by Kitsa

Rating: PG-13 - mild violence

Like Father, Like Son

In the quiet of the autumn afternoon, Kenneth Irons sat at the piano. It was pleasant, a rare opportunity to relax with his music. While he enjoyed playing he did not often indulge in the simple luxury of an afternoon alone to do so. There was always too much to be done...the business to run, preparations to be made and, of course, Ian’s training and education to oversee. The last was probably also an indulgence, certainly Kenneth could and did hire experts to tutor him, but the overall plan was his and his alone, as well as the afternoons of questioning and discussion so that he could observe first hand the boy’s development. It was very different from his own upbringing, but then, he was not his father, had no desire to be anything like the man, so long gone to his grave. The thoughts were disturbing, his fingers slipped on the keys striking a jarring note. He stopped and took a moment to re focus, to allow himself drift back into the world of the music and let the reverie take him.

At the moment the boy was working with his trainer, learning the basics of movement and swordsmanship. He is coming along well, Irons thought, better than I had ever hoped. He allowed himself to relax, allowing his thoughts to wander as his fingers sought the keys familiarly, long elegant fingers caressing the notes like a lover. The music flowed through him, over him like the waves of the sea, releasing the scarcely acknowledged tension inside of him; allowing everything to slip away and the memories to come…

Remembering the piano in his parent’s parlor, where he first played, being brought out to perform for their guests on special occasions. “Yes, he is a protégée,” his mother whispered to one of her friends when she thought he could not hear. “Should go to Vienna to study, but his father will not hear of it. Georg wants him to enter the business after school, like his brothers. Besides, his father does not consider it to be a proper occupation for one of his sons.”

“Play for me,” she asked, the day his father left for the Somme. Mozart for that, the light notes and lilting airs just loud enough to hide her crying, as he tried to take her away from her pain and her loneliness.

Sneaking down into the parlor to play the battered piano at the military academy he attended, burying his pain in the music after the letter arrived telling him of his brothers’ deaths. The Moonlight Sonata for that one, soft, reflective, haunting, as he tried to call up memories of lives barely remembered or lived, now ended. Sitting in the darkness and letting the music replace the tears, cover the angry cries that he dare not give voice to, the pain of loss, the fear of the changes, of responsibilities that were now his. They had always been kind to him; while the others were a distant presence, he and Kurt had been close. Now a laughing boy who loved horses and joking, who preferred chasing girls to chasing glory was gone forever, lost in a muddy hole in a field somewhere in France. Playing harder, faster, letting the strains of the music carry him away, carry away the feelings that he could not, would not express. Men do not allow their pain to show, they endure it, and with his brothers gone he was now the head of his family and must do what was right, even while inside a little boy’s heart was breaking.

As the old memories crowded in he closed his eyes, played from memory, releasing his feelings in a blinding flurry of notes. The piano...music had always been his refuge, a place to pour out all of those emotions that he had tried hard to hide, to bury in the darkest corner of his soul. The music changed, the intensity of it taking on new meaning as he released himself and let the music speak for him, let the passion of each note show for the passion of spirit so long kept in check. He played for everything, every tear he had ever wished to shed and been unable to. The fewer emotional attachments you have, the safer you are... His father had been a cold man, but he had also been correct. Every time he had allowed it, let someone in, something had taken them away, and the pain overwhelmed him again, making him numb, cold inside in a way that nothing seemed to touch. His only warmth and joy was his son. Ian would be perfect, precise, directable. I will mold him; make him the ultimate Protector, his only contact, his only emotional connections to myself and to the wielder...One happy little family. His mind drifted off along these more pleasant thoughts as he continued to play, soft notes creating a haunting echo in the large room.

His training finished, Ian moved through the house with only one thought on his mind. He clutched his sword tightly in his small hand and moved quietly down the long hallway. He reached out cautiously, checking for the location of his father. It was a simple game, often played, practice in stealth, in creeping up on the target. If he were successful, perhaps he would be allowed to spend the evening with him. Those were the best of times, listening to the stories, the things that his father had seen and done. Even more than training or running with the dogs, he enjoyed his time with his father, sitting in his lap in the big chair sometimes with one of the old books from the library propped in front of them or laying on the rug listening to him, his father’s quiet, cultured voice luring him into sleep.

