BY SOPHIA HELMKAMP
(This is a series of thematically connected short stories from various fandoms. Following the progression of Rudyard Kipling’s poem “If,” which describes the actions a boy should take in order to, in the words of the last line, “be a man,” this series connects each line or group of lines from the poem to a fictional hero that the author thinks exemplifies them particularly well.)
The Stone of Erech, TA 3019
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you…
The night wind was chill as it swirled around the hilltop, tossing tree branches dark against the sky and whistling by the round black stone that formed the crest of the hill. Yet more chill were the ranks of Oathbreakers on the hillsides.
None in the camp slept soundly. Gimli, having lain awake though unmoving for the better part of an hour, gave up sleep as a bad job, at least for the moment. He stood up, grunting crossly, and moved toward Legolas, who was sitting on one of the many rocks that crowned the hill, gazing up into the sky.
Gimli settled beside him. “No sleep for you, either?”
Legolas blinked back into motion and smiled at his friend. “There are many things to occupy the heart tonight.”
“And the bones,” grumbled Gimli. “I don’t think the chill has left mine since we went in that accursed door.”
“As you say,” said Legolas. “Yet it is not the shades of men that hold my thoughts, but the living.” His eyes strayed to Aragorn where he lay in the lee of the great obsidian stone.
“Ah,” sighed Gimli. “I hope Aragorn is getting more sleep than we tonight.”
Legolas murmured assent, and for a while the two sat in silence. Then Gimli said, very quietly, “I do not think I could have walked that path,” he paused, swallowing, “in any other company.”
“No,” agreed Legolas. “He held all—dwarf, elf, man, and beast—to that road with merely the strength of his will. I do not speak in metaphor,” he went on, precisely, “it was tangible, to me and, I am sure, the sons of Elrond: we were all of us almost enthralled—but by love and duty, not fear and sorcery.”
“Aye, it was like that. In fact, if Isildur had such power, I don’t see how the—” Gimli lowered his voice further, glancing around surreptitiously, “oathbreakers—could ever have broken faith with him.”
Near the two friends, one of the Rangers stirred, half-sitting and blinking open eyes of such a bright grey they were almost silver.
“Pardon my interruption,” he said, “but you, master elf, have the right of it. Love and duty—that is a two-way street. It was Aragorn’s will that bound us to the road, but our wills that bound us to him. Such was not the case between Isildur and the Men of the Mountain.”
“Hmm,” said Gimli, “that’s very well, friend Ranger. But whatever part our wills played I think he had the hardest job—and that after a palantír battle with Sauron!”
“Oh, no doubt. Which is why—” the Ranger raised his voice slightly, canting his head toward the Stone of Erech— “he should be sleeping, not listening in on conversations about him.”
Muffled snorts sounded around the camp, and Aragorn sighed from his place beneath the stone. “I think no one is sleeping tonight, Thadromir.”
“I suppose,” returned Thadromir, “that as long as tomorrow you’re up to the task of binding to this haunted road thirty-one men, two peredhil, an elf, a dwarf, and their respective horses—oh, and an army or so of vindictive ghosts—and gathering and rallying the scattered men of Gondor to Pelargir even in the face of their fear at the ‘King of the Dead’—well, then, it’s no business of ours whether or not you sleep tonight, is it?”
More snorts were heard from the less-than-somnolent Rangers, and Aragorn chuckled. “You made your point, my friend. We’ve a few more hours ‘till dawn,” he addressed the camp at large, “so take what rest you can.”
For a moment, the gentle shufflings of men returning to slumber sounded on the hilltop, and Gimli, too, nodded at Legolas and returned to his place. For the Ranger had been right: tomorrow would be a day of fire and fell deeds, and Aragorn would once again have need of his axe.
Wakanda, 2016
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
Yet make allowance for their doubting too…
“Cap?” Sam asked. Steve looked up from his folded arms. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” He pushed off from the wall and walked to the window. Outside, Wakandans bustled around in the sunshine. “Just wishing things had ended differently, you know?”
