The sun was just beginning to set, casting long, sharp shadows across the Red Crow camp. It was summer, and even with the promise of an evening breeze, the lingering heat danced and wavered above the tall grass of the plains. A circle of wicks had formed on the edge of their encampment; it almost appeared to be the entire tribe. There were bets being placed and ging changing hands along side cheering and laughter, taunts and snickers.

"Git on with it then, kovs."

"Less talkin', more fightin' ... I got good ging on th'idea one a'you's gonna bleed."

"We're waitin' on ye."

"Let us see some more sweat on those bodies."

-----

In the center of the circle stood two very different men.

The older man was a tall, broad-shouldered wick. He might as well have been born fighting and with a sword in his hand, so built he was for combat. He was, however, well past his prime - short grey hair, wrinkles, and a missing tooth or two being the only outward signs that he may have been well into his fifties or even sixties. Shirtless, the wick's suntanned back was covered in an elaborate tattooed landscape. It was Anhau, or at least an artist's depiction of such, from the nape of the man's neck, across his shoulders, and well to his lower back. Only a few scars marred the well-inked picture. It must've taken a lot of time, if not a crazy amount of endurance.

The wick's left arm was tied behind him with a bright red scarf, and in his right was a short, curved blade.

He grinned, the sun-tightened wrinkles of his face making his eyes almost disappear, and regarded the younger man before him, "Ye ent goin' nowhere 'til I say y'can. If'n ye ent learnt well 'nough tae best me, ye ent gonna make't anywhere else, brunno."

The younger man was not quite as tall, smaller-framed, yet still built for fighting, in a compact and volatile sort of way. Where his opponent might have been bulky and aged, this man was wirey and barely out of his twenties. He might as well have been a wick with his unruly black hair pulled back in a short ponytail and more than a few earrings, even if his features were remarkably aristocratic and almost delicate under his dark summer tan. Where his opponent had his colorful tattoo, this youth, also shirtless, had a dizzying number of crisscrossed scars. His only inked marking was an unmistakable passive tattoo glaringly untouched on his right bicep.

The man's right arm was tied behind his back with a bright blue scarf, and in his left hand was a long, narrow blade.

"There's less showy or dangerous ways of tellin' me you'll miss me, Guaril," The young passive returned the grin, grey eyes shining like his sword in the last bright rays of the sun, "It ent like you won't ever see me again, old man."

Guaril was already sweating from the leftover heat of the day. He narrowed his clear blue eyes and laughed, taunting his student, his friend, and maybe even the only boy he'd call a son, "Ne, I figger I ent gonna, Tristaan. A pretty balach like yerself's gonna go out an' get in all kinds o'benny trouble."

"Come now. Ent no trouble I know how t'get into that you ent taught me." Came the calm rebuttal.

"Har! Can't argue that." The old wick planted his feet, changing his stance a little. He cleared his throat, nodding his head toward the young man's blade, "Ready?"

The passive rolled his shoulders and chuckled, crouching a little, keeping his stance loose, "You know th'answer's always a yes."

-----

There was a brief pause and the crowded circle of wicks grew quiet in anticipation.

Both men regarded each other carefully.

Teacher and student.

Friends.

Father and son in a way only wicks could properly understand.

Truth be told, Tristaan longed to stay. He'd never felt more at home, more accepted, more loved. It was a different world, a different life. These people had found him hungry and tired, totally clueless about the world outside the city walls, and taken him into their tribe like he was a lost brother. They'd clothed him, fed him, taught him to read, found his skills and nurtured them.

It was everything he never knew.

But inside, deep and sharp, the passive found it impossible to escape who he'd thought he was. The burden of his heritage burned in his chest and made his heart heavy.

Scrap. Cursed. Broken.

Somehow, no matter how close he wanted to grow to these people, the same terror of that day in the factory held him back from giving all of who he was to anyone.

Only Guaril seemed to understand, in wordless kindness, that the passive was still running.

-----

The old wick's eyes flashed in the sun and with a speed and prowess that belied his age, he broke their motionless silence and leapt towards the young man, curved blade arching towards his chest.

Tristaan turned into the charge purposefully as if he wanted to be slashed before twisting to one side swiftly and letting the blade sweep harmlessly through the air just a finger-width away from his body, raising his blade above his head to bring his pommel crashing towards the wick's back, unwilling to be the first to draw blood.

The crowd cheered as the fight began.

To the undiscerning eye, it would appear as though the two were far from evenly matched, that it should be obvious the younger man had some advantage over the older. Guaril knew better, however, having both learned and passed on a kind of appreciation for the appearance of disadvantage. He still had confidence in his own abilities, and his age permitted him the benefit of experience over bravado. The old wick also knew that his student would one day surpass his teacher, but some part of him hoped it was not today.

-----

"D'you yield?"

Bleeding and sweating, the younger man stood over the older, sword's point resting precariously over the wick's broad chest. He was breathing hard, hair disheveled, but there was no grin of satisfaction on his face. He might've been crying.

The old wick lay beneath the victorious stance of his student, bloodied and sweaty, panting exhaustedly. He had not expected to end up here, not yet. His curved blade was but a hand's breadth out of reach, left arm still tied behind his back. He was smiling, but his eyes were heavy with a far-away sort of sadness.

"Oes, brunno. Y've made yer case clear wi'me."

Ging and words were exchanged behind and around them, but neither man noticed.

The passive dropped his blade and shrugged off the scarf that held his other arm in place, stretching it before offering his calloused hand to his teacher and friend beneath him.

"Y'knew it'd happen one day, old man." Tristaan said quietly as he helped the wick to his feet, his voice distant and tired.

"Did'ae'now? Ye 'ssume much o'this ol' wick ye do." Guaril wheezed, letting his feelings show on his face, blue eyes moist, "I mayn't 'ave taught ye all I know if'n I'd 'ave figgered ye'd be driftin' so soon."

The younger man knew he meant that, and it stung more than his wounds.

"No kint. No rosh. No bochi. Oes, there ent anythin' tae keep ye, but I know that's yer choice an' no one else's." The old wick drew himself up to his full height, placing his big, worn hands on the young passive's narrow shoulders, "Ent gonna tell ye 'ow tae live, son, but there'll come time yer gonna 'ave tae let some things go an' be yer own man. Ent no golly er wick er 'uman can tell ye who ye'are."

The young man looked up at the weathered, gruff, but kind wick he'd come to call more than a friend, "I'll have't keep my eyes open for that day."

For Alioe knows I need it ... What will that day be like? Will time start again?

"Oes, ye will. Now let's be off tae clean up an' drink up an' send ye'off proper-like, eh?" Guaril grinned, ignoring the tears on his face, shoving the passive playfully toward the edge of their circle and into the welcoming crowd.

"G'on!"


((Egads, where did this come from? ... Perhaps the more visible part of Tristaan's past would be his time living with wicks, since he's apparently good at getting mistaken for one in every day life. I didn't expect to write this any time soon, but it just kind of happened. I suppose I can say he is officially rounded out now. Onward ho!))

((Sniffle. That was so beautiful.))

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Yay for illustrated fight sequences!