All That Was Fair

The field the men have chosen for their shinty match is the wide grassy lawn in between the barn and the stables. I had never seen grass in person before my journey to Cold Island 12, but it was so common in the pictures and movies I grew up with that I did think I must have some idea what large expanses of it would be like. And yet, instead of the bright, warm green I saw with Lamb, and the darkly bruised, newly frozen green I saw in those first few days here at Leoch, this field is a bleached, frostbitten brown that can mean nothing but the approach of winter, with the stems all thin and spiky and chill. This really shouldn't be a shock to me – there are at least a dozen patches of grass on the route between my rooms and the Manager's Barn, and there must be hundreds more out among the arable fields. But I suppose those have not registered as "grass" to me – my mind, being so busy with other things, must have automatically categorized them as "untidy deck plating" or something of that kind.

Living this closely with the seasons is a strange thing. Or rather – living this closely with the consequences of the seasons is strange to me. Interesting, but oftentimes inconvenient.

The advantages of this field for a game of sport are obvious, however. The expanse of it takes up almost the full distance between the sprawling stables and enormous barn – eighty or ninety meters, it looks like. There's only one fence to think about, and even that is the full width of the field away, what I judge to be about thirty or forty meters, at least. The large buildings, with all their attendant workshops and and storage rooms, look like quite effective windbreaks, and besides all that, if I was one of the farming staff working on a Saturday, I know I'd be thankful for such a handy excuse to extend my morning tea break. . .

Jamie leaves me with a large knot of observers clustered around the corner of the playing field nearest the barn, and sprints away to join his team. The boundaries of the field are marked with wide white chalk lines, large arcs marking the corners, and a huge circle in the center. Somewhere among the flurry of explanations I received last night, I'm pretty sure someone said the middle circle is where the game will start. I think. I shiver a bit. Good windbreaks or no, the buildings can't protect me from how cold it is out here. I tuck my hands under my arms, in a vain attempt to keep them warm.

Down the field, Jamie's team is gathered next to a tall cage-like contraption standing on the far edge of the marked rectangle. I assume that is one of the goal nets. All of the men there are wearing kilts, just as Jamie is, but at this distance I can only make out a few of the various colours, and none of the patterns. Only a few meters from us, the second team is huddled around a similar net, and they are also wearing kilts in a wide spectrum of colours, but these all have the hip-cape feature that Jamie's did last night. Clearly these are the "belted plaids", and Jamie's team is the "modern kilts".

As the teams prepare, several clusters of observers begin to form – five or six larger groups near the corners, and a few dozen more strung out in ones or twos all along the length of the field. A surprising number of people come out of the barn and other outbuildings to join us, far more than I expected. As it turns out, a game of shinty is more interesting than anything else they have planned for this time of day. I have to agree.

I find myself standing next to Harry and Geordie, and I let their eager chatting about game strategy help to distract me from the sudden hot stink of coffee that appears along with these new observers. Apparently, coffee is a far more common tea break drink than tea itself among this section of the farm hands. . . The smell irritates the last vestiges of my hangover, and I raise a hand to try and smooth away my still mildly twinging headache before the game starts. Geordie grins when he notices my wrinkled nose, and pours me a cup of something steamy from the thermos he's holding.

"Et's a hot chocolate kinda day, aye?"

"That it most certainly is," I sigh as I take a sip, immeasurably thankful for my kind and thoughtful assistant.

"Perfect day fer a nice, cozy, friendly game of shinty, eh?" says Harry.

I snicker a little, "Cozy? There's a bit too much open space around here for that, I think."

And from the no-nonsense way all the players are gearing up by swinging around their caman-sticks, I'm not entirely sure about the 'friendly' part of that either. There was a great deal of talk about "hit-ins" and "tackling" last night, and I must admit, I'm feeling just a touch apprehensive about words like that at the moment.

"Agch, this field isnae even half regulation size, lassie," Harry says, with a mild mixture of teasing and reproof.

"Oh no?"

"Nae. We dinnae have room fer a full-size field here, no' wi'out cuttin' inta the pastures," he gestures expansively towards the fence, "An' e'en then, the ground's tae rough in that direction. T'would need tae be graded, an' who's gonna go tae those lengths for a game of shinty?"

