Forging the Blade, Pt. 2: Kithe and Kin, Ch. 3, 2/2
kageorge (kageorge@EROLS.COM)
Tue, 16 Oct 2001 11:32:04 -0300
Forging the Blade, Part 2
Kithe and Kin
by MacGeorge
Acknowledgements and disclaimers, see Part 0 previously posted.
~~~~~~
Duncan just looked at him blankly for a long moment, then reached for
the whiskey, and took a drink. “I’d have to fight a woman?” he asked in
a small, tight voice.
Connor looked his student in the eye. “Yes, Duncan. There are women
who are many times older than I, wily and strong and dangerous. They
will take your head as easily as any man you have ever met in battle.”
“A woman? With a sword?” Duncan started to laugh, but saw that Connor
was quite serious. “But how could she…?” he didn’t seem to be able to
articulate the rest of his question.
Connor laughed, but stopped when Duncan flushed at what he assumed was
his teacher’s ridicule. “Don’t be fooled by man or woman who is smaller
or less muscular than you. I am smaller than you, but who is the better
fighter, eh? And smaller can also mean quicker, and if you meet up with
a woman Immortal who has managed to survive past her first century, you
know you are looking at someone who is very canny and who has learned
what she needs to do to remain in the Game.”
Duncan looked thoughtful for a moment, then took another drink of
whiskey and wiped his mouth. “Is that where we come from, then?” he
asked, handing the bottle back.
“What do you mean?”
“Who our parents are,” Duncan explained. “But why would they just
abandon us?” he went on, not waiting for an answer. “Don’t they care,
or do they think that one day they might have to kill us, so they don’t
want to love or care for their own bairns?”
Connor took a large swallow of whiskey. This part was going to be hard
to explain, and one aspect of immortality he had avoided discussing.
Duncan, who viewed clan and family as sacred, probably couldn’t even
grasp the concept of abandoning a child, and, Connor guessed, had always
assumed he would raise a gaggle of bairns of his own. “We cannot have
children, Duncan. We are barren, as are Immortal women.” He met
Duncan’s blank, uncomprehending stare. “No one knows where we come
from.”
Duncan sputtered a harsh laugh. “Very funny, Connor. First you tell me
I’m not a demon, but now you say we are changlings, left by the fairies
to be raised by mortals.”
Connor handed him the jug of whiskey. But Duncan didn’t take it, just
narrowing his eyes at the gesture. “I’m sorry, Duncan, but I’m telling
you the truth. We cannot have children, and no Immortal knows his
parents or his origins.”
Duncan abruptly stood and left the house, slamming the door behind him.
Connor waited awhile, put a little more wood on the fire to keep it
going, then went in search of his clansman. He found him on the top of
the hill across the glen, looking out over the dark expanse of the
craggy mountain range shadowed against the night sky, his kilt rippling
in the slight breeze. Their breaths fogged gently in the mild chill,
but Duncan was hugging his body as though protecting himself from bitter
cold.
“I’m sorry,” Connor finally said after they had stood side by side for a
moment. “I should have told you before, but I knew you would have a
hard time understanding.”
“Oh, I understand!” Duncan said bitterly. “We are to outlive all those
we care for, and are not allowed to care for our own kind, or even have
families to love, or to love us. We are not to trust anyone, not to
share what we are with anyone, and with a sole purpose being to kill
those most like ourselves. And all for some Prize that no one can
describe.” Duncan shuddered, and Connor rested a calming hand on his
shoulder. “Why?” Duncan insisted sadly. “Can you just tell me why?”
“I have no answers, I’m afraid. Each of us has to find one for
ourselves, I think. I found happiness with Heather, and can only hope
to someday have it again. The blessing is that I have that chance.
Otherwise,” he shrugged. “I learn to survive, and every once in a while
I form a bond with someone that reminds me that, whatever mysterious
purpose our existence may serve, there are other reasons to live.”
Connor gently squeezed the thick, tense muscle under his hand, and
Duncan’s square jaw clench and unclenched in silence.
After a moment, he felt a small shudder under his hand, and Duncan
turned his head. To Connor’s surprise his student’s face had a crooked,
sad smile. “What?” he asked.
“I had been worried that, as many times as Bridget and I…, you know –
that she would get with child. She’s a sweet and willing girl, but I’m
hardly in a position to marry anyone now. I guess that isn’a something
to worry about anymore.”
