Witchblade, pre-series
Rated "M" for Hector Mobius; includes some unnaturally attractive men
Ian Nottingham and the Festival of Lights
It was the last day before the winter holidays, and a break from tutors and classes. Dinner was about to be served at the Valhalla estate.
The gaze of sixteen-year-old Hector Mobius roamed freely, his head unbowed (never bowed) in the presence of his benefactor, Kenneth Irons. Next to Hector at the long table in the Pascal Dining Room, thirteen-year-old Ian Nottingham had yet to lift his eyes up from his plate since Irons had entered the room more than fifteen minutes ago.
An odd twosome, really, Irons mused, far from a matched pair.
The one, Mobius, so knowledgeable of the world, so wholly corrupted by television and culture and hardship (Irons had only recently ransomed the youth from not only the projects, but also juvenile hall and an adult's sentencing for the vicious killing of another boy).
The other, Nottingham, had lived the strictly enforced life of a cloistered monk, his time dedicated to study and self-refinement, much as a monk's would be.
But, Irons reminded himself, he had need of both the monk and the pagan. Irons' plans were, admittedly, far reaching, and not likely to be realized in the near future, but a quick once-over of young Moby at present left him greatly encouraged. After all, it was less than six months since the youth had been remanded into his custody from the penal system (via some helpfully pulled strings). And Mobius had bloomed from the change, already visibly lacking the coarseness of his previous station. There were times, of course, when the past's--'edges,' Irons preferred to call them--still reared their ugly heads, and likely there would continue to be such, but for now, young Hector's rage was contained, his needs were met if not sated, and his considerable skills were in the process of being honed to a purpose far greater than even one with all of a mother's hope for a newborn child could not likely have dreamed.
On this satisfied note, Kenneth Irons bent his head marginally to the soup course now placed in front of them, signalling the meal's commencement.
Ian and Moby followed suit. Before the soup was removed and the next course brought, Irons paused to recall that he had been informed of an incident earlier in the day involving some garrote wire, liquid nitrogen, and a set of monkey wrenches that had gone missing some days ago from the East Wing utility closet. In fact, looking at young Nottingham across the table (though the boy's head was bowed to the task of feeding himself) Irons could all but see spool upon spool of garrote wire spinning vindictively in the boy's dark eyes.
Ian Nottingham was not, in fact, thinking of garrote wire. Or of liquid nitrogen alighting to parts of his physical being that preferred very much, thank you, to stay somewhat closer to his basal temperature than liquid nitrogen might cause them to be.
But he was thinking about the word, 'runt,' and how much he never, ever, ever planned to hear it again.
He was three years younger than Hector Mobius, who at sixteen was broad through the shoulders in a way that did not signify awkwardness, and whose large, outsized hands reminded Ian of something Mr. Irons had once told him about Wolfhounds--and how one could estimate from a pup's paws how big he would ultimately grow. Not only terrifyingly large, Mobius' hands were strong of grip, and dexterous. And those hands did not like him, the runt.
Ian Nottingham was a mere thirteen to Mobius' sixteen, and he reminded himself he knew and understood a great many more things than he thought it likely Hater MoreTheWuss (as he thought of his new tormentor) ever would. He knew things about science and human behavior, and established growth rates of the human body, and about the Venerable Bede and the Doomesday Book and nuclear fission. And he knew it was foolish for him to expect that he could conquer his enemy, this near-man, with thirteen years of brute strength alone.
To do so would take a miracle.
Kenneth Irons felt more than saw Ian's anger, balanced as it was on the edge of a knife's blade, slender and precarious in its inaction and indecision. But he knew (and he silently allowed himself pleasure at the thought) that young Nottingham kept his head where Moby was concerned for the moment only out of respect for his guardian, as Irons had expressly commanded his ward to treat what he termed, 'their guest' with all the courtesy Nottingham afforded Irons himself.
And thus far Ian had more than complied. Which spoke highly for the loyalty experimentation, as the afternoon's case of garrote wire, compellingly proved. Irons knew it could not have been easy for young Ian's pride to be on the receiving end of such, nor could Ian have found it easy to disentangle from the same situation without injuring--or deliberately antagonizing--Mobius further. Yet, he had. It was an admirable accomplishment, which Kenneth Irons imputed, all but entirely, to himself.
He was on the verge of implementing a new level to the loyalty experimentation, and, Irons smiled, quite likely he espied his two new subjects at their soup, oblivious, in front of him now. Well, not oblivious, not Ian, anyway. The boy had been too well trained, too exquisite and painstakingly to be accused of that. Not oblivious, but, perhaps, at the moment, inattentive to the destiny being mapped for him by his creator.
The idea of the two boys (in time, men) dangerous yet controlled, working in tandem with deadly exactitude to complete his every command inspired Kenneth Irons almost beyond decorum. The wan smile he wore for pleasant mealtimes attempted to increase spontaneously. In knee-jerk reaction to such unbidden emotion he chose to bury it.
"Tell me, boys," Irons asked, taking some bread from the tray presented to him, "what did we study today, this last, auspicious day before I must allow Herr Prosser his year-end holidays? Hmm?" He placed the bread on its own plate, above the one holding his game hen.
"Masada," Mobius responded, doubtless wishing to beat Nottingham to the answer. "We learned of the Roman victory there, and the massacre." The youth attempted one last swipe at his soup before it was removed in favor of the main course.
In correction, Irons motioned lightly with his own hand, reminding Mobius that the spoon is properly moved away from the body to fill it, then brought to the lips.
