#yes that is nicke's hand in the second one so enjoy that cursed knowledge

[azure7539arts]

Sword

Pairing: Q/James Bond (00Q)

Prompt(s): Fantasy + Tradesman (for the AU prompt table)

Warning: None

Summary: Once upon a time, there was a prophecy of destruction and resurrection. But that would be a story for another time.

Or: Bond sought out a blacksmith for help. A duel ensued.

A/N: this was supposed to be a drabble... And here we are. Special thanks to @10kiaoi and @solarmorrigan because you two have been hearing me whine about this for days. I’m also very grateful to everyone who has given me words of praise and encouragement throughout my writing process! I hope you all enjoy this!

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“Come back in a week, and pick out your champion.” His voice was deceptively soft for the ramrod iron spine behind those words. “Should your warrior prevail, I will consider giving you help.”

Suddenly, Bond felt his blood boil. “A week? Seclusion or not, surely you must be aware of the civil war that’s raging across the country even as we speak.” 

The blacksmith hummed, that blazing fire from the forge just off to the side casting a burning glow on his person. He seemed almost indifferent yet incredibly focused at the same time, and Bond didn’t understand—

“I’m highly aware. Just as much as I’m aware that you and your men have barely scraped through that last battle by the skin of your teeth.” Bond barely swallowed back an indignant hiss, battle-wearied and tormented. The sheer exhaustion and heavy casualty they’d suffered under the hands of the enemy were bleeding his patience dry. “Raging civil war or not, you can’t tell me you don’t need time to regroup. And I’m not so cruel as to strike you when you’re down in the mud and defenceless either.”

Bond’s hand tightened around the hilt of his broken sword.

And for the first time, the blacksmith smiled.

A sudden chill descended over the sweltering furnace heat of the workshop.

“One week from now at dawn break precise, Lord Bond of Skyfall. No more, no less.”

-

The promised day arrived overcast, windswept with the phantom stench of blood in the air, and the blacksmith stood a lone figure in the meadow, a sword seemingly too heavy held in the loose grip of his hand.

Whatever it was made out of, the blade shone like a bright beacon under this angle of light, pure and unblemished like fresh fallen snow, and Bond couldn’t keep his eyes off it.

“Are you serving as your own champion?” the blacksmith asked, his voice steady and slicing right through the hissing air currents. No pretense of pleasantries.

At least Bond could appreciate that.

Alec shifted warily behind him. He’d asked to fight in Bond’s stead before, many times over the course of last week, in fact, but Bond had turned him down every time. Not least because of the still healing gash in his side. 

Bond had come here to ask for a personal weapon, and a weapon he shall get for himself—through his own damn efforts and no one else’s. The troop’s eyes were on him, and he wouldn’t fail. Not right now.

Not like this.

“Yes,” Bond replied simply.

“Good.”

The fight began in an instant, absolutely without preamble, and by the time their weapons made impact with a loud screech of metal on metal, Bond could still hear the surprised cries of his men not too far away. He gritted his teeth and retaliated using brute force to thrust the blacksmith backward, the twang of that clash just now still traveling up his arm in an uncomfortable, numbing ache.

(He’d been skeptical at first, considering the near unbearable youthfulness that had been evident before his eyes, but now, Bond understood why this blacksmith was revered to be one of the legendary masters of the realm.)

Unsurprisingly, the man landed on his feet without trouble, already springing forth by the next breath drawn, and Bond flexed Alec’s borrowed sword, charging straight ahead also, never one to let himself fall into a state of disadvantage if he could help it.

From that point on, the fight progressed in an almost surreal manner.

The blacksmith engaged with a strange leisured fervor—languid but intense, razor sharp yet unhurried. It was as though he was watching—assessing—and the realization raised Bond’s hackles for the first time. He didn’t mind being watched; he’d grown up practically in the eyes of the public, but it was a different thing altogether when he couldn’t tell what he was being watched for.