Ian stole into the music room, the sound of the piano covering his entrance. Good, he thought, he is distracted. He listened for a moment as his father played, something complicated that he could not yet identify. He was just beginning his musical studies and while he enjoyed them well enough, that had more to do with the fact that his father was teaching him. It was yet another thing that Ian was allowed to do with him. Remember, young Nottingham, all skills are important; music teaches an understanding of mathematics as well as increasing dexterity and concentration. His fathers words were so clear in his mind that for a moment he thought that he had been caught, but careful study revealed that his Irons was completely caught up in the music he was playing, totally unaware that he was being stalked. With care and precision, Ian raised his sword and moved slowly towards his prey, each step carefully placed to make no sound.

A brief rustle and the slightest brush drew Irons from his reverie and he turned with a smile, hands thrown up in mock surrender, a familiar game between father and son, the boy practicing his skills by learning to move silently across the bare floor. Ian stood with the sword in his small hand his brown eyes serious, shining in pride. He moved forward, the sword thrust aimed at his father’s heart.

Kenneth gasped as Ian drew back the blade and thrust at him, his face a study in mock terror. The weight of the blunted steel practice sword was dragging the boy’s arm a bit, especially with the height and angle and he missed the mark, stabbing him in the stomach. He smiled and pantomimed the exaggerated...

Surprise, pain, anger, the feel of cold steel slicing into flesh, the realization that there was blood on the blade and the blood was his, looking down to realize that he was injured. His mind whirled and spun, while Ian stood watching his father, shock and fear creeping over his features as game turned to reality.

Ian was staring in fascination and horror at the blade, at his father’s blood, fear and confusion warring with shock in his young mind. He dropped the blade and looked up, turning his dark eyes to his father, searching his face for answers. . “Father?” he said, his voice quivering with emotions that threatened to overwhelm him, hysteria close to the surface. The icy chill of what he had done...he had injured his father, his liege lord, the only person, the only family, he had. Darkness crept around the edge of his vision and for a moment he felt as if everything were fading.

“Ian, please go and get Renfrew,” Kenneth said, trying to stay calm as he pressed his hand to his side to staunch the flow of blood. The wound was not deep and was hardly mortal, Irons knew that. It was shock more than anything he was feeling as he watched his son run for the door, ingrained obedience taking over, rescuing Ian from his fears by giving him something to do. The pain was lessening as he regained his control, it was nothing really. As with his control, practicality reemerged, an intellectual puzzle to take his mind off what was happening. How did a small boy with a blunted practice sword manage to do any damage at all?

The door burst open, Ian running before the quiet, dark form of his bodyguard. “I brought him, father,” he said, going immediately to Kenneth’s side, looking for more orders, some way of helping clear up the mess he had made. The darkness had faded, to be replaced by a sick, cold fear, deep in the pit of his stomach, almost like he was going to be sick, but he would not allow it, would not shame himself further in his father’s eyes.

Renfrew moved across the room to kneel before his employer, taking in the situation immediately, finally able to make sense of the jumble of words that Ian had spilled out on their way. He examined the wound quickly and then helped Irons from his seat. “This will require stitches, Sir. Shall I have Dr. Immo...”

“No,” Irons said dismissively. “Help me to my room and then you can attend to it. It is hardly worth having the doctor in.” Renfrew looked at Irons curiously, trying to figure out what was in his employers mind. Irons’ eyes flickered to Ian and back and the bodyguard nodded his understanding. Of course it had to be a lesson for the boy, reassurance that his father was going to be fine, that the incident was inconsequential. Irons was not a man to let the opportunity for a lesson go past. And it kept them out of the way, giving him an opportunity to investigate once he had his employer dealt with. While he was not completely sure of the details, he could hardly miss the blood-stained sword lying on the floor where Ian had dropped it. This would definitely require a further look. He stood and offered his arm to Irons.

Kenneth took the other man’s arm and gestured for Ian to follow them as they moved through the house to his private quarters. As he leaned on the younger man, his thoughts turned to exactly how to deal with this incident, how to turn it to his best advantage, a lesson suitable for inclusion in his son’s rigidly controlled system. Already he knew that the boy was feeling unbelievable guilt and shame at his culpability and failure. His first response was to comfort the boy, reassure him, but that was not in his nature and would not serve the larger purpose. When the lesson was over, then there would be time for reassurance, the carefully measured doses of emotional contact designed to keep Ian always close to him.