“True,” Connor answered. “See, there are blessings in everything, my
friend. You just have to learn to find them.”
“Aye,” Duncan agreed softly. “Tis a blessing for me that you were the
one to find me, to be sure, and I don’t mean to seem ungrateful. My own
clansman, someone who understands what it is to be part of a clan, to be
born and raised in this land.” Duncan squeezed Connor’s shoulder with a
big hand. “I have nay thanked you properly, Connor MacLeod. You are
the closest I will ever come to having a true kinsman, a real brother. I
care not what happens in this Game you talk of, I will never raise my
blade against you to do you deliberate harm.”
Connor laid his hand on his student’s forearm. “For an Immortal to say
“never” is dangerous, Duncan, but I know I would never willingly raise a
blade against you, either.”
Duncan chuckled, breaking the uncomfortably serious mood. “That didn’a
seem to stop you from practically cutting my leg off this afternoon.”
“Och,” Connor dismissed him with a guttural sound he had gotten used to
hearing from Duncan, and gently urged the man back towards the house,
where it was warmer and more comfortable. “That was just a tickle, lad,
naught to trouble yourself about. If I were truly after your head,
you’d not have any doubt about it.”
Even as the summer ended and the cold, blustery winds moaned through the
shutters, Connor didn’t press Duncan to leave Scotland for warmer
climes. The lad had dealt with more than enough changes in his life and
needed time to adjust to what he was, and what he needed to learn to
survive. They wintered at the cottage, going into Glencoe once a month
or so, when the weather permitted. Connor taught Duncan about strategy
and planning and thinking ahead, and each day, regardless of wind or
rain or snow, the two men sparred or exercised with their blades, and
Connor found himself in better shape than he had ever been.
They had many long conversations in front of the fire, while Connor
taught Duncan the intricacies of chess, and after several months, Duncan
reluctantly revealed some of his experiences during the three years
after he had been banished from the clan. Connor realized that his
student was deeply ashamed he had not done better, had not achieved
more, had not managed to overcome his clan’s fears and suspicions. The
stories had to be dragged from him, using a lot of patience, and more
than a little liquor. It took a heavy snow storm and a half-bottle of
whiskey before the lad admitted that he had frozen to death for half a
winter season.
Connor told Duncan about his trip to the far eastern islands, where
people had strange eyes and different colored skin. He confessed that,
there, just as with Ramirez, his life had been spared while his teacher
died. Connor didn’t realize how heavily the guilt had burdened him
until he had told the story. The image of Nagano ….. , but he was
pulled out of his sad reverie when he realized that Duncan was talking
softly, telling him of a raider that had decimated his village and
killed his father.
Connor forced himself back to the present, listening carefully. Getting
Duncan to talk about himself was like squeezing water from a rock. The
young man clung tenaciously to his own failures and shortcomings,
convinced that he was uniquely unwise and inept. The lad was an odd
combination of arrogance and uncertainty, full of a sense of his own
strength and power, yet with expectations of his abilities set so high
that he was doomed to inevitable failure.
Duncan’s endless worry over every failure could be irritating, and press
Connor’s patience to its limits and beyond, just as Connor’s never
ending demands that Duncan perform menial, sometimes useless chores and
exercises were destined to press Duncan to his own limits. Eventually,
Duncan would rebel, Connor knew. He only hoped he would be able to
handle the explosion when it came.
~~~~~~~
“What did you say?”
“You heard me. I said, no!”
Connor took a deep breath before he turned to face his student. “That
was not a request, Duncan.”
“I agreed to be your student, not your personal slave,” Duncan snapped.
Close confinement due to severe weather had kept them indoors much of
the time for weeks, and tempers were growing short for both men. There
had been days when they had barely managed to be civil to one another.
They had not been to Glencoe in over two months, and Duncan had been
chafing more and more at taking orders from his clansman. So Connor was
not at all surprised at Duncan’s open rebellion at being asked to empty
their slop pot, which meant he would have to step out into the cold, icy
rain and sleet that had kept them confined for so long.
“And I suppose you haven’t used the pot, yourself, eh?” Connor inquired.
“Use it or no, tis not fair that every damn chore you don’t like, you
give to me, aye?” Duncan was looming large in the small house, his big
fists opening and closing, opening and closing.
