Blood dripped from my busted knuckles. Panting, I scowled at the old man who stood far out of reach from the wooden claymore I carried. In his hand, he held a rapier, its blade and handguard glittering in the sunlight. He had nicked me several times, lines painting my skin like red ribbons pinned on a tan curtain. Trying to catch my breath, I shoved the blunt tip into the ground and leaned on the hilt, cursing the lead that weighed it down. My braid stuck to my shoulder and neck and I slung it back over my shoulder, annoyed that eleven knots didn’t weigh down the same as my old sixteen knot braid.

“You can’t take a break in battle!” He roared from where he stood, and I smirked.

“Good thing I’m just training with a stubborn old knight.” I ran my palm down my face, flicking the sweat off to the side. “Summer time is hell for this.”

“Pick it up.” He took an offensive stance. “Once more.”

Grunting, I heaved the claymore up with both hands, my muscles straining from its weight. It was twice as heavy as the real thing, but its intention was for building enough muscle to swing and move with greater speed. With a roar, I ran toward the old man, slicing across. He sidled out of striking radius and jabbed the rapier’s point against my ribs. I spun, letting the blade slice as I swung around with greater momentum. The rapier’s tip lost its aim as my body rolled along the blade; the old knight’s blue eyes wide. Every muscle tightened, a rapier dropping at my feet and the knight on the ground stunned. The wooden blade had stopped shy of hitting him if he had been still standing. Despite the soreness, the exhaustion, the muscles in my arm held it still as the wind of its potential force waved over the old farmer. I panted, staring down at him, holding the dreaded anchor still, its shadow caste across him like a tree.

It took him a while to regain his wit, and he smiled, “You’ve figured it out.”

Slowly, I dropped the wooden claymore’s tip to the ground and leaned on it. I grabbed my side, the slice stinging to life as salty sweat crawled down and in. My hand came back bloody, and I grumbled, annoyed.

“You think this one needs stitches, old man?” Leaning down, using the claymore for support and picked up the bejeweled rapier. “And please, don’t drop this. You said you wanted to give it to John, right?”

Grabbing it from me, he used his pants to clean my blood from the blade. “I would, but I’d happy if he would choose any of them.”

“Did he know that you had an arsenal in the cellar” I offered a hand, and after a short internal battle, he caved and took it.

“No.” He grunted as I heaved him to his feet. “So, was that instinct or your head thinking?”

“Which part?” I pressed against my side, blood still seeping and my heart thumping hard against my chest. “I don’t do much thinking when I’m exhausted like this.”

“Instinctual fighters live longer.” He motioned for me to head to the house. “It’ll need stitches if it’s bleeding like that, but I got to take a close look. Your blood’s boiling after that strike. What you did there, rolling and redirecting the rapier so you could make a counterstrike, is good.”

“It doesn’t feel good.” Snorting, I dragged the claymore behind me, abandoning it on the porch so I could lean on a post. “Plus, weren’t you the one that told me that a claymore user had to be willing to take a hit to cleave a head?”

“Take a hit, cleave a head,” he echoed, grabbing a scoop of water. “Now move your hand.”

Sighing, I did so and was met with water slapping across the cut. I scoffed, but remained unflinching as the old man leaned in, taking a closer look.

“Well?” It had been a few weeks since I let a gash this large be written across my skin, the pink and purple sunburnt scar on my arm a sour reminder. “Is it as bad as me catching the strike on my arm like last month?”

“You know,” he laughed and started digging into a tin, “It’s just skin deep. Some ointment and a proper wrap should do the trick.”

“Ointment. More like a wad of rotten vegetables that even the pigs won’t eat.” The cold, pungent mush landed on my side and I scrunched my face in response. “So only skin deep. Is that significant? You seem rather pleased with that.”

Another helping of the ointment slid across my ribs and numbed the cut. “It means you’ve hardened those muscles just right. How many hands do you need to hold a claymore?”

Furrowing my brow, I answered, “Two.”

“I said you.” He closed the tin and now began circling my torso in a cloth bandage.

“Two?” I wasn’t sure where the old knight was going with this. “It’s hard swinging a tree trunk weighed down with that much lead.”

“I said claymore.” Tying the bandage tight, he smacked my shoulder and commanded I follow.

