Of Death and Discord

A Highlander, Thor Crossover

A wounded deer leaps highest,
I've heard the hunter tell;
'Tis but the ecstasy of death,
And then the brake is still.

-Emily Dickinson

Keep your blade up. Feet moving. Always have an avenue of retreat.

Serrure likes the croissants best. The Old Man makes them himself, holds his hands under the ice-water until his skin is cold, and folds the layers of dough expertly. Serrure likes to watch his hands -They aren't like Serrure's hands, nor anyone else's, with fingers that are long and dextrous and deceptively strong.- knead and chop and roll. The croissants always come out soft and flaky, and warm, and Serrure loves the way Darius' honey-butter dissolves on his tongue.

The sword is a weapon, and a good one, but not the only weapon. Not your weapon.

Serrure likes Darius for the most part, but he does get annoyed when the War Lord -Because that is what he is, under the monk robes at his core, and even he doesn't deny it, doesn't try to sugar coat what he was.- ruffles his hair and calls him Veles. The Old Man and the War Lord don't have any regular schedule of meeting, there is a game of chess that has been going on for months as far as Serrure can tell, but somehow they always seem to know when one or the other is near.

Your best weapon is your head, your ability to think, never loose that.

From Darius, Serrure learns how to brew mead, and not the stuff served now-a-days produced for commercial use but real and aged and sweet. Serrure likes to steal sips of it, curl his toes as the unfinished product lands in his gut, and smiles beautifully when the War Lord looks up from his measurements. "Is it sweet as you, little Veles?"

"Non, Dear Darius, for I am far sweeter than any summer's day." The words trip off Serrure's tongue which twists and turns and forms more languages than Serrure thought it was possible to know. The War Lord switches as often as the Old Man, as if testing for Serrure for something, and so far he's passed with flying colors. The written, though, that still often resembles so much gibberish.

Very good. Tomorrow we'll start with knives. Now, what are the three tenants?

The Old Man teaches him more than the Dance and the Sword. Serrure learns about culture from one who lived it. He learns about societies where hearts were -Still are, hush.- eaten to absorb the spiritual power of the victim. He learns of wars, battles fought, he learns of the lived history through stories that paint the Old Man as everything from a slave at Trimalchio's banquet -And Serrure decides that no matter how tasty the end result preparing dormice for eating is a sticky, too- troublesome process.- to a lawgiver on a Thing.

One day, Serrure hopes to meet Byron. He sounds fun.

"Live."

Serrure learns much, and he has always been thirty for knowledge, with a warm bed and a roof over his head. His belly is almost always full. But he misses his brother. Serrure pens a note thanking the Old Man for all his help and slips out the window with nothing but the clothes on his back, a small bag of water and food (and mead) and his sword. The Old Man says it is his. He doesn't feel guilty -Not that he would, if it were not.- about keeping the beautiful antique with him.

The trickster takes a train, whispering to the wind I am a god while clinging to the roof. Belief drips off of him like dew off a blade of grass, because the Old Man doesn't lie -To him.- and especially not about this. No one sees the little boy as the train departs, or as he plucks wallets from purses and removes the cash because he has willed it so.

"Grow stronger."

Clé is waiting for him at the hostel. Serrure can feel his lips crack, his smile is so wide, and though he's never seen one up close he can't help but think his brother smells like horses. Amanda and he have joined a traveling circus, Clé complains, and while the work is hard but enjoyable, and the people are a laugh or twenty, he can't imagine going to Moscow and so far away from Serrure for so long. Letters and phone calls are not enough.

They whisper. They make plans. They hold each other, punch shoulders for stupid plans, and exchange lessons.

"Fight another day."

They are considering stealing a car when a shadow falls over them. A hand comes to rest painfully on his brother's shoulder and dark voice whispers, "Why, you are but a babe. No idea what you really are... "

Clé does not yet have a sword: his teacher preferring to focus on the use of innocence and guile until her charge grew into his adult form.

Serrure does, and he knows almost instinctively how to use it.

When the storm quiets down both Amanda and the Old Man have arrived. Serrure is shaking -I killed a man.- the woman taking them both in her arms, all worried affection, and Clé cries into his neck. Serrure looks into the Old Man's unreadable eyes. "The man who controls his own destiny is a god. I am a god.*"

The Old Man nods, and the smallest of smiles graces his lips.

*Shamelessly stolen from the movie, A Better Tomorrow.