“I give them to you because you are the student, and from the first you
have had a difficulty learning obedience and humility,” Connor snapped.
“You give them to me because you don’t want to do them yourself, and I
am a convenient servant!”
“You are my student, and part of a student’s role is to learn when to do
what he is told, without question or defiance. You think I haven’t done
the same thing, felt exactly the same way?” Connor shouted back.
“Ramirez treated me like a child, said I had the manners of a goat, and
smelled like one as well. He rowed me out into the loch and made me
balance in the bottom of a boat, when I didna’ even know how to swim,
then deliberately knocked me into the water, knowing I was terrified of
drowning. You think I’m hard on you? You’ve had it easy, Duncan. I’ve
treated you gently because I felt sorry for you, but maybe that was a
mistake.”
“Sorry for me!” Duncan bellowed. “You felt sorry for me? Well, I dinna
need your pity, or your charity, Connor MacLeod.”
Connor immediately realized he had used the wrong words, but his own
temper was master of his tongue now. “Oh, that’s right, I forgot. The
great Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod doesn’t need anyone or
anything. He’s the chieftain’s son and heir, caretaker for all the weak
and helpless. Well, who is taking care of your clan, now? Not you!
And why is that, do you suppose? Because you have no idea how to deal
with what you are, and because of that your mother is left defenseless,
and your village without the leader they had come to expect.”
All the blood drained out of Duncan’s face, his dark eyes becoming deep
glittering holes, his nostrils flared wide. Connor looked away and took
a deep breath, knowing he had pushed too far, said too much. He was the
elder here, after all. The teacher. He shouldn’t have lost his
temper. He swallowed, turned and opened his mouth to find something,
anything, conciliatory to say – and had it closed with a fist. He was
lifted off his feet by the force of the blow, his back and head meeting
the rough stone wall hard enough to force the breath right out of his
body. Stunned, he started to slide down the wall, but he was caught and
lifted, and another blinding blow smashed into his cheek.
Survival instincts kicked in at last and he lifted a knee hard, aiming
for his attacker’s groin. He hit something, and Duncan grunted, and for
a brief second, the grip on Connor’s shirt loosened. He twisted away,
diving for his sword, but his student was fast and strong and enraged,
and the back of his shirt was grabbed, bouncing him back against
Duncan’s chest.
“Duncan!” he managed to croak. “Stop!” Connor twisted his body, using
Duncan’s own weight to pull him over his shoulder and onto their roughly
made table, where it collapsed underneath the weight, sending splintered
wood flying around the room.
“You want to fight me?” he snarled at the huddled, glaring man on the
floor. “Fine!” He slammed out of the house and into the sleet and icy
rain, the wind catching the door and blowing it back to the wall with a
bang. He walked into the clearing in front of the house and turned to
see Duncan outlined menacingly in the doorway, the fire flickering
behind him. His student looked larger, somehow, the shoulders broader,
the legs thicker, and tall – taller than Connor ever remembered.
Two thoughts flickered almost simultaneously across his mind. The first
was an odd pride: this was his clansman and friend, a Highlander and an
Immortal, someone whose life and destiny he would have a hand in
molding. The second was a consideration of his own folly: what the
hell did he think he was going to accomplish?
Then all thoughts except survival fled as Duncan lowered his shoulders
and charged like a Spanish bull, plowing into him and sending them both
sprawling into the freezing mud and grass. The fight quickly turned
into a wrestling match, with Connor’s speed and agility and experience
competing with Duncan’s nearly equal speed and somewhat greater
strength, and no small experience of his own, evidently. Any Highlander
worth his salt was a brawler practically from the time he first managed
to wobble alone on two legs. Friendly and not-so-friendly wrestling
matches were a part of the social fabric of life, and one of the
traditional ways Highland boys learned about themselves and each other.
While clansmen would fight one another as quickly as the weather
changed, they would also defend one another to the death.
~~~~~
“Geroff me!” Duncan growled, pushing at Connor’s limp, gasping body
until he rolled off into the mud with a squish and a grunt.
Connor lay there on his back, feeling ice pellets bounce off his face,
trying to pull in enough air to stay alive, at least for another
moment. He could hear Duncan’s wheezing gasps beside him. They had
pummeled each other for what seemed like half the day, and both were
barely moving any more. Connor felt warm blood gather in the back of
his throat, and he swallowed, too tired to roll over and spit it out.
