If Jude was a drunk at a bar, Near would definitely get him. If this was a real fight -- a fight with fists, or with the knife as a weapon -- Near would win. Jude has never learned how to throw a punch or dodge one; the only gun he's ever fired has been an air rifle. Not only does he have the odd manners and queer sensibilities of an artistocrat of yore, he is about as physically useful as one.
Unfortunately this is not a real fight. Unfortunately it is bait.
The distance between Jude's other hand and the knife is shorter than the distance between Near's hand and Jude's wrist, so it is relatively easy for Jude to close the distance between the former pair before the latter make contact. Here arrives another misfortune: Jude's reflexes are quick, but his dexterity for this gesture is imprecise. Instead of gracefully slicing open his hand, he stabs himself with the first inch of the blade before Near grabs his hand and he drops the knife.
Conditioned not to scream, Jude looks wildly at Near as blood begins to pulse from his hand to the floor. He stares at Near angrily and then he says something in that nothing language of his, words that vibrate in the ear as they do in the teeth, words that taste of ash. The floor beneath Near's feet becomes soup for a second and a half, and then Jude says something that sounds like a mosquito's rejection, a whining-hiss word that reconstitutes the matter of Near's floor around his calves as if it had been built around him.
The knife clatters to the floor somewhere near Jude's sockfeet. Jude lets his hand bleed freely, bright red dripping down his fingers and pooling near Near's knees. "You dumb fucking asshole," Jude says, with a tone that indicates this completely describes the situation. The wound in Jude's hand is narrow but deep, and despite his silence, it is rather painful. He keeps from complaining because he knows it will be over soon, the way all pain ends, the way all things end. The way all things will end, if left in the hands of people like Near Farr. Dumb fucking asshole.
Unfortunately this is not a real fight. Unfortunately it is bait.
The distance between Jude's other hand and the knife is shorter than the distance between Near's hand and Jude's wrist, so it is relatively easy for Jude to close the distance between the former pair before the latter make contact. Here arrives another misfortune: Jude's reflexes are quick, but his dexterity for this gesture is imprecise. Instead of gracefully slicing open his hand, he stabs himself with the first inch of the blade before Near grabs his hand and he drops the knife.
Conditioned not to scream, Jude looks wildly at Near as blood begins to pulse from his hand to the floor. He stares at Near angrily and then he says something in that nothing language of his, words that vibrate in the ear as they do in the teeth, words that taste of ash. The floor beneath Near's feet becomes soup for a second and a half, and then Jude says something that sounds like a mosquito's rejection, a whining-hiss word that reconstitutes the matter of Near's floor around his calves as if it had been built around him.
The knife clatters to the floor somewhere near Jude's sockfeet. Jude lets his hand bleed freely, bright red dripping down his fingers and pooling near Near's knees. "You dumb fucking asshole," Jude says, with a tone that indicates this completely describes the situation. The wound in Jude's hand is narrow but deep, and despite his silence, it is rather painful. He keeps from complaining because he knows it will be over soon, the way all pain ends, the way all things end. The way all things will end, if left in the hands of people like Near Farr. Dumb fucking asshole.