The Lawn, Brunnhold
It did not bother her, Niccolette realized. She did not feel nauseous or nervous; she did not feel sorry. She did not enjoy his pain, but exactly. She was proud of the cast, difficult as it had been, and she felt the knowledge of conquest singing bright through her field, but she would not have said she liked watching him suffer. It was necessary, not enjoyable, and Niccolette could understand the difference.
All the same, something inside her stomach curled - not nausea, but... she could not lie to herself and she knew it for fear. Shouldn’t she be sorry? Shouldn’t she be horrified? She had heard the murmurs and the gasps from the crowd, even though she had tried not to listen.
Not for the first time, Niccolette was aware that she was - different. Not for the first time, Niccolette was aware of an odd ache somewhere in her chest. Not for the first time, Niccolette bore up beneath it and lifted her chin and refused to compromise herself - refused to be any less.
But there were whispers - but the fabric of her dress was soaked - but it seemed a little harder, each time.
Nauleth was cursing at her, furious, and Niccolette bore up beneath that too, untouched by the first round of curses spat from beneath teary eyes. He spat that her family would be glad to see her gone, and Niccolette’s jaw clenched. It was too much - raw pain shuddered across her face, tightening her jaw, and her hands clenched into fists at her sides. How dare he, Niccolette thought. He did not know - he could not know -
She could not think about it. Not now; not ever. She could not think about it.
Nauleth was already casting again, and she had missed her chance to intervene. The first brush of the spell felt like a slap in the face, and Niccolette gasped, stiffly. Another, then, and another, and another, all the lashes targeting the sensitive skin of her face. Tears streamed down her cheeks, an instinctive reaction she could not control, the salt in them making the wounds sting worse.
Niccolette wrapped her hands in the fabric of her jacket and gripped, tightly; she refused, she utterly refused, to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cover her face in fear. And anyway, it would not matter - not to the mona. She stared at Nauleth through it, tears glistening down her cheeks, as blood began to trickle from her nose, as her lips began to swell, as one eye eased shut -
The push spell caught her off guard too, focused as she was on not responding, and Nauleth shoved her down, ground her into the dirt. She hit hard, hard enough to send a jarring ache through her body. Mud splattered her skirt, the wind knocked out of her so she could scarcely breathe, blood steaming from her nose.
Nauleth cursed her again, looming over her, as if petty cruelty made him strong; powerful as she spells had been, Niccolette did not believe it.
Niccolette jerked upright and spat a mouthful of blood and spittle at him without hesitation, not minding that some of it would splatter her already filthy uniform. She could scarcely breathe, but she twisted onto her hands and knees, clutching at the ground; she did not know if he was sensible enough or stupid enough to try to cover her mouth, but she could not take the risk.
Niccolette ran her tongue over her mouth, over the sensitive skin of her swollen lips, tasting blood. She exhaled, carefully - furious, beyond furious, but determined too, and it was the that determination that she reached for, that she brought to bear. He thought he could break her with pain? He thought this would make her yield?
As many times as he had begged her to fight him, had pestered her, and he knew nothing. Well, Niccolette thought, gathering herself, taking the time she needed until her breath had returned enough to speak, until the last of the bright red had eased from her field - he had not wanted rules.
Niccolette began to cast; she crawled away from Nauleth, forming the syllables as carefully as she could through her swollen, painful mouth, blood dripping from her lips and tongue. Hazy energy streamed from her and pooled sluggishly in his mouth, an anesthesia spell carefully and deliberately targeted for his tongue.
It was not playing by the rules - it was not done, in dueling league, to target the tongue, even without doing harm, because of the risk of backlash. A sensible duelist would yield after such a spell, with all the delicacy and precision it required; a sensible duelist would not know to continue.
Niccolette was not sure if she hoped Nauleth was sensible.
She could feel the sluggish response of the mona in the air around her, the unease with which they stirred. It was a difficult cast, but Niccolette knew she could not respond to his attempt at humiliation with anything less. She knew, too, that she had come close to mispronunciation; she knew her usually crisp monite had dragged. But she curled the spell as she shoved herself up to her feet and turned back and lifted her chin to face him, streaks of bloody red standing out against her pale, blood-splattered skin, the skirt of her uniform wet not only with mud, her hands filthy and tangled in her jacket once more, her eyes blazing with determination. Niccolette felt the mona bend to her will, just a fraction, at least to make his tongue tingle, at least to make his control of it soften for just a moment.