Forging the Blade, Part II: Kithe and Kin, Chapter 2, 2/3
kageorge (kageorge@EROLS.COM)
Wed, 26 Sep 2001 14:51:41 -0400
Forging the Blade, Part II
Kithe and Kin
by MacGeorge
Acknowledgements and disclaimers in previously posted Part 0.
~~~
Spring eased into summer, and the house had been rebuilt and thatched,
securing it against the rain. Rough furniture was constructed, making
it habitable, if not overly comfortable. A plank table, two stools and
their pallets spread on the floor seemed entirely sufficient for their
needs. Connor was glad neither man showed any interest in anything
other than the minimal necessities of protection against the weather and
a place for warmth and food. To attempt to make the space into a real
home would have reminded him too much of Heather, who always had
garlands of dried herbs and flowers scenting the air, and who gathered
pretty stones, feathers and greenery to make the space distinctively her
own.
It was an odd life, instructing this young lion who soaked up whatever
he told him like desert sand absorbing water, all in a place that had
intense memories associated with every rock, every vista, every turn of
the weather. He constantly found himself caught in the midst of
reminiscence, and Duncan took to teasing him about his age and the
tendency to daydream. But Connor’s thoughts were fairly welcome musings
of a lifetime of shared love, memories he would not trade for anything;
while his student would sometimes retreat behind a dark wall of stony
silence, usually triggered by nightmares that had him twisting and
mumbling in his sleep. Connor had been unable to get Duncan to tell him
what was disturbing his rest and causing his dark broods, but it was
only a matter of time, and time was something they had in abundance.
They were getting low on grain, and it was time to replenish their
supplies, as well as long past time for them to see and talk to someone
besides each other. Connor had been celibate for months, now, and it
was not a state he had any wish to sustain. As for Duncan, he suspected
the youngster’s early morning disappearances and strenuous workouts were
at least partially caused by the lack of other outlets for natural male
needs. Other than the one night when Duncan disclosed the tragedy of
his first love, the youngster had been unrevealing about his sexual
experiences or sophistication. For all Connor knew, Duncan was
completely virginal. Perhaps that was a state that needed some
education, as well, but broaching the topic seemed rather awkward.
They both rose early, as usual, and began what had become a routine
early morning run down to the loch, where they frequently caught a
breakfast of fresh fish, but this morning was warm and comfortable, and
Duncan seemed to be feeling particularly frisky, and the run had become
a race, especially once they reached the long stretch of sandy beach.
Duncan wasn’t a bad sprinter, but few had ever been able to beat Connor
MacLeod in a distance race.
But Duncan, as usual, never conceded defeat and as Connor picked up the
pace, the younger man stayed with him. As they approached the loch,
Duncan suddenly stretched out, shouting “First one to the rock catches
and cooks breakfast!” as he pulled slightly ahead.
Connor felt a grin pull on his lips and he stretched his stride, still
breathing easily as they reached a long, level area. He pulled even and
they ran side by side for a moment, but he could hear Duncan begin to
labor, the breaths more harsh, the vibrations of his student’s steps
much heavier than his own. He pulled on his reserves and put on a last,
long burst of speed, and leapt lightly over the rocky outcroppings and
up to the flat rock overhang where they usually finished their run. He
turned, and Duncan was a half dozen steps behind him, his face flushed
and sweaty with effort, a grin of wild exuberance lighting his face.
But instead of stopping, his student let out a yell and ducked, grabbing
him around the waist, the momentum carrying them both into the cold
waters of Loch Leven.
They sank like stones, and it was a moment before Connor figured out up
from down and kicked towards the surface, only to have a hand grab his
ankle and try to pull him down again. This time he grabbed a chest full
of air and dove deep. His first grab for his clansman missed and a hard
calf slipped out of his grasp, but a few more strokes and he caught
Duncan by the edge of his kilt, kicked up, his prize in his hand.
Duncan broke the surface with a yell, grabbing for the cloth, but Connor
wadded it up and dove deep, swimming towards the shore. He got close,
only to have a hard hand clasp his ankle and he was pulled under. In
the darkness, his fist was pried open, and they both tumbled up against
the rough rocks and sand, foam bubbling up around them. The watery
wrestling match quickly exhausted them both, and soon they stumbled out
of the water onto the sand, collapsing in laughter.
