fine, but losing to his second cousin was intolerable, painful, and wrong. He hated it immensely. Loathed it, even.
The blue-eyed youth stood in the center of the practice circle, feeling the beat of drums reverberate through the hull of his chest and the sweat roll down his bare back in the heat of Suan’s bright suns. He’d bested a younger friend, the girl grinning at him as he helped her up, if only because the loss had not made them enemies.
“One more, Pash.” Yarik’s gravely voice rang out over the drumming, instructing him to choose another opponent, welcoming him to advance in his practicing. If Pash did well to-trial, he’d be allowed to spar with the adults.
The tall boy smirked, tide pool gaze washing toward Torim like an unstoppable current. How he enjoyed seeing his older cousin on his back in the sand, though Pash had yet to best him on his own. He’d promised that one day, he would, and while Yarik had told him to set loftier goals, the young shipwright’s son still held a candle for this particular opportunity to win.
“Torim.” Pash requested, crouching in readiness, moving from one foot to the other with the tempo of drum beats and his own pulse, aware that the name he spoke was also his teacher’s youngest son. He was sure he could feel his father’s eyes on him, Traek standing in the circle to-trial instead of playing music. It’d been eight arcs since the shipwright had first brought his eldest to learn the ways of Biqaj hand to hand, and in those eight arcs, Pash had never held his older second cousin down into the sand of Lake Rea’s beach under his victorious grip. The larger boy wasn’t necessarily stronger or faster, though Pash had perhaps convinced himself that those things were true.
Yarik’s sea-weathered expression could only be described as a smirk, aware of the rivalry between his son and Traek’s eldest. It wasn’t anything heated or worrisome, the boys not out for each others’ blood so much as needing to one up each other around every turn. The older Biqaj smiled, nodding to his son and then waving his hand to open the circle to the two as he stepped back into the bodies making it.
The broader, shorter youth grinned at the invitation, stepping into the circle of sand and crouching in readiness, moving in similar fashion from foot to foot with the rhythm of the evening’s drummers, “Really, Pash? Are you forgetting your long list of losses against me?”
“Nope.” The shipwright’s son grinned, lagoon blue eyes fluttering closed for only a moment as he felt the music, praying not to U’Frek but to Zanik for strength. It was time to show his cousin what strength and prowess was always left underestimated in his lanky frame. Emerald and bright with mischief when he opened them, he began to circle his opponent, though he didn’t need to size up the bulkier boy. He knew what Torim was capable of. The question was—did Torim know his opponent as well as he thought? The older Biqaj was quite confident in his abilities, his father leading the small group, after all. He felt he had the advantage, not only in bulk but also in education, though of course his own ego was a heavy burden to bring into the circle. He didn’t know how much it could come to weigh him down. As much as Pash wanted to move up in his training, he also wanted to have fun. His older cousin was a challenge, and while they were considered rivals, the shipwright’s son did not attach anything negative to that connotation. He liked having a goal, even if that goal had a big mouth and a strong kick.
The pair spent a few moments in their circling motion before Torim stepped, well, leapt forward first, his already shorter body low to the sand with a high-arcing kick that swung for Pash’s shoulder. The taller boy stepped into the kick as if he was welcoming a dance partner and hooked his free leg over his opponent’s balanced leg, unbalancing him in an attempt to trip him into the sand. Torim was quick enough, however, and his lower center of gravity allowed him to keep his upright stance, turning on his hand and rolling backwards away from Pash, very close to crashing into the circle of bodies that defined their combat area.
The younger kept his momentum, turning to follow Torim by twisting his body after him, open-palmed strike raking through the air toward the older boy’s chest. Yarik’s son arched backwards, dropping to the ground in a graceful motion and literally flipping away, the tempo of the drums defining his quick motion. Pash grasped air with a frown, unable to hide his disappointment from his face, stepping back into his rhythm lest his frustration take over.
The two continued a back and forth, give and take, series of motions, their bodies moving more like a dance than a fight, always a hair or a trill from making contact. It was not on purpose, however hard they tried, but Torim was surprised to realize that the two of them had somehow become more and more evenly matched over the arcs, much to his chagrin. They held each other’s eye contact, faces only barely serious.
