Forging the Blade Part II: Kithe and Kin by MacGeorge see post 0 for acknowledgements and disclaimers. ~~~~~ The villagers watched curiously as the two strangers in MacLeod tartan, one on horseback, one on foot, ambled into town. Duncan hung back a little as Connor handed over his horse to the stableboy, then stepped into the inn. It was dark inside, but a brightly burning fire in the huge hearth gave some illumination, and was a welcome warmth from an otherwise cool spring day. Duncan hesitated in the doorway while Connor found a comfortable seat near the fire. He pretended to ignore his student, but was aware of Duncan’s nervousness. At last the youngster moved into the room, staying close to the walls, and taking a seat in the furthest dark corner. Connor ordered an ale from the maid who came to serve him, and ordered one for Duncan as well. She brought him a tankard, but when she took Duncan his, the youth sank back even further into his chair until Connor glared at him. Stubborn git. He reluctantly took it, at last, but Connor could feel his discomfort radiating from across the room. He caught Duncan’s eye and waved him over, but the man just sank further into his dark corner. Connor motioned again, this time with a warning look on his face that said there would be a price to pay for disobedience. With a sigh, Duncan rose and came over, standing with his back to the rest of the room, his mug in his hand. “What!?” Duncan whispered. Connor took a drink of his ale, licking his lips at the dark, nutty taste. “You’re trying so hard not to be noticed that you’re making a spectacle of yourself,” Connor chastised him. “Sit here with me. We’ll have a bite to eat and get a decent night’s sleep in a real bed. Enjoy it while you can, once we get to my old croft, life will not be nearly so comfortable.” Duncan shifted from foot to foot. Even though he had been trying to look smaller, he ended up straightening his shoulders and broadening his stance. “I have no money, Connor, but I dinna need your charity. I can sleep in the stable with your horse.” “Lord preserve me from stubborn and prideful children,” Connor murmured under his breath. “What?” Duncan asked. “I can hardly keep an eye on your back, or yours on mine, if you are sleeping in the stables,” Connor insisted, losing his patience at last. “Although since you are being such a horse’s ass, it might be the best place for you.” At that, Duncan slammed his ale down on the table, liberally and wastefully sloshing its contents, then turned on his heel and left, drawing every eye in the room. Connor watched the dramatic exit, then closed his eyes with a sigh and a frown, loosening the rein on his senses a bit as Ramirez had taught him decades ago. Reading a quickening, finding the unique life essence of another, was a lesson he had never forgotten even though he rarely used it. The lad didn’t go far, probably just to the stables. At least he had enough sense not to abandon their teacher/student relationship. The deliberate inspection of Duncan’s quickening aura also revealed a surprising power and strength. It was deep and had a clarity to it he had not felt before, reminding him of Scotland’s mountain rivers rushing over the rocks, carrying the melt from the deep winter snows down to the sea. Connor let his irritation fade, and then he silently cursed his own impatience and callousness. Duncan had been rejected, abused, mistreated and derided for three years. That he still had any pride left at all was a sign of a strong and resilient character. Or pure Scots pigheadedness. When Duncan’s aura didn’t fade away entirely, Connor relaxed and settled in for the evening, flirting outrageously with the innkeeper, a handsome, big boned woman who scoffed at his flattery, but blushed all the same. He had a few ales and a big bowl of thick mutton stew swimming with vegetables. It was well after dark when he ordered a second dinner, and took it out to the stables. It smelled and sounded like every stable he had ever been in, of dust, horse sweat, dung and hay, old leather and musty blankets, accompanied by the soft breaths and vibrations of the animals stirring at the appearance of one of the two-legged variety that sometimes brought them grain or hay. There were about a dozen stalls of a not particularly generous size, so he doubted his student was sleeping under his stallion’s sharp hooves. “Duncan?” he called softly, so as not to alarm the animals. “Aye.” He looked up into the darkness, and saw his student lean over from the loft where the hay was stored. “I’ve brought you some food.” “Thank you, but I’ve made myself a nice dinner here from the hay, as is suitable for a horse’s ass.” Duncan’s voice rumbled down petulantly from above. “Duncan,” Connor growled in irritation. “I didna’ mean…” “You needn’t trouble yourself about it,” Duncan interrupted, “After they threw me out, many’s the time I snuck in at night and stole from the animal pens in Glenfinnan. Scooped up the extra grain and boiled it into a mash. It wasn’t too bad if you washed the dirt out first.” “All right,” Connor