“I still beat you,” Connor finally managed to gasp, wiping the water off
his face and the hair out of his eyes. Duncan’s soggy kilt was thrown,
and slapped across his chest, making him jerk from the cold.
“You always do,” his clansman acknowledged genially. “But someday,
Connor MacLeod, I’ll knock you on your arse, just like you dump me on
mine time and again.” Connor turned to see Duncan grinning at him, white
teeth shining behind his dark beard, his bare skin glowing almost gold
in the warm light of the rising sun. Duncan had filled out in the last
several weeks of heavy exercise and steady meals. He was still lean,
but his big frame was beginning to sport some impressive musculature.
It was no wonder the man preferred the heft and weight of his big
claymore over the lighter katana Connor had allowed him to practice with
from time to time. It would take decades for the young warrior to
develop the deft touch required to effectively wield a blade like the
ancient Japanese sword he carried.
Connor yelled in protest when Duncan rose up and grabbed his wet kilt
off Connor’s chest, wringing it out so the cold water dribbled over
Connor’s head.
“Enough, student!” Connor finally slapped his playful clansman hard on
his bare backside and pushed him towards the rock. “Before you knock
anyone on their arse, you have a fish or two to catch and cook.” Connor
watched as Duncan expertly folded and tucked his wet kilt around himself
and went to find the spear they kept stored in the niche of a rock
nearby. He lay back on the warm sand, realizing he was truly content
for the first time since Heather’s death.
It had been a long, long time since he had felt young, but Duncan made
him see the world through fresh eyes. Teaching his clansman had evolved
from a frightening obligation into a real pleasure, and had helped him
hone his own skills, as well as figure out how to articulate what he was
doing, and why. He now had even greater respect for Ramirez and Nagano
and the other teachers he had importuned in the last century, and was
humbled by the gifts of knowledge and skill they had been willing to
give so freely. He hoped he could do them justice with Duncan. He sat
up on his elbows and watched as his clansman stretched out, his upper
torso over the water, watching patiently for any trout seeking shelter
in the shade of the rock.
“I think its time we went back into town,” Connor stated. “You go
through shirts like a water bucket with a hole in the bottom.”
“Shhh,” Duncan shushed him. “You’ll scare away the fish.”
Connor laughed. “You’re daft if you think there are still any fish
around that rock after all that splashing and kicking we did.”
“Well, they’ll nay come back if you keep shouting, now will they?
Besides, if you wouldn’t cut me so much, my shirts would no’ get so
torn, now would they?”
“If you defended yourself a little better, you wouldn’t get cut so much,
now would you?”
Duncan raised his head and cast a dark glare in Connor’s direction, then
returned to his futile task. “I don’t need to go into town. It’s still
warm and I dinna need to even wear a shirt.”
Connor lay back, his fingers laced behind him to cushion his head, his
eyes closed against the glare of the bright morning sun. “Well, I also
had some other activities in mind. There’s probably a lady or two there
willing to share her favors, and I don’t know about you, but if I’m
going to wrestle, I’d prefer to do it with someone whose bottom is a
little softer and rounder than your hairy arse. No offence intended,
cousin.”
Duncan gave up on his fish spearing attempts, and sat up with a
chuckle. “None taken, cousin. My dreams are hardly about raining
kisses on your bony cheek, either.”
Connor rolled over onto his stomach, facing his student. “Then let’s
head to town. We can leave first thing in the morning. We can get you
some new shirts and maybe some breeches, and perhaps you can even get
that damnable beard trimmed off. You might not be so ugly with…” Duncan
had stood abruptly, and put the spear carefully back onto the ledge
where they kept it stored. “What is it?”
“You know what it is, Connor. I can’t…I don’t wish to go.” Duncan
headed back down the sandy beach towards the glen.
“Nothing terrible happened last time, and you can’t hide out here
forever,” Connor called.
“I stayed in the stable last time,” Duncan snapped back. “I’ll fix us
some porridge for breakfast.” He trotted off back towards the glen, his
wet kilt slapping around his thighs.