"Ah," I say, vaguely, "So, this field will do?"

"Aye, it'll serve," he shrugs, "Allus has befoor."

Geordie nods in agreement, and they go back to discussing game strategy.

I take a long, slow look around me, marveling once again at the feeling of the earth and air in this place and time. Even half a November deep into the enclosing frosts of late autumn, I cannot help but notice how alive everything is. How much bigger and airier, freer and more open even this mere patch of grass is than any place on a Skycity, even compared to the Rim. . .

I take another sip of my hot chocolate. On Skycity 15, a cold, grey day like this would feel oppressive, barren, even hostile. But it doesn't seem to matter in the least to the great swells of chattering, murmuring, exulting lives surrounding me. The sounds of a working farmyard – engines, power tools, brooms, buckets and boots – make a clattering, clanging backdrop, and beyond our small crowd of observers, I can hear a great many animal noises, not all of them recognizable to me.

So much life. And I am in the middle of it.

Then, a whiff of strange-smelling burning reaches me. It has a resinous odor similar to the wood fires I've encountered indoors, but it is also overlaid with a darker, more food-like smell. But it doesn't smell like any food I've ever encountered. I wrinkle up my forehead in confusion. The closest thing I have to compare it to is the sickly-sweet stench that comes from a sugar refinery's vats while they're boiling up beets, and even that is only very vaguely similar.

Geordie notices my expression again, and shrugs before jerking a thumb in the direction of the far end of the farm yard, "Agch. 'Tis jus' Marc boilin' up some pig feed, ye ken. Dinnae fash."

"Oh," I smile at him, and am about to ask if that's usually a part of the Stock Manager's duties when there's a whistle and a cheering call from the middle of the field. The two teams are ranged around the central circle, Alain and Jamie have their caman-sticks raised and crossed like swords above their heads, and Angus is holding a small ball up in the air, and a whistle between his teeth.

He tosses the ball up in the air, and gives a short, sharp whistle. Then there is a flurry of arms and legs mixed with the thumping clatter of sticks and boots, and the game is underway.

It is instantly apparent that it is a much more physical game than I ever expected. Though perhaps I should have, given how exuberantly everyone was explaining it last night. The caman-sticks, far from being just the implements used to hit the ball, are also used to slap other players legs, and hook their ankles. A tackle really is a tackle – two bodies ramming together, shoulder to shoulder. I see nearly every player get bowled off their feet at least once, in just the first few minutes. I cringe almost every time it happens. Harry just shakes his head at me.

And it's all in pursuit of a tiny ball that's almost the exact same colour as the grass. I quickly decide that if I want to stay sane, I'll watch the players, not the ball. One by one, I pick out the faces that I know. Gwyllyn's is the closest, playing as the goalkeeper for the belted-plaids – Alain's team. Gil's is the furthest away, as the goalkeeper for the modern kilts – Jamie's team. Leo, Willie, Gerald and Edan's positions shift with the action. Angus and Rupert are refereeing, and I recognize Gav MaQuarie, the Cuckoos' drummer – and three or four of the other musicians from last night as well.

For the first little while, it looks like the belted-plaids have the advantage, pressing the attack down by the modern kilt's goal. I see Gil dart back and forth, and hear the caman-sticks clatter, but I can't tell what's going on until a cheer goes up from the crowd at that end of the field.

"What happened?" I ask Harry.

"Goal," he shrugs and gestures in explanation, "Edan got past Ollie tae set it up, an' Jerry made the shot."

"That didn't take long."

"Aye, weel, we'll get et back, dinnae fash."

I grin as I see Jamie barreling up the field, driving the ball before him.

"I won't."

For close to an hour, the teams run back and forth, getting into scrums and chasing each other up and down the field. There's a pause every now and then, for a penalty shot or a hit-in, but apparently there is to be no substantial time out until the half-time break.

We're nearly there, the score tied at three-all, when Leo and Jamie set up a fast, brilliant shot – or at least it looks so to me – and Willie takes it, slapping the ball in from the side, surprising Gwyllyn mightily. And then miraculously, Gwyllyn blocks it.