At least the stormy depths of those cryptic eyes with their ever-changing colors didn’t seem to conceal any malicious intents. And Bond would know; he’d encountered too many backstabbers not to.

“James!”

Bond barely dodged the upward swing that had been close to slitting his throat clean open. Distantly, he wondered if he really had gotten lucky there, but whatever the answer was, the tip of the sword managed to nick him anyway, fresh blood spilling bright red and hot from the veins. He clutched at his neck with a sharp hiss now, eyes narrowed and chest slightly heaving with elevated breaths.

Annoyance flared a bright solar burst underneath the rapid beating of his heart, but Bond calmed down from the sole comfort that his challenger wasn’t doing too well, either. Bond smirked, all teeth and a little predatory.

He had landed a rather vicious kick himself, and judging from how the blacksmith was somewhat hunched over right then instead of reassuming his initial firm, unwavering stance, Bond must’ve caused a bit of damage, too.

Mutual points for both parties, so it would appear. 

Bond looked down to eye at those small indents that had started to chip off from the body of Alec’s once intact sword, and lowered his sticky hand.

“Let’s finish this.”

Despite the fact that the blacksmith’s techniques were a combination of oddities that Bond hadn’t really witnessed before, he still had his real-world experiences from being in and out of active combat for the last ten years or so. Still had all his knowledge from starting out on his courses for martial training twice longer. And Bond could see, with observation and a survival instinct honed through the countless storms of his youth, where the openings of his opponent lay.

That was more than enough.

Bond swung, then, with a turn of his arm, sharply twisted the motion upward. 

Alec’s blade fractured with a resounding clang, but in that singular moment in time, Bond couldn’t find it in himself to be concerned. He reached out and snatched the blacksmith’s flung sword from midair.

It settled into his palm a perfect, balanced weight.

“Impatient bastard,” came a whispered breath.

But Bond couldn’t quite hear it. The words, much like the subsequent clamoring of his men, morphed a jumbled mess in his ears as a whiplash of energy seized up the length of his arm in a shock of lightning from where he was gripping this sword. Glowing runes began materializing along its steel, and Bond sucked in a gulp of air through his teeth.

What felt like just a flawlessly crafted weapon a second ago now bore a sheer familiarity that rendered him incredulous. The sword felt right in his hand, as though itself a newly added extension of him, and its metal rang a vibration that burrowed deep like a blood covenant woven through his very flesh and bones, a humming song of satisfaction and protection.

When Bond realized to lift his head back up again, caught up in the tail end of a dizzying spell, it was to find both himself and the blacksmith encased in a ring of fire. From the looks of things, Alec and his troops were currently trying to find a way to get past the flames, with very little to no success.

The blacksmith stood before him, unbothered by the razing chaos all around, another smile tugging at the corner of his lips while specks of amber seared gilded brands of molten iron in the pools of those eyes.

He was far too calm. Too knowing.

“I won,” Bond said, voice low and unexpectedly hoarse.

“And the sword has chosen you as its first and final master.” He nodded, amused. “It was practically trying to leap out of my hand the second it tasted your blood.”

Bond frowned, storing away the casual implication that the sword—his sword—was at least partially sentient for later inspection.

He had more important matters to investigate at the moment.

“It’s yours to keep now. You can even give it a name—”

“Did you put a curse on this?”

The other man blinked, momentarily blindsided and flustered for the first time since they’d met. “What—A curse? Why would I do that?”

“Then, what is your play here, Battlemage?” Bond ground out, nearly spitting the word. “Posturing as a simple blacksmith.”

Said Battlemage stopped now, head tilting to the side, expression sharpening into a simmering stillness and lethality that sent a shiver up Bond’s spine. While Bond maintained that he was the one spearheading this interrogation, the immense presence of that unblinking stare still made him feel stripped bare and oddly vulnerable. Not unlike a pinned up specimen trapped under a cold and merciless gaze.

(He would quickly learn, after this, that he’d be better off not having this particular side of the battlemage directed at him and his men. For obvious safety reasons.)

