Without a word, Luther seized the two men by their collars, lifting them effortlessly as if they weighed nothing. His intense gaze bore into them for a moment before he hurled them to the ground behind him, their bodies hitting the dirt with a satisfying thud.
Calmly, he turned, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small but sharp knife, holding it steady as he looked down at the two would-be bullies sprawled on the ground. His face remained expressionless, but his voice carried a dangerous edge as he spoke.
"If you don't want extra holes in your bodies, I suggest you get lost. Now."
The two men scrambled to their feet, their faces pale as they realized they'd misjudged their target. Muttering a few half-hearted threats under their breath, they backed away, casting uneasy glances over their shoulders before darting off into the shadows. As soon as they were out of sight, Luther slid his knife back into his pocket and turned to find Solomon, watching him, a small sigh escaping the old man's lips.
"Ah, young man! Didn't think you had it in you!" Solomon slurred, patting Luther's arm clumsily. "Teachin' those lads some manners, eh?"
Luther chuckled, helping Solomon steady himself. "I think they needed a reminder. Speaking of which… I was hoping you could teach me something as well."
Solomon squinted at him, swaying slightly. "Teach? What's a doc like you want with fightin' skills?"
Luther's expression grew serious. "Let's just say this town isn't as safe as it used to be. I need to know how to protect myself."
Solomon seemed to sober up slightly at the seriousness in Luther's tone. He scratched his beard, eyeing Luther up and down. "Protection, eh? Well, protection ain't cheap."
Luther slipped a few shillings into the old man's hand. "I don't expect charity."
Solomon glanced at the coins, then pocketed them with a nod. "Alright, doc. Meet me here tomorrow at dawn. I'll show ya what I know."
With that, Luther felt a surge of relief. It was a small step, but it was a start; a way to gain the skills he needed to survive, to face the terrors of this world on something close to equal footing. And in a town where fear reigned and danger lurked in every shadow, even a little strength could mean the difference between life and death.
"Well now," Solomon said, his voice carrying a note of amusement mixed with appreciation. "Come on in, lad. Let's talk inside."
Luther followed him into the blacksmith shop, realizing as he did that Solomon had been pretending to be drunk all along.
Inside, the shop was dim and cluttered with tools, old iron scraps, and half-finished projects. Sol's hands shook slightly as he poured tea from a chipped pot, placing a cup on the table in front of Luther. The surface of the tea shimmered with a thin layer of oil, adding to its rather unappetizing appearance.
"Drink up," Solomon said, settling heavily into an old recliner covered with a worn bearskin. He leaned back, exhaling deeply. "Ah, I'm gettin' old, lad. Useless these days. Back in my prime, those two wouldn't have lasted a single round with me."
Luther noticed Sol's right hand tremble, the telltale shake of a man losing control of his body to age or illness. He recognized the symptoms of what he suspected might be Parkinson's disease, though there was no real name for it in this time and certainly no cure.
Saying nothing, Luther picked up the tea, grimacing slightly as the smell hit him. 'Why do they insist on drinking this foul stuff?' he thought, taking a polite sip as he organized his thoughts.
Solomon chuckled, his gaze fixed on Luther with a shrewd, knowing look. "Hah! I can see those wheels turnin' in your head, boy. Been watchin' you since you were a snot-nosed kid. You still got that look, thinkin' you're gonna swindle ol' Solomon out of his treasures?"
Luther managed a sheepish grin, setting the cup down. "Well, maybe just borrow them for a while. After all, being a soldier doesn't have a happy ending in these times. Better to have a skill that pays and keeps you alive."
Solomon nodded, his eyes clouding over as he seemed to retreat into memories. "Aye, you're not wrong. In the end, it's injuries and scars, and there's no glory left in it. You'd be better off stickin' to the doctorin'. At least that'll earn you enough to settle down, maybe even marry, have a family of your own."
He was silent for a moment, staring into the distance, his hand still trembling as he held his teacup. Luther watched him, seeing the traces of nostalgia and regret etched into the old man's face, understanding the weight of a lifetime spent in battles both physical and personal.
Reaching into his coat, Luther pulled out a small bag of shillings and set it on the table in front of Sol. "Consider this an investment, Solomon. Teach me what you know, and I'll put it to good use. And when I eventually have a son, maybe I'll pass on what you've taught me. In the meantime, let me help you out. I'll bring you a bit of support each month."
Solomon stared at the bag, his face softening as he processed Luther's words. His voice was rough, almost choked. "You know… if my boy were still alive, he'd be about your age."
Luther felt a pang in his chest as he saw the old man's lips tremble, his faded gray eyebrows furrowing with an emotion he was trying to suppress. In that moment, Luther felt the weight of the bond he shared with Solomon, a bond that went beyond blood, rooted in the years they'd known each other, the rough guidance Solomon had given him as a father figure in a world that had stripped away family.
With a deep breath, Solomon gave a bittersweet chuckle. "Ah, you get sentimental when you're old. Well, since you're so insistent, take what I've got. Keep the coins for yourself; save 'em for a family if you're lucky enough to have one." He straightened, his old eyes shining with a spark of pride. "And don't think I'm useless yet! I might not swing a sword, but I can still swing a hammer."
With that, he heaved himself out of his chair, moving with a shaky but determined gait into the back room. After a few moments, he returned, carrying a black wooden box with a faded, worn surface. He set it carefully on the table in front of Luther.
"This here," he said, his voice thick with emotion, "is everything I learned as a soldier. Wrote down what I could remember, and there's a short sword in there too. They gave it to me for a bit of bravery, back in the day. Don't need it now. You might find a use for it."
Luther looked at the box, feeling the gravity of what Solomon was giving him. The old man's hand lingered on the box for a moment, a shadow of sadness passing over his face before he released it.
"Sol…" Luther began, searching for the right words, but finding none that could express the gratitude and respect he felt for the man.
"Bah, don't go gettin' all sappy on me, boy!" Solomon barked, though there was a glint of warmth in his eye, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "It's not like you to go soft. If you're gonna use this stuff, then do it right. Don't let it collect dust, eh?"
Luther let out a low chuckle, feeling a warmth he hadn't felt in a long time. "Don't worry, old man. I won't let it go to waste."
Sol's face split into a grin, though it was tinged with the sadness of unspoken memories. "That's more like it. Now get outta here before I change my mind."
Luther rose, carefully taking the black box. "Thank you, Sol. Really."
Solomon gave him a dismissive wave, but his eyes lingered, watching Luther with something like pride. "Take care of yourself, brat. And remember, if you ever find yourself outmatched, just remember; old Sol's got your back, even if he can't swing a sword no more."
With a nod, Luther turned, the weight of the box in his hands feeling heavier than it should. As he walked out of the blacksmith shop, he glanced back one last time to see Solomon leaning in the doorway, watching him with a wistful look.
For the first time since arriving in this world, Luther felt a flicker of hope. He wasn't alone in the darkness. There were still people here, like Solomon, who carried their own light, no matter how small.
With a quiet resolve, he headed back toward the clinic, the box in hand, ready to forge his own path forward; armed with the knowledge of an old soldier and the courage he'd found in himself.