“I get that. You were the man, though. All that mess, and you stuck to your guns. Really made it easy to follow you.”
“There’s just some things I can’t do, Sam,” Steve murmured. “Can’t even allow. Bucky’s my friend—but the sort of stuff they were gonna do to him? That’d be wrong for anyone.”
“Well, sounds like even Stark agreed with you, there at the end.”
“About Bucky? I don’t know. But I see his side, too.” Steve shrugged. “He wanted accountability for us. I can’t fault that desire. And later…he was grieving, and angry. I can understand that.” He smiled sadly. “More than he thinks I can, probably.”
Sam snorted in an unspoken agreement between servicemen, and the two turned down the hallway, side by side.
Devonshire, 1797
If you can wait, and not be tired by waiting…
Her laugh, golden and bright, echoed across the lawn, and he couldn’t help but turn his head toward it. Miss Dashwood, so sensitive and decorous, gently steered the conversation where he wanted it to go.
“It does one good to see her happy,” Elinor said with a smile but a rueful shake of her head. “However many grass-stains must later be scrubbed out.”
And indeed, Miss Marianne knelt in the grass unheeding, draping her newly-crafted flower crown on Willoughby’s reclining head.
“Yes,” Brandon replied, and his eyes softened. He turned back to Miss Dashwood. “There are some whose joy always gives others joy, regardless of the circumstances.”
“Then I am glad she is one such person,” returned Elinor, with knowing and gently sympathetic eyes, “for all our sakes.”
The Burrow, 1996
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies…
Absently, Harry traced a finger over the rough scars on the back of his hand. I must not tell lies…I must not tell lies…the blood quill carving, self-torturously, through his skin…
“You all right, mate?” Ron’s voice interrupted his reverie.
“Yeah…” He shook his head to clear his thoughts, “yeah. It’s just…” he trailed off.
“So stupid!” Ron finished, matter-of-factly. “I mean, come on. They’re the ones lying about everything. We’re just,” he leaned back, folding his arms behind his head, and grimaced sideways at Harry, “doing what we have to do.”
Harry hummed in agreement. The two sat in silence for a moment.
“Don’t worry,” Ron said eventually, sounding half asleep. “We’ll beat the ol’ Dark Lord, then you can set ‘em all straight. Tell ‘em what really happened.”
Yes, Harry thought, and grinned. Yes, that’s right, Umbridge. One day, I will not tell lies…and everyone will hear me.
Jundland Wastes, 18 BBY
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating…
The twin suns burned in the sky, sucking moisture from his skin and beating down until even the inner surfaces of the walls radiated heat like a furnace—
—his fever rose higher, parching his tongue and driving through his body chills that offered no relief—
—he tossed and turned, and far of he heard, like an echo—
“I hate you!”
(Lava, and smoke, and tears that burned his eyes, and his lightsaber and Padmé falling and his beloved student kneeling to a Sith lord and the deaths of the Jedi and his men’s betrayal and…)
Memory was not sweet. He opened parched lips.
You were my… “brother,” he rasped, “Anakin…” I…
Neither was love sweet. It was always a choice, and always hard work, and in this case—
“…love you…”
—only pain.
Piccadilly, 1933
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise…
“Yes, Peter,” said Charles, patiently, “it’s a good theory—I agree, personally. But we can’t take theories to court.”
“After all our great pains
For to dangle in chains
As though we were smugglers?” Wimsey asked through his glass of port.
“They are smugglers, I’m not denying that. But—hang it all—we need evidence! The trial won’t wait!”
Lazily, Peter grinned at his brother-in-law, who sighed. In silence they sipped their drinks. Eventually the clock chimed midnight, and Charles heaved himself to his feet.