I cheer anyway, appreciating two plays that even I know were both beautifully executed.

Now the belted-plaids have the ball again, and everyone sprints down the field once more.

Harry is staring at me, and I see Geordie suppressing a grin at his friend's discomfort. We've had enough friendly chats in the lab that Geordie knows how I hate being partisan when it comes to well played sports. Harry is still in the dark.

"I. . . dinnae think ye ken how this game works, lassie. . ." he says, shaking his head.

I laugh, "Sure I do. It's just like all sports. A whole bunch of people you like gather in one place to do a thing you like watching. It's like a movie, only you don't know the ending."

He blinks at me, unbelieving, "An' would ye go and cheer fer the villain then?"

"Why not? Don't villains usually get the best lines? And Gwyllyn isn't the villain here anyway."

"Oh? Then who is?"

"Not who. What."

Geordie knows what's coming, and snorts a half-laugh. Harry gives him a disgusted look, but he only shrugs.

"Och, aye?"

"Yes," I say, drawing out the moment, "It's the rules."

"The. . . rules. . ."

I nod, "Yes. The rules are the villain. Or at least the opponent." I pause to watch Jamie give a tremendous over-the-head wallop to a hit-in, sending the ball at least two thirds of the way up the field before anyone can corral it. "The good players know how to bend the rules, the bad players can only break them."

"But then. . ." Harry's mind turns rapidly, and he takes the new idea more nimbly than might have been expected of him, "Who c'n be the hearo? Who c'n evar be the hearo?"

"Oh, that's easy. The one who changes the game."

He blinks, and shakes his head, turning back to Geordie - who can barely keep his snickering under wraps, "Can ye evan believe this drivel?"

Geordie finally lets himself laugh at Harry's reaction, "Funny sort of drivel that makes ye think, though, isn't et?"

"An' is a bit o' shinty on a Saturday mornin' really the time fer a philosophy lesson?"

I plant my hands on my hips, suppressing my own laughter, "All I did was cheer for Gwyllyn, Harry. He made a good play, and I cheered him for it. That's all that happened. You want to start dictating what my reactions should be to things and you've stepped way into my personal space. Which means you'll play by my rules, for as long as you're there. Are we clear?"

He chuckles at himself and punches my arm companionably, "Awright, awright, lesson learnt. Schoolmarm!"

He winks at me, and turns his attention back to the game.

This half is winding down, and there is no more scoring for the final few minutes of it.

As Rupert sounds the half-time break, Tory drives up in a runabout filled with bottles of water and fruit-flavoured electrolytes. It seems like barely two seconds later, and the entire modern-kilt team is surrounding our little group of observers, chattering and exulting, and draining Tory's runabout dry in record time.

"Did'ye see the goal I made, Miss Claire?" asks Willie, coming up eagerly to Geordie and me.

"I did," I take the bottle of lemonade flavoured sport's drink he's handing out, "And I also saw how tough it is to get anything past Gwyllyn. You did well to score at all – being tied at three is quite an accomplishment."

Willie blushes, and turns to hand Harry a bottle as well, but it seems he's a few meters away, talking to Jamie. They're both back momentarily, however.

"Willie?" calls Jamie, "Ye did say ye wanted tae sit out the second half?"

"Aye," he nods.

"Right then, Har, ye'er in. Come get kitted out."

Both he and Jamie trot away to the small pile of game equipment piled behind the nearby goal net. I watch as they sort through the caman-sticks and shin-guards and helmets, my eyes resting fondly on Jamie's shaggy, wind-blown curls, and scoop-necked cotton tunic.

With a bit of a start, I realize that I actually haven't seen him without a shirt on yet. There hasn't been a reasonable opportunity for me to have done so, of course, but still, it suddenly seems a little odd that I've forged such a close connection with him, but still have so much of him to discover yet.

The only other person I've ever been this intimate with was Frank, and the morning after he slept in my bed for the first time, I certainly had seen him shirtless. . .

Angus gives a long, shrill whistle, indicating the end of the half-time break.

With calls, cheers, and a good bit of applause, the teams re-take the field, each one taking the opposite goal this time.

