Weregild

by a campbell

Smallville, Clark Kent/Lex Luthor

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Many thanks for the fine beta skills of fajrdrako and oxoniensis, and for the cover, made by meret.

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wer...geld (wr g ld ) also wer...gild or were...gild (-g ld ) n.
In Anglo-Saxon and Germanic law, a price set upon a person's life on the basis of rank and paid as compensation by the family of a slayer to the kindred or lord of a slain person to free the culprit of further punishment or obligation and to prevent a blood feud.

"...A shiver passed over his face--a smile that seemed to blanch it. There came to her the thought of a wooded hillside--how it whitens when a storm-gust turns over all its leaves in a wave of palely glittering light." Sigrid Undset, "The Mistress of Husaby," Book 2.

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Jonathan paused, and swiped an arm over his brow to halt the sweat streaming in rivulets down to his neck. He'd been cutting and stacking wood for nearly an hour, and he still wasn't finished. The chores all seemed to be taking longer than usual these days.

The biting December air blew into the barn in gusts, and Jonathan found himself shivering as the perspiration cooled his skin. He caught a glimpse of his face in the faded mirror that hung by the door, sobered to note how thin and drawn he looked, frowned at the dull gray cast of his face. The heavy mallet slipped from a hand suddenly weak, into the pile of straw in the corner by the empty stalls. Time to knock off chores for the afternoon. The afternoon light was fading, the days much shorter now, and Christmas was close. He squinted toward the house. Martha had lit the lamp by the front window, and no doubt supper was almost ready.

Last December, his wife wouldn't even have been home at this hour. Work for Luthorcorp had regularly eaten up a good chunk of family time. She'd been far too successful on the job, seemed to enjoy it far too much. Thank God that was over. This year, she was back home, getting ready for the holidays, the way she always did. Jonathan allowed himself a shaky, satisfied smile.

Things were better this year, Jonathan told himself. All three of them had a lot to be grateful for. If only it weren't for...he shivered, suddenly finding himself short of breath, and his legs as weak as if he'd run ten miles.

The Kents didn't need a fancy Christmas this time around. It was enough that they were together, that Clark was back and himself again, that Martha was healthy, if subdued, even though the cradle had been given away, the dream of celebrating a baby's first holiday season laid to rest for good. They still had the farm, and Jor-el's stentorian voice had been mercifully silent since Clark's return. Maybe he was considering the debt paid and they'd now be left alone.

Jonathan frowned. He didn't much want to think about Jor-el, and willed himself to stop. The half-formed reflection, that he'd never have been able to get Clark back without his biological father's help, seemed whipped away into the darkening sky outdoors by the blowing wind.

Who'd have thought, a few months ago, that they'd even be able to afford some special gifts for Christmas? Even though, for the first time ever, Clark's only response had been a shrug when quizzed about what he wanted. "I don't need anything," he said, dully. "Whatever."

In past years, his lists had been formidable. A CD player, a memory card to upgrade the computer, headphones, a Gamecube, designer jeans, a CAR ("I can always ASK," Clark would temper his whine with a grin, in response to Jonathan's wry face), and that was just the short tally. Of course he knew he wouldn't get most of it, but he still asked, still made the lists long, saying, "Just pick a few things off of it. Things we can afford." And, of course, Jonathan would pick the sensible things, leaving Martha to throw in a couple of the frivolities. Last year's list had branched out to include books--that was a first. Machiavelli, Harper Lee, and the poems of John Donne. As well as a new basketball hoop to replace the old, faithful one he'd wrecked during an overzealous slam-dunk, and a leather coat that sounded suspiciously like the one he'd bought before, and they'd returned.

Jonathan had put his foot down, and said the same thing he'd say to most of the standard list, only this time with a scowl more intense. "You don't need stuff like this, Son." This was not his boy. At least, not Clark the way he used to be. Not the Clark he knew, and loved, and missed. But boys his age were susceptible to outside influences. He had been, too, he had to admit.