The tingle of healing tickled his split lip, and he hissed as his nose
realigned, hurting as much in the healing as it had when Duncan had
broken it the first time…and the second time.
A low groan sounded to his right and he managed to turn his head,
maliciously pleased to see his student was in at least as bad a shape as
he was. Blood had streamed from a cut over Duncan’s eye, washing down
into his face. Darker blood from earlier injuries had dried around his
nose, and an ugly bruise purpled the side of his face. The bruise was
fading, but its presence added to Connor’s sense of satisfaction. He
didn’t know if he could be called a winner of this particular battle,
but at least he could not be considered a loser, either.
His body shuddered involuntarily at the cold, and he forced himself over
to his side, then pushed himself up with a groan, making it unsteadily
to his feet. He looked down at his student, still lying on his back,
his kilt and shirt soaked, bloody and heavy with mud, his hair so thick
with it, it looked like it had changed color entirely.
“Feel any better?” he asked carefully, through lips still tender and
bruised.
Duncan opened his uninjured eye and balefully considered his teacher for
a moment. “Depends on which part I’m considering,” he answered
hoarsely. A corner of his mouth managed to twitch upwards. “If you ask
my face and my ribs, I’d have to say no. But,” he added, pushing
himself up on his elbows, “there are certain parts of me that are verra’
satisfied.” Both corners of his mouth were curving upward by this time,
and he held out a hand. Connor helped lever his student to his feet,
and both lurched unsteadily, holding on to each other for balance.
“I need a drink,” Connor observed as they staggered into the house.
“Aye. A wee dram would not be amiss,” Duncan agreed breathlessly,
following him inside. He leaned against the wall and slid down until he
was sitting on the floor, his clothes and hair forming a dark, wet
puddle around him.
Connor shut the door, shuffled over to the chest he had made to store
their foodstuffs, and pulled out his bottle of the precious usquebagh,
pulling the stopper out and taking several large swallows. His eyes
watered, his damaged lips stung and he coughed from the burn and the
fumes, but after few careful breaths as he cradled the bottle against
his chest, he felt the warmth spread from his stomach through the rest
of his battered, cold body.
“Are you planning to drink it all yourself?” Duncan asked, petulantly.
Connor looked down at his immortal clansman. “Are you planning to try
to thrash me again any time soon?”
“No,” Duncan answered, after considering the question for a moment. “So
long as you don’t order me to carry out the slop pot.” At that, Duncan
pushed himself to his feet, went to the corner, grabbed the pot in
question, and went out of the house.
Connor just stood there, staring at the closed door, then realized he
was still clutching the bottle, and took another long swallow. Already
his head was beginning to swim, but he decided circumstances warranted a
little excess. A moment later, the door opened, letting in another gust
of icy rain before Duncan got it closed, then set the pot back down in
the corner. Then he stood expectantly in front of his teacher, his
bloodied head cocked to one side, his muddy, tangled hair looking like a
particularly haphazard bird’s nest draped around his head.
Connor handed him the bottle, and Duncan put his head back, taking three
great long swallows, before he stopped, his lips pursed, spots of color
showing through the blood and dirt on his face. He blinked rapidly and
finally took a quick, gasping breath. “Aye,” he finally managed
hoarsely. “Now I feel much better.”
They were both too exhausted to even consider dinner preparations.
Instead, they just sat on the floor and finished the bottle, telling
each other stories about various fights they had won and lost over the
years, each trying to outdo the other both in the glory of their heroic
victories or the utter humiliation of their defeat, until they dissolved
in drunken giggles over Connor’s tale of a duel in which he had been so
drunk, he kept getting stabbed, but would then just get up, healed,
utterly confounding his poor opponent.
Duncan eventually passed out on the floor, snoring noisily, leaving
Connor listing dangerously over to one side as he sat propped against
the wall. Connor frowned at the empty bottle, and decided that the next
time they started getting on each other’s nerves, no matter what the
weather, a trip into Glencoe was probably the better alternative. Then
he slowly let his body slide over until his cheek was resting against
something warm and resilient. He twisted around a little to get
comfortable, but his movement prompted a snort and a hand pushing him
away until his face plopped onto the cold floor. His last thought
before his eyes became too heavy to keep open was that at least he held
his drink better than his student did.
......To be continued.