The Seven Stages of Empathic Mimicry (III)

3: Evocation

"That's an idea!" Fuller suddenly exclaimed. The face Jondalar made, as if he was regretting not sending him as part of the group tasked with preparing the cider bottles, seemed to matter not at all to the teenager. "How'd you like to get a taste of it right now?"

The discussion devolved into a debate on the merits (Fuller and Davros) versus demerits of that idea (Jondalar for safety concerns, Marl because he didn't like Cyrus, something which the boy completely understood since he didn't like or dislike himself either) while Obe just glanced between each of them and Cyrus with an uncertain frown, not saying anything. Finally, and perhaps surprisingly, Fuller actually won the debate with his last argument, which even brought Hull to his side, though that wasn't the reason for his success.

"Oh come on! It's perfectly safe, Obe just has to spell the arms to be blunted and cushioned, as he always has a couple of them prepared for the one-on-one practice sessions we haven't gotten around to today. Just let the kid choose something, spell both our weapons and Bob's your uncle! What's the worst that can happen?"

It was, perhaps paradoxically, that very last question that swayed Jondalar into agreeing. "There is doubtlessly a special place in Gorion's custom-devised hell waiting for me." The man sighed and rubbed his face, then killed Fuller's nascent glee in its cradle. "But given the way you so idiotically tempted Beshaba just now, I find myself morbidly interested in seeing how this whole thing explodes in your face."

"Hey!"

There was some amusement indulged in at Fuller's expense, so the young fighter-in-training pretended to ignore them and focused on Cyrus to their exclusion. "Well kid, go on, pick something up and let's see what you can do."

The boy tilted his head in confusion. "I thought training usually came before the actual-"

"Bah!" Fuller cut him off with an impatient wave. "No harm in having a quick spar at the beginning to see where you're at. Now pick up a weapon and let's go."

"I suppose…" Cyrus said hesitantly, then looked over the swords, maces, clubs, flails, staves, axes, daggers and other weapons piled next to and on the table. "What should I use?"

"Anything you like," Fuller shrugged. "It's not like it'll make a difference," The 15-year-old boasted. "Even if you put your all into it, it won't matter. Just putting it out there so you won't be too disappointed."

Cyrus looked away from the weapons and back to Fuller with a frown. "Are you sure?" That sounded like an assumption and Imoen had a very specific thing to say about assumptions and what they make out of her and him. Impersonally speaking, that is. "I'm stronger than I look." He cautioned. "Quicker too." Cyrus paused and considered the lack of subjects to compare himself against and amended. "At least I think so."

"Hah!" Fuller barked a laugh. "Would you look at that, boys! There's actually a cocky brat underneath all that polite and bland exterior." The young man moved into the freed up open space nearby and made a few practice swings. "Don't you worry about holding back none, kid! I guarantee that you won't be able to put a scratch on me!"

But Gorion had spoken to him very firmly about the importance of informed decisions and Fuller wasn't looking like he was making one right then. And Cyrus had watched enough of that battle earlier to identify at least three posture modifications that could improve Fuller's performance by at least 26%. "Are you sure I should do that?" Cyrus repeated dubiously. "I mean you're not very good."

And so it was that nothing was heard, for a moment.

But only a moment.

Then Fuller balked in what was obviously shocked indignation, the others snickered, Hull bent over laughing, and a bottle fell and shattered to pieces somewhere at the back of the warehouse amidst sounds that could be nothing else but guffaws. Even Jondalar had a smile on, though the way he was rubbing his temples spoke of a dawning headache as well.

Looking upon the situation that had been caused by the simple act of speaking facts, Cyrus wondered what he should really be doing, if anything. He almost asked whatever-he-was to show him a path, then remembered the last time he'd done that – viscous-coloured misery that turned abyssal and all-chilling – and stopped himself.

It wasn't even his first choice of tactics anymore.

Now what would Imoen say about all this, Cyrus wondered.

Steal his boots!

To which Gorion would say something like that will hardly be an inconvenience indoors, child. Or possibly not, since his reactions to Imoen were drastically different from those he had to Cyrus himself, even when he said the same things as she would.

Sneak into the barracks at night and… well, do things to him!

Not an idea applicable to the current situation but maybe worth further consideration at a later date.

Pelt him with rotten eggs!

Which was not contextually aligned at all, so no.

Let's break his legs!

