"So Far from Grace"
Letterewe – 1651
Dinner was a lively little affair. Connor regaled Cadha and Struana with tales of his far-off adventures. He was quite well-traveled, and seemed to have enough stories to fill a thousand nights, let alone one. The bawdiness of a few of these, however, was enough to make Cadha clamp her hands over Struana's ears and give the man a disapproving look. Penance, for one, was transfixed by the stories.
After the ladies excused themselves to begin cleaning up Uallas brought out more whiskey for the three of them, generously pouring Penance two-finger's worth.
"You're full of tales, Connor," Penance said. "They should write a book about you."
"I prefer the stage." Ah, but they're not so exciting, really. Who'd truly want to know the 'grand tales' of some oafish wanderer like me?" He motioned to Uallas. "No, young Spaniard: you should ask your master to give you a history of his exploits: that is the stuff of legends."
Uallas scratched the back of his head and looked off to the side, coughing. He chuckled politely:
"Ah, now it's hardly 'legends', I would think. Anyway, you're young, yet, Connor. Doubtless your greatest days lie somewhere ahead of you."
Connor looked across the table at Penance, smiling:
"Aye, perhaps. We're all the heroes of our own story, are we not?" He pointed at Penance. "Who knows, lad? Hundreds of years from now they may indeed write grand stories about the both of us."
Penance sniggered:
"Nobody would want to hear about my life, Connor!"
"True, maybe. But then who knows? Maybe your greatest days lie ahead of you, as well!"
The conversation continued long into the night, mostly between the two men. After a time Penance noticed a change in each man's mood; it was as if a black cloud had come to rest over them, and they spoke in more sullen tones. Finally Penance broached the subject:
"What's wrong?"
Uallas tapped on his own skull and pointed to the boy:
"Think on it, Penance."
He got Uallas' meaning. Penance set to work getting himself into that meditative state. After a moment his vision swam: he felt his weightless body rushing over grass and stone, bobbing up and down as he moved past the farthest fields outside the Letterewe settlement. The heather beneath him glowed like a dull bed of knives in the pale of the moon. He wagged his head— 'returning' to the table— and he blinked.
"Where is he?" Uallas asked.
"Uh, the eastern fields. Right outside town."
"On foot?"
Penance shook his head:
"No, horseback. Should be here in... half-an-hour, maybe?"
Uallas looked over at Connor, who bore the same grimness in his face. He downed a bit of his whiskey before casually looking over at Uallas:
"So: it's Fair Hair, is it?"
"Fair Hair," Uallas nodded.
"Both of your hairstyles are just awful," Penance mumbled. "And what're you talking about?"
"Another, uh, 'guest'." Uallas downed the rest of his whiskey and got to his feet. "He's well ahead of schedule, I might add." He looked at Connor. "I didn't expect him for another week, I assure you."
Connor waved a dismissive hand as he stood.
"Life's full of little challenges—"
"Not here, Highlander. Nowhere around here!"
"I know your terms," Connor said. "And you needn't worry about me, Norman."
"Who is 'Fair Hair'?" Penance asked.
Uallas and Connor moved to the door, and Uallas motioned for Penance to follow:
"Come and see," he said.
They all ascended the hill leading to Uallas' forge. Penance and Uallas led the group, with Connor bringing up the rear some distance behind the two.
"This MacLeod guy sure is a colorful sort," Penance noted.
"Yes. He's a bona fide bon vivant, that's for certain."
Penance squinted at the man:
"Uallas, why didn't you want to talk about all the stuff you've done in your time? I'll bet a lot of the stuff is way more interesting than anything Connor can lay claim to!"
Again the man scratched the back of his head. He smiled politely and nodded, chuckling.
"Ah, yes, well: I've been around the world a few times, in my time, Penance. When it comes to talking about my time, you see..." The man scoffed, again chuckling nervously. "I remember very little of my family, Penance: father, mother, siblings. Most of what I do remember is the massive number of siblings in our household. I remember being the runt of the litter, too, and having some special times alone with my mother, who as I recall doted on me, so. One of the only things I can clearly remember about my life before, well, my Immortal life, is my mother teaching me one of her old family sayings. She told me that our true life story is told in all the good deeds we do in this world, and every kind motive and selfless act is another stitch woven into that fabric which is our life story. I suppose that's why I'm not too terribly keen on sharing much. What I've, uh, 'woven' in my time is not exactly the Bayeux Tapestry..."
"You mean you don't have enough 'good deeds' to fill an evening with stories?"
The man's grin spread. He patted the boy's head:
"I mean, Penance, that I might not have enough material to fill one awkward pause!"