“Well, I’d better be off, old man,” he said, then turned back when there was no response from the other chair. “Never mind,” he murmured, looking fondly at the sleeping detective.
As he left the flat and walked down the street, he grinned. Come what may, Wimsey would have that evidence in his hand when he needed it—cryptic quotes and infuriating smiles or no.
London, 1947
If you can dream, and not make dreams your master…
The soft evening light shone around them, and Peter urged his horse faster through its golden glow. Ahead of him, Lucy flew along, blond curls dancing behind her. Cair Paravel was in sight—with a last burst of speed he almost surpassed her, but she gained the stable-yard first and tossed her head back in the wild laughter of victory.
“Well, my lord?” she asked brightly as he reigned in on her horse’s heels, raking the sweaty hair back from his forehead. “Do you keep your word? Is the forfeit mine?”
Peter opened his mouth to reply, but Edmund interrupted from where he stood in the shadows of the stable doorway.
“Truly, sister,” he drawled, “have you never met this brother of ours? The High King prides himself on his honor.”
“As opposed to you,” said Susan tartly, stepping out from behind him, “who have none.”
“Susan!” Lucy cried, mock-aghast at the provocative statement, but Edmund’s eyes twinkled good-naturedly.
“Better to be bested fairly in a race,” said Peter, “then be unable to catch our royal brother in his cheating and so lose to him.”
Susan twisted her face into lines of disgruntled annoyance.
“Oh, do forgive Edmund, Susan,” Lucy laughed. “You know he could never beat you in Raven’s Rook without cheating. Unlike I—” she turned back to Peter, “—who won that race and so claim my prize.”
“And what is your prize, my lady lioness?”
“You did not set the forfeit before the race?” asked Edmund incredulously. “I would have thought that, after last time, you…”
Brrrring!
The sudden jangle of the telephone woke Peter with a jerk, and he scrambled to answer the device.
“Peter Pevensie speaking…Oh, yes, sir, how are you?…Sir?…Right away, sir, I’ll be over as soon as possible…Yes, sir…Goodbye.”
Peter hung up the telephone and, for a moment, braced his hands against the wall, dropping his head. One breath…two…three…then he stood straight, collected his book bag, and strode out the door, a sharp gleam of purpose lighting his eyes.
Let us take the adventure Aslan sends us.
The Orient Express, 1934
If you can think, and not make thoughts your aim…
This mystery…
The train, snow-bound, seemed to bind his thoughts as well. Yet, ever so slowly, ever so inexorably—like the crews clearing the tracks—the solution began to make itself apparent.
It was not a solution he liked.
Since when do my preferences override my thoughts? Truth does not care whether or not I like it.
And yet…
What is justice, in such a case? What law can—should—judge? Who is the monster here? Who is the murderer?
I know what my heart would say…
Soon, very soon, he would fit in the last pieces. Soon, he would have a full picture of what happened that fateful night.
Is it sufficient for justice, to simply know what happened? It always has been, but…
He closed his eyes.
For some things, mere thoughts are not enough.
No. He would seek higher thoughts, and inquire of a higher justice.
The Enterprise, 2153
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same…
The door chime to Captain Kirk’s cabin sounded. He glanced at Dr. McCoy, then called, “Come.”
The door slid open, and Mr. Spock walked in.
“Captain,” he said, “I have begun compiling the mission report, and…” He paused, as Kirk held up a finger, drained the last of his whiskey, put his head in his hands, and groaned.
“Captain?”
“What was your impression of the mission, Mr. Spock?”
The Vulcan stood straighter, clasping his hands behind his back. “The mission, while it did not succeed on several points, was not a complete failure. We—”
“It was a disaster, Spock,” McCoy drawled.
Kirk snorted.
“Disaster, Doctor?” Spock cocked his head. “We did fulfill the primary mission objective from Starfleet Command.”
“The ‘primary mission objective’ was to avoid the planet blowing up. That’s a pretty low bar, Commander.”