“Duncan!” Connor called, but his student just kept going, and Connor
flopped over onto his back again, and just lay there for awhile, letting
the sun dry his clothes and his body, and thinking. For someone who
seemed to bask in the warmth of community and family, Duncan’s
unwillingness to be among people was the most telling sign of the
unhealed wound of his banishment. Perhaps he felt he was only doing
what his father had decreed, or perhaps he still found the ‘demon’ the
ignorant villagers believed him to be to be too close to his own fears
of what he had become.
And Connor had no solid reassurances to offer about the villagers’
reactions if they recognized him. There very well might be an incident,
but withdrawing from the world was no way to deal with it, and the
longer they isolated themselves, the more difficult it would be to
overcome Duncan’s reluctance to confront those who might revile him.
Immortals had to learn to live with their difference, to walk among
mortals as one of them, to live as one of them. Otherwise, they’d all
end up as hermits, living in caves for centuries without end. The
thought made Connor shudder.
By the time the warm sun had dried his skin and his kilt, and he walked
back to the house, Duncan had prepared some porridge. They ate in
comfortable silence, then spent the rest of the morning on the never
ending chores required to maintain even the smallest croft, then Duncan
disappeared to do his usual drills before Connor tracked him down for
lessons in swordsmanship.
The next morning Connor rose well before dawn, and busied himself
packing his saddlebags. His movement woke his student, whose tousled
dark head peered at him through the darkness. “What are you doing?”
Duncan asked, his voice slurred with sleep.
“I told you we needed supplies.” Connor carefully wiped the katana with
a soft cloth, then slipped it into its scabbard. Duncan was silent, but
he sat up on his pallet, watching.
“How long will you be gone?”
Connor paused in his movements and met Duncan’s eyes. “We’ll be gone a
few days, maybe a week.”
“Connor, I told you…”
The katana slipped out of the scabbard with a near-silent hiss and the
edge of the blade met Duncan’s neck even as he scrabbled back against
the wall. “Your opinion was not solicited, student. I don’t care if
you don’t wish to go. I don’t care if the villagers pelt you with
rotten vegetables, hang you by your heels, strip you naked and drag you
through the market square. You are going.”
Duncan’s eyes narrowed, his lips thinned and he lifted his chin. “I’m
not your slave, Connor MacLeod. I go where I will, when I will, and no
man tells me different.”
Connor let a smile touch his lips. The tip of the katana pressed into
the base of Duncan’s neck and a small drip of blood slid down his chest.
“You wouldn’t kill me just to force me to…”
The blade pressed in a little further and Duncan hissed and pressed back
to the wall, his eyes wide. “What makes you think I wouldn’t?” Connor
asked softly. “I’ve done it before.”
“Dammit, Connor! Why are you doing this? And don’t give me that
blather about watching your back. You don’t need me or anyone else for
that.”
“But you do. The last time I left an Immortal friend alone here in this
glen, I returned to find them dead. I don’t intend to let that happen
again. Now get your things together.”
Connor pulled the katana back, wiping it again, inspecting the tip to
make certain he had not left any traces of blood on the blade. Duncan
just sat there, but when his teacher cast a hard, uncompromising look at
him, the youngster mumbled something in Gaelic under his breath and
turned and snatched up his kilt to fold it around himself.
“What was that?” Connor demanded, but he had to work to keep the smile
off his face.
“Nothing!” Duncan snapped, grabbing his footwear and slamming out of the
house.
Their trip to Glencoe was made in hostile silence, which was fine with
Connor. As they reached their destination at last in mid-afternoon, and
paused to look down onto the village, he heard Duncan muttering to
himself once again as they viewed a bustling, crowded market square
below. There were camps spread widely to the west of town, tents and
wagons dotted the landscape and the smoke from numerous campfires left a
haze hanging over the valley.
“You didn’t tell me it was market day,” Duncan grumbled.
“You didn’t ask,” Connor replied, and urged his stallion forward,
glancing back only once to make sure Duncan was following, which he was,
albeit reluctantly.
Continued in part 3