“I didn’t posture as anything. I create weapons for my own pleasure,” he replied slowly. “I’ve never claimed to be a blacksmith, nor have I ever called myself one.”

Bond paused, mouth twisting. He recalled their last encounter, knew this to be true. Regardless, there were still too many questions left unanswered. And in a war of this calibre, he’d rather not needlessly risk his followers’ lives and well-being. “That still doesn’t explain what you’re trying to accomplish. Why are you doing this?”

“The opposition has taken to deploying sorcerers to decimate your troops and allies because your king has deprived his people of magic for so long, it’s now become a weakness to be exploited. By one of your very own.”

Such a blatant tone of derision jarred, and Bond clenched his jaws in an involuntary response. However, at the same time, only Alec had ever spoken to him in this kind of straightforward manner, but not really quite so, even then. Not quite like this.

“But you’re not your imbecilic king—you’re a pragmatic man. You understand that this situation requires a proper measure of counterattack,” the Battlemage carried on, that lilting quality to his speech belay the ripping knives behind every word. “I can be that counterattack.”

It was Bond’s turn to stare. To say that he was startled would be an understatement. True sorcerers were already few and far between, but actual battlemages were of a different breed altogether. 

Skilled in not just the arts of war and physical combat, they were also rumored to possess great enough magical capabilities to change even the tides of battles on the precipice of imminent defeat. The appearance of a battlemage had only been recorded throughout the known history for a handful of times, all of which were critical turning points that had marked either the end or the beginning of an era.

The most important thing? 

No side with the support of a battlemage had ever lost.

“Why?” Bond swallowed. Anyone else would call him a fool for being stubborn, for keeping on pressing. One shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, and all that. But Bond didn’t do blind trust—he refused to. “We don’t know each other. There’s no reason for you to help me.”

The Battlemage looked a hair’s breadth away from rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Let me ask you this, then: what made you decide to seek out my help?”

“Because—” Briefly, Bond considered lying, but went against it in the end. “Because your reputation precedes you.”

The answer seemed to lend the Battlemage a gratified edge. “And the same goes for yours.” A fresh gust of wind blew, and Bond realized that the unnatural fire surrounding them was finally easing down to a manageable dwindle. “Besides, my weapons have never chosen wrong.”

The Battlemage extended a hand. “So, what do you say, O’ Lord Bond of Skyfall?”

His mind went blank, but somehow, Bond already knew what to do. As though right from the start, this had always been how it was meant to go.

Bond took the offered hand and felt the promised inevitability of it rest upon him undemanding, steadfast and strong.

He understood it now.

The outcome of the product would only ever be as good as the craftsman who created it.

“How should I address you?" he asked.

And the Battlemage smiled. "You can call me Q."

#my writing #00q #teambondvillains #007 fest #007 fest 2020 #watch me as i bs my way through this #we're ending this here bc it got long #maybe i'll continue this if people are interested??? #i have more ideas but oh well lmao #this is a good place to stop as any

[asflowersfade]

Ficlet: Playing Santa

A MacGyver ficlet. Murdoc does not expect to find this little mouse in his trap. Or, Mac gets shot playing Santa, just as Jack predicted. An alternate ending to ep 211. Mac’s POV.

Mac decides to give Cage a teddy bear for Christmas. He knows it’s a silly idea - the thing’s huge and fluffy and it has a big red bow tied around its neck - but he thinks it might make Cage smile and that’s what this is about.

And by this, he means breaking into her apartment and leaving the gift under her Christmas tree, Santa style. Too bad she doesn’t have a chimney. Oh well, the front door will have to suffice, then, what with the security system being nothing more than a small obstacle for someone like him.

A very small obstacle, as it turns out. All he needs to disable it, is a paper clip, a little dexterity and some basic knowledge of how this system works. Hm, maybe he should’ve gotten her a better alarm and not a teddy bear. Alas. He’ll have to remind her to upgrade it first thing after Christmas.