snapped. “I’m sorry. I should not have called you a horse’s ass, but you are the most stubborn…” “It’s kept me alive,” Duncan interrupted again, this time in anger. He had disappeared, retreating into the darkness where Connor could hear him rustling around in the hay. His voice was sharp and bitter. “I told you I have nothing, Connor. No clan, no land, no family, no belongings. Only my pride, and I need no one’s charity or pity. If that’s why you sought me out, then go find yourself another student.” “Tell me, clansman,” Connor spoke up into the deep shadows above, “back in Glenfinnan, when you lent a hand to help with the lambing, or mending a roof, or hunting, were you doing it out of pity?” “Of course not. It was my duty, part of what keeps a clan together.” “That’s all I’m doing,” Connor responded. He hesitated a moment, then added, “There is a bond that drew me to you, Duncan. I was pulled here, and this is what I am intended to do. And it’s something I want to do.” Connor was surprised as he realized the words were true. He wanted to make sure Duncan MacLeod had a chance in this wretched Game of theirs. He wanted to watch him grow and mature and become…what? Something quite unusual, Connor realized. Someone who could be a trusted friend through the long, lonely centuries that stretched ahead. Connor took the lack of a response as a good sign, or at least as not a bad one. “I’ll leave this here for you and you can return the dishes to the kitchen when you’re done.” He put the bowl of stew and mug of ale on a nearby barrel and turned to go. He was almost out the door when he heard Duncan’s mumbled voice again. “What?” he called. “I said, …thank you.” Connor smiled to himself. No doubt the lad was going to give him no end of grief, but he might just be worth it. “You are most welcome, Duncan. Goodnight.” ~~~~~~~ Connor bought some supplies, and the two MacLeods left by mid-morning the next day, slogging through a steady Spring rain. Connor didn’t make Duncan run, but instead had him carry several heavy packs of food and grain, splitting the load equally between his horse and his young companion. Connor could hear grumbled complaints in Gaelic and English throughout the day, but he pressed on, now anxious to reach the glen where he had spent a over third of his life. At last, he saw the remnants of the old tower outlined against the gray sky, and brought his horse to a halt. His throat had closed tight and his heartbeat seemed painfully loud. He closed his eyes for a moment to get his feelings under control. Could he do this? Suddenly he wasn’t at all certain, and coming here seemed the worst folly. “Connor? What’s wrong?” “Nothing!” he snapped, and dug his heels into the stallion’s flanks, surging ahead. The horse broke into a slow canter and he topped the rise overlooking the small glen where he and Heather had lived out her life…their lives…his life. Until it ended with her gasping away her last breath in his arms. “Will you remember me?” she had whispered, her face still luminously beautiful despite the ravages of time. “On my birthday?” “Yes, my love,” he had answered. And so he had, no matter where he had traveled, he always took time to stop, to conjure her face with her soft, pale cheeks just touched with the flush of their passion, her unruly, golden hair splashed against the pillow, her sweet soft lips and wonderful blue eyes. He would always remember her voice, gentle but firm, reminding him of the practicalities of life when his daydreaming had meant the loss of a whole afternoon when he should have been working at the forge, attending to the never ending chores of their small croft. He had ever been a dreamer, wondering about the distant horizon, about what lay on the other side of the vast ocean he had seen during trips with his clansman to the western villages. Ramirez had spoken of so many different lands, different languages, different people with skins of various hues and eyes of many shapes. He longed to see them all, but he loved Heather more and she was tied to this land, and he would stay with her for so long as she lived. But she had aged and withered and died and he had buried her…there…at the top of the rise on the other side of the glen. He stopped his horse and looked around, seeing not the few remaining stones of their cottage, burned and abandoned a generation ago, or the tumbled remains of the tower where once he and Heather and Ramirez had laughed and told stories for hours on many an evening. He saw it as it had been once, but would never be again. A sturdy tower, although old and worn from centuries of exposure to the weather, and a tidy cottage, the thatch fresh and neat, the shutters open to light and air, chickens pecking around the doorway, their three dogs lying in the shade, pink tongues lolling in the mid-summer heat, and Heather, sitting in the sun, her hands always busy carding wool, churning butter or mending clothes… “This is it?” a voice intruded. Duncan was looking around the sparse glen with a dubious eye. “Where are we to camp? I thought this was your home.” “It