“Don’t worry about it,” Caspian wheezed out, waving off Moritz’s apology. Once he was back on his feet, with the world grounded beneath him, his situation felt more stable. But petch did getting up and getting there hurt. It’s been worse, though, he told himself – remembering, chiefly, that one time he had been climbing a rusty gate somewhere in town around age 13, only for said gate to come careening down, resulting in him landing also ribs-first onto that central screw thing where the spokes of a wagon wheel all connect. Why the wagon wheel had been left loose and alone in the middle of the street ,he had no clue; why he decided to climb the only part of the gate obviously next to abandoned debris was also beyond him.
“Wait, maybe we could – “ he called after Moritz, but that Kelvic was already speeding away. If not for his stature, Caspian might have blithely declared him a Rabbit. The moment of respite he got wasn’t quite nearly enough – he had half a mind to lie down again – but the sight of the training throwing daggers piqued his interest.
“Weird. They’re so light. Like I’m holding tree branches.” Caspian said, testing the weight of the pair he’d been offered. The differences in weight – between Obfuscate and the previous training dagger, and now between that one and this pair – threw him. It gave him the sensation he could swing harder, faster – that he himself was stronger and swifter. But he knew this was simply an illusion, and that in a few minutes his body would readjust again.
“So, is this – “ Caspian tried his best to remember Moritz’s stance as he’d thrown the training daggers. Moritz’s attempts had landed – barely, but they had – and he had no confidence he could do the same. “Okay, so you stand sideways, like – “ Awkwardly, he put his right foot forward, turned his body sideways in relation to the target. The heft of the training dagger in his right hand hadn’t quite harmonized with him yet. The idea of keeping himself sideways he perhaps took too fully, for he realized he also kept his head sideways, and was looking at the target out of the corner of his eye. But where his head was turned probably shouldn’t matter, right? So keeping his body in the same position, he turned just his face towards the target. “Well, here goes nothing.” If it were a real enemy, where would he want this strike to land? Stick ‘em in the eye – nope, that was his stepmother’s voice there, reedy and viciously unhelpful. The sensible answer was right in the chest, he supposed. He aimed there, visualized it sinking in, right into the heart. He sighed – then threw, feeling at all stages of the motion as ungainly as a newborn foal.
Unsurprisingly, it missed completely, striking the opposite wall but not sticking, and skidding across the floor.
“Well, if he’d bought a friend along, that friend would certainly be dead,” he said jovially, trying not to let his embarrassment show. “You go again. I’ll try and take better notes this time.”