Cage’s out, doing some last minute Christmas shopping, Mac knows. Still, he tiptoes around her apartment like a sneaky thief. He’s already been caught once, playing Santa - by Jack - if it happened again, he would never live it down!

So, he’s carefully shuffling across the open space, holding the teddy in front of him and peaking over its shoulder as not to trip over anything. He’s headed for the Christmas tree with the plan to arrange the toy underneath it, when--

“Well, well, well, that’s one little mouse I did not expect to find in this trap!” a mocking voice echoes behind him, from the shadows of the kitchen corner. A voice Mac knows very well.

He whips around, dropping the teddy bear. “Mur--”

A silent pop whispers through the otherwise quiet apartment and a second later, Mac cries out in pain. Hot waves of agony shoot up and down his right leg and his knee buckles. He hits the floor hard, almost knocking his breath out, and his hands automatically seek out the source of the burning pain: a bullet wound, a mere inch or so away from the scar left behind by his self-inflicted wound from a few weeks ago.

“Really, MacGyver,” Murdoc sighs, stepping out of the shadows, gun pointed in Mac’s direction. “Not that I’m not glad you got yourself out of those ridiculous domestic terrorist charges but did you have to go and ruin my plan?”

Mac rolls onto his side, groaning, and the despite breath-stealing agony, he presses his hands hard against his wound to stop the bleeding. Still, he can feel his hot blood seeping through his tightly squeezed fingers while his toes slowly grow cold. He’s already getting lightheaded and that’s not a good sign.

Murdoc walks up to him, and dropping down into a crouch, he glances at the wound he caused. “That looks bad. But it’s your own fault really. I was trying just to nick you, you know?” He shakes his head. “Oh, well. Things happen. Besides, you do deserve some punishment for being where you had no place to be and complicating things for me.” He shakes his finger at Mac. “That’s not nice, you know?”

“What… do you want?” Mac grits out, gasping.

“Not you this time, obviously!” Murdoc rolls his eyes and waves his gun around Cage’s apartment in a very “Duh!” gesture.

“Cage? You were after… Cage?” Mac asks in disbelief.

“Blood loss is really dimming your wits,” Murdoc says. When he continues, he speaks slowly and clearly, “Yes. I was after Ms. Cage. Now, I’ll have to get her some other way. How annoying.

“I mean, I could wait for her here and kill her when she comes back but…” He looks down at Mac’s wound and sighs again. “You would probably bleed out before then. And as much as I want her to die, I want you not to die more - at least not yet,” he adds reasonably. “To take you out with a bullet would be so… so anti-climatic. Though I would enjoy watching you bleed out slowly.”

Mac decides to focus on the important part: Cage. “Why? Why her?”

“Hm?” Murdoc raises his eyebrows at him and then he grins. “Oh, isn’t that the question, my… little… poppet?” he replies, tapping Mac on the forehead with the silencer on his gun to the rhythm of his last three words. “Why don’t you ask her when she comes back?”

Blackness is starting to creep up on Mac, blanketing him. He’s cold and he can’t think. He can feel himself starting to shake as the puddle of his blood keeps growing bigger and bigger on the floor around him. He tries to speak but he can’t seem to move his tongue.

Murdoc almost pouts. “You’re no fun when you’re bleeding out, MacGyver. I’ll have to remember that for later.”

Then he goes through Mac’s pockets, searching for his phone - Mac shudders, feeling Murdoc’s hands on him - and when he finds it, he pulls it out and goes through Mac’s contact list.

“Since you already ruined my plans for killing Ms. Cage, let’s use this chance to gather some intel, shall we?” He looks down at Mac with a maniacal gleam in his eyes. “Let’s see how quickly your guard dog will respond to his master in peril…”

Murdoc dials a number and when the person on the other end picks up, he says gleefully, “Guess who, Jackie? Your boy’s bleeding out on the floor of Ms. Cage’s apartment right this second. What will you do about it?”

