Disclaimer: I only own the cute little one that is going to get severely traumatized in a few minutes . . .(muse kicks author for giving away part of story) . . .I mean I can't think of a smart disclaimer at the moment . . .
AN: Hmm, the last author's note wasn't very happy. No, not very happy at all. There was something not depressing that I wanted to put here, but I forgot what it was. Oh well. It'll come to me and I'll decide to put it in the next author's note and then forget about it again. Thanks to all those reviewing, by the way.
Trust Me Still
Part 9
Will opened his eyes slowly, surprised when pain didn't immediately flare anywhere in his body. He had vague recollections of coming to before, but try as he might, they didn't seem to want to solidify . . .
Will screamed in pain and denial as he fought the man who was struggling to hold him down, to keep the sword from causing injury to anyone, including Will himself.
"Damn it, boy, just accept it! You're hurting us, you pathetic little whelp!" The blow had caught Will cleanly across the mouth and he slumped backwards as blood trickled from a cut that healed almost instantaneously. Pain settled into a dull throb where the injury had been.
"Daniel, leave him be!" Marcus was hauling the other man off him before Will could determine if he wanted to try to move again.
"He's hurting us, Marcus!"
"He's hurting himself, and by causing injury to a brother, you're hurting us as well. Why do you dislike him so? Because he's stronger than you?"
"He's pathetic! He was practically begging, and he screams as though his soul is being ripped from him body!"
"He's resisted far longer than any other man, Daniel—far longer than you yourself could. There's a core of iron in him. He'll accept it soon, though, and the pain will end—for him and for us. Go rest, Daniel. I'll watch him."
"He shouldn't have a scar still, let alone be bleeding."
"He'll accept it. Men kill to live. Compared to that, this is nothing."
Will watched through the pain and haze as Daniel left without another word. Marcus sat in a chair beside the bed and tilted Will's head towards him.
"Just accept it, lad. It really isn't that bad."
Will shook his head and arched his back as another wave of pain swept away conscious thought . . .
The memory retreated as quickly as it had come.
I can give you many things, Will Turner. I protect you, I care for you, I give you what you need. Trust in me.
Will jolted upright as he realized that he was still clutching the sword to his chest. He quickly pulled it away and stared at it in the lamp-light, studying the craftsmanship.
I am well-made, though not perfect, but I can fit your hand well, and I can protect you. Trust me.
Will turned his gaze from the blade to his own chest and traced the thin white scar that marked where the blade had entered his body.
He looked up in surprise as Marcus walked into the room and tossed a shirt in his direction, finally noticing that the door to his room was unlocked and open.
"My sword is talking to me."
Marcus laughed. "Aye, they'll do that when they want to. You'll get used to it."
"You don't understand. My sword is talking to me. My sword is reading my mind and answering my thoughts with thoughts of its own. A bloody sword is talking to me!"
Marcus sat down beside Will on the bed and placed one hand on his shoulder.
"Let me see the sword, brother."
Will gratefully moved to hand the sword to the older man . . .and stopped and reversed mid-move, again shielding the weapon with his body.
"Aye, she has you now, brother. Put the shirt on."
Will did as he was told, switching the sword back and forth between his hands, hating himself for needing the contact with the weapon.
"Attack me."
Will stared at Marcus in confusion.
"You said before that you wished to kill me. Try."
Will stepped back, raised his sword, and brought it down in a vicious swing that should have taken the other man's head off.
Except for the fact that he pulled the swing short at the last moment, stumbling back in shock. The man was his brother, a part of him, a necessary component of his survival, he couldn't kill him, how could Marcus ever believe he wanted to kill him . . .
Will whimpered as the thoughts and emotions scampered through his mind, leaving him feeling weak and disoriented.
"Maybe now you're starting to understand, brother." Marcus pulled the younger blacksmith into a hug. "Everything is all right. Now come with me. There's someone who wishes to see you."
Will nodded mutely, still struggling to separate his own thoughts and emotions from those that had flooded his mind as he attempted to kill Marcus. He followed the other man blindly, vaguely aware that they were heading towards the entrance to the caverns.
They stopped outside the locked door of another small room. Marcus quickly undid the bolts and gestured Will inside.
"Papa!" Will stopped dead at the sight of his daughter huddled in the far corner of the room, her hair and clothes filthy.
A portion of him rejoiced at seeing his daughter alive and relatively unharmed, a portion that wished to open his arms and call her to him and take her away from this terrible place forever.
Another portion of his being, foreign but strong, hissed in silent anger and fury at the girl's presence. The girl was a danger to the brotherhood—she knew where they were, part of what they were, who he was. She needed to be gotten rid of, and quickly . . .
Will felt the hand that held Nerla twitch eagerly.
"No . . ." The word was whispered but forceful. He would not kill his own daughter.
The girl launched herself suddenly at his legs, clutching them with grimy fingers as she buried her head in the fabric.
"Papa, I was so scared, but I knew that you would save me, 'cause you're a hero, and I want to go home, papa, please!"
Will felt his breathing quicken as his love for his daughter and his sword-bound duty to the brotherhood fought within his mind.
"Get away from me." The words were harsher than he had intended them to be, but they helped to siphon off some of the continually building anger, rage and fear that the sight of the child irrationally brought.
The girl stepped back in shock, her eyes wide with fright and fear.
"Papa . . .?"
"Back away from me, Ana." He spoke through clenched teeth, his entire body trembling.
The girl rushed back to the corner, tears beginning to flow from her eyes.
Will took a step towards her, the blade rising slightly.
"No." He turned and lurched out the door, clutching at his chest where pain had begun to throb again. Marcus supported him as his knees gave way.
"Easy, lad, easy."
"You're going to make me kill my own daughter." Will could hardly speak the words.
"I'm not making you do anything, Will. You're sword-bound to protect us, and that includes protecting yourself from any outside influence. I killed my commander, a man that I respected, to protect my brother. Daniel killed his blood brother."
"Why didn't you just kill her before?" Will found that he was able to stand again without assistance.
"You claimed her as family. We can't kill a brother's family. If you're ever near someone that we claim as family, you'll understand. To raise a sword to a brother's family is to buy pain and sorrow for a long, long time. The blessing of family was heavily bought by the maker of the brotherhood, and heavily respected by those who are in it. Besides, the brother will take care of the problem for us."
"I'll never kill my daughter. I won't ever see her again, if that's what it takes."
"The thought of her will haunt you until you deal with her, Will. It's only a matter of time."
Will stood back and removed his hand from his chest before deliberately sheathing Nerla, fighting the urge to keep his hand on the hilt of the sword.
"Never, Marcus. I'll never kill my daughter."
Will walked back the way that they had come, fairly certain that he would get lost but trusting that someone would find him before he wondered for too long . . .
Or maybe the bloody sword would tell him where to go.
Marcus watched him, a small frown on his face.
"A core of iron . . ."
He had seen what Will apparently had not—small crimson stains on the fabric above where Marcus had stabbed the young man.
An injury that should have left no scar was still bleeding after nearly twenty-four hours.
Marcus ran his hand along the hilt of Carsa for comfort.
"A core of iron, indeed."