Chapter Text
The Small Blade
A flicker in the dim-lit air,
So slight it seems almost unfair—
The smallest cut can draw the tide,
Where even giants learn to hide.
No hilt of gold, no roaring flame,
Just quiet truth none can tame.
It fits the palm yet splits the night—
The small blade knows: the keenest bite.
Let axes boast their weight, their might,
This sliver sings—just watch it write.
………………………
Eight year old Tony sat crying just in the tree line at the edge of the sprawling grounds. He was hiding because 'Dinozzo's don't cry' and the backs of his arms were already bruised from pinching. The towering trees were standing vanguard against the beautiful sunny day that almost seemed an affront to the pain of his heartbreak, shrouding him in the appropriate shadow and gloom to accompany the soundtrack of the heaving sobs that wracked his little chest; blocking out the happy bird song and sweet and warm summer breeze.
He didn't want sweet breeze and birdsong. He didn't want the riot of colour of blooming flowers and the happy buzz of industrious bees, he especially didn't want the laughter of children as they scampered across emerald green Dinozzo lands to get to the sparkling clear watering hole Tony wasn't allowed to go swim in as it was 'a festering hole of murky soup only suited for the most common of folk'. He didn't want any of the vibrant life blossoming around him.
He wanted his mother back and she was dead. Dead and cold in the family crypt where she would never feel the sun, never smell the flowers, never wander through the verdant grasses with his hand warm in hers, holding tightly to each other even as their palms grew slippery with sweat.
She would never take him to the movies in her shiny sky blue Aston Martin convertible with the top down that always ruined their well brushed hair. Never buy a buttery popcorn for them to share and wrap her arm around his shoulders at the captivating Hollywood stars danced and floated across the silver screen.
Never play her piano and hum absently in the sunlight pooling through the large windows of the sunroom. Never call him to sit next to her, guiding his little hands along the keys. She would never tuck him into bed with gentle hands and the smell of wine against his forehead as she sang him to sleep and kissed his forehead.
She would never do any of those things again because she was dead and he'd killed her.
He'd killed his mother.
He should have stopped her from driving. He should have smelled the liquor on her breath and told one of the house staff. He should have stolen the keys from her and kept them away. So many things he should have done but he'd been nothing but a lump. A stupid, greedy lump. He'd been so excited to see the movie that day. So greedy to spend their special time together. Already in love with the characters she'd described, dancing around her as she sat at her large vanity and styled her beautiful hair. He'd ignored the near empty bottle, the lipstick stains along the wine glass, the second empty bottle in the small gold bin.
Ignored how she'd thrown back the last of the glass and laughed, too loudly… too brightly. How her eyes had been too wide, too shiny, patches of darkened skin peeping from under the neckline of her new dress, her new bright and gaudy jewelry. All gifts from father after his return from his latest 'venture'.
He'd held silent as the car swerved and swayed at speed on the road towards downtown, how crystal droplets had collected in the corners of her eyes but never fell as she laughed wildly and tossed her beautiful hair against the whipping of the wind, the smell of her perfume in his nostrils. His lips had been pressed white, not a single sound escaping as he gripped the door handle enough to hurt. But still he said nothing as his heart tripped in his chest. To speak would have been to burst the bubble growing and growing in his head and he dared not. Not when they were going so fast.
Then they were at the bridge and the bubble ruptured as he'd screamed, everything going bright and weightless for long agonizing seconds before going suddenly dark and deafening. Even in the summer the canal was shockingly cold, the water stirred up all dark and murky. He screamed once more and it flooded in to silence him, clogging his throat and burning his eyes and ears and nose. The cold stole the feeling in his hands as he scrambled to find her, somehow unhooking his seat belt and kicking his little legs towards her; black flowers blooming over his sight as he choked and swallowed.
His fingers passed through her silk mermaid hair for a fleeting moment before the current grabbed him and pulled him away from her, up and away as the paleness of her floating limbs grew further and further from his grasp.
His first breath of air as he surfaced was like knife in his throat, a crush on his chest, a burn in his gut and in his eyes and nose. The world was an explosion of sound, the sun a merciless bright and burning and blinding even as he shivered from the cold. His limbs felt like jelly as he tried to swim back towards the sunken car. He could just see the blue of it as the water cleared. She was right there. She was waiting for him. He had to get back to her.