His love for Clark had changed over the past year. Grown, somehow, so it was many times stronger than before, despite perils and trials. It was a love that seemed made up of just as much anger, at times, which both grieved and astounded him. Still, however impatient he might grow with Clark, however frightened, frustrated, and dismayed, Jonathan knew he would pass through fire for his son with no hesitation. And, pretty much had, all told. And, after everything else burned away, crumbling into the glow of ashes, only the love was left, steadfast and strong.

Clark's life was different, now. Lana rarely came over any more, and Clark didn't go to see her, even though she hadn't fully recovered from her accident at the stable. Jonathan didn't see Pete very much, either. Clark was quieter, thoughtful, more subdued. Small wonder, with all the boy had been through. Krypton, ruling the earth, destiny...Not to mention the three months in Metropolis.

Since before Thanksgiving, things had been rough. He'd seen Clark dashing away tears, refusing food...the boy was an emotional wreck. Jonathan had finally been forced to acknowledge what he'd denied vehemently since the autumn day he'd found Clark on the banks of the river outside town, soaked, shivering and wrapped in a blanket.

It hadn't come easily to him. For two years, he'd tried to ignore the fact that Lex Luthor had become a regular in their lives, that Lex was always there to offer Clark a ride, tickets to a concert, help out of difficult situations. Help which had frequently extended outward to encompass the whole family. Unusually generous for one of his blood, Jonathan would reluctantly admit. Except that instinct would tell him differently. He'd have thought it generous, except that Lex Luthor gazed at his son like a predator, not quite evil, but focused with a pure intensity, as though he were willing Clark to want him, love him back. Yes, Jonathan, admitted it to himself, now: he'd sensed the power of Lex's desire from the beginning, maybe even as far back as that day by the river. And he had to admit that all his fighting against it, his desperate denial, hadn't made one whit of difference.

At first, he'd hated: vicious hatred that frequently turned him, at the minimum, into a mannerless boor. And feared. Thought he could stifle the attraction, smother it, force Clark to deny it, make him just go back to thinking about Lana, and being his boy, again. Told himself Clark couldn't feel the same way, and just needed protection. But then, he'd seen Clark looking back, just as yearning, face flushing up readily, and breaking into a smile when his gaze and Lex's met. And he knew they should talk about it, but damned if he knew what to say.

Denial was useless. He knew that. And the animosity had taken a damn long time to fade, but fade it had, finally. He no longer had the will to hate Lex Luthor. If having him around made Clark happy, well...

Jonathan sighed. You couldn't call Clark happy, not the way he'd been since Lex had gone to Belle Reve. Withdrawn, and Jonathan had thought, well, he needs some stability. Some rest, and good food. But, Clark wouldn't eat. Then Martha said, "If only antidepressants would help." But both of them knew drugs were useless. It wasn't just a routine depression; Clark seemed to be slipping, gradually, inexorably, into despair. Because Lex Luthor was in the asylum, insane.

Jonathan missed Clark's companionship. He was lucky to get one-word answers to his questions. Clark was like a subdued stranger, lately.

The words of Jor-el came back unbidden into Jonathan's mind. It will be of no consequence if he returns to you. For now.

For now. Did that mean their time together was nearly over? It had gone so fast. So fast.

A couple of days before, Jonathan had been made aware of how slender and yet strong the tie was that bound him to his son. Clark had been helping him in the paddock, made a strange, strangled sound, and gradually slowed to a stop.

"What is it, Son?" Jonathan frowned, stared at Clark's slumped shoulders and drooping head with concern.

Clark responded with a shrug, and shook his head. In a moment, Jonathan was astounded to notice his shoulders shaking.

He was crying.

Jonathan stepped to his side, put an arm around him. "Clark," he soothed. "Take it easy."

It was a moment before Clark could speak. He clutched at Jonathan's arm, "Dad, I don't know what to do. Help me." His gasping sob trailed off into a groan, and he looked away, as though ashamed of his weakness.

Jonathan was about to ask him to be more specific, but something stayed his tongue. Instead, he just pulled Clark in closer, and tried to keep his voice steady. "I would if I could, Son, but I don't know what to do any more than you do."

