Playing With Fire (EDITING)

The Swordmaster

Author's Note: The unnamed man at the end of last chapter is Jacques, Lyrica's Grandpére! Congrats and a dedication to KnightoftheRealm for guessing correctly. And also props, hugs, and other good things for being the only wonderful person to comment. People reading this, follow KnightoftheRealm's example and leave a comment. Seriously.

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When my eyes fell on him, I gasped. One of several birthday wishes I'd repeated for years had come true. His smile bid me go to him, so as soon as Kurt set my feet on the ground, I pulled away. "Grandpére!"

"Ma élève, ma pétard, ma petite-fille (my pupil, my firecracker, my granddaughter)," he said, tightening his arms around me in a hug. I didn't care that his rapier hilt dug into my hip. I didn't care that his scruffy beard scratched against my neck. I didn't care that people were watching. I only cared that I had my grandfather back. Taking a deep breath of his scent, a torrent of memories from my childhood flooded back.

I sat on the floor of a small cabin in the woods, helping Grandpére polish his swords. A long, silver blade sat across my lap and gleamed dangerously in the afternoon sunlight that reflected onto the floor. The scent of Murphy's oil soap filled the room and a bucket of the foaming cleanser sat in front of me, giving off its pungent aroma. When we'd finished, Grandpére smiled across to me and leaned forward secretively. "Ta Mamére won't be home for a few hours yet, eh? Would you like me to teach you more than polishing?" I nodded eagerly and he laughed. The corners of his eyes squinted and wrinkled as they always did when he was pleased with something. "Trés bon. Dehors, maintenant, no room for this inside." (Very good. Outside, now, no room...)

I stood on my young legs and ran outside, leaving the sword on the ground where I'd been sitting. Grandpére followed me, smiling, and broke off two branches from the birch trees around the cabin. "Lyrica," he began. "What I teach you here, you must be truly serious about learning; sword fighting should never be taken lightly. It is dangerous and can take a life as easily as save it."

I nodded. "Oui, Grandpére."

"Bon, let's begin."

And for the next five hours, he taught me to fight. Even when a storm sprang up and drenched us to the skin, we didn't stop. The lessons were rigorous and brutal, but they'd paid off. And though Mamére hadn't been happy when she learned of it, she'd allowed the lessons to continue.

His arms loosened their grip but kept me firmly under his shoulder, protectively, but also with relief. Something must be bothering him, distracting him. I could ask later when we were alone- in fact, I planned to. He might know about Papére's disappearance and Loki's demonic plan. How did he benefit from kidnapping my dad? What could he gain from forcing us to chase his cryptic clues across New England?

Ma led us to the dining tent and sat at an empty table in a corner, out of hearing distance of prying ears. Grandpére sat at the head of the table and I sat across from my mother. The greyness of dusk had settled over the field and forest and woven its way through the tents, disorienting troop members, but setting the mood at the table effectively. The lanterns hanging from posts and tiki torches set in the ground cast circles of light like fireflies sporadically throughout the camp. To my left, off in the forest, crickets chirped and cicadas buzzed to one another. Before anyone spoke, Han and Clint joined us at the table, taking seats with Han beside Ma and Clint beside me. Never far behind, Natasha slid onto the bench beside Clint.

Silence around the table was heavy with unspoken questions until Grandpére finally acknowledged Clint's presence. "Been a long time," he mumbled.