Steel beams wrapped around his chest and he struggled against them, a ragged howl ripping from his burning throat as he scratched at the restraint. He grabbed at the rushing water desperately, his feet kicking ineffectually as he was pulled towards the shore. Blurred monsters held him against the muddy grass, their voices low and distorted as they spoke over him. He struggled against them weakly, trying to get back to the water. Back to his mother.
She was right there. She needed him.
She was waiting for him.
He bit savagely the beam closest to him and was rewarded with a yowl and freedom, he dove madly towards the water but was snapped up again before he got even halfway there. He screeched like a rabid animal, his carefully trimmed nails clawing as something came to block his mouth. The distortions around him whipped up in frenzy, growing in volume and fervour until something jumped up and bit him in his left buttock, sending the world tumbling into black.
He woke up days later in the hospital with a pale and stern Senior speaking heatedly with a man in a white coat and another with a bright blue sash on his arm. It sported a golden shield and he'd recognized it immediately. Any child that stayed in school past kindergarten knew that emblem. It was the SAGC - the Sentinel and Guide Council. And whatever they were saying was upsetting Senior, his face that stone carved façade he adopted when stone walling on something.
Tony had blinked at them tiredly, not quite close enough to hear them above the whooshing and beeping of the machines around him but still close enough to see their lips move. He'd often practiced lip reading on the staff, something he'd seen in a movie and wanted to learn.
"… pneumonia… long rest and recovery…"
"… mother was a survivor… guide flu as a child… "
"…Weakened even more from childbirth…"
"… never came online?..."
"… the boy tested…"
"… can compel you… it's the law…"
"… discussed counselling? … mother's death…"
Tony curled in on himself, sending the machines into a tiff as the words echoed endlessly in dark and cavernous hollow of his mind. Mother's death. She was dead. She was gone. He'd killed her. He hadn't done enough to save her. He'd failed her.
Gentle hands pulled him from the fetal curl, straightening out his limbs and pressing a cold stethoscope to his heaving chest. His eyes burned and his vision went blurry but he could still make out the still figure of Senior in the bright doorway, stern and unforgiving in his very stance.
Dinozzo's don’t cry.
His breath hitched as he fought the tears back even as the hospital staff spoke in careful gibberish above his prone form. He watched, detached as a nurse injected something into his IV line and the world tilts slowly to one side. He collapsed against the bed, his eyelids drooping as he went boneless. He stayed just awake enough to hear the quiet conversation just inside the room, his breathing evening out as he lay still and compliant.
"His mother never felt the need to come online. Surely the boy will never need to…"
"But that's the issue here Mr. Dinozzo. Young Anthony is already online. He did so during the crash. His distress called in other online persons from at least ten miles around. That kind of thing is practically unheard of… especially in someone so young."
Tony's own soft gasp was covered by Senior's even sharper one and the slight blip in his heart monitor made the doctor glance over absently. Tony forced himself to calm. He needed the conversation to go on.
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" Senior sounded oddly intrigued.
"Oh! It's a good thing usually." the SAGC rep perked up. "The best thing would be to be sent in for a complete battery of tests."
"Now see here just a minute… " the doctor interjected, " The boy's just come out from having pneumonia… what he needs right now is time to rest and recover… not to be picked and prodded by a bunch of…"
"Doctor! I beg your pardon." the rep bristled like a cat. " I will have you know that the SAGC has always held the safety of our SAG community…"
"Save your propaganda…" the doctor huffed, holding up a gloved hand before turning to Senior. "At least a month or two of recovery and I would also recommend getting a skilled child psychologist. The boy's having to deal with all this at once may very likely send him into a downward spiral, especially if it was traumatic enough to yank him fully online."
"Is that your official medical recommendation?" Senior voice had gone cold again and the there was a long, pregnant pause before the doctor spoke again.
"It can be." his deep voice was heavy with promise.
The SGAC rep saw a moment to step in. "The Council has all the facilities to handle any physical… and mental medical care the young sentinel might need. It is very important that we quickly ascertain his level and get the appropriate treatment underway… all at our own expense, of course."
