[Day 1] Sabre Round 1: Bilodeau vs. Castellanos

As a career, there were expectations. She could only avoid the Olympic sports for so long, especially when her twin sister had enrolled the moment sign-ups were available. It wasn’t mirrored the way people imagined; she would not follow her twin, and her twin would not follow her. They didn’t enjoy the same activities or the same people. There was no “sibling rivalry” either. She purposefully didn’t sign up for the same activity because she wanted as little contact as possible. They didn’t live together, but there was no reason to stir up a controversy.

Father insisted that she stay within her comfort zone. Life isn’t a bubble, I’m sorry. Taking risks and exaggerating goals were both components of career training, though she supposed he knew that already. He was just overprotective, a man on the lookout for her best interests. Daeja didn’t know those were – success? That was a reason to sign up for the Olympics. Medals, glory, a display of her skills that weren’t related to a murder fest.

It felt empty.

She didn’t let it bother her. Fencing was a sport she would enjoy. The moments of calculation, subtle stance changes, the flow of blood from muscle to sword. On top of that, there was no risk of death or hypothetical injury. There was no instructor to shout behind her back. Most of all, she wouldn’t be compared to her twin sister.

It’s just me.

She counted her steps (one, two, one, two) like petals on a daisy. One pluck, she’s watching. Another pluck, she’s not watching. She had no idea if Icarys would bother to show up and spectate her match. Did she have the capacity to hold such interest? To sit among a whispering crowd and watch a sister she didn’t live with lose or win. Would her respect for Daeja fluctuate depending on the victor? News would spread of her results, so Icarys would find out one way or another. The count was four against two, and every fiber of her being pleaded for an escape of shame.

There was no shame in losing, but her peers would all disagree. Everyone who lost an event would stand in one crowd with their heads hung low, and the rest would have medals worth diamonds around their necks. Family names would become legend or falter. The nobodies had to prove themselves. Castellanos was no famous name.

Neither was Bilodeau.

”Who are you?”

”My birthday’s in October.”

A month of autumn leaves and spicy drinks – her favorite. Wrapping herself in sweaters and sitting in front of an icy ocean sounded like a quality birthday. Icarys would visit with a gift that didn’t match her interests, yet she would keep it anyway. Sisterly obligation. Daeja would slave over her desk to mold another craft, and she was sure her twin would pretend to love it. They would sit at their favorite restaurant, scarves around their necks and hot coco steaming in their hands, and breathe peaceful air for the first time in a long time.

An October baby? She was envious.

Their score was even. She did not envy his skill, but she would admire it.

”I’m Daeja,” she muttered, and the whispers of audience members were lost on her. ”I’m a twin.”

Bound by blood, not by will.

One minute.

Her head surfaced a minute before Icarys was delivered. ”I am,” she said, and it was both in age and in spirit. She would always be the wiser, the cautious, the one who knew her limitations. Icarys would always be the headstrong, the impulsive, the one soaring too close to fire. She would melt someday.

One minute. A lot could happen in one minute.

Back and forth, the footwork was clockwork. Automatic movement of limbs as if they were robots. Her joints were bent at the knees and suddenly she was falling behind. She was losing a battle against focus. One minute; she had one minute to fix this, to pick herself back up. Climb the mountain.

Let’s go.

Silence was a weapon. Sharp as a blade, swift like a spear, and enough to build tension in the air like a winter evening’s fog. She squinted through its thickness and stared at the point of August’s sabre. If it were a real sword, it would be dripping in her blood. They were almost at equal points, equal pain. If this were the Games, it would be a mighty duel.

But she was not a career to celebrate the Games. It was a precaution.

This was not sudden death, so she was comfortable with a loss. A loser was not a loser until they let the idea sink them lower. Loss was a natural part of life. If she won? Then she could have a drink or two with her fellow careers. Perhaps her twin would join.

Perhaps there would be a drop of pride for everyone.