The party came to a stop at that large carved stone on the hillside.
"Seriously: who is this 'Fair Hair' guy, anyway?" Penance asked.
"He's a less 'colorful' person than we." Connor said.
Uallas gave the man an irritated scowl. He looked down at Penance and cleared his throat:
"If you remember Connor telling you that each man is the hero of his own story, well, some men are a little less 'heroic' than others."
"Why's he coming here?"
"Same reason Connor's here: I have a sword of 'liquid steel' for him."
"You're giving one of your special swords to a villain—"
"I didn't say 'villain'; I just said less than 'heroic'. Anyway, there are no villains or heroes in real-life, Penance, just men trying to make the most of a bad situation. And I'm damn-well not giving him a sword!" Uallas looked over at Connor. "And that reminds me, not to be rude..."
Connor pulled a small sack from a strap around his neck; he jiggled it about, making the metal coins inside clink together.
"Heaven forbid, Norman. Pity you don't work on credit..."
"No favorites, MacLeod, and no favoritism. You know as much." Uallas looked at Penance with a smirk. "You'd be surprised how long you can stay alive abiding such a policy."
Soon hooves sounded on the path far below them; dust swirled in the moonlight and a black horse came into view. The rider was covered head to toe in a dark green cloak— a solid color, unlike Connor's tartan. He dismounted before the trio and pulled back the cowl. The man underneath bore a thin face and a long jaw, almost horse-like in appearance. His skin was an unblemished sheet of pure marble— more pure than even Penance's skin, as if crafted out of fallen snow. The man's eyes were hauntingly blue, like glaciers of arctic ice, and his hair blond to a nearly impossible degree. It was silky silver, like tow. Penance had seen nothing of its kind before, except on the heads of very young children.
"I can see why they call him 'Fair Hair'," he whispered.
"There are a couple of reasons for that, actually," Uallas whispered. The man took a step forward and made a welcoming gesture. "Greetings, Fair Hair! And welcome to Letterewe."
"Hail, Norman," he tiredly drawled. The elf-like man pulled off a pair of ornate silk riding gloves, and he swaggered as he approached the group, walking as a prince through his palace garden. He tossed the gloves right into Penance's face, and the boy barely managed to catch them.
"Loose not a thread!" He warned the boy. After this he glared at Connor, his pearly white teeth bared in disdain.
"Well met, Highlander," he spat.
"Hello to you, too, Snowflake."
Fair Hair clucked his tongue and took a threatening step towards the Scotsman. Uallas wedged himself between the pair:
"You will not! Not here. Lay not even a finger on each other; you know the rules! Now, as it happens MacLeod is here on schedule, Fair Hair. You are early. I don't care about that; it's not a problem for me. But if it's a problem for you then I can certainly reschedule your delivery..."
The man hid his teeth, licking the inside of his lips.
"Of course not, Uallas. At least some of us are adults, here."
Connor flashed the man an unsavory sneer; he looked like he wanted to deck him, and hard.
Truth be told, Penance kinda wished he would, too.
X
X
X
No candles were needed up at the forge; even this late at night the coals still burned hot in the smelter, and they cast a harsh red light all about the place. Uallas retrieved both men's merchandise: a longsword for Fair Hair and a dagger for Connor. He pulled the pieces from his 'special' shelf, up at the very top of the pile, far above all the rest. It was a shelf Penance was forbidden to mess with, unlike all the others in the shop. By now Penance had a good feel for all the ins and outs of a forge, but Uallas' 'liquid steel' remained a mystery; he always got a day off on the rare occasions that Uallas had to make it, and he was not allowed anywhere near the forge while the man worked.
He tried not to take it personally, but it was kinda hard not to.
Fair Hair held up his longsword, twisting it about in the red light and running his finger along its flat end. The surface was comprised of that squiggly mess of lines, moving like flowing water, and when Fair Hair took a few slow practice swings he grinned with satisfaction.
"Aflmikill," he cooed.
He quickly slashed at a practice dummy sitting beside Uallas' workbench, and it appeared unaffected for a moment. Slowly, however, the burlap sack slid apart and exposed its straw innards. Fair hair's grin spread.
"Allmikill!" He looked back at Uallas, practically salivating with pleasure. In the harsh light of the coals the flickering shadows made his teeth look like pointed fangs. The effect was nothing short of vampiric.
"Satisfied, I take it?" Uallas asked.
Connor, standing in a far corner, smiled condescendingly. He turned over a small dagger in his hands; the blade was the same type of squiggly-lined metal as Fair Hair's sword:
"'Satisfied'? Snowflake over there looks like he needs to roll a cigarette..."
