Blood of my Brother

Varian and the Great Tree, pt. 1

Trigger warnings: mentions of bruises, etc., mild self-deprecation

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Varian ducked as Hector's foot swished over his head. He stumbled back and quickly regained his footing. "Not fair."

"Everything's fair in war," Hector reminded him.

"We're using daggers!"

"Expect the unexpected. And relax. If I'd wanted to hit you, I would've. Now show me your starting position again. Watch your posture."

Varian had to admit: Hector's teaching methods were odd but effective. Just in the three months since he had been allowed to start training, in the few hours each morning, afternoon, and night while they traveled on, his reflexes were sharper, his balance was steadier, and he was more confident. He wasn't sure how his training under Hector compared to what normal knights or soldiers did—after all, the Brotherhood were not only the best of the best but had had the best training available—but he had noticed a significant difference in himself since he had begun.

He had changed physically as well. The seven months of malnutrition and abuse had left him weak and small—well, smaller than normal. But under Hector's care, he was regaining his health. His ribs, which at one point had pressed crookedly against his skin due to healing improperly in prison, no longer stood out like the black keys on a piano. Muscle mass gave his arms definition. His hair had been cut, and his long bangs were pinned up out of his face so he could see. The outfits Hector had picked up for his fifteenth birthday—as disastrous as that had been—fit perfectly and were well-suited to the type of work he was doing. Looking at his reflection, Varian hardly recognized himself.

The training itself was agonizing, but Varian didn't complain once. He was afraid that if he did, Hector would change his mind and decide that it was too much for him. It had taken long enough to convince the warrior not to hold back, to treat Varian like a proper trainee instead of like a piece of glassware. So he took every hit, every fall, in stride. He ignored the screaming of his muscles. He crawled into bed every night, bruised and sore, and didn't make a sound.

He could see Hector watching him, waiting for any sign that Varian couldn't take it. Waiting to bundle him up in a blanket of overprotectiveness and shelter him from the world. And Varian was flattered, truly, but he was not used to being protected. At least, not since his dad. He had been on his own for a while, then he had been in prison. Being... cared for was still new to him. He was adjusting okay, but he needed Hector to see that combat training was the least worrisome thing he had been through.

That night, as he watched the rabbits cooking over the fire (he'd hunted them himself; that was another thing he'd been learning from his uncle), he caught Hector watching him with that concerned look he got more and more these days. "Is there a problem?"

"No, no problem. Why?"

Varian sighed. "I'm not going to fall apart if you take your eyes off me. I'm fine."

"Well, excuuuuuse me for being concerned. You took some bad falls today."

"And I'm fine. Really. If I wasn't, I'd tell you."

"Would you?"

Varian started to answer. Then he stopped.

"That's what I thought. Look, I'll respect you not wanting me to baby you. But... every time you get hurt, I keep seeing what you were like back then. And I know you're not bad off like you were, but I'm going to worry. It's in my blood."

Varian smiled sadly. "I get that. But you're right; I'm not like I was. I'm being careful, but I need to learn."

"I know, I know. Just—are you sure you're okay with this? I've left you covered in bruises over and over again."