Irons nodded his approval as Mobius adjusted his actions accordingly.
"Is that so, Moby?" Irons asked, laconically choosing to shake up his charges' perceptions in a way to which the recent inductee Mobius had yet to acclimate himself. "Are you sure you did not rather learn of the glorious surprise attack that first gained the Zealot-faction control of the fortress?" Irons let his lower lip protrude, as if in consternation. "And are you certain that Herr Prosser did not outline most-specifically the deliberate suicide of those left, so determined were they in their ideology not to become the property of Rome?"
Mobius froze, weighing his words like an animal uncertain which dog in a pack might jump him first.
Seizing upon the weakness displayed in the inaction of his foe, Nottingham answered in his deliberately even, quiet voice, his head still bowed in a show of all submission. "Indeed, Mr. Irons, we did learn just that."
"Curious, then, wouldn't you say" Irons answered, the boys' power struggle not lost on him. "That two minds can attend the same lecture, and yet exit it, their interpretations quite at opposite purposes?" Irons cocked an eyebrow. He was enjoying himself, playing the two off one another. For of course, had Mobius praised the Zealots, he would have felt it necessary to champion the Romans. In a way, it was his own form of a private joke, a lose-lose situation wherein he got to watch the postulant squirm.
"When Break is over we're gonna study the Six Day War." Mobius attempted to re-route the conversation in order to reassemble his forces and regroup for a potential second wave of attack.
Unlike Nottingham, and the strictures Irons placed on him, Mobius was free to speak his mind as long as he kept a civil tongue, and to speak without first being spoken to, just as he was empowered to hold his head erect. Mobius, was, after all, meant for a separate purpose, and certain restraints (instituted after a certain age) were, Kenneth Irons believed, worthless to attempt to enforce.
Irons did not respond to Mobius' ineffectual parry, though he noted it as among the youth's preferences; to attempt to deflect an attack rather than meet it head-on. Taking his cue from the lull in battle, Irons returned his attention to his game hen.
From the silence, Nottingham--not spoken to--asserted, "I--I should like to study the Maccabees."
Kenneth Irons did not like to link the use of the word, 'asserted,' in reference to his prized ward. He would have frowned, had he not been feeling somewhat festive where the loyalty experimentation was concerned, and had his game hen not been within a half degree of the exact temperature at which he required it be served.
"The Maccabees?" Irons probed, attempting to understand the boy's statement, and all the insight it could provide. "It is their religious zeal you admire, Ian? Their to-the-death dedication to their cause? Or, perhaps, the effective guerilla tactics of the Hasidim and Mattathias?"
"Judas Maccabeus did destroy those from Syria sent to destroy him," Nottingham said, and for a moment Irons followed his logic perfectly. The younger boy did indeed have blood-thirsty revenge on the brain tonight. But then young Nottingham added, "I should like to learn about the Temple."
"The Temple?" Irons was confused. Not angry, not disappointed, only surprised. What could this new (and quite sudden, by all accounts) affectation of Ian's be about? "In Jerusalem?"
"Yes," the boy continued, his words coming slowly. "The cruse of oil, it--"
Astonished at the reference, Irons cut him off, no longer pleased with Nottingham making free with his speech. "What?"
The boy added simply, "it was a miracle."
"A miracle." Irons voice was low, dangerous, almost without inflection.
"Yes," as though Ian were stating the sun, indeed was shining, or that the room, unequivocally, was cold.
His benefactor sighed, resolutely placing his silver on the table in a gesture of surrender. He focussed his gaze directly on Ian. "You want to learn about, to study--miracles."
More attuned to Irons' tactics of advance and retreat, Ian listened for what was to come, but did not answer.
"You do understand, Ian," Irons spoke. "That what you're speaking of is all but unimportant." He affected an air of distaste for the subject. "A negligible footnote to an otherwise impressive military accomplishment?"
"Miracle ain't gonna save you," Mobius said, eyes glittering from what his senses told him was Mr. Irons about to lose his temper, and added under his breath to Ian, "runt."
Ian Nottingham cut elegantly into his game hen, as he'd been meticulously taught. What they said did not matter to him, any more than large hands or unforseen attacks, or Mr. Irons playing them against one another, or even Mr. Irons arguing the side of a topic he did not, in fact, support. None of that mattered.
Ian Nottingham did not continue to speak not because Mr. Irons would not have liked it, not because he knew he what he had to say would go unheard or ridiculed by Hater MoreTheWuss, but only, only because, as far as he was concerned, there was nothing more to be said. The matter of miracles was, quite frankly, settled.
He had settled it today, in the wake of the liquid nitrogen incident. He, Ian Nottingham, would have miracles, he would see miracles. He would be a miracle.
Kenneth Irons, wordly businessman, possessor of deserved ennui, was not used to being confounded, for all that this current shock was a pleasant one.
So, he congratulated himself (though his expression showed none of his satisfaction to the others at the table), the boy had an eye to miracles, to the mystical and the unknown, to inscrutable intervention by Powers unseen. Remarkable.
Things were turning out better that he could possibly ever have imagined, and the boy only just thirteen. It was, quite simply, the best gift he could ever have hoped to receive.
.
Disclaimer: I do not own Witchblade, nor the rights to its characters. Warner Bros. and Top Cow hold that high honor. I'm not making a penny off this.
Mr. Irons, on the other hand, I cannot speak for...
by: Neftzer 2002
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