was,” Connor said. “But that was forty years ago.” He ignored Duncan’s obvious doubts and pointed towards the tower ruins. “There may still be a ledge intact in the tower, and we can get some shelter from the rain there until we have a chance to build something more permanent.” He clamped down on his desire to turn away, and urged his horse forward. It had been a mistake to come here. He should have known it would be uninhabitable, but he had come, nonetheless, wanting to evoke Heather’s presence, to feel her, sense her, touch her once again…but she was dead, he reminded himself firmly, blinking back the irritation in his eyes caused by the cool wind. Duncan unloaded his burdens with a grunt and a sigh, stretching his back with relief and, Connor suspected, a desire to make his suffering obvious to his teacher. Well, if the boy expected pity, he was going to be sorely disappointed, Connor decided grimly. “Unload the horse, then you’ll need to find some dry wood for a fire,” he instructed as he pulled his claymore, and his bow and arrow from his saddlebags. “Dry wood?” Duncan sounded incredulous. He looked half-drowned, his clothes and hair plastered to his skin from the steady rain. Connor didn’t deign to answer, just moved underneath a ledge of rotted wood and stones that provided some shelter from the wet, beginning to clear a space for them to make camp. Duncan made a uniquely Scottish noise in the back of his throat, effectively communicating his disgust and disbelief, and Connor hid his smile. He had missed the sights and sounds of his homeland, even though they triggered almost as much heartache as fond memory. But Heather would not have wanted him to think of the loss, only of their love, so he deliberately set about conjuring the best of their times together, and hardly noticed when Duncan left, or when he returned almost at dusk. It made him start to realize that if it hadn’t been for the intruding sense of an Immortal, he would have been so lost in his thoughts and memories that anyone could have crept up on him unaware. Somehow, Duncan had found some wood that was dry enough to burn, and they pulled some threads from the protected sacks of grain Connor had bought to use as tender. The rain slacked off a little after dusk and although the ancient beams dripped steadily, it was more comfortable than being in the open. The two men shared a meal, and Connor realized his student was watching his teacher warily, eating in silence. He reached into his saddlebags and drew out a bottle of whiskey he had purchased in town, uncorked it and took a careful swallow, then passed it to Duncan. “This place brings back a lot of memories,” Connor finally said, realizing he had been distant and irritable all day. Duncan nodded, his dark eyes observing him closely as he took a swallow, then passed the bottle back. “You loved her, then?” Connor took a slow, deep breath, reminding himself once again that Duncan MacLeod was a man, not a boy, and seemed to be quite sensitive to the thoughts and emotions of those around him. “Aye,” he nodded. “I was fortunate to know her before I knew what I really was, and all that it meant. Immortals spend their lives fighting battles of various kinds, but I think one of the hardest to win is the battle of loneliness, of knowing your friends and loved ones will age and die, leaving you behind to mourn.” Connor took another careful swallow and passed the bottle back to Duncan, trying to think what needed most to be taught, and how best to approach it. So far he knew almost nothing of his clansman’s life, except the obvious. It was clear Duncan had taken his role as clan chieftain’s son to heart, and that it came naturally to him. But he was also a man who had seen real pain, and known the ultimate rejection a person can endure, and Connor had no idea whether the bitterness he had seen in Duncan would ever heal. Perhaps that was one of his first tasks as a teacher. “Are you sorry you loved then, since you lost her?” Duncan asked quietly, and it took a moment for Connor to remind himself of the topic of their conversation. “No. Never,” Connor said, taking the whiskey back and taking a long swallow this time. The liquor and the dark night, the companionship of another Immortal and the return to this almost sacred place gently loosened his normal reluctance to talk about himself. And, he told himself, how better to encourage his student to trust him than to demonstrate a little trust, himself. It would be good to share some of the memories that had been crowding around him all day, to know that someone else knew of her, remembered her, if only through stories. He sipped at the strong liquor, and found himself telling Duncan how he had met the willful daughter of a blacksmith after his exile from Glenfinnan, of her beauty and her gentleness, her courage in the face of her fear that he might leave her once she grew old, of her kindness and her humor, her willingness to put up with such a man as he. And he told of the pain they both felt as the years took their toll, and her body gradually failed. “She