He drops the phone on the floor - Jack’s voice can be heard calling Mac’s name and cursing a blue streak - then he dips his gloved fingers into Mac’s blood. For a moment, he just stares at its redness in fascination. Then he smiles and slides his fingers down Mac’s cheek to grip his chin, leaving bloody streaks behind.

“See you soon, MacGyver,” Murdoc whispers. “But do not cross me again. This time, I’ll forgive you. Next time, I might not be so lenient.”

With that, he gets up and leaves. Mac loses consciousness before Murdoc can reach the door.

“I told you that playing Santa would get you shot one day,” Jack points out but there’s very little satisfaction in his voice. He looks rather grim, straddling a chair with his arms crossed on its back and watching Mac in his hospital bed.

“Yes, you told me so. Repeatedly,” Mac allows a little hoarsely, staring at the ceiling.

He’s been in the hospital for three days now. Or that’s what they tell him. He doesn’t remember much of the first two. Apparently, he almost bled out before Jack got to him. One surgery and many blood transfusions later, he still feels as weak as a newborn. And he can’t seem to force his hands to stop shaking. It’s the blood loss, nothing else. Just the blood loss…

This time, I’ll forgive you…

Mac swallows hard, eyes still trained on the ceiling. “Do we know why he did it?”

Jack lifts his eyebrows. “Why that psycho lurked around Cage’s apartment, planning to kill her?” He shakes his head. “No. Cage’s gone and Matty - who I’m sure knows what’s going on here - isn’t talking. And when I asked, she gave me the evil eye and told me to mind my own damn business. Well, I am minding my own damn business. You are my damn business. My damn business almost bled out on me, so pardon me if I want some answers!” He ends his annoyed tirade on a huff.

Frowning, Mac turns to look at Jack. “Cage left?”

Jack frowns, too. “Yeah,” he drawls. “She was here to say goodbye, don’t you remember?”

Mac remembers… something, from… yesterday? He remembers Cage in here, in this room. He remembers apologizing to her in a slurred voice. He remembers Cage leaning over him, saying, “I owe you my life…” And then… nothing, Mac must’ve fallen asleep again.

“I can’t remember pretty much anything from the past two days,” he sighs.

“Yeah, well,” Jack says, “Cage seemed to know what the whole thing was about. She mentioned someone from her past, or something? That she should’ve taken care of that a long time ago?” He waves a hand. “I don’t know, man. I was more concerned with your half-dead ass than her issues in that moment.”

“I hope she’ll be okay,” Mac whispers.

Jack snorts. “The way she looked when she left here? I would be more worried about the other guy.”

Mac hmms, not as sure about the outcome of that fight as Jack, then he tries to shift into a more comfortable position - only to hiss sharply when the dull pain in his thigh turns into a roaring agony.

“Would you stop squirming like a worm on a hook?” Jack snaps, but it’s not anger driving his temper, it’s concern. “You have two holes too many in you! No need to unplug them again!”

Fisting his hands into his cover, Mac rides out the pain, eyes squeezed shut. When it finally dulls again, he’s sweat soaked and drained, his breath shuddery. He opens his eyes and blinks back tears. And then he notices the pinched look on Jack’s face.

“What?” he rasps.

Jack swallows and shakes his head. “Kid, if that madman was less obsessed with you, if all he wanted was to kill you… you would be dead now,” he answers softly. “When I heard his voice on the phone, I was sure that he was calling me to gloat. That I would find you dead.”

“Jack…” Mac whispers thickly.

“And I thought you were dead,” Jack continues. “There was so much blood and you were-you were so pale... You looked dead! It almost killed me.” He rests his forehead against his crossed arms, hiding his face.

“Jack… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--”

Taking a deep breath, Jack lifts his head again and looks straight at Mac. “I know,” he cuts Mac off. “I know. And it’s not your fault. It’s just…” He pauses and when he continues again, his voice’s hard and sharp. “We need to get that bastard. We have to, Mac. And I don’t care how. You hear me?”

“I hear you,” Mac responds softly. And since he can still feel the tapping of the still warm silencer against his forehead, the grip of Murdoc’s bloody fingers on his chin, he agrees with Jack wholeheartedly. 

