Forging the Blade, Part II: Conclusion 1/3
kageorge@EROLS.COM
Fri, 30 Aug 2002 11:08:26 -0700
Forging the Blade, Part II: Kithe and Kin
by MacGeorge
Rating: PG-13
~~~~~~~
Kithe and Kin
Chapter 7
"But...it's just dirt, Connor. What's that supposed to
teach me?" Duncan asked disgustedly as he and Connor
struggled to carry a heavy urn of fine sand out onto the
balcony.
"Endurance. And perseverance, although in your case I think
it would be more accurately described as mule-headedness,"
Connor added with a grunt as the heavy urn was dropped to
the balcony with a jarring thud. "It also is an exercise in
controlling your reactions, to fatigue, to boredom, and to
pain. Especially to pain."
Duncan looked down into the yellow mound with a puzzled
expression. "But how can sand cause pain?"
Connor smiled grimly.
~~~~~~~
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Connor wanted nothing more than to close the doors to the
balcony, but that would have let Duncan know he was bothered
by the noise, the grunts, the gasping pants of effort. He
glanced up from his papers. Duncan was only about 30 feet
away, shirtless, jamming his hands, first one, then the
other, fingers extended, into the urn filled with the 'dirt'
that he had so derided. He had been doing it day after day
now, at first for at least a quarter hour at a time, now
much longer. Connor had thought the pain would be the
primary factor that would stop his student, but Duncan
seemed to consider pain a personal enemy, and even when he
was shaking with it, sometimes tears rolling down his
cheeks, he would press on. First he did it until he had
worn the skin down so far that even Immortal healing
couldn't control the constant bleeding. Then his skin began
to toughen as it healed over and over again, so he would
keep at it for longer and longer periods, until now it was a
near constant background noise.
Connor had come to realize that Duncan somehow needed this
kind of effort, to push himself to extremes. The more
arduous the tasks Connor found, the more determined his
student seemed to complete them. He sometimes wondered if
Duncan's obsession with drills and exercises was always a
good thing. It seemed, somehow, an escape, as though Duncan
were avoiding something important, something troubling him,
by pushing himself until his mind and body could encompass
nothing more than the immediate task at hand. If he were
just trying to prove his stubbornness to his teacher, Duncan
had done that long, long ago.
Connor dropped the quill he had been toying with as he
composed a letter to Seamus O'Brien. His mind wasn't on the
task anyway. He had promised the man a dowry for his
daughter, and it seemed the young woman had finally found a
real prospect, a captain of a small caravel. He was older,
and already had two small children, but that apparently
suited Brigitte just fine. Her recovery from her heartbreak
over Duncan's rejection had been remarkably fast, which made
Connor smile. If he lived to be as old as the legendary
Methos, he would never understand women.
But Brigitte's pending nuptials had Seamus considering
retirement, which would make his daughter's namesake, the
sleek brigantine, the <Brigitte>, available to Connor as
captain. Connor sat back and closed his eyes with a sigh.
To be at sea, with his own ship alive under his feet. No
lurking Immortals, just the wind and the water, the ocean
and the sky. To sail to the Caribbean Sea, to the Orient,
to discover lands and places and people he had never known
existed...he sighed again, then looked up as he realized the
constant noise of his student's efforts had ceased at last.
Duncan was leaning up against the balcony doorframe, eyes
closed, still panting from his effort. From his fingertips
to past his wrists, his flesh was coated with blood-soaked
sand.
"Mind the floor," Connor admonished, then called for
Giuseppe to bring a bowl of water for Duncan to use. The
valet came in, 'tut-tutting' over the mess. Duncan pulled
away from Giuseppe's efforts to personally wash his hands,
briskly swishing them in the water, then gingerly wiping
them off with the towel the valet offered on his arm. The
innumerably tiny abrasions had already healed, but Connor
could see that the skin was raw and painfully reddened.
Giuseppe insisted that Duncan sit so he could rub a soothing
oil into his hands, which Duncan endured uncomfortably while
Giuseppe admonished him for abusing himself. The valet
clearly enjoyed his task and lingered over it, gently
massaging the heavily callused palms and fingers until
Duncan finally pulled away with a gruff, "Ciņ basta!"
