| Some things never change.
Cursed (or blessed) with the metabolism of
a terrified hummingbird, Ashton has always found sleep to be largely irrelevant.
Running on nerves and coffee, he sleeps for perhaps five hours a night
before snapping awake, and he barely eats at all; only his taste for heavily
sugared-and-creamed coffee keeps his body from dwindling away to nothing
but bones and muscle.
And the dragons on his shoulders have done
nothing but exacerbate these tendencies. Ashton still sleeps five hours
a night, but now those five hours are broken up into small chunks of unconsciousness;
Ashton picks at his food, letting the dragons finish it, more often than
not.
Even the addition of Dias to his bed has done
nothing to change Ashton's sleeping habits.
It is just before dawn in North City, and Ashton
is suddenly and completely awake, as is his habit. The window is just beginning
to show a grayish-blue cast; the small town is almost silent. Ashton lies
there for a moment more, marveling at the fact that it is his arm
that is lying across Dias' warm bare chest, that it is his head
that is pillowed on Dias' shoulder; then, carefully, Ashton slides back
and out of the bed, standing up. Almost unconsciously, he tugs the still-sleeping
dragons forward over his shoulders. Long used to this, they do not wake.
Dias does. Dias can sleep through any noise,
but the lack of Ashton registers. Sleepily, Dias' eyes flutter open for
a moment, and he makes some vague interrogative noise before his eyes shut
again. Soon his breathing becomes regular once more, and Ashton picks his
way across the room to his things. North City is warm and quiet, so Ashton
does not bother with his robe; the loose pants that he sleeps in will be
enough. He quietly claims his swordbelt and his boots and slips from the
room, locking the door behind him.
The hotel is quiet as Ashton pads silently
down the hallway to the small courtyard. He pauses there, pulling on his
boots and buckling his swordbelt about his waist; the dragons, alerted
by the slight swaying of Ashton's gait, are now blinking themselves awake.
Ashton steps out into the courtyard just as
the sky begins to dye itself pink. His fingers curl about the hilts of
his two swords, sliding them from their scabbards with an ingrained respect
for the weapons; the transformation of Ashton that follows has never failed
to surprise (and sometimes unnerve) his traveling companions.
Crests flicker into existence just under Ashton's
skin: a large spiral of them etched at the back of his neck lashes out
four tendrils, two of which encircle his throat before wriggling out over
his shoulders. This line of Crests spirals down his arms lazily, enwrapping
his wrists several times before spilling onto his hands. The palms of his
hands are entirely covered, all the way down to his fingertips; these Crests
brush against the leather-wrapped grip of Ashton's swords.
The other two tendrils snake up and down Ashton's
spine. One disappears into Ashton's hair; the other disappears under the
waistband of his pants. Both tendrils end in secondary spirals that are
imprinted on Ashton's consciousness, the one on the crown of his head,
the other on the base of his spine like a coiled tail.
A single Crest flashes into existence on Ashton's
forehead, between his eyes, where his headband normally lies: a lone, perfect
triangle. And Ashton opens his eyes, a different man than he was just a
moment ago. Somehow, it is impossible to imagine this Ashton stuttering,
or blushing, or tripping over his own feet; his eyes are calm and steady,
if just a bit faraway, and his body is a single sinuous line from head
to toe, his arms relaxed at his sides.
Ashton takes a deep breath, and holds it.
Immediately, both dragons flash into their ready stances, two perfect arcs
from his shoulders; the faintest of nods conveys Ashton's approval before
his swords flash out into a well-practiced stance, angled away from his
body in the suggestion of a triangle, their tips pointing at the ground.
Under his breath, Ashton murmurs the phrase, "Anchor Zero."
"Anchor Zero, Ash, the Position of Strength.
What have I taught you?" His father's voice is calm and amused.