Tony felt his heart sink at those words, confirmed by Senior's own hum of interest. If it got Tony out of his hair and one someone else's dime, then the old man was all for it. The doctor's huff of disapproval was echoed among the beeping of the machines as he watched Senior be guided to the nurse's station by the still yapping Rep, his eyes narrowed as he glared at their backs.
He glanced to the bed and caught Tony's unblinking gaze, startling a bit then letting his shoulders slump in exhaustion. He walked over and patted Tony's knee. "I'll try to make sure you're given the time you need to recover. I know a guy high up in the SAGC. Maybe he can keep tabs on how they're treating you. Not pushing you too hard or anything."
He did a quick check of the machines then gave Tony one last pat. "Chin up kid. I heard you put up quite a fight down at the river. You just need to keep that fight instinct in your heart and your head above water. Just survive… and the world will end up doing the rest."
Tony curled unto one side when he was finally alone in the room, pressing his stinging eyes into the pillow to keep back the tears struggling to get out. He took deep, slow breaths, something he'd seen his mother doing far too many times. The hurt pooling in his chest burned and slopped around like lava, his throat heavy and feeling filled with boulders grinding against one another. His extremities felt numb, cool and rubbery, his limbs heavy and so hard to move. His hair was slicked against his head and neck, making him feel sticky and dirty.
He knew that he looked a mess and probably didn't smell too good either. He could still feel the water against his skin, dirt and grime somehow clinging to his disinfected skin. He could feel the press of the water as he tried to pull breath, the power of the current as it ripped him further away from her pale, floating figure, her beautiful hair in a surreal cloud around her bare slam arms and delicate piano player fingers. If he closed his eyes, he was almost back there again, deep in the water that stole sound, smell, sight and feeling. That pulled him and choked him and pressed him to its own sinister whims.
"She always wanted a child."
Senior's voice broke him from the deep waters and had him snapping back to the present. He blinked stupidly at the man standing still beside his hospital bed, hands tucked away into the pockets of his long coat, his collar pulled up around that chiseled jawline. Tony quickly and carefully straightened up and sat at attention, the way Senior always demanded. He kept his gaze at Senior's chin as 'little boys don't look their betters in the eyes'; his hands clasped demurely in his lap.
"She made me promise her to have a kid. Even had it put in the fucking pre-nup." the older man huffed a harsh and bitter laugh. "Even though she knew her body was weak from being sick as a child. But she was a fighter. She fought tooth and nail for a kid. For you."
"And look at what you did to her. You already almost killed her in childbirth and now you've succeeded in being the final nail in her coffin." Senior's gaze was hard like diamonds and just as cold. "The love of my fucking life… and you killed her."
Tony clenched his jaw to keep it from trembling, biting the inside of his cheek enough to bleed to keep him from breaking, the iron taste on his tongue and in cloying throat. Senior was only telling him what he'd already known. He bowed his head and clenched his fists into the scratchy hospital blanket.
"The doctor said one month of rest so you'll be spending that at the SAGC. You will keep up with your school work while there. You will spend this summer vacation at the Chandler Cottage. The main house will be closed up and the staff dismissed as I will be in Europe for the next six months. You are to keep out of trouble and out of my hair. Then when school begins in the new term, you'll be enrolled in Remington and will board year round except for the summers which you will spend out of sight at Chandler. You will do this until I can bear to look at you again, do you understand?"
Tony could only nod numbly. No amount of begging or pleading had ever swayed Senior to change his mind in thee past. Only Mother had ever done that successfully with her gentle, siren ways. But now she was dead and Tony had no one left to parley on his behalf anymore. Whatever Senior said was now law and Tony was left with no choice but to concede. His voice felt rusty and disused and he swallowed harshly before speaking.
"What about the funeral?" his eyes bravely flickered up for just a second before he once again bowed in supplication. His father's expression was enough to turn his insides cold and he braced himself on instinct.
Senior's voice lay just on the edge of smug and cruel. "Your mother was interred in the family crypt yesterday. Did you think we were all going to wait for you to get over your little cold in order to honour her? That her family and friends were going to bow to the whims of the spoiled little kid who finally finished the job in stealing her life? You think you are that important to any one in this entire world?"