The second half starts off just like the first – with raised caman-sticks and a ball tossed in the air, followed by a clattering rush down the field.

Watching it all from behind the modern-kilt's defensive line is a bit different though. It's easy to see Gil is an top-notch goalkeeper, but from this angle it's much easier for me to pick up on how the overall strategy of the game works, and it's clear Gil is not the one calling the shots. While they were at the other end of the field, it was difficult for me to tell just who was in charge of this team, and so I had assumed it was Leo, given how he was talking about it last night, and that most of the first half plays I could see had him in a prominent role.

But now it's quite clear that Jamie is their leader. Unquestionably. He's the one calling out tactics and setting up defensive formations. He even goes in for crucial tackles himself - even if it means handing most of the scoring opportunities to someone else on his team. He's an excellent player, as far as I can see – quick, precise, and indefatigably tough – but he seldom plays all-out, and never for himself. Most of his energies seem to be focused on bringing out the absolute best in his team, and indeed, it shows. Even I can tell the belted-plaids have more experienced players on their side, but the modern-kilts have battled them to a draw, and I am beginning to think that is entirely down to Jamie's unflinching leadership and drive.

Dougal is absolutely right to be scared of what this man might do to him and his prospects of ever becoming Laird. Jamie was born to be a leader. It comes utterly naturally to him – and men flock to his banner just as naturally.

And as for women. . .

There is a sharp discordance in the pattern of play down the field, as one of the belted-plaids is called back to the knot of observers near their goal-net, and a new player jogs onto the field.

His gait, his figure, his features, all are unmistakable. It's Dougal.

I see Jamie square his shoulders, and call out some modified tactics to his team. In the Gàidhlig this time, not English. And that's how I know this has suddenly gotten personal.

For the next quarter-hour, at least, Jamie plays all-out. He still has his team in the forefront of his mind, but he holds back nothing – not his speed, nor his strength, nor his determination. And Dougal may have years of experience on him, but Jamie has something sustaining him that I doubt Dougal has ever had in his life.

A team that respects the hell out of him.

The two of them are locked in a five-man scrum when I hear a clattering thud quite unlike the other game noises I've grown accustomed to.

"Tha' was a hack!" says Willie, indignantly, "Dougal hacked Jamie's caman! Why the hell didnae Angus call it?"

I'm unsure what hacking is in this context, but I do know who Dougal is. . .

"You know why," I say, flatly.

Willie doesn't reply to that, but the ensuing silence is reply enough.

I see several words exchanged between Jamie and his uncle, but what they are I cannot tell, nor am I certain I want to.

Jamie hits the ball over to Harry, who tries to weave it in between three of the belted-plaids. It doesn't go well, and several of the modern-kilts run up reinforce him.

Jamie has just managed to get the ball free again and pass it over to Leo when Dougal again comes streaking in from the side. Quite deliberately, he barrels into Jamie, hard. Far, far too hard. . .

The force of it rockets them both out of bounds. . . and straight at me.

There is no chance to turn, hardly even a chance to register what is happening before Jamie crashes into me, full-force, plummeting me to the ground.

As I land, a great, lancing pain explodes from my shoulder, the air jolts from my lungs, and my brain shuts down. I don't think I faint, because the softly-mottled grey sky remains steady in front of my eyes, and my short, sharp, agonizing breaths still rattle in my ears, but everything else is gone. Blank.

I drift, a shredded wisp of cloud spread thin across the dark surface of space.

A red-gold orb and a silver tree grow from my hands, one heavy and burning, like a Skycity core, and the other tiny, delicate and ethereal, like something from a garden made for fairies. I walk down an ancient roadway, its grey, fitted cobbles covered in red and yellow lichen. The trees reach out to me, root and branch, to take me back into themselves, as though I am the offspring of a star and a dryad, left orphaned here by the turbulent mists of a distant nebula. I sit next to a round, clear pool of Stygian blue, surrounded by the sweet, green-earthen scent of thyme.

Two lanterns descend from the sky, glowing white-hot with a fury I do not share and cannot understand.

"Claire!" says the wind.

I breathe deep, and blink, for the first time in several eons. The lanterns hover over me, now burning bright cyan, like Blueblast bombs. . .