Better, but that qualified as an excessive use of force, Cyrus was sure.

Oh… well, I got nothing.

Which was such a lie, Imoen always had something cooking in that brilliant mind of hers. If Cyrus was any better than not at all at feeling things he would have probably been baffled at her continued refusal to learn proper reading and writing by now. She'd master it in days if she tried. As many things as Imoen was, good at strategy she was not. If she were, she'd have long ago realized the benefits of maximising available time for fun and profit by the expedient of getting all the tedium out of the way as quickly as possible.

But the commotion at Fuller's expense finally started to die down, so Cyrus decided to try something he hadn't previously.

Bringing his many and very thorough observations of Imoen to the forefront of his mind, he mixed them with Gorion's stubbornly hopeful level-headedness until his mind's eye shone with the combined glow of their remembered self-lights.

Only then did he will.

I want to kill Fuller's pretension in as painless but thorough manner as needed to compel him to spend the next few days thinking about and learning from the experience.

There. It even had a specific requirement for his continued living and haleness.

Points and items of interest bloomed and glowed in the dwarf's range of perception then, and he knew what to do to make that happen and how. "So… I can use any weapon I want." He made sure to look straight at Jondalar when he asked that, not Fuller or anyone else.

The man sighed and nodded. "May as well, yes."

"Alright." The dwarf pointed at the man's own scabbard. "I want your sword then."

The first exchange went to Fuller, as expected. Jondalar's longsword was a bit too big for Cyrus' still developing dwarven frame. It was also the first time the boy had ever held a weapon, which took away from his performance. Significantly.

The same story repeated itself on the second exchange. And the third. And the tenth. Those watching were encouraging him throughout, as apparently he was doing much better than any of them had expected. Or at least less dismally.

"A little higher and further – ah. Well you almost had it there!" Hull cheered from the side. "Just be careful not to try for upswings too perpendicular to the ground, you're too short to avoid clipping and glancing off the floor." Hull added after Jondalar nodded. "You'll probably want to switch to a short sword soon. It'll fit your frame better, I think, and you should be quick enough to make better use of it than a full longsword."

But Cyrus had accomplished the first stage of what he intended, namely to get a good feel for the weapon and let his mind settle from the influx of murder/death/kill information that rushed into his mind the moment he grabbed the hilt. Flickers of scenes had entered his awareness just from looking at it with an open mind, but that didn't compare to actually holding the thing, as he'd expected and intended. That was, after all, the whole reason he picked Jondalar's sword out of everything else.

Of all the weapons in that warehouse right then, it was the only one that had been used to kill. And not just by Jondalar either, but by his predecessor Dinodas as well. And both of them had carried and used it on trips to and from Beregost and Baldur's Gate on a number of occasions. Used it to kill things.

If Cyrus knew anything, it was killing.

Fuller clipped him in the shoulder again and pulled back his next swing. "Ready to give up, squirt?"

"What a strange thing to ask," Cyrus said. "You're the one who insisted on this." He rolled his shoulder to dampen the rapidly diminishing ache. "I'm almost ready now, though."

"That's good!" Fuller said grandly. "Good to know your limits." Fuller misunderstood what Cyrus said he was ready for. He also pointedly ignored Davros questioning his ability to know his own limits, let alone anyone else's. "But I suppose I can find it in me to give you another shot, even if it won't do any good."

Cyrus didn't say anything. Instead, he held up the longsword vertically in front of his face and, once he had absolutely nothing in his mind but the blade, closed his eyes and delved.

The experiences rushed almost chaotically into the forefront at first, images of cut skin, sliced flesh, chopped limbs and arcs of blood painting the Coast and Lion Way air all around him. But he was beyond accustomed to this type of feedback by now, given how often he stood in the presence of his father and others who had a significant number of kills to their name, personally delivered or otherwise. Most noteworthy being the ones at the unknown temple of the woman who fancied herself good at killing infants but really wasn't.

Jondalar was definitely no incompetent though, and Dinodas had been his superior in all things, even though he'd died in an Ogre and half-ogre ambush just two years ago, his last act being to pass his sword on to his successor.