The older man made a derisive noise. "And to think that you came online as a sentinel. Too little too late as usual. Your sole purpose in life is to help people… to serve the greater good of the tribe. And you couldn't even do that. Not even for your own mother. As expected. Pathetic… just fucking pathetic."
He turned on his heel and stalked away and out of the room, leaving Tony bowed almost in half on the large bed, his fingers digging into his arms as he stared unseeing at the sheets strewn over his thin legs. He felt numb… free from the tether of his body and adrift. Unmoored and floating as the words tumbled over in the cavern of his mind.
He'd missed the funeral… by a day. His mother was already buried, cold and alone in the monstrosity of the family crypt she'd hated so much when she was vibrant and alive. She'd told him more than once that she'd wanted to be cremated and her ashes spread among the flowers of the fields where she would be part of the beauty of nature's never ending cycle forever. But now she was gone, sealed away in the cold stone and dark shadow before he could even properly say goodbye. Before he could touch her hair once more, hold her delicate hand. Kiss her pale, cool cheek.
Hs mother was gone and Tony would have nothing but a few bright memories to remember her by.
----------------------
The SAGC rep whose name was Owens ushered Tony into the large glass fronted building with a genuine attempt at something beyond a PR smile but Tony had been enough high society to know a fake when he saw one. He felt like a bug under glass with all the stopping and staring along his 'parade' through the many halls of the building. He knew that childhood presentations were rare, even under distress and he was in no way the youngest to ever do so but it seemed that it was still a big enough deal for such a hubbub.
He was greeted by a bonded pair, powerful yet sincere enough, speaking to him gently and swallowing him in a buffer that had him stumbling on his feet. He was swiftly guided to a chair and settled in with some hot chocolate. Their names were Sentinel and Guide Halstead, never offering their given names and Tony too emotionally wrecked to care to ask. Even though he wanted nothing more than to curl up under covers, they insisted that testing his levels would be for the best and the quicker he got it over with, the quicker he got get on the road to full recovery.
The test were confusing and performed in a shielded room, only a monotone voice from a speaker to interact with. Tony drifted through, only the promise of a warm bath and a soft place to rest keeping him plugging along. Eventually they came to an end and he was allowed to sink into the deep embrace of thankfully dreamless sleep.
When he awoke once more he was met with solemn gazes and heavy pauses. Owens even tried to hold is hand in comfort but Tony quickly pulled away with a frown.
"I'm so sorry Anthony. You've tested at Level Two." Guide Halstead eyes were heavy with disappointment. "Eyesight and hearing are the barely passable with smell a bit behind. Touch and taste are almost null."
"…barely a sentinel." Owens muttered under his breath, earning glares from both Tony and Guide Halstead.
"I can still hear, you know. I haven't suddenly gone deaf." Tony deadpanned, feeling grim satisfaction as the man reddened and the Guide cleared her throat decisively. He turned back to the frowning guide. "So what now? I still get trained, don't I?"
He thumbed at the still quailing Owens. "He promised my father that you would see to my recovery and training as well as help me keep up with my school work…" he did a spot one imitation of the man's simpering back at the hospital "… all at your own expense, of course."
Sentinel Halstead's glare looked like it could set fire to Owen's balding head and he folded his arms with a deep frown. "Since the paperwork has already gone through… it seems we have no choice but to fulfill our duties to the tribe."
Tony scowled at the reluctance in the man's voice. All the enthusiasm from before seemed to have faded like the morning mist in sunlight. Turned out no one wanted a Feebo. Tony had heard stories of those who'd come online as 'Feeble'. Classified too weak to properly protect the tribe. Often only one or two senses enhanced enough to be of viable use to society. They often were shunted into support staff or fled to the private sector to work in niche industries where their senses worked to their advantage.
At least Tony had a bright future as a lookout for forest fires or a telephone operator. His smell might give him a leg up in a perfume company or even security guard at the airport smelling for drugs. He'd be the same rank as the trained dogs but he'd have access to shitty coffee and shittier airport food.