"Claire! I need ye here wi' me, lass!"

My vision collapses into cold, silver shards, and slips away like bits of ice driven before a keening wind. Jamie is looking down at me, deep concern darkening his face. I blink again.

"Wh. . . what. . . happened?"

"Yer shoulder's out o' joint, mo nighean," he says, with a voice somehow both steady and strange.

"Oh."

"Aye, an' I can put it back in, but I need tae reposition yer arm first."

"Okay."

"It will hurt, mo ghràidh, sae I need ye tae sit up."

I'm still floating somewhere far outside the realm of pain, but I slowly begin to stir, and try to sit up. As soon as I attempt to move my right arm, the mist I have become dissipates with the roaring, cursing shout I cannot keep from tearing out of my mouth.

"Aye, it's a bugger," says Jamie, his voice still strange, and still held bulkhead-steady, "Bu' this is the worst o' it now – it'll be bettar in a moment."

I push myself halfway up on my left arm, and immediately Jamie's hand comes out to steady me. I lean into his support with a gasp, and hold my right wrist to my chest, the screaming, throbbing pain in my shoulder rendering it quite unable to support the weight of my arm. Gently, Jamie replaces my hand on my wrist with his own, carefully manoeuvring me half out of my shirt, so he can see my shoulder while he works.

It is only then that I notice that both my coat and shirt are open, the cold November air raising rough chicken-flesh all over my skin. . .

"Alright. Look at me now, Claire." Jamie's voice is soft, but utterly insistent. I raise my head, and look him full in the face. His eyes are hooded, intense, and focused like I've never seen them.

"Good. Now breathe wi' me." He exaggeratedly takes a breath through his nose, and exhales through his mouth, "One." He does it again. "Two." And again. "Three. And relax."

I've caught on by now, and he counts our breaths again as he slowly manipulates my arm, his eyes never leaving mine, "One. Two. Three. Relax. One. Two. Three. Relax. One. Two. Thr-"

With a twisting wrench that nearly incinerates me with agony, and a bone-deep but also somehow subtle clicking noise, my shoulder is back in its socket, the pain evaporates, and my mind is launched free from survival mode.

The relief is so great, and so sudden, that I start laughing hysterically, "It. . . it doesn't hurt anymore!" I slump against him, still laughing wildly, uncaring about the cold, or who might hear or see me.

"Aye, but it will, lass." Jaime wraps an arm around me, "Ye'll need something tae brace it until I can get ye a sling. . ." he reaches out to tap one of the pairs of legs surrounding us, "Rupert, lend us yer belt, aye?"

I blink, and suddenly notice the large ring of backs surrounding and shielding us from public view. At least a dozen men, from the crowd and from both shinty teams, have clustered round me. Well, us.

I smile, and my heart swells with gratitude. These men. . .

"My belt?" echoes Rupert, incredulously.

"Aye, dinnae ask questions, just gi' the lady yer belt, aye?"

"Ov all t'things I've ne'er been asked afore. . ." he trails off into unintelligible grumbling, but eventually the long leather strap clatters down beside Jamie's knees. He promptly coils it around me, setting the loop of it so that all the weight of my arm is lifted up, and puts no tension on my shoulder.

"Now keep it as still as ye can, aye?" I nod. He zips up my coat without buttoning up my shirt, then helps me to stand, supporting me by my left arm, "We'll need tae get ye a sling, a pain-killer, and a topical muscle relaxant tae help wi'-"

A farm-hand runs up to our little group, panting urgently, "Come quick! Marc's fire caught the haystack by the stables! We need tae get t'horses oot in case t'stucture goes!"

The ring breaks up quickly, a score or so men running off to help immediately, and a great many more going for buckets and shovels from the barn. "Agch!" Jamie groans, "If et's no' one thing et's ten things!"

I'm about to shoo him away from me, to tell him I'll be alright, that this obviously takes precedence, when a question suddenly comes to me, somehow overriding all of that.

"Wait!" I call out.

Everyone around me pauses mid-stride.

"Who won?"

The only answers I get are wide-eyed stares, and a chorus of incredulous laughter that is no answer at all.