The elf-like man pointed his blade at Connor:
"Stay your boorish tongue, MacLeod!"
"Both of you," Uallas growled. The man stood at the other end of his workbench, where solid gold coins from both Connor and Fair Hair's purses lay in a pile. Uallas used a hammer and iron stake to punch out a few random coin's centers, and he inspected the innards as he went.
Penance stood beside Fair Hair; as the man's 'glove-bearer' he was forced to remain quite close to the guy's side. The man sheathed his new sword and then motioned to Penance with his hand, but without looking at the boy. When he had to repeat the maneuver he let out an exasperated growl. Penance got the hint, and he held up the riding gloves for him. When Fair Hair took them Penance made sure no skin contact was made. It was bad-enough that Connor knew what Penance was; he saw no need to let his secret spread. Uallas seemed to approve of Penance's strategy, flashing the boy a quick wink as he avoided making hand-to-hand contact with the man.
"Your servant boy is dull, Uallas," he complained as he cinched up his gloves. "Almost as dull as that tedious katana our friend MacLeod carries."
Connor leaned against the wall, his arms crossed in casual confidence:
"If you wish to go a round with the Masamune, Snowflake, then all you must do is ask!"
"And travel far from here," Uallas added. "Across the loch, at least." The man looked up from his bench and pointed at Fair Hair. "But keep in mind, Fair Hair: I'm the greatest sword maker alive today, bar none— and one of the greatest ever to have walked the earth— but Connor's blade puts anything I've ever made to shame."
"It's not in the temper of the steel where victories are won," Fair Hair growled. "It's in the temperament of the hand wielding it."
Uallas held up one of Fair Hair's gold coins and scoffed:
"I think it's more of an equation, really: column A plus column B. Otherwise why come to me, Fair Hair? Plenty of middling forgers would be happy to make you a perfectly useable steel sword..."
Connor chuckled.
"Well, Snowflake here needs and edge: he was always was a little weak in his 'temperament'—"
"Bacraut! Stay that wretched tongue, you Scottish filth!" Fair Hair barked.
Connor's grin only spread:
"Guess he doesn't need any help with his 'temper', though..."
Fair Hair looked down at Penance with a chilling scowl; he was incredibly annoyed that the boy still stood there, and he wagged a hand, shooing him away. Penance gladly obliged, but he didn't get more than a few steps before Fair Hair let loose a snarl. He knelt before the boy, holding up one of his gloves:
"What is this?" He barked. "Do you see that, child?"
Penance didn't. He tried looking over at Uallas, but Fair Hair grabbed his chin with a gloved hand and forced his face forward.
"The fringe of this glove is disturbed. Look at this thread! Miserable little wretch: are you not even capable of looking after something of actual quality? Can you not even see the mussed threads?"
He gripped Penance's jaw tight, wagging the boy's head in front of the glove as if he were rubbing a dog's nose in its own urine stain.
"Tryggvi!" Uallas barked. "I mean 'Fair Hair': release the boy. Now."
The pale man gripped Penance's chin tighter. He glared at the boy again, but suddenly his expression changed. He stared into the boy's face, almost mystified, and his icy-blue eyes seemed to bore right into Penance's. His mouth opened a bit and he leaned forward; for a very freaky second Penance thought the guy was leaning in for a kiss. Instead he released the boy's chin.
Penance backed away, massaging his aching jaw.
"Of course," Fair Hair whispered. "And I'll waste no more time on someone so... dull."
The pale man left soon after this, and Penance was not at all upset to see him go.
"Don't mind poor Snowflake," Connor said. "Guy used to be a prince, if he can be believed. And he never quite got used to the common man's life. You know: cooking his own meals, chewing on his own food, wiping his own ass..."
Penance snickered:
"I'm glad he just had me hold his glove, then!"
Connor declined an offer to spend the night at the homestead, nor was he interested in 'playing' with Fair Hair. Not today, at least. He wished to continue his journey unmolested, and he asked Penance to help map-out Fair Hair's route for him. The boy did so: he could tell the man was traveling east, along the bank of Loch Maree, and at a quick gallop.
"That's fine, then," Connor nodded. "I'll be heading South, I think."
Penance watched the man saddle up outside the forge.
"So where are you off to, now?"
Connor shrugged, turning the liquid steel dagger over in his hand.
"Well, this I must deliver to my kinsman."
"The dagger's not for you?"
Connor smiled and shook his head:
"Ah, no. I already have the finest blade in creation, lad, or did you not hear your master? This dagger is a gift for another of us. He's about your age, in fact."