He swallowed down the gallows humour as he was led back to his little room, the Halstead's promising to have his schedule ready by the next day. Owens was wisely replaced by a young guide named Gwen - no last name given and Tony never asked. Training consisted of meditation classes and daily videos about sentinel and guide culture and duties to the tribe, small exercises and tests that were never graded and a soft version of PT as he was still recovering from pneumonia.
He did see a councilor but the man insisted on Tony drawing his feelings in crayon and talking through dolls. Tony had looked at him as if he was crazy then glanced at Gwen who was happy to just look on attentively and quietly gave up on therapy in his mind. He would find no help here. They all seemed to just be going through the motions. He was glad to finally see the back of that place, even if it meant going home and to the changed situation there.
The main house looked dark in the distance and it hit him just then that everyone who'd made that looming building a home was now gone. Scattered to the four winds. The kitchen staff, headed by the warm and sassy Marta who whapped his sneaking hands with a wooden spoon then snuck him a taste from the pot. Her always laughing husband Osboldo whose hulking arms budged as he brought in crates of fresh produce for the meal.
Head matron Francine who ran the Understairs with an iron fist that had the mansion running like clockwork. She'd come across with Mother from England as dowry and had married Reginald, the butler and true gentleman. Ricardo, mother's driver, when she wasn't galivanting with Tony, had been dismissed immediately for 'neglect' even though he'd kept the Aston Martin in show room condition. Even Tony's valet, Gregory, had been let go; Tony now deemed 'too old' to be coddled in such a way. All of them cleared out and gone without a goodbye.
Chandler was a small cottage far to the back of the grounds and away from the road into town. It was quaint and quite warm and welcoming if not for the strangers that greeted his return. Mister and Madam Stout were solemn and professional, hardly speaking until necessary. They did their job expertly but subtly ignored any overtures by Tony for a more friendly rapport. His meals were spent alone in the small salon, his days in the library catching up on school assignments.
It all came to a head the day he had to try on his Remington uniform. He deep red of the blazer, the starched white shirt and charcoal grey pants. He'd been trying to tie his tie without Greg's usual dexterous help and he'd just snapped. He'd torn off the clothes, tossing them unto his bed in a heap that Madam Stout would be sure to tut and shake her head at; and had run out of the house in his vest and charcoal slacks.
He'd felt the tears brimming behind his eyes and had to get away. To get out of sight before anyone could witness a Dinozzo cry. The trees were the closest shelter, their shadowy embrace his only solace against the unrelenting gaze of the blazing sun. his socked feet sank into mud as he stumbled and skidded into the shaded canopy, making it a bit of a ways in before collapsing at the root of a giant tree with a ragged cry.
He couldn't do this. Not alone. He'd lost everyone. They'd all been ripped away from him all once. He missed Marta with her soft hugs and secret snacks. Osboldo with his barrel chest and deep laugh. He missed Gregory with his quick wit and awful knock knock jokes. He missed Francine and the tittering maids, Reginald and his silent support and guidance, Ricardo with his easy smile and infinite patience with Tony's endless questions.
And mostly he missed his mother with her loving kisses, quiet piano playing and secret movie escapades. He missed her smell, the warmth of her skin as he leaned against her slim form, the smell of her perfume and the feel of her long beautiful hair as it brushed against his cheek. He missed her voice as it sang him to sleep or giggled in secret sunlit corners of the mansion. He missed being loved and loving in return. He missed having and anchor in family. Having someone in his corner. Someone who gave a damn if he was alright. Who loved him freely and without condition.
He missed her so much. Life was so cold and empty without her. It hurt to breath without her.
And he'd killed her. … he'd killed her.
His sobs turned into wails as he scrabbled at the fallen leaves that littered the grove. Mud crusting under his fingers nails and grinding into the new charcoal Remington issued trousers. Tony didn't give a shit about any of that. It felt like his whole world was breaking, his lungs trying to claw their way out of his chest. He just kept crying and crying, the pain and hurt he'd been holding inside, crushed down deep and held so tight pouring out like acid, burning all the way.
He lost himself for a bit and came to leaning against the roots of the tree, gazing unseeingly at the spots of sunlight dancing through the leaves. He could see the veins on the undersides of the leaves as they danced in the breeze, could see the insects crawling along the branches. Could hear them clicking and scratching within the wood itself. He could hear his blood rushing through his body, his heart hammering steadily within his chest.
