9.3

Centecidal

I've been leaving notches since I was very young. I know big numbers when I see them, but their names are as mysterious as the language of a snowfall between old trees. I know how to tell if something is a lot, but I can't tell you how many blades make an armory. So I leave notches. A notch for every year I spend with her. A notch for every miracle. A notch for every kill.

I keep track.

Today I stood at a close to perfect number of notches. I don't want to make the notches less important--each one is a gift from the Earth to show me favor and give me power--but this notch matters somehow more, as if the change of seasons matter. I tell you this less for myself and more for you, because Ares is close to the same as me. Obsessed with notches. His are different, and he tracks them with his numbers, but a notch is a notch. He notches his gold, and his spells, and his demons, and his expertise. And his kills. He notches kills, I think, to prove to himself. I notch to prove to Earth.

We keep track.

And so, with something to prove and nothing riding on the line, we've both been creeping closer to our important number, after which we can say that we've done something important, or proven something. I was five shy and I dropped down into the darkness only to find two enemies. Weak. Cold. Terrified. Gifts from the Earth to me, to prove a strength and dedication to her cause. But I must have stropped my axe on wet leather this morning, because my strikes didn't seem to cut bone. My swing stopped short of pushing through the body, and only thudded home. One fell, and the other bled deep. Ares pushed from behind.
No.
He would not have this from me. He would not take what the Earth had so clearly given. Deep fear gripped me. I would not kill him for this, but I would take it from him as well I could. Fanning my cloak, I shielded my foe. Calpurnia's mind burned in me with dreadful purpose. I could feel the judgement through our minds, and I knew she watched to see my strength. Ares, cleverer than I, full of skill and cursed with magic, somehow twisted my own eyes and my own mind to his purpose. I felt the strange brimming of force behind my words, and I knew I had to stop, or his victory would be sure. I bit my tongue, the blood dripping from my chin and stinging my taste. I had no time, no chance to waste. He had twice tried to prove himself, and I had to twice over prove myself. There were no other options.
Yes.
Ares, you are weak. And not just your arm, which is like a woman's. Your mind. You could not overpower me, either through tricks or skill. Your own magic knew my right. You tried to fill the veins of my enemy with ice, but instead you sealed his wounds and fired his mind. You're like a mountain that slips snow to become lighter, forgetting the people in the valley below. And you're as heavy as you ever were. My sharp axe is deadlier than your mysteries. I tore through the passage, leaving the magnificent kill in full view of Ares and any others who cared to see. My strokes were clean and beautiful, one to peel the armor, a second to open the chest, and a third to crush the organs. Ares rolled in the dirt like an infant.

Three shy of my perfect notch.

And I found four. They lined up. What more could I need? The Earth gives, and the Earth is plenty. One. Two. An enemy smashed. One. Two. An enemy crushed. One. An enemy split. But the broken body I stepped over first rolls to strike my back. One shy of my perfect notch. I turn to put my axe between his eyes, pull it from him in a beautiful stroke and leave traces of him sprayed across the room, when: I twitch. Everything flashes blue-white, and the enemy lies, smoking and dry. Ares.

Ares.

Ares.

But. He has left one accidentally. He cannot kill it, for all his fire and sound. For this, I need no axe. This is the Earth's kill. I'll give it to her, and take it from the demon hunter. Let me have the creature, and let him have the darkness. This is mine. With the axe trembling only inches from my target, I walk to it and hold it down. It twitches. It hates me. I whisper, rough with anger.
"You are my perfect notch. You are only as good as the rest. You are dead, now. Go to sleep."

His skull will protect my leading arm, and his jaw will strike with my fists. He is my perfect notch.

Who can say if Ares will be my notch, in time? I joke, of course. But I could do it.