“Nevertheless—”
“Gentlemen,” Kirk interrupted, “please. The mission was definitely a disaster—but not an unmitigated disaster.” He stood and stretched. “Thank you for beginning the report, Spock, I will definitely use your input; but I should write it myself. If I get the accolades for the Enterprise’s triumphs,” he grimaced ruefully, “I’ll take the dressings-down for our disasters, too.”
St. Bart’s Hospital, 2011
If you can bear to hear the truths you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools…
The wind blew around him, tossing the skirts of his coat about his knees. Far away, far below, traffic sounds went on. The voice that spoke to John hardly seemed his own.
I’m a fake…
Moriarty’s lies burned like acid in his throat. The fools of press and people had believed them—played out their predetermined parts in this elaborate farce, destroyed him and his reputation, just as Moriarty had intended.
But that was almost over. Now…now the lies and the fools would serve him, be his cover and protection so he could be the protection others did not know they needed. It was as good a plan as he could come up with in the time he had. It would work.
And yet, even so, he hoped that not everyone…
Goodbye, John…
…believed the lies.
The Pit, 2017
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken
And stoop to build ‘em up with worn-out tools…
One…two…three…
The sand was gritty and hot under his palms. The dust tickled his nostrils and the back of his throat.
Eight…nine…ten…
“The forced isolation of Gotham City continues,” the news anchor said blandly from the TV, “as does the rule of tyranny over its citizens. The Feds have made no process in negotiating…”
Fourteen…fifteen…sixteen…
(“The hero the city needs right now…”)
Twenty…twenty-one…twenty-two…
His muscles groaned, joints ached. The bones of his abused spine ground together.
Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight…
“Rise,” murmured the prisoners in the Pit. “Rise,” whispered the wind as it swirled in eddies in the dust and whined through gaps in the rocks. “Rise!” taunted old enemies in his dreams, with vicious voices and obscene grins
Thirty-three…thirty-four…thirty-five…
Sweat—moisture he could not spare—rolled down his skin. His muscles trembled.
Thirty-nine…forty…forty-one…
“Bane…” said the news report.
Forty-five…forty-six…forty-seven…
You may have broken my body, Bruce thought, a snarl of determination twisting his features, but my city is not yours to keep!
Fifty-two…fifty-three…fifty-four…
Beyond the heat and the hurt and the despair his mind cleared, and, unheeding of his body’s complaints, he pressed on.
The Downs, AD 130
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it in one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again from your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss…
“He never told you?” Uncle Aquila asked, surprised.
“I knew from Stephanos that he took his wound in the legions,” Esca replied, “and knew it was taken with honor because of his armilla—and because it is Marcus. But we have never discussed it.”
“And of course you knew how it affected him, having helped him through so much of it. But even at that—however dark of days you saw, they were never so black as those from before he bought you. I almost thought…”
Esca put down the spear he was sharpening, stood, and walked to the open doorway. Outside, Marcus was whistling as he hauled water back from the spring.
“He, too, was afraid,” Esca murmured, returning to his seat. “But not of dying, as I was.”
Uncle Aquila looked up, sharply, then sighed. “It was a brave thing he did, poor boy. War-chariots rushing headlong at his retreating troops—no time to make the fort—he took the first head-on and downed the charioteer with one spear-throw. To risk everything he’d worked all his life for? I think he…”
“I did not expect to live.” Marcus walked in, stride only slightly hitched by the old wound even under the weight of the water-buckets. “And once I did, I had to get used to the idea.” He smiled ruefully at the older Aquila. “I am not sure what I would have done without you, Uncle.”
“Nonsense. You would have been fine. A man like you can always turn a bad loss around.”
Marcus shook his head, but Esca, relieving him of one of the buckets, smelled the sweet, warm air of the Downs, ran his hand over the carven wood and stone of the villa, heard from outside Cottia’s high, sharp voice and Cub’s deep growl, and smiled contentedly.