Giuseppe gathered up his bowl, towel and oil with a slightly
offended sniff and sauntered away, boldly winking at Connor
as he did. Giuseppe knew his teasing flirtations
discomforted Duncan, and took great glee in embarrassing the
lad.
Connor firmly pushed aside the letter to Seamus. His first
responsibility was to Duncan, and so long as the man was his
student, the <Brigitte> would have to wait. "Are you done
punishing yourself for the moment?" Connor asked.
Duncan rose and poured himself a glass of water from a
carafe Giuseppe kept cool and full on a side table. "I
thought it was an exercise you wanted me to do," he
responded with a slight smile, as though he didn't really
understand Connor's comment.
Connor snorted, and stood, stretching his back. "There is a
difference between discipline and obsession, Duncan," he
advised. "One is beneficial, the other can be dangerous."
"And you think I'm dangerous?" Duncan asked.
Connor chuckled and shook his head. It seemed that his
student was determined to avoid any serious topics. "You're
getting there."
Duncan's lips stretched into a smile. "I should hope so.
I've been working at it hard enough."
Connor debated with himself whether to push further, to
force Duncan to talk about why he felt the need to punish
himself, but they were both uncomfortable with such personal
conversations, and it would reveal itself in time. At least
he hoped so. "You have nothing to prove to me about your
willingness to work hard, Duncan," Connor felt he had to
add, squeezing his kinsman's shoulder, affectionately.
"Come," he urged. Duncan wasn't the only one who took
pleasure and satisfaction in physical effort. "We can spar
at the salon," he suggested. "I'm tired of paying for the
repairs to the walls and furniture."
"But I was going riding with the Contessa this afternoon.
You wouldn't want me to disappoint her, would you?" Duncan
asked with a smug smile.
"There will be plenty of time for that," Connor commented
with a chuckle. "And were you going riding with the
Contessa, or was it the Contessa you were going to be
riding?"
Duncan looked mildly offended. "The lady is married. I
wouldn't risk her reputation with an affair. She just likes
my company," he insisted.
"Is that why you dress up every time you go see her?" Connor
teased, heading for their rooms to change into something
suitable for sword practice, with Duncan following close
behind. He greatly enjoyed baiting his kinsman, who loved
paying court to beautiful women, and took easy offence at
any suggestion that his motives were anything but pure and
noble.
"I cannot visit the Contessa looking like a stable hand!"
Duncan insisted, walking beside him. "Besides, sometimes
she invites Wilhelm and that bastard Dunningham, and I'll be
damned if that Sassenach popinjay shows me up!"
"Just stay out of his way, Duncan," Connor admonished. "I
promised Munter I wouldn't cross swords with the man if I
could avoid it, but while the Baron may not be a headhunter,
I wouldn't put it past his student."
"Aye, but Dunningham insists he's no one's student now,"
Duncan replied grimly, and Connor suspected the two men had
had more than a few hostile words.
"Duncan," Connor snapped, stopping sharply. "Don't even
think about it," he said, glaring sternly at his young
kinsman and raising an admonishing finger. "Dunningham is
older than you, more experienced than you and he may even
have a few dirty tricks up his sleeve. Your best defense is
avoidance, do you understand me?"
Duncan's expression darkened but he didn't flinch, and that
bothered Connor as much as the notion of his student's
misplaced arrogance. "Aye, Connor. I understand you," he
replied softly, but Connor suspected that understanding did
not necessarily mean agreement.
~~~~~~~
It was late morning by the time they reached the salon, and
the large rooms were ringing with the clash of swords from
at least a half a dozen training sessions in progress.
Connor nodded to a number of the men, many of whom he had
instructed at various times in the last decade. He had
traded on his skills as a swordsman for many years now. It
was an easy way to earn extra money when his investments
were not bringing in cash. His well-established reputation
brought him more willing students than he had time or
inclination to train, and since he had returned to Ravenna
he had turned away all requests, concentrating his entire
attention on preparing Duncan for the Game.
