Chương 38: Vol 1. An Amiable Conversation: Part 5

"What do you mean by honour?" Morton asked.

"Like, were they good men and whatnot?"

"Well, yes," Korra said.

"Was there anyone you knew, whether in your lifetime or in your own history, whom you would consider to be an honourable man? As in, someone who followed a code of ethics, did not fight dirty, and possessed a strong martial spirit—someone who might be a warrior, but whose heart remained open to love, to beauty. Oh, we could go on for a long, long time discussing the philosophy of honour, but let us say, for this conversation, honour means whatever honour means to you."

"Well, I'll be damned," Morton said, sliding his hand beneath his hat and rummaging through his hair.

"That is a good question."

"I know it is." Morton thought hard for a moment, so hard that his eyes began to squint. The room had settled fully into silence, save for the crackle and pop of the dying fire, which probably needed another log placed upon it. Somewhere beyond the door, boots moved across the polished floor with an unrhythmic clink-clink-clink-clink and squeak-squeak-squeak.

He had grown up hearing about the great Texans whose names had appeared in every history textbook, on monuments, street signs, and the sides of government buildings. He remembered their stern, painted faces staring down from classroom walls and their names engraved beneath statues that were littered across even the daintiest villages of Texas, always covered in a ludicrous amount of bird excrement.

In the books, their uniforms were always crisp and clean, their postures rigid, and an aura of pride seemed to radiate from beyond the grave. Their causes were uncomplicated. They were the heroes fighting the dastardly villains, just like Superman fighting Lex Luthor or Spider-Man fighting Green Goblin.

Just off the top of his head, he could think of Davy Crockett, Sam Houston, and Audie Murphy—men who had been presented to him as the most heroic and honourable people imaginable, as if they had not been born of a mortal woman but carved from clean marble by God himself. Then there were the greater American names: George Washington, Paul Revere, FDR, Teddy Roosevelt. But age had taught Morton that every great man seemed to have a stain someone had tried to polish over.

Honour was very easy to claim for the dead because the dead could no longer disappoint you—but there was one person he could think of who, in his opinion, had shaped him into a better person by showcasing his honour.

"My old mentor," Morton said matter-of-factly.

"The most damn honourable man I have ever met."

"Was he undefeated?" Korra asked.

"Nope."

"Did he ever command soldiery?"

"Don't reckon so."

"Then what made him so honourable, in your opinion?" Morton lowered his hand from his hat.

"He knew when not to fight."

"Interesting," Korra purred, balancing her chin upon one paw.

"Can you explain further?"

"Woah, hold your horses. Don't I get another question first? That sounds like two separate questions to me."

"We have not truly been going back and forth, but fair enough. What else would you like to know?"

"Well, I've just been thinkin' since I ran into this one gal… your fathers are the primary caregivers, right? So… what do y'all do when you're pregnant?"

"I do not understand."

"Well, I assume the men, they ain't carryin' the babies, are they?"

"No?" Korra said, cocking her head incredulously.

"And how long are your, uh, gestation periods?"

"That sounds like more than one question," Korra said with a sly smile.

"But around four months per cub."

"And the women, they still work while they're pregnant?"

"Yes?" Korra said.

"Why would they not?" Morton grimaced.

"That just don't seem right, ma'am." Korra's face scrunched in confusion.

"I am sorry, but I really do not understand what seems off to you about a woman working through a pregnancy."

"The man should be working!" Morton exclaimed.

"He shouldn't be lettin' his poor wife suffer like that!"

"Suffer?" Korra said.

"I think most women would feel offended if a man treated them like an injured patient over something as mundane as pregnancy."

"Mundane?" Morton bellowed incredulously.

"Pregnancy ain't a mundane thing; it fuckin' paralyzes you! You ain't moving nowhere." Morton threw both hands wildly into the air as if he were describing the most torturous event imaginable and Korra were playing it down. Korra watched him intently, wearing a somewhat concerned expression. She had no clue what Morton was on about, nor why he seemed so offended by her factual statement.

"You know you're explaining pregnancy to a woman, right?" Korra said with an ear flick.