The Colosseum, AD 181
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold On!’…
Breathe in…breathe out…
He clenched down hard against his side, as if he could, by the strength of his arm, will his body to hold, his muscles and sinews to fight.
Tell him, he had written home, once, after a motherly-worried tale of a riding accident, how little it matters that he fall, if he stand up again. Tell him, Rome’s finest could not be more brave. Tell him…
(“Maximus! Maximus!” chanted the crowd in fanatical strains on the edge of his hearing.
“Maximus! Maximus!” chanted his good soldiers long ago, bearing the weight of the Empire from its frontier, looking to him as inspiration and model and figurehead of home.
“Maximus,” whispered the emperor, “Maximus. Rome is a dream, and that dream has almost faded away.”)
He knelt in the sand, the sand of Rome laced with the red of blood and scattered petals, and sifted it through his fingers.
(“Your grip, soldier!” his old centurion had said. “Battlefields are vile places filled with mud and sweat and blood. Bear a bit more dirt,” he snarled, as he swiped his palm across the ground, “for a sure grip on your sword when you need it most.”)
He stood again, faltering and steady, weak and strong. For Rome, he thought, and readied his stance. For my family.
Camelot, Medieval Never-Time
If you can walk with crowds and keep your virtue…
The man walked into the inn hooded and cloaked. This was no surprise: the snow from yesterday may have stopped, but the air was still bitterly cold. That the man did not throw his hood back from his head as he entered was slightly more unusual; but enough people chose to go anonymous for one reason or another that it garnered little more than a passing glance from the innkeeper and the common room’s other patrons.
The unknown man settled at the bar and called for a pint. For a few moments he did nothing but nurse it gingerly, stretching warmth back into frozen fingers and resting safely beneath the concealing drape of his cloak.
After a bit, one of the inn’s regular patrons pulled up a stool at his side, garrulous from the warmth and ale and bustle of conversation.
“Well, friend?” he asked, jostling the other with his elbow. “You new in Camelot? Don’t believe I’ve seen you before—though unless you lose the….” he made an expansive gesture like throwing back a hood, “I can’t tell for sure, ha ha!”
The man, rather than growing annoyed with the unsolicited attention, grinned like a flash of sunshine under the shadow of his hood and the golden beard beneath it.
“Not precisely new in Camelot, no,” he replied, “though I am returning after a bit of an absence.”
“Ah.” The regular nodded sagely. “Fightin’ man, are you? Out with the King’s Men quashing that rebellion? Nasty business, that was, from all I heard.” He pulled a face, then gulped down a swallow of ale.
“Indeed I was. And you heard aright—it was a nasty business. Very nasty.” He lowered his voice, almost speaking to himself. “One almost wonders if the King handled it rightly.”
“Hey, now!” The man leaned closer, catching his shoulder to give it a bit of a shake. “Keepin’ you face covered—that’s your own business. But you can’t come in here and badmouth the King while we can’t see who you are to refute you! Ain’t that right, landlord?” he called across the bar.
“As you say, sir. This here’s a reputable establishment—loyal to good King Arthur!” The innkeeper said this quite loudly, and most of the other patrons turned at his words, raising their glasses with various calls of approbation.
“So no funny talk, sir,” he directed at the hooded man.
“Peace, friends, peace!” he laughed, raising his hands conciliatorily. “I meant no harm. I am merely weary from fierce fighting and fiercer cold. None stands quicker than I at Arthur’s wish.”
“Good for you, then!” The boisterous customer gave him another friendly jostle. “And I bet it’s good for you, too, ain’t it? Plenty o’ lasses just waitin’ for a good King’s Man, eh?” He winked suggestively, then guffawed loudly at his own humor and took another deep drink of ale.
“Perhaps, sir; but I would not know.”
“Ah…you’ve got it bad for one already, to whom you’re loyal-and-true, like a knight for his lady?” He leaned closer. “It’s not the Queen, is it, like every other poor devil in Camelot?”
