D" for Short
Tolerance ( Chapter 8 )
“Why can't I train with a regular sword?”
The protest came from a boy of only twelve years, slight of build and pale complexioned. Dark hair fell just past his ears in loose curls. His thin lips were pursed in aggravation as he attempted to curl his fingers around the hilt that had been presented to him. He drew back with a hiss of pain as his skin made contact with the surface, and vigorously shook his hand to dull the sensation. The teeth that bit at his lower lip to stifle further outburst included a pair of needle-sharp canines. White smoke curled into the air from his palm, as though he held incense in his hand.
“Again,” his teacher demanded.
Given by anyone else, the command would have been met with mulish resistance on the boy's part. He had every reason not to touch the sword, not the least of which was the burn mark on his palm that had taken the place of the smoke. Eyes that matched his own watched him struggle with his decision.
“Dante,” she warned, when more than enough time had passed for the burn to heal.
“All right, all right,” he muttered, and reached again for the weapon. This time, he closed his entire hand around the grip and kept it there as the smoke slithered out from between his fingers. Delicate skin gave way under his fangs as he bit down on another exclamation of discomfort.
His teacher nodded, and her long hair slipped past her shoulders. “Very good,” she praised. She let go of the blade that she had held steady for the boy and drew her own. “Disarm me.”
Dante had first held a sword when he was four-years old. He had begun formal instruction at age five. The first seven years of his training had been spent learning form and footwork from his mother—but most importantly, they had been marked by the use of perfectly normal, blunted steel blades. The blade he now held was laced with silver.
On a good day, Dante could disarm his mother in the span of half an hour. She was more experienced and had a longer reach, but he was faster, almost as strong, and possessed his father's endurance (some would say obstinance). On a bad day, he could fend her off for a minimum of fifteen minutes.
Today, he lost his blade to her in four.
Integra toed the weapon into the air and caught the hilt with her left hand before she extended back towards her son.
“Again,” she insisted.
Dante sighed. It was going to be a very long, very bad day, and he was going to want to bury his hands in the ice box at the end of it if he still had any nerves left in his skin.
Don't be so dramatic. No child of mine will go through life unable to handle silver.
The boy's step faltered as his father's voice intruded on his thoughts, and he had difficulty bringing his sword up to parry another of his mother's strikes. I'm busy.
I know, my boy. Watch your left side … too late. Does it really sting that much?
Yes, it really stings that much. Dante caught another blow just in time to save himself from an embarrassing two-minute defeat, but his father's laughter distracted him long enough for Integra to slip past his guard and tap the side of his neck with the blunt edge of her sword.
Two minutes and twelve seconds, Alucard supplied cheerfully. You really should pay closer attention to your lessons.
The protest came from a boy of only twelve years, slight of build and pale complexioned. Dark hair fell just past his ears in loose curls. His thin lips were pursed in aggravation as he attempted to curl his fingers around the hilt that had been presented to him. He drew back with a hiss of pain as his skin made contact with the surface, and vigorously shook his hand to dull the sensation. The teeth that bit at his lower lip to stifle further outburst included a pair of needle-sharp canines. White smoke curled into the air from his palm, as though he held incense in his hand.
“Again,” his teacher demanded.
Given by anyone else, the command would have been met with mulish resistance on the boy's part. He had every reason not to touch the sword, not the least of which was the burn mark on his palm that had taken the place of the smoke. Eyes that matched his own watched him struggle with his decision.
“Dante,” she warned, when more than enough time had passed for the burn to heal.
“All right, all right,” he muttered, and reached again for the weapon. This time, he closed his entire hand around the grip and kept it there as the smoke slithered out from between his fingers. Delicate skin gave way under his fangs as he bit down on another exclamation of discomfort.
His teacher nodded, and her long hair slipped past her shoulders. “Very good,” she praised. She let go of the blade that she had held steady for the boy and drew her own. “Disarm me.”
Dante had first held a sword when he was four-years old. He had begun formal instruction at age five. The first seven years of his training had been spent learning form and footwork from his mother—but most importantly, they had been marked by the use of perfectly normal, blunted steel blades. The blade he now held was laced with silver.
On a good day, Dante could disarm his mother in the span of half an hour. She was more experienced and had a longer reach, but he was faster, almost as strong, and possessed his father's endurance (some would say obstinance). On a bad day, he could fend her off for a minimum of fifteen minutes.
Today, he lost his blade to her in four.
Integra toed the weapon into the air and caught the hilt with her left hand before she extended back towards her son.
“Again,” she insisted.
Dante sighed. It was going to be a very long, very bad day, and he was going to want to bury his hands in the ice box at the end of it if he still had any nerves left in his skin.
Don't be so dramatic. No child of mine will go through life unable to handle silver.
The boy's step faltered as his father's voice intruded on his thoughts, and he had difficulty bringing his sword up to parry another of his mother's strikes. I'm busy.
I know, my boy. Watch your left side … too late. Does it really sting that much?
Yes, it really stings that much. Dante caught another blow just in time to save himself from an embarrassing two-minute defeat, but his father's laughter distracted him long enough for Integra to slip past his guard and tap the side of his neck with the blunt edge of her sword.
Two minutes and twelve seconds, Alucard supplied cheerfully. You really should pay closer attention to your lessons.