"I've been back there, Dad. I've looked through the walls there, seen him. He's hurt, alone. And, sick. They're killing him." Clark pulled away from his father, then wheeled around, voice desperate with anguish. "I have to help him, Dad. Get him out, bring him home. I have to. He's my friend."

You mean, you love him. Jonathan was astounded at the thought.

And he could tell that, even though Clark was afraid, he wanted him to know it, too. This is me, Dad. This is who I am.

Who I love.

Jonathan was finally beginning to accept that. And stifled a crazy urge to laugh.

He must have blacked out for a moment, then, because when he came back to himself, he was slumped against the tractor, blood beating hard in the veins of his neck. Clark was holding him up with one arm, bending over him, pale with fear.

Jonathan clutched his chest. Pressed his hand hard against his heart, grimaced in pain. These spells were happening more and more often. He gasped, and tried to get hold of himself, to put Clark at ease.

"Dad!" Clark's voice rose, and trembled with alarm. "What's wrong? Are you sick?" He grabbed both Jonathan's arms to help brace him.

Jonathan winced, and answered after a deep gasp for breath. "No, Clark. Think I've just been working too hard. I'll call it a day." He put a hand over one of Clark's, and managed a weak smile.

"Let's get you inside, Dad. I'll come out later and finish up."

He let Clark steady him as they headed toward the house. Then Jonathan stopped, turned to face Clark, whose face was still dark with worry.

"Son," said Jonathan, "Just do what you have to do."

The shadows vanished. And Clark smiled, at last.

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Jonathan came back out to the barn after supper, to finish putting away the tools he'd left on the floor before. It was fully dark, the moon a thin sliver in the frosty sky. He stopped by the door to take a deep breath of the winter air.

If he could just live long enough to see his wife, his son, safe, secure at last, he wouldn't quibble about the nature of the happiness, or from which direction it came. After all they'd been through over the past year, most of his original concerns just didn't seem as important, now. Not bad for a stubborn old coot like him.

As he closed the door of the tool cupboard, his thoughts drifted back to the night in Metropolis early in the fall. City lights, bright and ominous. Clark not himself, evil, lethal,intent. Falling, then flying. Fighting with Clark, both of them hurtling through the air. Flying metal, searing pain, incredible strength, power. The brief knowledge of what it meant to be a god.

Knowledge that might well have the highest of prices.

He was recalled to the present by the twist of pain in his chest. Again. And then by the sound of Martha's anxious voice outside. "Jonathan!" She seemed more concerned than normal these days. He wondered if she sensed anything. She mustn't know.

"I'm here," he called, trying to look relaxed and normal as she appeared in the doorway, caught sight of him, and her face, tense with exasperation, softened with relief.

"Thought you said you were coming right back! That was forty-five minutes ago!"

"Guess I lost track of time." He opened his arms, and she came into them, nestling in to his chest. He bent his head to breathe in the cinnamon and vanilla-scent of her hair.

"Jonathan, you're trembling," Her soft voice was barely a whisper.

"Naw," he assured her, "I've just been working hard. Clark back yet?" he murmured into her ear.

"Not yet," said Martha. "Jonathan, I'm worried. I think he may have gone to Belle Reve."

"Martha, he's okay, I'm sure of it. We've had our share of trouble the past year, but Clark is growing into a fine young man. I think we can rest easy about a lot of things. Trust him to take care of the things he needs to."

Martha looked doubtful, and hesitated for a moment before her expression relaxed into one of relief. "Jonathan, I'm so glad to hear you say this, but it doesn't sound like you. Are you sure you're feeling all right?" She leveled him an affectionate, half-humorous scowl and touched a palm to his brow.

He met her searching gaze steadily, and nodded. "Martha, I'm fine. And, let's just trust Clark to know what he's doing."

Martha shook her head. "I'll still always worry, and so will you. We're his parents, after all. But, I really think you're right." She smiled up at Jonathan, and leaned into his chest, letting her arms slide around his waist. "Come in to bed," she said.

Jonathan put his hand on hers, and gave it a gentle squeeze.

He had a lot to be grateful for. Whatever he still owed Jor-el, he would pay. Gladly.

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