They squared off with the rapiers Duncan had learned to use
admirably over the past months, and Connor pressed his
student hard. Giuseppe had insisted on coming along to
watch, and since they planned to take care not to shed
blood, Connor allowed it. The pudgy valet sat in a nearby
chair, bouncing with excitement and anxiety at the many near
misses, but Connor wasn't certain whether it was concern
over their health, or that Duncan might damage his nice suit
of clothes. Connor was wearing leathers that, while
modestly decorative, also provided a little protection. But
Duncan had dressed for his afternoon tryst with the
Contessa, and was in silver and black brocade, his long hair
pulled back into a neat queue.
After a particularly quick exchange, which had Giuseppe
almost coming up out of his chair, the two men paused but
didn't drop their defensive stances. "You've improved
greatly," Connor observed.
"Oh, you really think so?" Duncan asked with a smug smile,
and attacked.
Ah, the line between confidence and arrogance was such a
thin one, Connor mused as he turned his body, letting Duncan
slip past him as he over extended, allowing Connor to easily
slap his blade away. "No," Connor answered, as they broke
off again. "I was just being gracious."
It wasn't really true, and they both knew it, but while
Duncan was a good swordsman, he was young. There were many
Immortals out there better than he, and Connor was
determined to keep reminding him of that. "Now remember,"
Connor instructed in English, as they engaged again, "you
are only Immortal as long as you can keep your head on your
shoulders." Duncan's blade caught Connor's thrust to his
chest, and angled it down, but Connor kept pressing forward,
ending up with the tip of Connor's blade pointing
dangerously close to Duncan's most intimate anatomy. Both
men went very still, their eyes meeting. Duncan wisely used
Connor's moment of hesitation to attack, but after a quick
exchange, once again Connor used his student's aggression
against him and Duncan stumbled, off balance, shaking his
head in frustration.
"Duncan," Connor paused, letting the man turn so he could
see just how serious the conversation was, how much was at
stake. "What you give up to your adversary in defeat is
*everything*."
"I know," Duncan sighed. "I know. And at that point, I'm
very, very dead." He moved into a fighting stance and waved
his teacher closer. "Come on!"
"Not just dead, Duncan," Connor advised with a grim
chuckle. "Empty!" And they exchanged a quick series of
strokes before backing off and circling each other once
more.
"Aye, Connor, I know. It's called the Quickening," and
Duncan reiterated what had Connor told him so many times.
"Our strength and knowledge and life essence flows into the
victor, feeds him and makes him stronger. Yes?" It was said
in a tone that acknowledged nothing of the power, the
thrill, the violation of that ultimate, intimate act.
"It's what drives the other Immortals to kill us," Connor
growled. "And what forces us to be smarter, better than the
rest."
"I understand," Duncan assured him, but Connor was certain
he didn't really understand that there were hundreds of
gifted swordsmen and women of vastly greater experience than
he, and they all had only one true goal in life - to kill
the likes of young Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.
Connor ended the exchange by slipping past his student's
defenses and sliding his blade's edge next to the soft silk
and brocade collar that provided little protection for
Duncan's most vulnerable point - his neck.
"You do?" Connor asked softly, looking deep into Duncan's
dark eyes. The man was so trusting, so willing to believe
that no one meant him deliberate harm absent some specific
wrong. He leaned close, then without a whisper of warning,
with an invisible tug of his heel yanked Duncan's foot out
from under him, landing the lad on his back with a whoosh of
expelled air, accompanied by Giuseppe's giggles. Connor
frowned at the valet and gestured to the sword rack nearby
with a quick instruction in Italian.
"I slipped!" Duncan responded to Connor's raised eyebrow at
his evident clumsiness.
"Listen!" Connor snapped. "Soon we will have to part," he
stated, his own heart missing a beat at the realization that
had been hovering in the back of his mind for weeks now.
"There is one more thing I have to give to you." He hadn't
been sure until this moment that he would do this. It was
his most closely held secret, the single thing Ramirez had
taught him that he had always held in reserve. He led
Duncan into a private room, away from the small audience
they always attracted when they sparred in public. Giuseppe
followed, handing him one of the blades Connor had
instructed him to retrieve.
The valet handed the other to Duncan, moving close and
gracing him with a flirtatious smile. Duncan frowned and
snatched the blade with a low growl, but Giuseppe just
grinned at him, happy to generate any reaction.
