A/N: I find it interesting that so many of you assumed that Lancer made the connection immediately. Personally I think that rather unlikely, since there could be other explanations and since Lancer really hasn't had time to think about it.
Anyway, this chapter is incredibly short (guess it balances out chapter five!). I wanted, originally, to do more in this chapter, but I finally got a job and have made you all wait too long already because of it. So I decided to post the little bit I have.
This is also completely different than what I'd intended to write, and I'm not sure what I think of it, so I'd love to hear any comments you guys have.
Anyway, once again, thank you to all the readers, and especially to the reviewers. Major thanks to Shimegami-chan who did a brain storming session with me the other night, even though I went in a different direction it was extremely helpful.
Enjoy.
Chapter Six: Creative Writing
His mind completely blanked out, Mr. Lancer did the only thing he could think of to do.
He started reading.
It wasn't what he had wanted to do, it wasn't the life he had wanted to lead. But it was his, regardless of whether or not he wanted it.
Almost idly, the young man put the sword in his hands through some practice motions. The blade was heavy in his hands, but that hardly bothered him as it swept in an upward arc. He was used to the weight.
After all, the sword was his, and had been his for some time now. Somewhere along the line it had become part of him in some inexplicable way. In turns he both loved and hated the thing, but he knew that he had long ago lost the chance to lay it down. His own sense of duty denied him that.
It wasn't, as one might expect, that he begrudged the duty that the sword represented, the duty was right. He didn't even begrudge the sword. It was just that, somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew things could have gone differently.
There was joy, too, and a sense of accomplishment that came with the weapon which hummed in his grip. He wouldn't be who he was without it, and surprisingly, despite it all, he was more content with himself than he'd ever been before. He was stronger, in more ways than just the physical. And, of course, there were his companions with whom he was closer than he'd ever dreamed possible, all because of what he'd become when the sword first laid in his hands.
Few people knew the truth about him and the sword, they saw only the part of him that he allowed them to. But he was their protector, it was a role he'd taken upon himself even though it brought no accolades with it.
They could survive without him, he knew that from the one time he'd sheathed the sword, but it went easier on them when he kept the task he'd set himself. And, if he were being entirely truthful with himself, he was well past the point where he could give it up. It was, in many ways, who he was, and giving it up would be like severing off a part of himself.
He'd had dreams before, dreams involving the stars, dreams he'd consciously laid aside in favor of new dreams. And he had made his peace with that. The old dreams had become part of the fluttering, wistful 'could have been'. He worked towards the new ones now.
For the most part he was content, but every once in a while he would stare up at the night sky and wonder if in some other time and place it could have been different.
The sword stilled in his hands, and as he looked out over the homes of those he'd sworn to protect, he knew that tonight would not be one of those nights.
Still, maybe the day would come when he could revisit old dreams.
Lancer sat very still, caught in the emotion Danny had put into the short piece.
The bell for afternoon class rang.
Clearing his throat, Mr. Lancer stood up. He'd think about it all later, think about what it meant that Phantom had Danny's sketchbook, think about what Danny had been talking about in a creative writing assignment meant to express something about the writer.
Right now, though, he had a class to teach. He just hoped he could get through it without crying.