Five-year-old Ashton's voice parrots back
the lines he has learned by heart, even though many of the words are beyond
the child's understanding. "Anchor Zero is the position of strength because
it is in this position that an Anchors stands before an enemy. From this
position one may attack or defend with equal ease. Anchor Zero is sometimes
called the Living Triangle, because of the angle of the arms and swords
to the ground."
"Very good, Ash! And what else?"
"The Living Triangle is not a mockery of
our opponents' skill, no matter how unguarded our body may look. However,
if they choose to take it as such, it is to our advantage."
"And what else?"
Ashton's childish voice is silent, and
after a moment, his father's voice continues. "It is Anchor Zero that marks
an Anchors for what he is, and as such Anchor Zero must be treated with
respect. An Anchors never runs in Anchor Zero, because it is disrespectful;
that is what Anchor One is for."
Under his breath, Ashton murmurs "Anchor One".
His arms flash back behind him, turning inwards; the swords still point
at the ground, now behind him, and Ashton falls into a swift loping run,
crossing the courtyard, his swords steady as stone behind him. The dragons
lean forward in opposition to the swords; Ashton's body is again one sinuous
line from the tops of the dragon's heads to his feet, a line at an angle
to the ground.
"Anchor One, Ash, the Position of Engagement."
"Anchor One is the position in which an
Anchors may move to engage an enemy. An Anchors only assumes Anchor One
when moving forwards; when moving backwards, there is Anchor Two. Anchor
One is sometimes called the Encroaching Triangle."
"Why do we run with our swords behind us?"
"There are two reasons. One, because if
we fall or are knocked down, we will not fall onto our swords; two, because
bringing our swords up in an arc gives us extra power when we shift into
the attack."
"Very well done. Now attack, Ash!"
At the other end of the courtyard, Ashton drops
smoothly into an attack stance, one leg forward, one leg back; both swords
slash up from behind him in a perfect arcing cross. The dragons rear back,
out of the way of the swords. From the end of the attacking cross, Ashton
snaps back into Anchor Zero for a moment; then his arms flash forward into
a perfect mirror image of Anchor One. He murmurs "Anchor Two" and begins
to move swiftly backwards, both dragons leaning forward over his shoulders
to help balance him.
"Anchor Two, Ash, the Position of Retreat."
"Anchor Two is used when moving away from
an enemy that one cannot turn his back on. There is no shame in retreat,
only in running. One must never run in Anchor Two, only walk swiftly; the
blades remain in front of us to ward off attacks more swiftly. Anchor Two
is sometimes called the Promising Triangle."
"And why is that?"
"Because as long as one does not turn and
run, there remains the promise that one's attack will be completed, and
one's opponent will fall."
"Very good! You're a natural, kiddo."
Ashton stops and flashes back into Anchor Zero.
The dragons respond appropriately. Only a split second passes before Ashton
takes a half-step forward, his swords looping around to the same basic
cross attack; then Ashton falls back into a new stance, his arms flexed,
his swords crossed perfectly at right angles to each other, flat of the
blade against flat of the blade. The small half-smile that graced his face
suddenly vanishes, replaced with a flat expression. "Guard Anchor Zero."
"Why do we not call this Anchor Three, boy?"
A new male voice, flat and serious. Not his father's voice.
And the voice of eleven-year-old Ashton
responds, "Because the Anchors' art is the art of the triangle, and every
triangle has three points, including the triangle of the Anchor Positions
themselves. The Guard Anchors form their own triangle."
"If our art is the art of the triangle,
why do we not guard with our swords tip to tip?"
"... because the guard is stronger with
the blades crossed in the middle?"
"When the swords are crossed in the middle,
they form four triangles, instead of one. When the opponent's weapon breaks
into the uppermost triangle, here..." The sharp sound of a single sword
crashing into the cross. "... there are then three triangles left, a triangle
of triangles, and that is our strength. Will you never learn, boy?"
"... I am sorry, Uncle."
"Yes, you are."
Ashton drops lightly to one knee, and the dragons
dart downwards as Ashton's swords flash up to form a cross above his head.