"Va via," Connor instructed, waving Giuseppe towards the
door. What was about to happen was for no one's eyes but
his and Duncan's. "Va via!" he snapped again when Giuseppe
didn't comply immediately. His valet's face crumpled, his
shoulders slumped as he quietly left, closing the door to
the vast, marble floored room behind him.
Duncan took the enormous German langschwertz, similar to the
size and weight of the giant claymore he was used to
wielding, and a smile lit his face. "Oh, aye," he almost
purred. "This is more like it!" Duncan yanked the tie free
from his hair, shaking his head so his hair loosened around
his face, gazing at the blade in happy satisfaction. The
lad would always and ever be the consummate warrior and
Highlander, Connor thought with a smile, even more so than
he. Duncan would always have a clan to protect, even if he
had to make one for himself.
Connor watched in amused affection as Duncan swung the heavy
blade to get a feel for it. Then Connor turned his back,
planting his feet wide. "Attack me," he instructed.
There was a silent pause. "But you've got your back to me,"
Duncan protested.
Connor turned, frustrated at Duncan's insistence that there
were 'rules' that ought to be followed in combat. "It's not
always about strength, Duncan," he insisted, then turned
back around. "Attack me," he ordered firmly. He felt the
air stir, heard the grunt of effort as his student swung,
and then made the move Ramirez had taught him almost a
century before, catching Duncan's blade and turning so they
both froze, face to face, their swords crossed between their
bodies. "It's about manipulation of the mind," he breathed
harshly, straining against Duncan's broader frame. Then
Duncan did what Connor knew he would do - what he had to do
to break the standoff - and he reached for Duncan's bicep at
the same time he pushed his own blade over his head, then
yanked down with all his strength, "as well as the body," he
breathlessly finished his sentence.
They were locked into place, Connor's own blade horizontal
along his shoulders, behind his head, while Duncan's was
caught vertically behind it. "Aye," Duncan smiled. "But
now I'm in control." Then he tried to pull free, his eyes
losing their confidence when he realized his own blade was
firmly pinned, almost bending under the pressure of the
leverage as the two swords strained against each other.
Connor chuckled grimly. "Are you?" he asked. He released
his grip and the joint pressure of their strength did
exactly what it was designed to do. Connor's blade sprung
free, snapping around with a power that almost dislocated
Connor's shoulder. Had Connor not put his entire body into
stopping the stroke, the blade would never have halted in
its inexorable arc straight towards Duncan's throat. This
was why he had used the weightier blades. Swords with even
slightly greater spring in the steel would have been
inevitably, unavoidably and permanently fatal.
Duncan had gone white, frozen in place, the langschwertz
still hovering at his neck.
"Remember well, my friend," Connor advised softly,
breathless from the effort of halting the blade's swing.
"Properly executed, this move is unstoppable."
"Properly executed," Duncan replied shakily, his eyes still
fixed on the blade at his neck. "We'll nae have this talk
again." He looked up. Their eyes met, and at last Connor
was satisfied that Duncan recognized the painful essence of
what he had tried to teach. That they were all destined to
kill their own kind, and that you were never safe. Never.
Duncan was quiet and subdued as they left the salon, seeking
separate carriages since Duncan was headed for the
Contessa's villa. They stood on the street for a moment in
silence, but then Duncan turned to Connor, his dark eyes
glittering with emotion. "Connor?" he said softly. "I
don't know how to be Immortal. I only know how to be who I
am." He put a hand on Connor's shoulder, squeezing it
gently. " And I know in my heart that friendship is more
important than any Game."
"Ah, Duncan," Connor sighed. He didn't know whether to be
irritated, amused or simply moved by the declaration. "To
be immortal is to have no ties to any person or any place or
any time. We become only the bonds we form with those few
people we trust and cherish." He reached out, gripping
Duncan's shoulder. "Just be careful, kinsman. Make sure
others, especially other Immortals, are worthy of your trust
before you give it away."
"I trust you," Duncan offered with a smile.
"And I you, Duncan MacLeod," Connor returned, "of the Clan
MacLeod," he added with a grin.
~~~
continued in part 2