When they arrived in Irons’ private rooms, Renfrew helped him to the bed and excused himself to acquire the field kit he needed for attending the wound. It would have been much easier to simply send someone for it, to handle it in the music room and be done but Irons would do things his way. Showing strength in front of Ian, making light of his injury, was his way of keeping the boy from a complete breakdown. Jamie shook his head to himself. It would be interesting to see how Irons handled the treatment without benefit of painkillers. He had only seen the man lose his composure twice in his life. He wondered irreverently if he was about to be witness to a third time.

In the privacy of his room, Irons slipped out of his jacket and tossed it away with a look of distaste. He lay back heavily against his pillows, trying to focus on anything but the pain. Removing his tie, he looked at Ian, standing with his head down, hands clasped in front of him, just at the foot of the bed. He could see the pain in the rigidity of his son’s stance, the emotions held just barely in check. “Ian,” he asked, his voice sounding somehow muffled in the large room. “Please retrieve a towel for me.” Keep the boy busy, he thought to himself; do not let him dwell on this matter until I can make him see it properly.

“Yes Sir,” he responded, moving reluctantly to the large bathroom, surreptitiously looking back to reassure himself that his father was still where he left him. Ian was filled with cold desperate fear. What if father dies? What if I killed him? I did not mean to hurt him, I never would, must not leave him alone, he might need me, need something...I cannot lose him, he is all I have. Once in the bathroom, he grabbed the first towel and returned immediately. Irons had not moved, merely laying there calmly removing his cufflinks. He gave Ian a small smile and slowly began to unbutton the bloody, ruined shirt.

“Sir, I...” Ian started, but was interrupted as the door opened, admitting Jamie with his field kit.

He moved over to the bed and opened the kit, removing the small suture set and placing it on the table beside him. “Sir, there is no anesthetic. If you would like...”

“It is not necessary for such a minor thing as this,” Irons said dismissively. Jamie shrugged quietly to himself.

“Very well, but perhaps Master Ian should...”

“NO!” They both looked up, startled at the cry of terror that had emerged from the boy, who was trying to stand calmly, the expression on his face making him look even smaller, dwarfed by pain and fear. Control had finally broken, and despite his best efforts a tear was slowly tracing its way down his young cheek.

“Ian, you will remain,” Irons said quietly. “But you must do exactly as you are told. You should be aware of the consequences of your actions.” Ian ducked his head in shame, but stayed where he was. As long as he was allowed to remain, nothing else mattered.

“Very well,” Jamie said cautiously. “Master Ian, you will assist me then.” He turned to Irons for verification. The strain of his injury was starting to tell in the tightness around his mouth, but he nodded his confirmation. “Get towels, and wet wash cloths, warm ones,” Renfrew barked out the orders, much as he had done when he was in the military, as he turned back to his patient, completely confident that his instructions would be carried out.

Ian ran to the bathroom, carrying out his instructions precisely, if anxiously. While he heated the water, he took the towels to the bedside. He needed to keep moving, to keep from thinking and at the same time keep his father in his sight. He tried not to let his fear get any hold on him. His father had always cautioned against allowing emotion to rule action, but at the moment it was all Ian could do to keep the tears in check. He returned with the wet cloths and watched as Renfrew applied them to the bloodstained shirt front. As the cloths turned brown, Jamie passed them back to Ian with terse instructions on what was to be done.

Once again Ian made the trip, rinsing out the clothes and taking them back in time to see Irons being helped out of the ruined shirt, Renfrew’s arm supporting him, his back to his son. Ian stopped in shock, breath drawn in suddenly at the thin scars that crossed pale skin, highlighted in the backlight from the open bathroom door. How is it possible? he thought, No one would hurt Father, no one could. He is strong, invulnerable...

The gasp behind them drew the attention of both men, and Kenneth immediately leaned back into the pillows. He cursed silently to himself. His son’s extraordinary eyesight would be an advantage in future, but at the moment it had led him to see something Kenneth had no desire to share. Renfrew snapped instructions at Ian, bringing the boy’s focus back to the task at hand, but he knew that Ian would not forget. Why? he wondered. For what purpose is the past so close to me today? I do not forget, that would be foolishness, but neither do I have a desire to relive it. Today events seem to be conspiring against me.