Ashton gazes up at the crossed swords, his eyes still far away. After a
moment, he begins to rise to his feet, very slowly indeed; the muscles
in his thighs and calves quiver, as if there was an actual opponent pressing
him down. Eventually, Ashton is on his feet, with his swords in Guard Anchor
Zero; then he drops to his other knee, equally lightly, his swords flashing
back up into One.
"All right, boy. If our art is the art of
the triangle, as you claim, then why are so many of our position based
around the cross?"
Ashton's voice, just beginning to break
at thirteen. "Because a cross is four triangles, nothing more. Three triangles
to represent our art, and the fourth for the enemy."
"Correct, but smugly said. You will correct
that flaw, boy."
"... I am sorry, Uncle."
"Yes, you are. Now then. Guard Anchor One."
"Guard Anchor One is the position from
which an Anchors protects himself when he has been knocked to his knees.
It is not a position of strength, but an Anchors always remembers that
strength is relative and shifting, and therefore must be prepared to deal
with the world from either end of strength. The cross, the triangle of
triangles plus one, forms over the head, to force the enemy's weapon back."
"Is it a shameful position, boy?"
"No. There is no room for shame in the
art, only humility."
"... spoken without belief, boy. Spoken
without belief. You will learn humility."
"... I am sorry, Uncle."
"Yes, you are."
From Guard Anchor One, without rising from
his knees, Ashton lunges forward in a swift cross attack, his arms stretched
to their limit. The momentum of the swords as they snap back helps Ashton
leap to his feet, and he crosses his swords once more; this time the crossed
swords face the ground, and Ashton leans forward, seeming to loom over
an imaginary opponent. "Guard Anchor Two."
"Guard Anchor Two, boy."
"Guard Anchor Two is used against a fallen
opponent, because even an opponent on the ground retains his weapon. The
cross, the triangle of triangles plus one, forms between the Anchors and
the fallen opponent."
"Do you move into an attack from Guard
Anchor Two?"
"Never. An Anchors does not strike a fallen
opponent. From Guard Anchor Two one may only move into Guard Anchor Zero
as one's opponent stands, completing the Guard Anchor Triangle."
"Truth. But one must always beware."
The sound of one booted foot colliding
with another; a cry of pain and surprise from the thirteen-year-old Ashton,
and the sound of a body striking the ground. The older voice continues,
still flat. "None of the Guard Anchors will protect you against kicks,
boy. You must always remain light on your feet. Ill done; you will practice
through dinner tonight."
"... I am sorry, Uncle."
"Yes, you are."
Ashton flashes back into Anchor Zero. His breathing
is rapid, but not heavy; the dragons snap into their ready positions as
well. He remains perfectly still for the count of three; then the swords
blur into motion again, as fast as thought. What Ashton lacks in physical
strength, he more than makes up for in speed. This time, the attack does
not end with the simple cross, but continues, the blades blurring about
Ashton's body. Arcs of deadly silver dance about Ashton, too fast for the
eye to follow; after a moment, the complicated exercise ends with Ashton's
arms stretched to their limit, the swords completing each other's arc into
a perfect semicircle. A grim dance indeed. Ashton murmurs, "Attack Anchors,
Zero One Two."
The seventeen-year-old Ashton's voice, much
the same as it is now, reciting a well-learned verse to itself. "The Attack
Anchors are never separate, but always mentioned and practiced as one,
because it is the will of the Attack to never be separate, but always part
of a continuum. Attack Anchor Zero, the basic cross slash; Attack Anchor
One, the side cross slash; Attack Anchor Two, the inverse cross slash.
One may practice the Attack Anchors in phase, or with one sword half a
step out of phase; it is the combination of these six maneuvers,
a triangle turned sideways on itself, that creates the Anchors dance of
steel. Only Attack Anchor Zero may be used alone, and that only during
practice and in times of great need."
