Acquaintances
Mason Templar sat perched atop a bar stool in the lounge, sliding an oddly luminous whetstone across Caliburn's blade. He didn't turn as someone entered the room behind him. "May I be of assistance?"
His visitor set a plate of lightly-buttered biscuits and cubes of cheese on the bar in front of him, followed closely by a pint of brown lager. "Didn't know if you'd had enough at dinner, since you came in close to the end."
Templar nodded briefly. "Many thanks for your concern... provided it comes free of any tiresome questions or hidden motives."
The other man shook his head. "None of those. Just trying to help a guy out - and maybe make some conversation. Provided you're not otherwise occupied."
Templar set the blade and the stone down on the bar and turned. "Mayhaps I can spare a moment or two for a cordial fellow such as yourself." He took a sip of his drink. "What brings you here, Mister Smith?"
Phil shrugged. "Figured I'd bring you something to snack on, and thought you might need the company..."
Mason chuckled, a hearty, jovial laugh that brought faint creases to the corners of his eyes. "Experience, my friend, has taught me to be wary of those who can perceive the thoughts of others. Forgive me if I am indeed in error, but I sense a certain curiosity about you. Perhaps it attends your unique talents. Perhaps not."
The telepath grinned sheepishly. "You're not the first to complain."
"Well," the swordsman reasoned, "any man with time enough to fetch a little refreshment for little more than a stranger ought to have time enough to converse with old Mason." He nodded. "So, then. What is it you wish to say?"
"That was a good thing you did for the kids," Phil said. "It really meant a lot to them."
"I was pleasantly surprised," Templar stated in reply," to find another fellow willing to show a little compassion to children."
Phil smiled faintly. "You heard about that?"
Templar shrugged. "I have my ways." He took another drink. "I feel that anyone ought to give what he can to those less fortunate. However, you need not make redemption your motive for so doing."
Phil raised an eyebrow quizzically. "What do you mean?"
Mason looked at him, his expression a mixture of amusement and sympathy. "A man - any man - is far more than the product of his past, Mister Smith. You live with a burden you ought not bear." He popped a cube of cheddar into his mouth.
Phil looked down. "I told everyone about it, about... what happened. I thought it would..."
"You thought it would free you from the weight of the past," Templar finished for him.
"That's right," Phil admitted.
"But it didn't?"
"Not the way I thought it would," Phil conceded.
Templar smiled. "You are as free as you choose to be," he stated. "You live in fear of what you once did, hiding yourself from it by thinking it to be what you once were. You feel the urge to redeem yourself somehow by doing things you feel will set things right."
Phil's eyes narrowed. "How do you know all this?"
Mason polished off a biscuit. "When you've been everywhere I've been, young man, you come to understand these things." He washed it down with a swig of lager. "But I fear you are mistaken in your judgment."
"How so?" Phil asked uneasily.
"The things you do," Templar explained, "when you show compassion toward others, those things gain you nothing in the way of redemption."
Phil tensed.
Templar held up a hand. "Showing that compassion means you are a redeemed man. Your deeds are not the deeds of a madman or a murderer, but of someone who has been given another chance, another opportunity to do good. Not to do good simply to repay past debts or to prove the goodness of your character, but simply to what is right simply because it is that which is right to do."
Phil couldn't think of anything to say.
"And once you begin to see that for yourself," Templar concluded, "then, Mister Smith, then you will be free of this burden."
Phil nodded slowly. "Maybe I'll understand someday soon."
"Regardless of what others may say, Mister Smith, you're a good man," Templar assured him. "Even in so short an acquaintance, I can see that. Others can see that." He finished the last of his cheese. "But for as much as you can see within the minds of others," he lamented, "you still can't see that in yourself."
Phil just nodded.
"You're lost," Templar observed. "Not hopelessly so, but merely lost. You remind me of someone I fought once."
Phil looked at him curiously. "Who might that be?"
Mason thought a moment. "He was a good man. He fought on the wrong side, but many good men often do." He grinned. "He was the only man who ever fought me to a draw. Lost inside, as though he didn't know who he was." He shook his head. "That man isn't you, but there is an amazing resemblance."
"You sure I'm not him?" Phil said slyly.
Templar shook his head, "Quite, lad. First of all, I doubt you have the skill with a blade he showed. Second, he was a Russian man, and I believe it is fairly obvious you are not. And most of all, that fight was long enough ago that I would be amazed if he were still alive today."
The swordsman sheathed Caliburn with one hand and picked up his empty plate and mug with the other. "Pleasure speaking with you, Mister Smith," Templar said as he left.
Phil stood and turned as Ozzy Baxter walked through the room. "Ozzy?"
The boxer stopped and turned, his expression impatient. "Yeah?"
"Listen," Phil said. "About earlier..."
Ozzy raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"
Phil smiled. "No hard feelings, man. Seriously."
Ozzy shrugged. "Whatever."
He grinned.
"Are we cool?" Phil asked, offering a hand.
"Yeah," Ozzy said as he shook Phil's hand, "we're cool."
"Ow!" he flinched and stepped back.
Phil brandished the fork as Ozzy rubbed his forearm gingerly. "Gotcha," he smirked.
"Bastard," Baxter murmured as Phil tried unsuccessfully to hold in his laughter.
"Let's go catch the rest of the game," Phil suggested. "I wanna see Marshall's face when he loses that two hundred bucks to Danny."
"That'll be more fun than that Tom Baker bloopers reel in Kit's office," Ozzy replied.
"Gotta love that Tom Baker," Phil said to no one in particular.