Where Torim hit harder, Pash was perhaps more acrobatic. He felt the music in a way that his older cousin did not, for it sang with his pulse and moved his body. As he began to settle back onto his feet from a cartwheel, Torim moved in with an open-palmed swing toward his gut. Pash, still somewhere between the air and the sand, was forced to change actions, kicking outward in an armada pulada, struggling to keep his footing with the crescent motion of his outside kick. Again, they narrowly missed each other, and Yarik’s son dropped himself into a compasso, both hands in the sand and a heel spinning toward his younger opponent, while Pash copied the motion as an escape instead, using the weight of his heels to flip away instead of to aim a blow—so many of their motions both able to be used as offense and defense depending on the situation.
Opening up some space between them, the elder boy planted a hand in the sand, hoisting himself up and over into a macaco with a kick aimed straight toward the shipwright’s son’s prettier face. The contact was hard, as always, knocking the lanky youth to the sand with a grunt, inhaling sand and gagging. Torim smirked, crouching again as the boy didn’t even pause to dust himself off, scrambling into a roll toward his older cousin and sticking out a leg to sweep his feet in a powerful low kick. Balance thrown off in his smugness, Pash leapt into a high, roundhouse kind of snap kick, a martelo, catching the heavier youth right in the chest, though Torim used the crashing momentum to rush into a vingativa, countering with his weight and leverage in an attempt to topple the lankier youth, only to overshoot in his frustration and throw them both into the closest bodies of the circle.
“Torim!” Yarik thundered at his son’s frustrated move, which had only broken the circle and thrown off the whole rhythm of the game, “You only get one warning.”
“Sorry, father.” Grumbled the youth, the two boys returning to the center of the circle and their stances, rocking to the renewed beat of the drums.
Pash could definitely feel Traek watching him now, his father curious about how his son would play out his sparring match with Torim. He smiled then, watching his older cousin, dusting sand from his palms, studying his face. Their friends were watching, too, their game of give and take heavier with an air of their constant rivalry.
Again, Torim moved first, leaping forward onto one hand and swinging a hard heel, an au batido, at the lankier youth’s face again, grinning as he did so. Pash fell backwards onto one leg, an escala, feeling the rush of air from his elder’s kick pass over his sun-kissed hair. Laughing, he moved to counter-attack, leading swiftly inward with a fake lower kick, catching his cousin off-guard as his leg moved around and high instead, propelling his faster, slimmer body forward and following his kick through with an attempted sweep. Torim, while surprised, was still older and more experienced, reading the movements of Pash’s body and shifted into a low ponte, hand on the ground and a rasteira kick under Pash’s feet as he finished the fluid motion of his sweep.
Somehow, the older boy’s over-confidence managed to keep him just a trill from contact, giving his younger opponent a heartbeat to back away, putting distance between them with an unexpected back handspring. Torim kept moving forward with a dancer’s fluidity, arms swinging to make contact and knock Pash off-balance. Pash staggered, caught by an open-palm to the chest, exhaling with a smirk. Sweat and sand and Suan’s bright suns, the younger opponent didn’t allow enough space between them for another larger move, swaying into a liquid standing sweep, elbow jolting upward as he stepped into Torim’s personal space. Tangling their legs together with his continued momentum and landing his hard elbow into his older cousin’s collarbone, the younger Biqaj tossed both their bodies into the sand, pinning his heavier, bulkier cousin with a twist of his legs.
Torim grunted in surprise, Pash far stronger than he assumed, the youth not struggling under the defeat. He smirked instead and looked to his father.
“Well.” Yarik, who had been watching the whole game with a look of studious attention, smiled broadly, his gravely voice unable to hide his surprise, “Boys, it seems the tables have turned this season.”
Laughter erupted from the circle as the two youths stood and moved to shake hands, though Pash roughly hugged his cousin instead, still grinning and unable to ever obey the concept of personal space, even after a sound victory. Torim tolerated the expression of affection, chuckling.
“You’ve been quite the student over the past few arcs, Pash. It’s time to see how you fare with the other competent adults.”
“Thank you.” The young Biqaj wheezed, sand in places he didn’t like sand, excited emerald gaze looking to Track who smiled back.