Under his hood, the man’s smile, which had been gentle and warm, suddenly grew sharp and bright.
“As a matter of fact, it’s my wife—and she as beautiful as the Queen herself!”
The other man grimaced. “Close to treason again you are, sir! And I can’t sympathize, myself…the missus is fine enough in her way, and marvelous in the kitchen—no offence to your cook, landlord!” he called over his shoulder, “but she ain’t a lady. No, it’s what you can’t have, that’s the allure, man!”
The stranger his head, slowly. “I disagree, but let’s not argue.” The regular snorted but acquiesced.
The golden-bearded man smiled again, and deftly turned the conversation toward less controversial subjects. And if his words provided his wife a bit of a laugh later that night when he went home to her—well, the other man would have been nothing but pleased at the thought of making Queen Guinevere smile.
Sherwood Forest, 1195
Or talk with Kings—nor lose the common touch…
“Well!” said Little John, later. “That was an eye-opener, and no mistake!” The other Merry Men murmured their agreement, and Friar Tuck groaned and then laughed, tipping his head back to thunk against a tree trunk.
“We ain’t even outlaws anymore!” complained Will Scarlet, good-naturedly. “We’ve got the King’s own permission to poach his deer!” A laugh echoed around the camp as the now ill-named Outlaws finished off the evening’s now-legal venison. “Why, we’ll be celebrities!”
Robin Hood, whistling, walked back into the clearing. Much-the-miller’s-son, seeing him, raised his mug and echoed, “Right, Rob? We’ll be practically nobles now!”
“No one’s calling you noble, Much!” Robin returned, tossing a clod of dirt at the man who cursed as it caught him on the ear.
“And don’t let any of you go getting a big head—you hear me?” He grinned around at them, brandishing his quarterstaff threateningly. “I’ll be happy to beat it back to size for you if you do!”
This declaration was greeted with jeers from his loyal men, and Little John scoffed.
“You think I can’t?” Robin glowered gleefully. “However many kingly pardons I’m granted—I’ll never be too good to beat some sense into you lot!”
Laugher again rang through Sherwood Forest, and long into the night the Merry Men bickered back and forth, safe now under the protection of both their leader and their king.
Paris, 1793
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you…
“Ah! Chauvelin,” said the Scarlet Pimpernel. “I was wondering when you might turn up. My dear fellow, what is that cravat? You know I would retie it for you properly if I could?” He shook his arms gently. The chains rattled.
Chauvelin entered the cell. His mouth twitched in reflexive annoyance that did nothing to dim the light of triumph in his eyes.
“You’re looking uncommonly happy, my dear sir,” said the Pimpernel. “Plots going right for a change?”
“Oh, no,” said Chauvelin, more pleasantly than was his wont. “I think you’ll find there are no plots, sir. Merely justice being carried out as it ought. All of today’s executions right on schedule—and the Scarlet Pimpernel within my grasp!”
“Well, proceed with plans, I suppose,” said Sir Percy, drawling imperturbably. “I presume my execution is the next business of the day?”
“Oh, I’m not executing you yet. Something special planned, you know. Today I just wanted to tell you—” he leaned closer, almost whispering in the other’s ear—“that, once again, you really must choose better allies. Betrayal, from one of your oh-so-secret, oh-so-loyal band?” Sarcasm dripped from his tongue. “It was bribery that got this one, Pimpernel. You really must be less trusting—it will be your downfall. Oh! Wait!” He drew back to smirk in the other man’s face, “It already has been.”
“Hmm…” said Sir Percy, conversationally, never losing the gleam in his eye, “that’s really too bad. You’re absolutely right, sir; I will take more care next time in choosing a replacement for our unfortunate traitor.”
“There won’t be a next time!” Chauvelin snarled. “What about this situation don’t you understand, Blakeney? I’ve won!”