Because next time, they might not be so lucky.

#macgyver #angus macgyver #jack dalton #murdoc #thehemingwaygoldfish #my fics #my macgyver fics

[biofunmy]

Kawhi Leonard Proves He Was Worth Risking It All

One of the better Kawhi Leonard anecdotes of the season, not surprisingly, involves the team that will be trying as hard as any to steal him from the Toronto Raptors after the N.B.A. finals.

The Los Angeles Clippers are said to have quietly looked into the feasibility of purchasing the portion of the rights to Leonard’s “Klaw” logo that is still owned by Nike. The Clippers did not immediately respond to a request for comment Wednesday, but such an acquisition would theoretically enable them to bestow full control of the logo upon Leonard as part of their anticipated free-agency pitch meeting with the Toronto superstar.

Forget for a moment that the financial outlay necessary to complete this kind of purchase, by any team, would most likely be considered a salary-cap violation. Let’s also briefly tune out that Nike, as emphasized to me recently by a top official from the sportswear giant, is intent on rebuffing all approaches and retaining its rights to that logo for as long as it can — to assure that it would not appear on gear made by Leonard’s new contract partners at New Balance.

[N.B.A. Finals Preview: Will Golden State’s complacency be its doom?]

As Leonard leads the Raptors into the finals for the first time in franchise history, it’s not questions about the viability of those maneuvers that make the story memorable. It’s that the league insiders who passed along the information found it completely normal — natural, even — for the Clippers to consider hatching such a scheme.

Because these are the sorts of lengths you go to in the N.B.A., or at least explore, for the chance to acquire a difference-maker like Kawhi Anthony Leonard.

The Raptors know this as well as anyone. After finding out that Leonard, 27, wanted out of San Antonio following a season lost almost entirely to injury, Toronto traded away an All-Star and fan favorite under a long-term contract (DeMar DeRozan), a recent top-10 draft pick (Jakob Poeltl) and an additional first-round pick to get him. The Raptors did all of that, remember, amid questions about Leonard’s long-term health and with no assurance that they would enjoy more than one season of his famously massive mitts and the havoc they wreak.

Yet the gamble is now regarded as so profoundly wise that — despite the fact that Toronto facing the risk of losing Leonard in a month without further compensation — the Raptors’ team president, Masai Ujiri, is a prime contender to win the N.B.A. Executive of the Year Award in a vote by his peers that will be revealed in June.

[Kawhi Leonard’s hands are a marvel. Read about them here.]

Even with the Warriors’ Kevin Durant unable to play because of a strained right calf, Golden State could still have multiple future Hall of Famers on the floor for Thursday night’s Game 1 at Scotiabank Arena: Stephen Curry, Klay Thompson and Draymond Green will all be contenders for enshrinement one day. And Leonard is generating more buzz than all of them after hauling the Raptors into the championship series — and past all of their irrational fears about being cursed by the rapper Drake — for the first time in the club’s 24-year history.

“Looks like the trade worked out for them,” Shaun Livingston, Golden State’s veteran guard, said this week.

Long before Leonard outplayed Milwaukee’s Giannis Antetokounmpo in the conference finals — and, yes, long before Leonard eliminated the Philadelphia 76ers in Game 7 of the previous round with a buzzer-beater that smooched the rim four times — talk of the Clippers’ plotting to persuade Leonard to come home to Southern California had been percolating throughout the league.

It’s something the Raptors have lived with pretty much since they traded for him on July 18, 2018.

On a playoff preview show Tuesday night on ESPN, Clippers Coach Doc Rivers put Leonard in the same sentence with the legendary Michael Jordan. Rivers raved about Leonard’s big hands, post play, leaping ability, defensive prowess, midrange scoring touch, sheer strength and 3-point range.

“He’s the most like Jordan that we’ve seen,” Rivers said.