Jamie turned his attention to stitching closed the gash as Ian stood wide eyed, watching the whole procedure. Kenneth kept his face calm, his eyes focused on his son, trying to reassure him, to present a properly stoic demeanor.

His father’s words drifted back to him over the years, a man dead a lifetime again. You will not cry out, or your punishment will continue. A true man does not allow pain to show. It has no purchase on him. You have been coddled by your mother, and I will not have ein weichling for a son. Once again he was a small boy, standing before his father, holding back the pain, the tears, never allowing him to win. Another stroke of the cane, another punishment for some small transgression, long forgotten as the past blended with the present. You will stand strong, be like your brothers. I will permit nothing less. A hard man, cold and forbidding. Irons had not thought about him often, but today, he could not seem to escape. They had never understood each other, barely interacted, as was the fashion of the day. Kenneth had only seen him briefly in the evenings to be drilled about his studies, on occasion to entertain or to be punished for a transgression against the strict rules of the house. For the rest, they had lived separate lives, his brother and younger sister with him; his two elder brothers already off to school, and a sister, so long married that he barely even remembered her.

Looking at Ian, Kenneth thought about the promised he had made to himself long ago, that if he had a son of his own he would not lock him away, live life as if he did not exist. While he knew he was not a kind man, he could not afford to be. It would not serve his purpose, would make the boy weak. He would not lose Ian as he had lost so much in his life. Besides, this boy had a special destiny. He would do anything to see that destiny fulfilled, to turn it to his own advantage. The level of control required of both of them was enormous, but failure was not an option. Ian would grow to be the best, to protect himself and the Wielder, to put destiny back into his hands, never to be its puppet again. Ian would be deadly, perfect, and above all safe from the world, trained and honed physically and mentally to a point beyond human, incapable of being harmed by the world outside. He would also see that he was safe from emotion, from the pain that came when you allowed someone close to you, someone who could at any moment be taken away.

Irons gave a small sigh and a slight reassuring smile, his green eyes locked with Ian’s brown ones. Almost over, and then the lesson, the reassurance, follow the procedure, do not break his training, not even for this. He felt the tug as Renfrew finished the last stitch and looked up at him, satisfied with a job well done.

Jamie cleaned and bandaged it and then packed his supplies back in the kit, removing the detritus of field surgery as well as the towels and cloths. If his employer did not wish his injury to be known about the house, he would comply, especially until he had the answers he needed about the incident. “Sir, shall I attend to that other matter now?” he questioned, flicking a look at Ian. Jamie knew that father and son needed time together. Even with the strict discipline Irons required of everyone, especially himself, regarding his son, he managed to find a way to reassure him, keep him as close as he had ever allowed anyone to become. Irons waved him out the door dismissively, and Jamie left the two of them alone, to find their way together.

Ian shifted quickly and quietly into his proper position, as Renfrew left closing the door behind him. The bandage gleamed new and white in the dim light. Now that his father was tended to, Ian allowed his mind to return to the incident that had brought them here. He had not intended to injure anyone, least of all his father. There was a stabbing pain in his heart as he wondered what would happen now. Would he be sent away? He had overheard the trainer and tutor talking about it, saying that they were going to recommend it. From that moment he had worked harder than ever, done everything expected of him, the deep fear that he would be separated from Irons, from his life, driving him more than ever to succeed. In one simple act, he may very well have caused that which he most desired to avoid. Deeper than that was the fear that now he would have lost his father’s trust and his love, that he would be hated, banned from the evenings spent by the fire, the stories, and lessons which Irons trusted no one else to teach. Ian was determined that no matter what punishment was required, he would do whatever was necessary to retain his place.

“Ian?” his father’s voice, calm as ever, called him from his thoughts.

“Yes Sir?” he asked, looking up from beneath lowered eyes to find Irons looking at him with a strange expression.

“Please bring me a shirt from the closet and then we shall discuss this little...faux pas.” Ian moved immediately to do as he was asked, his mind still turning, spinning out of control as he tried to find a way to make things right between them. He handed the shirt to him and returned to his position, trying to keep still, keep himself from doing anything to anger him further.

“Now,” Irons said, having managed to get himself dressed and more or less back to order. “Tell me what you believe happened down there, hmmm?”