"It just is not that painful." Morton paused. His eyes went wide.

"Uh, what?"

"Yeah, it was quite easy. My husband and I, we tried until I felt a small bump. Then I waited, and four months later, it slipped out of me. Felt kind of like a bee sting. Honestly, the difficult part comes afterwards. The cub is born frail, small, and half-blind, and it clings to almost anything warm. My daughter could scarcely fit across both of my paws; she was so tiny. Her ears were folded flat against her head, and her tail—my, her tail! —was no thicker than a small piece of fishing string.

My husband scarcely slept for about three weeks. He was horrified by how dark it had become beneath his eyes. Every time he put her down, she would caterwaul loudly enough to wake everyone across the entirety of Avion." Morton said nothing for a minute, then let out a boisterous belly laugh.

"What is so funny?" Korra asked.

"Oh, nothin'. I just… I forget you all ain't human."

"Is pregnancy painful for your women?" Korra asked.

"Yep, hella painful," Morton said.

"Nine months, and you're basically bedridden by the end. There's a good chance you'll die from complications too."

"And there is no pain for the men?"

"Yep."

"Oh, Seroth," Korra said.

"That sounds horribly unfair." Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road."'Deed," Morton said. Morton's face went solemn.

"I remember my late wife, Martha; she could barely walk near the end there. When she was pregnant with our baby girl, she spent the last month cursin' up a storm every time I entered the room. Didn't matter what I did. I remember one time I tried gettin' intimate, and she told me if I ever touched her again, she would remove the necessary equipment with garden shears." Korra's ears rose.

"She was jokin'," Morton added.

"Mostly."

"Unrelated, but are you proud of your daughter?" Korra asked. Morton did not say anything. The next words that came out of his mouth were somewhat shaky.

"Yes, but… I never got to see her make me proud." All jocundity had disappeared from both his voice and visage. Morton lowered his gaze towards the floor, looking at nothing in particular. Korra noticed a small tear waltz from his eye, down through the jungle of his beard, and then onto the floor.

"Martha, she had some complications—I can't remember what—and our baby girl, she came out stillborn. Dead as a fuckin' doornail. I ain't a crier, but I ain't ever been so sad in my damn life." Korra's ears lowered by the slightest fraction. She took a deep breath. One claw tapped against the side of the saucer, then stopped.

"Nature is harsh," Korra said evenly.

"It comes for us all one day, and some of us are just lucky. Now, back to my question." Morton wiped the trickle of tears from his face.

"Right, right… you up for another story?"

"Sure."

"You see, my mentor was a good buddy of Daddy's. They were old war buddies. He was a soldier for a country called Japan…"

"And are the people of this Japan a different race than humans?"

"Nope—they look a little different from me, but they're as human as I am."

"I see. So your people are not unified, similar to the elves."

"Yep."

"How could a soldier from a foreign realm become your father's war companion?"

"Ah, I don't remember the story fully. I reckon Japan and us, we were allies, you see, and he was the superior officer of the Japanese unit. My daddy served under him while the Japanese soldiers and the American soldiers trained together."

"I thought you said you were of the realm of Texas?"

"Po-tay-to, po-tah-to. Anyway, he was a good fella, a real good fella, and we used to train together. Sure, my daddy taught me how to fire a gun"—he patted his pistol—"but old Ogura, he taught me everythin' else: hand-to-hand, swordsmanship, anythin' I could want to know about fightin'. Unfortunately, when I was still a young, young man, he… he couldn't take things anymore, and he left without sayin' goodbye." Morton scratched his beard.

"The first time I ever really experienced death, I reckon. I mean, sure, I knew old Missie never went to another farm up in Georgia, and I understood why Aunt May would not be joinin' us for Thanksgivin' dinner anymore, but that was the first death that felt personal. It felt real and unfair. I knew that man for a very short period of time; my daddy knew him when they were both a lot younger. He didn't grieve nearly as long as I did. I don't know. Maybe that was selfish of me.

"But he used to tell me stories about him and my daddy, and from those stories, he taught me many values about fightin'—how it ain't just about strength; it's also 'bout the heart. I remember Ogura sweeping my legs from beneath me, then stopping the wooden blade less than a finger's width from my throat. I had expected him to laugh at me, at my failure. Instead, he just offered me a hand."