As a playoff spectator for the first time in 14 years, LeBron James of the Los Angeles Lakers also is said to have gotten an early start on recruiting Leonard, presumably hoping that personal pleas from the game’s biggest name can convince the league’s most understated superstar of the Lakers’ potential — despite the team’s dysfunction.

But there will be plenty of time to laser in on Leonard’s future.

Here are three things we know now about Leonard — who was named the most valuable player of the 2014 N.B.A. finals because of the disruption he inflicted in a five-game demolition of James and the Miami Heat — as he confronts a dynastic opponent seeking its fourth championship in five years:

The Warriors, I’m told, unequivocally regard Leonard as a bigger individual problem than Houston’s James Harden because of Leonard’s impact at both ends.

The Raptors believe they have done everything possible to build the sort of trust with Leonard that the player’s primary adviser, Dennis Robertson, told Yahoo Sports on Sunday had been irretrievably broken last season in San Antonio. Most notably: Toronto granted Leonard the freedom to sit out 22 regular-season games (under this season’s go-to heading of “load management”) after he was able to appear in just nine games in 2017-18 and, according to Robertson, felt pressured by Spurs officials to return before he was ready.

While the ever-private Spurs aren’t talking about any of this, it is clear they’re still grieving and healing from the loss of Leonard, even after what ranked, by most accounts, as a fine bounce-back season without him.

Although the Kawhi-less Spurs won 48 games to extend their league-record run of playoff appearances to 22 seasons in a row, then pushed the second-seeded Denver Nuggets to seven games in the first round, rest assured that they remain crestfallen over Leonard’s departure.

Spurs Coach Gregg Popovich, in all of his 25 years in charge in San Antonio alongside his trusted front-office ace, R.C. Buford, has had only two players ask out. The first, LaMarcus Aldridge, canceled his request after a face-to-face meeting with Popovich smoothed over any concerns. With Leonard, Popovich tried a similar meeting, only to concede shortly thereafter that the Spurs — after so many years making player comfort an organizational priority — had no choice but to heed Leonard’s insistence on being traded and get the most in return that they could rather than lose him outright in free agency.

While Leonard’s mother, Kim, decided to keep living in San Antonio, Kawhi headed north of the border and promptly rediscovered his all-world form. Leonard has reclaimed consensus top-five status despite his well-chronicled hesitations about moving to a cold-weather climate, without another current All-N.B.A. selection among his teammates and, as usual, while saying almost nothing along the way.

Raptors Coach Nick Nurse, though, insisted that Leonard was “very coachable” and lauded the behind-the-scenes engagement Toronto gets from him in the locker room, in film sessions and in bench huddles.

“All he talks about is winning, and it’s been that way since I met him,” Nurse told me by phone Tuesday.

The Warriors haven’t forgotten the problems they had with Leonard when they last saw him in the playoffs. In Game 1 of the 2017 Western Conference finals, Leonard’s 26 points helped San Antonio surge to a 23-point lead before a tangle on the perimeter with then-Warrior Zaza Pachulia left Leonard with an ankle injury that sidelined him for the rest of those playoffs.

More worrisome to Golden State is the knowledge that Leonard, while supposedly hampered by a mysterious leg injury against the Bucks, has been playing at an even higher level now. No defense seems able to ruffle or rush him. Repeatedly flashing poise and patience, Leonard has posted 11 30-point games this postseason, one shy of Hakeem Olajuwon’s record of 12 heading into the 1995 finals.

“He plays at his own pace really well,” Curry said.

One suspects that, no matter what the Clippers or others try, Leonard will make his free agency choices much the way he has dominated this postseason — at his speed and on his terms. In the meantime, enjoy watching The Klaw grapple with Golden State’s starry lineup, as well as the reporters from around the world who will undoubtedly be pressing Leonard to finally reveal something about himself.

Who knows? If Durant can’t shake his nagging injury, the Warriors may start to miss King James, after dueling with LeBron at this stage four years in a row. Or, worse, if this Kawhi is here to stay.

Sahred From Source link Sports

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