“You sound crazier each day, old man.” Running my hand over my head, I brushed back long strands of hair that had escaped my braid.

He laughed, edging down into the cellar. We both weaved through shelves until the indoor training area revealed itself. The Lord Knight was smiling, something I rarely seen him do in the three years I had been there. He pointed to a display of armor and other armaments. The item in question leaned on a shelf there, too large to fit into his chest of swords. The claymore’s blade etched and polished to be worthy of a Royal Guard or Prince. It was beautiful in the brazier’s light.

“You can have it if,” he paused.

“If?” I finally gave him my attention.

“If you can wield it one-handed,” his smile crept across his face like a snake.

I frowned, “How ridiculous.”

“Dante, I’ve seen you carry a bail of hay with one arm.” He sat down on the chest. “Go on, with one hand.”

“You do know that’s a claymore not a broadsword.” I walked closer, taking in the detail of it all. “Was this…” Falco.

“Yes, it’s the very same blade.”

I closed my eyes, thankful for a change the old knight had a way of reading me. Inhaling deep, gripping the hilt, I readied myself. The grip was smaller in length compared to claymores I had seen in the past, and swallowing, I pulled it up off the shelf and ground. It came with little resistance and the weight half that of the wooden one I had used out front. I gave it a swing, the weight only slightly cumbersome as a heavy broadsword. The balance in the claymore had been altered, repurposed for just this reason. I held the blade flat, at eye level, admiring the thickness and how straight it had been despite facing battle.

“It’s gorgeous,” I muttered.

“I call her the Duchess.” Paul broke into a rash of coughs, wheezing to catch his breath.

“You need to head back upstairs. This damp air doesn’t do your lungs any good and neither does that pipe.” I switched hands, pleased at the ease I had with my less dominate hand. “The balance in this is uncanny. Where did you find a blacksmith so talented?”

“In Prevera.” He had caught his breath.

“Why does this not surprise me?” I took a swing, the speed making my muscles flinch. “It’ll take some time to master this one.”

“You can abandon the axe and use that to cut down saplings and the likes.” He shuffled on his perch, rubbing his chest. “It’s how I trained on it. It’s all about repetition now, Dante. I’ve taught you all I know. You’ve got the instincts, you can read the books here for more, but as for my skill and my blade, you now know my secret. Never let them know you can carry it one hand.”

“A farmer turned Lord Knight,” I breathed. “Let’s get you back upstairs.”

“No, go give it a good swing, I’ll get myself up there.” He gave me a mournful look, “I’m sorry, Dante.”

“What for?” I smiled, turning back to him.

Paul grimaced, his hand gripping his shirt as he fell forward. I abandoned the claymore, barely catching his shoulders under me. His body rigid, his jaw clenching. Panic took hold, no, don’t leave me. He wasn’t breathing. Wrenching his hand off his chest, I laid him down on the ground and pressed my ear against it. Nothing. The warmth was already leaving his body and my stomach twisted. His heart had stopped.

I rocked back on my heels, covering my face as the weight of it settled. The old man knew, I’m on borrowed time. He had said it time and time again. The pain wrecking my body wasn’t physical, it was pure heartbreak. I was the child, no, next heir to an enemy country and yet he treated me as if I were family. He never once caved to John’s whims about who I was exactly, or why he would teach me over him. My life was expendable, and if anything, it would right a wrong of what had happened to John’s parents from a Viceroy who served in my name, my father’s name.

A frustrated roar escaped my lips, the cellar dampening it. Winter was a long way off, so I had time to bury him, to choose the spot and plant a tree as a marker. John wouldn’t get to see his grandpa one last time. Paul wouldn’t get to see his grandson returned a priest.

And me, where does that leave me?

“Three years is all you had.”

Pulling my hands from my face, he looked so peaceful for once. Again, a pain struck my chest as my eyes looked to the claymore on the floor.

“I’ll finish training with it, but after that, it gets stored away until I truly need it. Thank you, it’s a wonderful gift.” I rolled to my feet, picking it up and brushing the dirt off. Looking back at the lifeless vessel I sighed, “Don’t worry, I’ll wait for him and make sure he receives his gift when he’s ready.”

Come home soon, John.