“That was underhanded.”
BREAK THROUGH THE SURFACE
Cole Stanton & Theodore Stanton
prompt: destiny
The crack of wood connecting sharply made his arms shake, but the werewolf wielding the weapon grinned as he stepped back and deftly twirled the ‘blade’ around his wrist, watching his opponent with keen green eyes that were flecked naturally with hazel. The older lycanthrope watched him in return, keeping his own smile - or was it a smirk? - subdued, beneath the surface where he always said it belonged during a fight.
But this wasn’t a fight. Not truly. It was a spar. There was a difference.
This training was nothing new; it wasn’t so much a routine, however, as a hobby, and one that the youngest of the pair loved to partake in, especially with this one particular partner. Their bond seemed to make it all the more interesting, the ways in which they could read their similar body language and expressions, understand from the simplest of sounds, like a grunt or a chuckle, what was going to come next. It was in their blood, and as much a part of them as they were a part of one another, and the younger, darker-haired wolf knew that the elder fighter would never truly hurt him.
That didn’t mean the landed blows couldn’t sting though…
With a hiss as the length of the bokken landed against the middle of his back, Cole Stanton winced and turned quickly, his balance saving him as he stepped away, putting distance between them after the latest clash. His breathing was quickened, but not rushed or fevered, and there was a flush of colour in his cheeks that hinted at excitement or anticipation; perhaps both. It wasn’t that he expected to win, per se, but he didn’t underestimate what he knew. His various instructors had taught him well, not only in techniques for hand-to-hand combat, but also tricks of the trade concerning swordsmanship. He could fire a bow respectively well too, but much preferred the close-combat side of things, and had made that known. While he still practised the marksmanship that ensured he had a rounded set of skills, he favoured getting in close, seeing the look on your opponent’s face just as you were about to land a blow; watching their eyes widen just a fraction before you struck them.
Of course, Theodore Stanton was no pushover; an opponent who was not so easily defeated. And the older werewolf knew it well, the light in his green eyes almost cheeky in a way - confident without being cocky.
They circled once more, father and son, and then charged at one another again. Younger but taller, Cole swept high, while his father, older but shorter, swung low. His son abandoned his attack as soon as he saw his father’s head dip, automatically pulling his weight up in a jump that sent him into a spin, landing him in a crouch, balanced, the move practised time and time again. Theodore laughed heartily, but wasted little time in coming back for more, spinning his own bokken and sweeping it through the air with such speed that the wood almost seemed to whistle, despite being solid and sturdy. Cole told himself he was imagining it, and then that it wasn’t important and he twisted his body to bring his own training sword up, one hand going down and back to brace the ground, so the impact wouldn’t unsteady him. When he saw his father’s foot coming for him, aimed for his chest to knock him back and over, Cole pushed up against the locked weapons and then rolled himself back, away and to his feet, panting softly, raising a brow. “That was underhanded.”
“Not underhanded,” his father stated matter-of-factly, raising both his brows in response to his son’s expression. “Inevitable.” He smiled. “You should have seen it coming.”
With a growl that was only partly sincere, Cole moved forward, feigning to the left before sweeping in at the right, aiming for the older werewolf’s shoulder. Theodore abused his agility, bending his body to the side and down, swinging low, the bokken intended to collide with his son’s left knee. Cole cursed to himself, and with a snarl of effort, leapt up and over his father, going down into yet another roll. He would be sore in the morning, he suspected… but it would be worth it. Sparring with his father was one of his favourite activities, both enjoyable and practical.
“Bouncing around is all well and good, Coulson,” his father ‘reprimanded’ with a smile, righting himself, his shaggy blonde hair in his eyes, “but if you’re not careful where you land…”
“I’ve heard that one before,” he told his father, smirking all the same. They circled again. Cole measured the weight and balance of his weapon in his hand, looking down to the one opposite him, and studying how the older werewolf held his own, slightly angled and not gripped too tight. Eyes narrowing slightly, he pondered if there was a way to use that angle to his advantage… perhaps he could knock it away somehow…
Before he could calculate his options further, Theodore was coming at him again, moving with speed and precision, purpose in his stride, and a little of his wolf glowed in his eyes. Cole caught the glint, and braced, spinning and raising his bokken to catch the swing. The wood rebounded, and Theodore kept coming, blow after blow; parry after parry, and he didn’t relent. Feeling the sweat break down his chest and back, and even across his brow, Cole gritted his teeth as each new impact sent a tremble down his arms, and more than once, his grip almost slipped, double-handed at points and single at others, depending on the angle his father forced him to twist in.
The flurry of motion built to a crescendo, and Cole, feeling as if every fibre of his body were screaming in anticipation, let out a shout as he lunged, swinging with as much power as he could muster.
Theodore ducked and whirled, moving swiftly and cleanly to Cole’s right, sweeping up to his full height and bringing his bokken down.
The wooden blade stopped as soon as it touched bare skin, and everything seemed to stop, becoming still.
Cole sighed, grimacing. His eyes lifted from the position of the training weapon to the male wielding it. Theodore Stanton looked so unbelievably composed and quietly confident that his son almost gaped at him. How could he not be exhausted? And then Cole reminded himself that his father was exhausted; the older werewolf had simply learned how to shield it from the outside world… how to hide it from his opponents, including his own son.
Arm steady, not a trace of a quiver, Theodore met his son’s gaze. His eyes carrying the softness of a father, he said to Cole, “A sword is of no use to a man…” he paused, drawing Cole’s eyes to the aim of his weapon; “if he cannot wield it.”
Had the blade been sharpened steel, and the strike followed through, Cole would have lost his hand at the wrist. He could feel the wood brush against the skin there just briefly before his father retracted it without a word, holding it down at his side. The lesson was over.
Allowing his aching body to relax, his breathing noticeably louder now, he nodded at Theodore, acknowledging the advice, looking down at the training implement he still held. He felt his father’s smile even if he didn’t see it, and looked up only briefly as the older werewolf moved to his side, patting him affectionately and supportively on the shoulder as he passed, his footfalls quiet as he left the room.
Only when his father had departed did Cole lift his head and look back to the door, sighing openly to the room in general.
He should have seen that coming.