“Oh!” he returned, with affected surprise. “Congratulations, then, on your glorious victory. Shall I see you tomorrow? I really don’t know what I’d do without these little chats. The boredom,” he sniffed disdainfully, “would kill me.”
Growling helplessly, Chauvelin strode out, slamming the door behind him. Alone in his cell, the Scarlet Pimpernel smiled.
Eddis, Greek Never-Time
If all men count with you, but none too much…
“He is dangerous,” the councilmen said. “He could take the Gift—he may style himself Thief, but he’s a rival claimant to the throne—we’d have civil war, and the only victor would be Sounis—”
Well do they convince each other, thought the Minister of War, that these things are what make Eugenides dangerous.
He sat, stone-faced and unmoving, as the Council pulled itself closer and closer to its decision. None but Eddis looked at him, but her gaze he would not meet. “He is dangerous,” he knew her eyes would say. Not worried for her throne—Helen was no fool—but…
(“The best swordsman I’ve ever trained!” Hector had once raged to his eldest, “and he refuses to even consider becoming a soldier!”
And Temenus had replied, slowly, “Maybe it is for the best. I love my brother, but sometimes, in his eyes…”
The ire had all drained from Hector’s body, and he had slumped, defeated. “I could help him,” he whispered. “He would learn to control it.
“Wouldn’t he?”)
The Council continued toward the inevitable conclusion of its deliberation, but, silently, the Minister of War slipped away. He would send Gen to Sounis for a while, after an undiscoverable Gift, and maybe—
Maybe, when he returned, his own countrymen wouldn’t vote to kill him.
Maybe, when he returns, he will have learned how to take life—and how to spare it.
Kashmir, 2018
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run…
The crash and burn of the helicopter, the gruesome look on Walker’s face…
What was the countdown, how much time did he have, it’s not too late, not yet, not yet…
The tearing burn of strength’s limit, the slick of blood, hand over hand, far too quickly yet agonizingly slowly…
They’re all counting on him, he can’t fail them, Julia, Luther, Benji, Ilsa, Julia…
Muscles knotted in a lifetime of scars, skills learned on the edge of death, willpower hardened in every heartbeat between what is and what could be…
A final reach, a desperate hour…
The golden glow of a setting sun, and the dawn of another day.
Caladan, 10185 AG
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
He stood, concealed behind one of the many pillars in the room, though he had no doubt Gurney knew he was there.
Strike, strike, dodge-and-strike, hit!
Paul landed on his backside, hard.
“Again!” Gurney barked.
Paul, breathing heavily, snarled and drug himself back to his feet.
Swing, strike, dodge, swing, dodge-and-roll, dodge, dodge, hit!
With a bitten-off growl, Paul went down.
“Again!” Gurney barked.
Eyes flashing and muscles trembling, Paul pulled himself up again. Leto, hidden, smiled in sympathetic memory of the relentless training sessions of his own youth—for never had an Atreides allowed his sons to grow up soft.
Strike, strike, hit!
Paul was down again, more quickly this time, fairly spitting fire. He stood…
Strike, hit!
…and was down. He cursed viciously and Leto raised his eyebrows. Either the men-at-arms didn’t watch their tongues as they should around the Duke’s son, or the Duke’s son was as proficient as his father at lurking behind pillars. Leto would put his money on the latter.
Hit!
But this time, at Gurney’s barked “Again!” Paul closed his eyes for a moment, shuddered, and forced his fists to unclench and his breathing to slow.
Gurney Halleck threw a triumphant smile toward the Duke’s hidden position.
Paul stood, exhausted but in control once more, and absorbed Gurney’s strike with a beautiful parry, muscles remembering endless repetitions now that the mind was focused.
Smiling, Leto made his way from the room. Yes, in a few years, with the help of his teachers—tested by the trials of a boy becoming a man—Paul would do very well, indeed.
Fellowship & Fairydust 