“I attacked you, Sir. I raised my blade to you and should be punished,” he answered, trying to keep the emotions from his voice.

“Attacked?” he responded raising a questioning eyebrow. “Did you intend injury to me?”

“No sir! I would never...” For just a moment he lost his composure, looked up into his father’s eyes with all the pain and fear a child could feel.

Kenneth turned away briefly, trying to hide his own reaction. It would serve no purpose to break down now, even though he wanted nothing more than to draw the boy to him, hold him close and reassure him that no harm would come to either of them, that they were both safe.

“And what, in your estimation, would be an appropriate punishment for such an act?”

“The punishment for treason is death or banishment,” the boy said quietly, the hitch in his voice the only betrayal of the turmoil he was feeling. Perhaps it would be best if he were sent away. Certainly today he had proved that he was unworthy.

“Treason? Do you not think that is a bit harsh? Have I lost your respect somehow?”

“No Sir, I merely...”

“Then why do you believe that defeat in a simple game requires such repercussions? If you had intended to do me injury, the situation might be otherwise.” Ian looked at his father in shock. He was not in trouble, was not to be sent away? It was too much for him to take in at once. While he was trying to get his thoughts back in order, there was a knock on the door, and Renfrew returned, the sword in his hand, now clean.

Irons motioned Jamie to him and listened to the terse explanation, taking the sword from him as a chill descended into his heart. It was a small sword, steel, balanced for much smaller and younger hands, but, unlike the blunted practice sword Ian should have been training with, this one had a live edge to it, gleaming wickedly in the light. Fear filled him. Ian could have been injured, maimed, or even killed by accident with such a blade. Far from being concerned that he could, in fact have died by his son’s hand was the alarm at what could have happened to Ian. He got his thoughts under control with an effort then gave Renfrew his orders and sent him off to attend to the situation. There will certainly be one less member of staff shortly, although the condition of the gentleman on departure is a matter for latter speculation. Jamie is not a man to take threats to the lives of those under his care lightly, he thought with a small measure of satisfaction.

“Ian, I hope you realize, as I do, that this little incident was purely accidental?”

“Yes, Sir.” A small spark of hope lit Ian’s face, and Kenneth felt a little place inside himself, rarely acknowledged or tended, warm.

“However, the sword was not the correct one, not the blade you usually practice with. What lesson should you take from this?”

“I should have checked the weapon myself before engaging in an action that could lead to inadvertent injury?” he said softly, sorrowful brown eyes raised to met his father’s. For a brief moment, Kenneth remembered another pair of eyes, that identical look which had always softened him. He had vowed when Ian was young that he would never allow it to happen again. He would not allow it, at least not the next time. Irons nodded his pleasure at his son’s answer and gestured him over to him. He started to lean over, to lift the boy onto the bed next to him, but a sharp twinge caused him to hesitate.

Seeing the expression, a small finger of fear returned. Ian decided that, just this once, it would be right to take the lead. He scrambled up unbidden to sit beside his father on the big bed, needing the closeness to reassure him. “Now, I believe it has been a difficult day for both of us, perhaps you will keep me company for a bit?” he asked gently, as Ian settled in happily next to him carefully avoiding the bandaged side.

“Yes, sir,” the boy replied with a contented sigh.

“And what would you ask of me? A story perhaps?” he asked quietly, leaning back a bit more comfortably and slipping an arm around his son.

“Yes, please. Tell me about the Witchblade, about our destiny?”

Slowly, as the familiar story progressed, Ian relaxed against his father’s arm, tracing the intertwined circles in fascination, the scar that was the physical proof of all that his father said. Kenneth watched as the small hand traced the larger one. Someday the boy would be a man, would go out and fulfill their destiny, but for now, he was only a boy, and perhaps that was what he needed for now, this once.

Kenneth sighed and tried to settle himself more comfortably on the bed. He thought about his childhood. His father had been a busy man, rarely at home, and rarely seen when he was. I always swore that I would never be like my father, he thought to himself, and yet in some ways I am. I see it in his eyes when he thinks I am unaware. There is no other way, he thought sadly, but it must be done. I give him my time, all that I have to give. Somewhere inside, he felt the cold lessen its grip for a while, as it always did during these quiet moments between father and son. Because unlike his father, the one thing Kenneth irons swore he would always have for his son, was time.