WARNING: This chapter includes themes that some might find upsetting, mainly physical abuse.
The chill of Saturday morning did little to quell the feeling of apprehension that had settled over Thomas at the prospect of the upcoming training. Descending the stairs to find the house devoid of warmth and company only heightened his sense of isolation, a stark contrast to the usual bustle of school days.
After a solitary breakfast, Thomas prepared himself for what lay ahead. Outside, the back of the manor was shrouded in the early morning mist, a silent stage set for the day's lessons.
His father, a figure of daunting presence, was already waiting for him. Instead of his crutch, he now had a cane. In his other hand were two short wooden poles, their ends slightly pointed, the tools of their impending exercise.
With a practiced flick of his wrist, he tossed one to Thomas, who caught it with an ease born of familiarity. Thomas gripped the pole tightly, the wood familiar in his hand, as he watched his father discard his coat and advance. The first strike came swiftly, aimed at Thomas's head, but he ducked under it with precision - his movements honed by years of similar exercises - immediately blocking the following blow aimed at his side. The subsequent strikes, a series designed to test his defenses, were met with a mixture of blocks and evasions, each movement a dance of precision and speed.
Despite his father's impaired mobility, his strikes were delivered with a surprising agility, a testament to a lifetime of mastery. Thomas, on the defensive, found openings to deliver his own strikes, each parried by his father with an ease that bordered on disdain.
The lesson escalated, a calculated hit to his shoulder followed swiftly by a strike to the back of his knee sent Thomas tumbling to the ground, the cold earth a reminder of his vulnerabilities.
"Pathetic.".
The harsh remark echoed off the cold ground, reverberating through Thomas as he struggled to regain his footing. His father's disdainful tone was a familiar sting, a reminder of countless similar exercises that had always seemed to demand more than Thomas could give. The flood of memories brought with it a tide of anxiety and fear, emotions that Thomas had long learned to suppress but never truly escape.
"I expected better," his father's voice cut through the morning air, sharp and cold as the wind that whipped around them.
Circling Thomas with a predator's grace, his father seemed to embody the very essence of the challenges that Thomas had been taught to face head-on.
Barely upright, Thomas braced for the next attack, a low strike aimed with precision at his ankles. But this time, he was ready; anticipation allowed him to dive over the blow, rolling to absorb the impact before swiftly regaining his stance to face his father once more.
Driven by a turmoil of emotions - anger, pain, and a desperate need to prove himself - Thomas advanced, a blur of movement as he unleashed a flurry of strikes. Each was met with the same frustrating ease by his father, who seemed unmovable, a bastion of strength and skill that Thomas could not breach.
Then his father delivered a decisive blow, a powerful strike that connected with the top of Thomas's right palm, the pain immediate and sharp. A trickle of blood emerged from the impact, a crimson testament to the lesson's severity. Blinded by the pain and the surge of emotions it unleashed, Thomas's next move was driven more by instinct than calculation - an unguarded strike that left him vulnerable.
In the blink of an eye, his father exploited the opening, using Thomas's momentum against him. With a swift movement, he sent Thomas crashing to the ground once again.
Lying there, the taste of defeat mingled with the metallic hint of blood in his mouth, Thomas was confronted with the harsh realities of his training. It was more than just physical preparation. Thomas felt the cold dampness seep through his clothes, the occasional snowflake melting upon his skin, a chilling contrast to the heat of exertion and frustration boiling within him. His father's presence loomed over him, a constant reminder of the expectations he struggled to meet.
"Your mind is distracted, you must enter a state of focus," his father admonished, his tone shifting towards something resembling guidance.
Thomas was all too familiar with the mental state his father referred to—a deep, encompassing focus that demanded detachment from all but the task at hand. It was a discipline forged through rigorous training, a tool that, when wielded correctly, allowed for unparalleled concentration and strategic prowess.
Yet, as his father's words echoed in his mind, they also unearthed memories Thomas had long tried to bury. Memories of pain, of trauma that transcended the physical toll of their training. Each recollection was a ghost from the past, clawing its way to the forefront of his mind, making the prospect of focusing not just difficult, but seemingly impossible.
"It seems I might have been wrong to send you to school," his father continued, the return of the coldness in his voice cutting deeper than any physical blow could. "It seems a trivial distraction from the grand scheme of things."
This assertion struck a nerve with Thomas, who had found a sense of escape in school - a hope. The idea of losing that, of having it dismissed as trivial, ignited something within Thomas that had laid dormant.
He pushed himself up from the ground, his movements deliberate, shedding the weight of defeat and doubt as he rose. Standing before his father, there was a palpable shift in his bearing. Gone was the uncertainty, the hesitance. In its place stood someone transformed, not just in posture but in presence. Thomas now seemed to tower over his father, not in physical stature but in the sheer force of will he exuded.
His expression was devoid of the earlier turmoil, replaced by a focused intensity that radiated from his eyes—a clear, cold focus that bespoke a deep, inner shift. In that moment, Thomas embodied the very essence of focus his father had admonished him to achieve, but it was a concentration born not of detachment, but of a deep, personal defiance.
The slight upward curve of his father's lips was the only indication of recognition, a subtle acknowledgment of the transformation within Thomas. As the bout resumed, it was evident to both that a significant shift had occurred.
The ensuing exchange was nothing short of a ballet, a complex choreography of offense and defense where each participant matched the other's moves with grace and dexterity. Strikes were launched and parried with such skill that none found their mark.
The pivotal moment came when his father executed a feint, aiming high to draw Thomas to turn before targeting his feet. Thomas, however, committed to his initial response, carrying his momentum through into a spin, leaping into the air, his fathers strike passing inches underneath him.
Landing with the poise of a seasoned practitioner, Thomas wasted no moment of surprise. He surged forward, his attacks a blur of motion that pressed his father back step by step. It was a relentless assault.
Finally, with a maneuver that spoke volumes of his progress, Thomas disarmed his father, his wooden pole burying itself in the snow-covered ground. He halted his own strike just inches from his father's throat, the tip of the pole a whisper away from contact.
His father's reaction was not what he had anticipated. A smile, rare and enigmatic, crept across his father's features, confusing Thomas. Then came the utterance, a single word laden with implication:
"Hesitance."
Before Thomas could process, his father's cane swept beneath his feet with a swift, unexpected motion, toppling him to the ground once more. The fall shattered Thomas's focus, his body hitting the cold, hard earth, a grunt escaping his lips as he landed.
Rising once more, the lesson his father intended was clear, even without elaboration. His father's scrutinizing gaze seemed to pierce through him, a silent assessment that spoke louder than words.
"Improvement. But far from acceptable," his father declared, the finality in his voice marking the end of today's lesson. With that, he collected the wooden poles and made his way back to the manor, leaving Thomas alone with his thoughts and injuries.
Thomas's gaze fell to his bruised arms, the cut on his right palm still seeping blood. Seeking some relief, he walked down to the creek. Kneeling at the water's edge, he submerged his injured hand, the icy chill a contrast to his warm blood, a sensation that rippled through him, both invigorating and jolting.
As he sat there, lost in the moment of self-care, his blood mingling with the frigid waters of the creek, a voice unexpectedly broke the silence.
"Salut?" it called out, across the creek.