Chapter 35 Part 2
He thought back to his early training. His tribe had been different from the rest of the Metheons. They believed in the power of language, but they kept alive the old nomadic ways. It was important for a warrior to understand hand-to-hand combat. He might be able to kill with words, but should words fail his axe would not. His memory flashed to an early training session where his mentor had stood still and poised. Freighton had run at him full force only to have his mentor side-step him and whack him across the ear as he ran past. He remembered the tears of frustration and pain. His mentor asked him why it had happened. Freighton pensively considered the question through sniffles and finally said "Because you are better than me." His mentor began to laugh much to Freighton's annoyance. Then he spoke.
"I was not the one who ran headlong into combat as though I were about to skewer every man who ever held a sword. I simply moved out of your way, and smacked you across the head. You were bested not because I was bigger than you, but because your passion blinded you."
Freighton could still hear those words in his head now. Passion, in combat, would eventually get a man killed. It was not about glory. It was not about honor. It was about two forces with distinct ways of fighting coming into contact with one another. It was about one of those forces discovering something about the essence of the other--about discovering something about the self not known through the reflection of the other--and vice versa for the opposite party. It was about taking what you learned about this person, and adapting your own fighting style so that victory was more likely. If you found your opponent to be physically strong, maybe more than you, then you fought such that the battle was not a test of strength. Perhaps it should be a battle of endurance instead. If you found your opponent to be swift, especially swifter than you, then you did not make the contest one of speed. Perhaps it should be one of the powerful strikes instead. Being a warrior was not at all about loving to fight, but dancing. It was, no doubt, a deadly dance, but it was a dance. The goal was to be the only one left on the dance floor.
Freighton considered the words of his mentor. A fighter like Hercules was good in every way. He was strong and fast. He was, true to his form, super-human. Yet, Freighton had realized something in that initial foray with Hercules. He was still afraid of death--still weak to its influence. As long as he feared death on any level, his fighting would always remain impaired. As he considered this, for the first time Freighton felt the weight of his axe in his hands. The axe was good in battle where two people were using weapons that were sharp. Against Hercules, though, the axe was a liability. Hercules would catch the handle before the blade and force Freighton back as he had done before. Freighton realized that even though he wielded the axe, in truth the axe wielded him. It limited his mobility. It would dictate that his strikes would be slower, and that the advantage of having a weapon in this instance would actually be a weakness. As this thought occurred to him, his grip loosened. He flung the axe on the ground. He hadn't fought in a literal hand-to-hand combat in a very long time.
