"So, we've fought for two hours now, have you had enough?" he inquired, coughing through blood and his rapid breathing. He wiped the corner of his lips with a sleeve, eyeing the other man. My muscles ache and I can't keep my wind very well. If he doesn't reach what he's after soon, he's liable to kill me.

"Another round?" gasped Connor. His shirt was wringing wet and bloodied. A crimson trail led down the side of his face and he was winded as well, but deep in his eyes was a haunted and hunted look�a fury�a rage still unquenched.

They went another round. The dragon swords clashed and rang, snarled the air with flashes of light. There was no finesse to this war of skills; no banter, no grins, no pauses for catcalls or to compare notes on how a maneuver was executed. Neither gave ground, neither seemed to be able to advance either�they spun along the edge of the crescent reach of the steel.

Connor, uncharacteristically, added a physical element to the battle�one that Duncan could meet easily and escape unscathed. The darker immortal used skill and ultimately superior strength to keep his opponent at bay. Connor threw seven different styles at him�all within the same eighteen minutes. I hate it when he�s like this. Overwrought and pressured�he comes in like a blitz and it takes every ounce of me to meet him. And it�s sloppy and ferocious�twice as dangerous, like some berserk brawl in an alley. Duncan grunted through a flash of handwork that made his forearms go numb. I taught him this; this swiftly moving assault that bounces through patterns unpredictably. I crave the order of precise designs�he taps into speed and overwhelms his opponents.

Minute by minute, maneuver by maneuver, Duncan helped his clansman bleed off his rage. The swords came back into deadly action and they backed away to give the steel room to slide off each other, spitting sparks like explosions.

Connor broke off, staggering from a stab that had penetrated his guard. The flash of pain fired across his face�the first expression besides sullen ferocity that Duncan had seen.

Don't kill him, instead, spoke Duncan's inner teacher. He's borderline: you've got to hold all the control for him. He watched his former mentor stagger, go to one knee.He's still got the sword up, though. We might not be done with this dance.

"Have you had enough?" Duncan called again, hoping to hear the answer he wanted to hear, but willing to give his friend the savagery that could burn out his pain. What has provoked this? he questioned for the thirteenth time.

"Enough," gasped Connor. The sword tip dropped: abruptly too heavy in his hand.

"I'm glad," Duncan said, walking up and circling so he met his Clansman face to face. He carefully reached to take the katana from Connor ... and Connor let him�a sure sign that he was set right. Duncan smiled at the two swords and put them both at rest, another assurance that the current fray was ended. "Go take a shower and I'll fix us some sandwiches."

Connor rose ungracefully; limping and unbalanced. His hair was matted and a crust of blood covered one ear. "Thank you," he whispered, before turning and hobbling away.

"It was your turn, if I remember," called Duncan after him. Last time I worked out my fury at the world upon you. And you held all the control for me while I beat us near to death for three hours in New York.

MacNairCDC
Mar 29 2003

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