"He abandoned his life over hardship, and you still consider him honourable?"

"A man can lose his last fight without every little good deed he'd ever done becomin' a lie, miss."

"Interesting," Korra said with an ear flick. She finished the last of her tea and set it down gently upon the saucer. It made a small clinking noise.

"A good story."

"Glad ya' liked it."

"Do not get me wrong; I did not say that I liked it. It simply told me something about you." Morton leaned back slightly.

"And what might that be?"

"That remains to be seen." Korra straightened. Whatever softness had briefly entered her remaining eye vanished. She bared one fang, her expression relaxed but her intentions clear.

"Morton," she said, "I cannot say that I trust you completely. But I trust you enough to ask one final question."

"And what would that be?"

"Why have you come to my estate?""'Bout damn time!" Morton exclaimed.

"You see, the kid there—""Prince Tahir Orien?"

"Yeah, Tahir. You see, he got into a little accident, and we ain't got no way to get to the capital. I'm escortin' him there, and as I've been told, you're headin' there as well… and I assume the kid ain't enterin' that boxin' match—""The Coniton?"

"Yeah. So, he and I were wonderin' if we could hitch a ride." Korra cocked her head, smiled wryly, and said, "Now, why would I do that?" Morton shrugged.

"Just worth askin'." Korra thought for a moment, then stood. The chair creaked as she did so. Morton looked up at her. She seemed taller standing than he remembered, and more sinewy, her broad shoulders filling the fine fabric of her clothes. Her paw came to rest lightly upon the hilt at her side without gripping it.

"Morton, do you know who I hate more than anyone else?"

"Optometrists?"

"I do not know what that means, but I hate entitled people. People who do not work for what they desire."

"My daddy used to complain about something similar."

"He sounds like a smart man," Korra commented."'Deed he was."

"How about this," Korra said.

"I will supply you with a horse, with food, and with anything else you will need to escort your master properly to the capital. I will not escort you myself; that would be handing things to you on a silver platter, and I do not believe in that."

"Sounds good to me!" Morton said.

"But do not think this is a charitable action; you will need to work for it."

"And how am I gonna do that?" Korra walked closer to the couch, her paw on the hilt of her sword.

"You once practised swordsmanship, correct? You are not just a pistol-wielding coward?"

"Been a good long while," Morton admitted, "but for sure."

"Are you familiar with a rukon?" She slipped the sword out of its sheath and showed it to Morton. The curved blade was bright, having been polished and sharpened to the point of absurd brilliancy.

"Oh, yeah, yeah. Where I'm from, we call that a katana." Korra sheathed her sword. Morton flinched slightly as the horrendous sound of steel scraping against the mouth of the sheath pierced his ears.

"Then how about this: I propose a duel. Nothing serious; it will be a traditional form among the Kharani called a Tukuro. The rules are very simple: no going for the throat, no torso strikes, and no leg strikes. The goal is to dislodge the sword from your opponent's paw with minimal injury. If you pierce their flesh, you have lost. Once they lose their grasp on their sword, you must discard your own, and without using your claws, you must force them into submission.

You can choose to leave with Prince Tahir Orien without having duelled me, but I will not accommodate you. If you lose, I will not accommodate you. If you win, you may sleep in my estate for the next two nights and rejuvenate while I make arrangements. Does that sound fair?"

"Sure, though I ain't got a sword." Korra rolled her eyes.

"I will supply you with a sword." Morton got up and put forth his hand.

"Then you got yourself a deal." Korra seized it without hesitation. Her paw tightened hard until the bones in his fingers pressed firmly together. Morton's left eye twitched with pain, but he refused to pull away. He squeezed just as hard. Korra chuckled, her remaining eye narrowing slightly as she took delectation in Morton's pain.

"Then best of luck to you, Morton. Now follow me. I will bring you to my duelling room."

"Of course you have a duelling room," Morton muttered.

"You have to be prepared for anything." With that, Korra called the guards and instructed them to escort Morton and her towards the duelling room.