Penance squinted.
"Really?"
"Well, no, but he was born about the same time as you. That's 'born' as in 'come out of the womb', mind you—"
"Yeah. I, uh, got that part. So is he your student?"
Connor nodded.
"Aye. Was, at least, but now he does quite well on his own. It's in a student's nature to take wing and set off alone: to become a master in their own right."
Penance looked back to the homestead; Uallas was creeping inside, moving on tiptoes so as not to disturb Cadha. The boy drew a short breath and shook his head. He didn't think he'd ever be a master of anything, really. The only thing he really tried to focus on these days was not disappointing the old codger.
And that was a full-time job.
"Aye. Even you, lad, will be masterful, given time." Connor chuckled as he followed Penance's gaze. "Uallas is just the man to see to that, believe me. Now, maybe your wings will be smaller when you do grow them, but doubtless your claws will be fierce enough to compensate!"
"I'm no wild beast," Penance said.
Connor turned his horse about, setting his course:
"Aren't you?" Connor smiled. "Aren't we all, when we're called to be? Of course we don't have to be, when we're not called to it: when fate and circumstance give us the luxury of a real choice. But some of us have more of this luxury than do others, little Spaniard. You'd do well to remember that."
Penance crossed his arms as Connor trotted off on his horse.
"Is that more free advice?"
Connor looked back at the boy, giving him a wink before disappearing into the darkness:
"And you're welcome."
Penance stayed outside long after Connor left. He clambered up on top of that carved stone near the forge and watched the stars burn in the cold night sky. He let his breath singe the air, and watched as the vapor swirled on the wind. All these thoughts of the future disturbed him, mostly because he hadn't ever thought about it before, or at least he tried not to. The only thing he had going for himself right now was the luxury of time: he didn't have to worry about the Game. Not just yet, at least. Or so he thought.
Six days later he went into Letterewe to trade metal pieces. Fair Hair was waiting for him on his way back.
He attacked the boy in a field just outside the settlement.
Penance killed him.
X
X
X
Uallas reclined on a chair outside his forge, sitting in the shadow of a bright full moon. He sipped from a flagon and gazed out across the landscape below him. His face was like a cold wall of stone. He didn't react at all when Penance first crested the hill and came into view, shuffling on his feet. The whites of the boy's eyes glowed in the light of the moon; he did not look at Uallas once as he slowly came to a halt about ten yards from the man's chair. The cold light of the moon beamed off his clothes, or at least what was left of them. What hadn't been cut or torn off his body was so thick with dried blood that his remaining rags looked ready to crumble into iron dust at the slightest touch.
Uallas slowly produced a pipe and lit it. He took a good, long time before speaking:
"I... uh, I would guess he rode a day away, and then camped for a time before finally doubling back. He must've learned about your weekly trips into town with our goods, then bided his time well out of range before coming back to take you."
Penance stared at a blade of grass near Uallas' feet; he didn't so much as blink.
Uallas knocked a mess of ash out of his pipe and drew a very long breath.
"I, myself, couldn't feel him before sunset. I was scrubbing up down in the river— naked as a mule, mind you," the man chuckled, bowing his head. "And then... Ah, and then, well: there he was, his presence burning like a torch in my brain..."
Uallas leaned forward in his chair, putting his hands on his knees:
"And I'm splashing up out of the water, grabbing for my clothes like a drunkard, my mind racing a mile a minute. But then, and quite suddenly..." Uallas clapped his hands together once, very fiercely, and he kept his hands clasped together for several seconds.
Penance slowly looked up at the man.
"It was a terrible stretch of time for me, Penance. You should've seen me: standing there stock still, holding my clothes and just as naked as ever, not daring to move a muscle. Not moving an inch." He sat back in his chair and took another drag from his pipe. "I felt nothing for the longest time. Nothing at all. And when I kept feeling nothing..." He smiled warmly. "Well, when I kept feeling 'nothing' then I felt no small measure of joy."
Silence burned the air. Finally Penance broke it:
"He hid in the heather. Waited for me to come by. Killed the horse from right under me—"
"Mmm. It's not the horse I was concerned about."
Penance screwed his lips tight; again he looked back down at that little blade of grass.
"Fair Hair went for your head, did he not?"
Penance nodded.
"And you got the better of him."
The boy shook his head; his lips began trembling.
"What happened, then, Penance?"
"He, uh...he went after me with his sword. Cutting at me. He was very fast. He..." Penance quickly wiped a small train of snot from his nose. "He... he was very fast."
"Were you able to put your dagger to work for you?"
Again the boy shook his head.
