Josiah 'Doc' Scurlock

After he steps through the door and hears it click shut behind him, Doc -- no, he's Josiah, here -- takes a moment to eye his wrists and run his fingers through his hair. Nothing will work if Brand has any reason to suspect that anything is wrong.

And it's certainly not as if he's about to strike him down now.

He needs to learn more. He needs to train and practice. Kate has been practicing for months, and now he knows he needs to catch up, and quickly. He won't be as skilled as Kate is in magic, but he needs to have some knowledge if he is to stand a fighting chance when it comes time for the war to begin, their plans set in motion.

For Brand to fall.

There are hours spent in mock-combat with the sword, the endless sounds of steel clashing against steel. This isn't like the sparring with Will on the grass behind the bar. It's serious and he begins with a dulled blade until he's spent a few days at it, and then they move to sharper steel.

Brand isn't the only one who teaches him -- he's busy, of course, planning the next move of his army -- but the man that he does spar with is good. Very good.

"Do you wish to go on, my lord?"

Josiah eyes the man who is speaking to him, the skilled swordsman which Brand appointed to train him in the art of striking with the ability to kill. He was useful, to Brand, so his life was spared when the castle and Shadow was overthrown.

Everyone has a purpose.

He nods. "Yes," and then brings the blade up before him, at the ready. "Again. And this time, I want you to strike faster. I know you're better than I am."

There is a pause, and the darkness grows in his eyes when the man fails to agree.

"So long as you do not harm me, Brand will hear that you have been a good teacher, understand?"

"Yes, my lord." The swordsman brings his own blade to the ready, waiting.

Josiah nods, then feels the grin spread across his face. "Good. Now, again."

Doc -- and it is Doc, not the demon, not the man at the side of the Prince, but the outlaw from Lincoln, New Mexico -- finds himself lying in bed at night and counting the bruises on his ribs from the flat of the blade as it slammed into his side, the faint sound of steel striking steel still echoing in his ears.

He had asked for the man to go harder on him and he had done so, perfectly. Each strike could have been fatal if his teacher so desired to cut him where he stood, but he didn't, either out of respect or fear of being killed if Brand were to find out that Josiah had been injured.

He wasn't. Tomorrow there will be more practice, and new skills to learn, and he will push himself harder, closer to the breaking point, closer to the edge.

His bruises ache slightly as he runs his fingertips over the marks in the darkness.

Doc knows he's lucky.

There will only be one moment to play his hand and show the wild card he's holding, one moment to gamble on the outcome, one moment in which the house of cards he's built will either stand steady, or flutter to the earth.

One. Chance.

He knows one other thing for certain, as he shifts on the bed and feels the aches and pains spread, closing his eyes. There will be no room for such mistakes when the time to strike Brand comes.

(Or his house of cards will be nothing but shambles when the dust clears and the blood has dried upon the blade.)



More practice. Tomorrow.