Cyrus delved into the original history of the sword all the way to the beginning when it was laid aside to cool after being taken off the anvil. The totality of the sword's experiences, the swords' wielders experiences, gradually built up in his mind as he traced the life of the item all the way back to the present. And there was a fair bit of experience. Though he only saw the ones that resulted in a death, practically every maneuver had been used or at least vividly considered by the users to kill something or someone at least once since the sword was put to use. Jondalar's keepsake truly had lived a full life, even for an item of its exceptional quality.

The combined skill of the longsword's wielders settled in his mind just in time for Cyrus to note the line of death rapidly sketching a wide arc in front and above him, aiming to knock the erect sword off kilter.

The young dwarf immediately swung his sword in the same direction – Fuller hit nothing and overbalanced – then swiped it back on an opposite arc underneath it, scraping the Watcher-in-training with the tip from one side of the abdomen all the way to the other.

The young man jumped away with a yelp amidst startled exclamations, giving Cyrus the few moments he needed to get his bearings.

Only he realized there wasn't much to it. Just twist the body to the side to offer a smaller target, turn on both feet part-way to allow for stable footwork and all that was left was to hold the sword out one-handed, tip-first and blade parallel to the ground. "Alright." He finally spoke, eyes staying closed to allow him a better view of the death lines all over Fuller's body, sword and the veins filled with lifeblood. It wouldn't do to hit or trace the length of one of those by mistake. "Now I'm ready."

Comments ranging from impressed to incredulous, Fuller trying to brush it all off as luck, hesitation in the face of being expected to attack a blind opponent, further hesitation at doing it to one so young and little, catcalls from the spectators, self-lights flickering, flashing, surging and waning in concert with each comment. Cyrus forced himself not to pay them much attention since he was liable to fall victim to a surprise shot like the one Fuller had just aimed at his chest. Rather hesitantly too.

Cyrus bent to the side, deflected the attack the same way Jondalar would have, closed in – Fuller's sword went aside and downwards enough to hit the floor with the tip – spun on around and sunk his elbow into an unprepared stomach. He allowed the young man to stagger away – his blade scraped off Cyrus guard with a familiar and at once unfamiliar shing – then spun on his feet to face him again. It was odd indeed, to find something he was better at while blind than seeing. Doubly strange was that it just happened to be fighting, as opposed to killing.

Fuller attacked again, not hesitant or generous this time at all, but Cyrus had his measure now, not because of the prior exchange but because Jondalar certainly had it and it was his and his trainer's skill the boy was using. It was really a shame that he didn't have time to do this for longer, but he really needed to get back to Winthrop with that cider.

Cyrus made as if to block the descending head chop but turned the block into a deflection again, sending Fuller's sword off-course along with the man himself. Then it was over in moments. Reverse the grip, leap in, keep your sword between his and your neck, hit the outside of his wrist with a knuckle fist to break his hold on his weapon, lash upwards with the sword to send his own flying vertically, then follow up with a slice at his face to make him bend back with a yelp, overbalance and fall on his backside, hitting his head and back against the wine barrel he'd ended up in front of. Then just spin on a heel and stab forward as fast as you can, hard enough to sink the sword tip three finger widths into the wood just an inch from Fuller's ear. Close enough to shear off hairs, blunted edge or no.

That only left Fuller's airborne sword, which Cyrus reached up for, grabbed by the hilt and drove tip-first into the floorboard right between Fuller's legs.

The short-lived exchange concluded with a flinch-inducing smash. Cyrus realized that his heart was beating faster than it ever had, almost as fast as Fuller's was, but that everything else had fallen silent.

His mind briefly stalled. Could it…

But no. Though outside it was all silence, inside wasn't. His whatever-he-was remained as active as ever, more so even for a few moments before it seemingly realized it had missed its chance at fulfilling its nature and settled back to the regular, manageable level, if the term could even be applied to a churning melting pot for all life and reason.

Cyrus stepped back from his erstwhile opponent and the firmly lodged weapons – the full measure of prior wielders' skill started to fade immediately from his mind as soon as he let go of Jondalar's longsword – and opened his eyes to look around.

He only got to see Fuller's stock-still, shocked face and the slack-jawed Watcher trainees holding the cider crates before Gorion's angry voice came from behind and commanded the full attention of anyone.

"What in the Abyss has been going on down here!?"

Fuller flinched, stared between Gorion and Cyrus, between Cyrus and the sword, Cyrus and the other sword, the sword and the sword, the sword and his nether regions, his nether region and the sword, the sword and Cyrus again, then he passed out.