died in my arms, and only asked that I remember her always, on her birthday. And I always do. I find a church and I light a candle for my beloved Heather.” When he finished, he was surprised to find moisture on his cheeks when he thought it had stopped raining, but it felt like a great weight had been lifted off of his chest, and he was able to smile. He looked up at his student, to find him staring into their small fire, dark eyes liquid and shining in the dim light. “I’m sorry,” he offered quietly. “I don’t usually go on like that.” “No,” Duncan raised his hand slightly as he used the other to stir the fire with a stick. “It is a blessing to know a great love like that, to be able to share your life with another, to grow and learn together. I wish…” Duncan shook his head with a jerk and turned his head away. “What?” Connor asked. “I loved a woman once, but…she died before we…” Duncan shrugged. “She died,” he finished lamely. “I’m sorry,” Connor said. He had been so lost in his own memories, he had not been paying much attention to anything else. Right now, all he wanted to do was fold himself in the sense of Heather’s nearness, and dream of her. He blinked hard to shake his thoughts back into order and focused on Duncan. The whole point, after all, had been to get his student to talk a little. “Can you tell me what happened?” Duncan shook his head. “She fell from a cliff,” he said softly, staring into the fire. “It was several years ago.” Connor waited for more, but the silence dragged on. “Surely there’s more to the tale than that,” he urged at last. The dark shadow was very still. “Aye,” he whispered. Connor passed him the whiskey, and Duncan took a swallow and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “She was betrothed to my cousin Robert, who was like a brother to me. But Debra and I had loved each other practically since we were children, and we asked permission to marry. But Debra’s father wouldn’t hear of breaking his promise, and Robert wanted Debra even if she didn’t love him. I couldna’ blame him. She was so beautiful,” Duncan sounded so young as he spoke of his love, his voice gentle and soft. “And she was the daughter of a Campbell village chief, which would put him in line for leadership in both clans. Robert challenged me over it, and called me a coward when I refused to raise a sword against him, but my father said the family honor had been besmirched and fight him, I must.” The sudden spurt of conversation died, and Duncan took another swallow. “You killed him?” Connor asked, when his clansman seemed not to want to go on. The dark head nodded. “Aye. I killed my kinsman. His blood stained my hands, and I couldn’t stand to think on it, couldn’t look in the eyes of any of my own village, and I decided to leave Glenfinnan, but Debra…” Duncan covered his mouth with his hand and stopped. Connor said nothing, all the while wondering how long the boy had waited to tell someone this awful story. Duncan took a long, shaky breath. “She said she would rather die than live without our love, and ran to the edge of the cliff, you know the one? Overlooking the river that leads down to Loch Sheil?” Connor didn’t know whether Duncan could see his nod in the dark, because now he seemed intent on telling the rest. “I told her I’d stay, that I would marry her, that I could live with Robert’s ghost, but I couldna’ live with hers, as well. She reached for my hand, but she had stepped too far out. The earth crumbled away…and she was gone. I watched her as she fell. I could see the look of horror in her eyes. I had reached for her, but…” Connor reached out and grasped Duncan’s forearm, and the two men sat in silence until gradually, Duncan’s trembling eased. “Anyway,” Duncan said gruffly, taking another drink from the bottle, “Twas a long time ago.” “Not long enough,” Connor said gently. “Never long enough.” He took the bottle away, stoppering it carefully and tucking it into his pack, wondering whether he had taken on more than he had realized with young Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. “Go to sleep, Duncan. We have a long day tomorrow.” “Aye,” he replied. “In a minute, after I bank the fire and make sure your horse hasn’t wandered too far off. Connor recognized a plea to be left alone, so he unfolded his pallet, and drew his cloak over himself for warmth, his thoughts still whirling with memories of the wonderful lifetime he and Heather had spent in this place, and how fortunate he had been. He was afraid he would be unable to clear his mind, but the comforting memories folded around him and he quickly felt himself drifting off to sleep until a small noise, a movement, a breath, a sigh, pulled his heavy eyes open. Duncan was still sitting by the fire’s dying embers, his face etched in pain and tears, his arms hugging his torso, rocking slightly back and forth. For a moment, Connor thought of going to him, but decided to let the man mourn in private. There would be time, he decided. Plenty of time for them to built trust, and more than enough pain to share in the process. To be continued...