There was another that thumped in beat with his and it pulled him out of the fugue he was lost in, the smell of herbal tea wafting to his nose and he focused on the still form sitting on a fallen log across the small clearing. The man was Asian, older, with a weather beaten face and nut brown skin. He was sitting comfortably, one leg crossed on the other knee, a small white cup fill of steaming liquid held loosely in his wrinkled hand. His gaze was steady and serene as he met Tony's wary gaze, happy to just sit as the younger boy adjusted to his presence.
"Would you like some wolfberry tea?" came the quiet question after a long and lingering silence.
Tony blinked up at the man, openly curious. "Who are you?"
"Chang Sen Fei. Groundskeeper."
Tony looked down at his mud crusted hands and ruined slacks.
"Would you like some wolfberry tea?" came again. "It's good."
Green eyes snapped back as Tony decided whether to say yes for make a run for Chandler Cottage. He'd hadn't met all of the staff on the grounds so he had no idea if the man was telling the truth. His heart beat was steady and he didn't smell of anything the books described as deceit. It was up to the boy to measure in his heart whether to trust or not.
Finally he gave a nod and got to his feet, walking gingerly across the small clearing to where the older man was pouring another steaming pug of tea from an old and battered thermos. The tea was strong and dark with deep red berries and slices of hawthorn floating.
"Good for the kidneys… especially for an old timer like me. " the man chuckled, his eyes crinkling in the spots of bright sun, " … Sip carefully. It's pretty hot."
Tony murmured his thanks and sat on the fallen tree trunk, just outside of arm's length reach. The man was still a stranger after all. The tea was very hot so he blew on it carefully and took a tentative sip. It was good. Very good. Soon enough warmth spread through his body and he found himself relaxing, his lungs taking deeper, more steady breaths.
They finished the tea in silence, comfortable silence between them as the birds sang above them and the insects screeched. Tony stared down at the cup, sodden berries and fruit sliced sitting sadly in a little pool of tea. He gave a soft thank you, the other man only giving a silent nod of acknowledgement.
"I couldn't save her." he suddenly blurted out, apropos of nothing, startling even himself. But he'd already begun to speak so he just kept going. "I should have stopped her from driving. I should have done something… anything. And then we were in the canal and I couldn't get to her. The current was too strong. I couldn't get back to her. Even after I came online. I…. killed her."
He shook his head as his eyes started to burn once more. "I was too small. Too weak. Not good for anything."
"Even small blades can cut deep. When paired with skill. " the older man intoned, a soft ker-snick making Tony look up.
Those calloused hands held a small whittling knife, the sharp edge flashing in the sunlight as it was turned and flipped expertly. The boy sat amazed at the show of skill, jumping when the small blade was jabbed into empty air with a sharp whoosh of pure precision and power.
"Whoa" he breathed out in awe. "How did you do that?"
The older man chuckled. "With but a sliver of steel, the mountain was parted — not by force, but by the hand that knew where to cut."
He carefully folded the little flip knife closed and held it out to Tony, his gaze intense. "Sometimes, when the world narrows to a moment and a choice, when all is stripped away… and all we have is one small blade…"
He placed the blade in Tony's reverently outstretched hands and closed the mud crusted fingers around the cool metal. "To learn to use that blade — not just adequately, but masterfully — is the mark of wisdom."
"Will you teach me?" Tony gripped the knife and swallowed hard. "To know where to cut?"
Chang Sen Fei stared at the boy for a long time, taking in the red and swollen eyes, wild hair, the mud stained clothes and hands, so far from the image of the little boy he'd seen in glimpses and heard about from the inside staff. That gamboling little boy was gone and in it's place sat a young man alone in the world. He thought back to his own dark past and the struggle and pain he'd crawled through.
And of the peace he'd finally found walking the nature of the sprawling estate. It was about time he passed on his knowledge, having lost his own family so long ago. Back then he'd been just like this little boy, hurt and alone in a big cold and cruel world. How much he'd wished that there's been someone willing to show him the way. To teach him the painful lessons he'd had to learn all by himself.
Finally, he nodded, decision made, and gave the nervous boy a small smile.
"Call me Sifu."