"No. He swung at it and he broke it apart. Like a... like it was a wax candle, or something. He got on top of me— I was all sliced up to pieces— and I tried jamming my wrist bone into his blade— to, like, tie it up, you know?" Penance shook his head. Pools began forming in his eyes. "H— he nearly cut it off. So... so I was there on my back, and he yanked up on my hair, pulling my head off the ground. H— he brought his sword out wide from his body and got ready to stick it into me, and...an'..."
Penance wiped another stray string of snot from his face.
"What did you do, Penance?" Uallas asked.
The dam finally burst. Penance landed on his knees, tears flowing freely. He no longer bothered trying to dry his face. He barely managed to stutter words through the tears:
"I begged him for my life! I pleaded with him! I said I'd do anything— anything— just don't...don't kill me! I...I cried and babbled at him like a baby!" The boy tightened his hands over his midsection. "I... I peed..."
Uallas set his pipe down on the side of his chair and again leaned forward, hands clasped over his knees. His face was still like stone, as cold and ineffable as ever:
"And what happened next?" He asked.
Penance bowed his head, resting his hands on the earth as he sobbed.
"Penance?"
The boy regained some manner of control and managed to continue.
"H— his grip: it slackened a little. For just a moment he held back his blade from my neck. His face— that damn face of his— he...he looked a little upset, maybe..."
Uallas, still staring at the boy with clinical interest, slowly nodded:
"What did you do, then?"
"I— I felt my fingers touch my broken dagger, down in the dirt. I grabbed it and sliced it into his hand holding my head up. Got the tendons, and when I hit the ground I did the same thing to one of his feet, right at the place behind his ankle, so he went down..."
Penance returned his eyes to the earth and sniffled.
"And then what did you do?"
"I got up in his face and... buried..." Penance shook his head. "Took the blade tip... lots of... like sawing, and... butchering, like at... like butchers at market..."
"And then you took his head. Is that right?"
Penance nodded weakly. He shivered, still riddled with sobs.
Uallas slowly leaned back in his chair. He nodded.
"Well, then. We can discuss things in greater detail tomorrow. But for now I think you'd do well to go to bed and get some sleep."
"S— sleep?" Penance looked up at the man. "Sleep?"
"Indeed. Were I you, in fact, I'd be going to bed quite happy, tonight, and I'd sleep damn comfortably, as well."
The boy returned his face to the ground and shook his head.
"I... I begged him... and... and it was just like...market..."
Uallas snapped his fingers and barked at the boy:
"Get up, Penance. None of this moping! On your feet, lad!"
Penance slowly managed this; he did not look up at the man, but instead stared at that grass blade at his feet.
"Tell me, child: what would have happened today if you had not done everything you did?"
Penance shook his head, shrugging his shoulders.
"Penance! What would have happened?" Uallas barked.
The boy grit his teeth:
"Fair Hair...he would've killed me. He'd have taken my head."
Uallas crossed his arms and nodded.
"Indeed. Instead you killed him, and you took his head. That's all there is to it, boy. When you end your day with another man's head for your mantle— and you still have yours on your own shoulders— then there is only one way to react: you go to bed happy, and you sleep comfortably."
Penance wiped his nose, again sniffling.
"So what are you going to do tonight, lad?"
The boy again stared at the ground.
"Penance!"
"I'm... I'm going to bed happy. And I'm sleeping comfortably."
Uallas sighed, nodding.
"Just so. Now go bathe yourself."
The boy nodded absently and slowly turned around. He made it a few steps before Uallas stood up and walked forward:
"And, Penance: one last thing..."
The boy turned to face him. Uallas got up right in front of the boy, standing within inches of his body. Then, very slowly, he reached up and put his hand on the back of the boy's head. He gripped Penance's shoulder with his other hand, and the touch was as gentle as if he were stroking a kitten's back. This was all the encouragement Penance needed. The boy pressed his face into the man's chest and bawled, his cries muffled in the man's shirt. Uallas merely stood there supporting the boy, patiently stroking the back of his head for as long as he needed.
"I'm sorry, boy. Truly I am. I'm so sorry about all of it, really. So much of it is not right, I know. None of it is, maybe. None of this is right for you, I know. You: you deser—"
Uallas caught a tiny lump in his throat. He quickly stopped speaking, drawing a slow breath, and remained silent until Penance was finally ready to pull his face from his shirt. That was a long time, too. At least Penance thought it was. When the boy finally emerged from the folds of Uallas' shirt he was far more composed; the moonlight caught no more water in his eyes.
From that day forward Penance would never cry over one of his kills again. Not ever.
No matter who it was.