A pause. Then Ashton's voice continues.
"It is one of the primary ironies of the Anchors that, in an art based
on the triangle and the triangle of triangles, we can only wield two swords.
The answer to this dilemma is to move swiftly, so that no one may properly
count the number of blades that seem to appear about one's body. The swords
must cross and recross a thousand times; an Anchors never strikes with
just one sword. The swords are linked inextricably, to each other and to
the soul of the Anchors, and where one goes, and where one goes, the other
two must follow. The body of the Anchors is the third blade. That is the
primary meaning of the Attack Anchors."
The final movement. Ashton's form blurs into
an explosion of movement; in the midst of the swords' duet many of the
Anchors are formed and then broken in rapid succession. Ashton attacks
the air, again and again, slashing crosses at an invisible opponent; the
dragons dart and cross, their actions perfectly suited to Ashton's movements.
With the additional weight of the dragons acting as counterbalances to
his own body, Ashton's art is improved, stretched past his old limits;
he can reach further, stretch more, lean farther, and the weight of the
dragons will always pull him back to anchor. The teamwork is astonishing,
more so because of the short time for which they have been together. Like
this, with Ashton's Crests afire and his mind steady, they are all one
entity, extensions of Ashton's body and mind instead of hindrances. For
once.
Twenty-year-old Ashton, less than a year
ago, his voice uncommonly steady. "It will take practice, but I can do
this. We can do this. If you are willing to learn. Are you?"
Gyoro. "Awrk."
Ururun. "Awoork."
Ashton again. "Good. Now, then. This is
Anchor Zero, the Position of Strength, also called the Living Triangle.
Watch closely."
Finally, Ashton falls back into Guard Anchor
Zero, and from there into Anchor Zero. His bare chest rises and falls rapidly,
sheened ever so lightly with sweat; his Crests are blood-dark and throbbing
just under his skin. Again he holds his pose for the count of three, then
abruptly smiles, dropping into a casual pose, both swords held akimbo to
his body, almost jauntily. The dragons rear up to their full height, jaws
agape in a silent roar.
The time is now. Twenty-year-old Ashton
speaks, quietly, to the empty courtyard of the Landscape Inn at dawn. "The
Fourth Triangle, or the Position of Victory. This is the triangle that
is broken by the enemy's blade, the loss of which creates the triangle
of triangles that assures my victory. Every Anchors takes a different stance
at the end of battle, and I am no exception; this Fourth Triangle is mine.
There is no other. My name is Ashton. I am an Anchors. I am an Anchors.
I am an Anchors."
That triangle of affirmation spoken, Ashton
slides his swords back into their scabbards. The Crests slowly fade and
vanish from his body; he seems to lose two inches of height, and the calm
expression is replaced by his usual beaming good-natured smile.
And Ashton turns and leaves the courtyard,
his mind clear and his body loose. Morning exercises are over.
Dias is still asleep when Ashton slips silently
into the room, boots and swordbelt in hand. The swordbelt and boots are
placed carefully back in Ashton's pile of gear, and he turns to look at
Dias, the larger man's sleeping body now dimly limned with the orange-pink
glow of dawn. After a moment, Ashton slips back into bed, sliding his arm
across Dias' chest once more. The dragons curl up behind Ashton, on his
pillow.
The contact wakes Dias; it always does. Dias'
eyes flicker open and his body tenses in readiness; Ashton smiles and murmurs,
"It's just me." After a moment, Dias relaxes and closes his eyes again,
his arm tightening about Ashton's shoulders, just under the dragons. Within
moments, both Dias and the dragons are asleep.
Ashton is not; he is content to lie awake
and keep watch over the sleeping. The thought that this is a very Anchors
thing to do flashes across his mind, and he smiles, peacefully. Gazing
over at Dias, Ashton murmurs, "I am an Anchors, and I am yours to do with
as you will..."
Dias does not wake at the quiet words.
He never does.
Some things never change. |