10 years ago…

“He won’t be a bit of trouble for you; I can promise you that.” 

Brenin hated those last five words: “I can promise you that.” It was always a lie, he reflected angrily. Looking at the grumpy-faced little brat in front of him, Brenin felt sure it was also a lie this time. He was too old for this, he grumbled internally. The boy seemed to agree: he complained, “I don’t want to stay with this old man!”

In reality, Brenin wasn’t that old. But to a ten-year-old, a forty-year-old will always look ancient, even if he’s one of the strongest warriors in the kingdom. And all of the scars and stress lines in his face made him look even older. 

Ren’s father saw his rebellious face and clutched his shoulder a little tighter. “Ren, say hello to your new teacher,” he invited. 

“I’m not his teacher.” Brenin’s tone was cold. “This is a ridiculous idea. I’m not in any sort of condition to teach a child.” He knew his appearance should have confirmed his words. He smelled too much of booze and looked too much like a bum. Surely no father would want to leave their son with such an obviously unreliable individual. 

Ren’s father tried hard to smile. “I see. Well, it’s the king’s will, as I said. So I don’t think either of us have a great deal of choice.” 

“It was your idea,” Ren retorted. “I don’t want it, and neither does the old timer. Why would I become a bodyguard for some princess?” 

“Watch your mouth, brat,” Brenin snapped, bristling. “She’s not ‘some princess.’ She’s YOUR princess.” If there was no way out of dealing with the small child glaring up at him, he wasn’t going to allow any disrespect. 

“Yes, indeed,” the father said hastily. “As you see, General Eldred, my son lacks discipline, but for the most part, he’s still very obedient. You don’t have to worry about him. And if you have any problems, you can just-”

“I’ll handle him my own way.” Brenin grabbed Ren by the shoulder and pushed him towards his quarters. “Go find a place to sleep, brat,” he ordered. 

Brenin could see the resignation in Ren's eyes, a silent understanding that arguing was futile. There would be time enough to butt heads tomorrow, after they’d both had some sleep. 

But Brenin had no intention of letting Ren sleep for long. The sun wasn’t even up when Brenin’s foot startled him awake by shoving him hard enough that he yelped. 

“Get up, whelp. We’re training,” Brenin ordered. 

“I think my father may have put it to you wrong.” Ren sat up and glared at him. “I’m not going to listen to you, you old fossil. If someone’s going to teach me, he shouldn’t be too old to hold a spear.” 

“Shut up.” Brenin’s hand balled into a fist and Ren narrowly ducked the blow. 

“Hey! Who said you get to hit me?!”

“I didn’t ask anyone. But your father did say I could teach you however I wanted, and that’s what I’m going to do. Get up now, or I’ll beat you until you figure out you’re better off doing what you’re told.” 

Grumbling, Ren complied. As soon as they went outside, the general handed him a heavy hardwood stick. “What am I supposed to do with this?” Ren asked, swinging it experimentally. He seemed to like the feel of it in his hands. 

“Defend yourself,” Brenin said briefly, picking up a similar stick. The boy was going to have a hard job, and one of the most important ones in the kingdom. So it wouldn’t do to be too soft on him. 

“Wha-”

The hardwood stick came down so fast it made a loud ‘whoosh’ in the air. Ren barely managed to throw his up in time to block it, and he staggered under the weight of the blow. “What in blazes, old man!” 

“Let’s see just how old I am, boy.” 

Brenin demonstrated his prowess quite well. The hardwood stick came down several times on exposed knees or elbows, cracking quite painfully across the joints. Ren was clearly losing patience, and eventually he gave up trying to hold back or block and drove forward, striking wherever he could. But Brenin blocked every blow with ease, never backing up a single step no matter how much Ren tried to push him. 

And in the end, it was Ren who fell, exhausted. “What in blazes, old man,” he said again, panting and rubbing his bruised elbows. 

“Get up,” Brenin said coldly. 

“Nuh-uh. I’m done for the day; I’m too tired.” 

Brenin whacked him hard in the shoulder with the stick. “Ow! What’s your problem?” Ren yelled furiously. 

Brenin raised the stick again. “Do you think an enemy will stop in battle? Get up. You’re fighting for your life.” 

Brenin saw a flicker of something like fear in the boy's eyes as he looked up, something he hadn't expected to see in the defiant youngster. But the boy clearly wasn’t one to back down. He snatched up his stick and went back at it, until finally his numbed hand could no longer hold onto the stick and it dropped from his motionless fingers as he collapsed to his knees. 

Brenin raised his stick, and Ren closed his eyes against the expected blow. But it didn’t come. 

Ren opened one eye and peered at the man, who was already walking away from him. Then Ren got up and tried to run after him, but his legs gave away and he staggered and fell. “Ouch! Hey, old man!” 

Brenin paid him no mind. He rather hoped the small brat would simply quit and whine about needing to go home. Surely his father would take him back. 

But Ren struggled to his feet and limped after him. “Old man! Teach me, blast you!” 

Brenin paused. Then he glanced back over his shoulder at the determined youngster, who was bruised all over and could obviously barely stand. 

“Why would you want me to teach you?” he said. 

“Because I’m gonna beat you one day!” Ren glared at him. “I’m going to beat you twice as bad! And I need you to teach me to do it!” Brenin fixed his grim eyes on him for a while in silence. From the boy’s face, he could tell the kid was serious. 

Then at last the old man said, “Fine. Get up to our quarters. I’ll make breakfast today, but starting tomorrow, you’ll do it.” 

“Okay! I could eat a horse.” Ren didn’t appear to be overly concerned about the bruises. But he didn’t make any secret of the fact that he didn’t like the grim old general, who was mean to him and never gave him a kind look or a concerned word. Ren seemed convinced that if he trained hard enough he’d beat that old man one day. So he kept right on fighting every day, lashing out as hard as he could, taking out his anger on the only person left to receive it. 

Present day

Ten years later, the sounds of sparring could still be heard, but the fighters were not the young boy and the grumpy general of a decade ago. Ren had grown, whether Brenin wanted him to or not. 

“Old man. Old man!” Ren's voice, now deeper but just as insistent, brought Brenin back from his reverie. Ren was finished with his sparring and was tired and hungry. He wondered what was making Brenin look so thoughtful, but he only said, “I’m starving. Did you make us anything to eat?” 

Brenin snorted. “Do you think I’m your servant? Make yourself something to eat, boy.” 

“Stubborn old goat,” Ren muttered. They walked back to Brenin’s small white cabin, where Brenin casually sat in his big stuffed chair and let out a long sigh of relief. As Ren made the food, Brenin watched. Ren asked, “Are you going to help?” 

“I’m supervising,” Brenin replied easily without moving an inch. 

“Supervising my foot.” Ren finished making cold jerky sandwiches. The one thing Brenin could never teach him was to cook. 

Ren sat down at the table and ate ravenously. To all outward observation, he seemed to have shaken off whatever was bothering him earlier. But Brenin knew better. “When are you leaving with the princess?” he asked.

Ren shrugged. “Dunno. Whenever she wants, I guess.” His tone seemed to indicate he had no intention of discussing it further.

But Brenin ignored that. “Don’t make any trouble for her, Ren. They won’t take kindly to it there,” he warned. Ren glanced up from his food.

"I won't," he began.

Brenin leaned forward and met his eyes grimly. "I mean it, Ren. They will kill you both."