(( Part one of two ))
“By the Spinner… what is that thing anyway, Father?â€
The boy had seen hints of it before, but its location made is easy enough hide under most clothing and, though he did not realize it, his father took pains to ensure it rarely saw the light of day. But a man had to bathe, and the child had been thoughtful enough to bring him a towel, freshly off the clothesline and still warm from the sun’s rays.
The adult highlander started at the sound of the small voice, and turned to glance over his shoulder. He sighed. It was no use hiding the boy’s own destiny from him, though stubbornness and hope had coalesced into some kind of makeshift bulwark. Yet a sharp young mind and ample curiousity could pry apart such defenses with hardly a thought.
The man was absurdly tall – possibly well near if not past seven feet – but a rankling self-consciousness suffused deeply within the man’s bones gave him something of a perpetual slouch. Even this did not detract from the highlander’s massive bulk.
An obvious warrior, the thirty-four year-old blond looked like he could munch on pebbles for breakfast, with a rumbling, rocky voice to imply that he did just that – though he seemed to have a penchant for keeping his silence.
The boy’s gaze was arrested by the strange and archaic lines transgressing over his father’s right shoulder. Made of some kind of mystic ink so black it sucked the light in from around it, the lines formed a geometric pattern of boxes, rectangles, and other shapes that meant nothing to a casual observer. Yet there could be no denying that this was not the work of man. On close inspection, the pattern perpetuated into obscurity; the lines far too small to have been tattooed, let alone fully observed. Not that the heavy highlander allowed any such observation.
Turning around, the fighter took the towel from his son’s hands and padded himself off in a silence that resonated with emotion.
“Do you still not trust me?†asked the child.
The question shore through his defenses like an arrowhead through flesh, and the quiet man physically winced. Now dried, the fighter pulled his shirt back over his head with a sigh, obfuscating the mark from view once more.
“Veny, my son…â€
Looking at his progeny, the fighter’s jaw clenched to keep the emotion from his face. Barely pushing twelve, the lad was growing into a fine young man. Hair of flaxen gold like his father’s, gaze of the deepest ocean like his mother, and a broad back upon which to carry the world’s weight. He was deft, clever, and absurdly curious – something his father had wholeheartedly encouraged throughout his upbringing.
The lad squirmed under the inspection, his twisted body language procuring a soft chuckle from the fighter. Likely he thought himself in trouble. Again.
The words he spoke then would carry the lad into adulthood, though he would not know it for quite some time.
“There will come a day,†he rasped gently as he knelt before the lad, “When you may feel your hand forced. There is no excuse, no matter how just, that will rationalize full and absolute release.â€
The boy’s lips pursed as he digested his father’s words, his adolescent mien bunching at the brow in equal parts confusion and irritation, “I . . . I don’t understand, Father. What do you mean?â€
“Promise me, Veny,†his father’s hands shot up and gripped his shoulders squarely, preventing him from moving or looking away, and the sudden direness of his voice quickened trepidation subtly onto the lad’s face, “Promise me you will heed these words.â€
“I promise,†said the boy with neither hesitation nor reservation. Such was the trust he had in the man.
“Good,†satisfied, the highlander stood with a grunt, and flashed a rare smile at the young man before raising to his feet once more, “Is that fish I smell?â€
“Mmhm. Mother is cooking perch,†confided the boy with secret glee, knowing the reaction it would glean.
“Oh-ho! My favourite!†the man’s eyes lit up, and he bounded for the exit of the baths, “You’d better hurry before I eat yours!â€
By the time the lad turned, his father was already out the door, “W-wait up, Dad!â€
Though those dour words were swiftly forgotten, their portentous nature would see them cycle back into the lad’s life much sooner than either of them would have expected.
(( Part two has been written! But, due to its length, I've separated it into its own post.  Part two here! ))
“By the Spinner… what is that thing anyway, Father?â€
The boy had seen hints of it before, but its location made is easy enough hide under most clothing and, though he did not realize it, his father took pains to ensure it rarely saw the light of day. But a man had to bathe, and the child had been thoughtful enough to bring him a towel, freshly off the clothesline and still warm from the sun’s rays.
The adult highlander started at the sound of the small voice, and turned to glance over his shoulder. He sighed. It was no use hiding the boy’s own destiny from him, though stubbornness and hope had coalesced into some kind of makeshift bulwark. Yet a sharp young mind and ample curiousity could pry apart such defenses with hardly a thought.
The man was absurdly tall – possibly well near if not past seven feet – but a rankling self-consciousness suffused deeply within the man’s bones gave him something of a perpetual slouch. Even this did not detract from the highlander’s massive bulk.
An obvious warrior, the thirty-four year-old blond looked like he could munch on pebbles for breakfast, with a rumbling, rocky voice to imply that he did just that – though he seemed to have a penchant for keeping his silence.
The boy’s gaze was arrested by the strange and archaic lines transgressing over his father’s right shoulder. Made of some kind of mystic ink so black it sucked the light in from around it, the lines formed a geometric pattern of boxes, rectangles, and other shapes that meant nothing to a casual observer. Yet there could be no denying that this was not the work of man. On close inspection, the pattern perpetuated into obscurity; the lines far too small to have been tattooed, let alone fully observed. Not that the heavy highlander allowed any such observation.
Turning around, the fighter took the towel from his son’s hands and padded himself off in a silence that resonated with emotion.
“Do you still not trust me?†asked the child.
The question shore through his defenses like an arrowhead through flesh, and the quiet man physically winced. Now dried, the fighter pulled his shirt back over his head with a sigh, obfuscating the mark from view once more.
“Veny, my son…â€
Looking at his progeny, the fighter’s jaw clenched to keep the emotion from his face. Barely pushing twelve, the lad was growing into a fine young man. Hair of flaxen gold like his father’s, gaze of the deepest ocean like his mother, and a broad back upon which to carry the world’s weight. He was deft, clever, and absurdly curious – something his father had wholeheartedly encouraged throughout his upbringing.
The lad squirmed under the inspection, his twisted body language procuring a soft chuckle from the fighter. Likely he thought himself in trouble. Again.
The words he spoke then would carry the lad into adulthood, though he would not know it for quite some time.
“There will come a day,†he rasped gently as he knelt before the lad, “When you may feel your hand forced. There is no excuse, no matter how just, that will rationalize full and absolute release.â€
The boy’s lips pursed as he digested his father’s words, his adolescent mien bunching at the brow in equal parts confusion and irritation, “I . . . I don’t understand, Father. What do you mean?â€
“Promise me, Veny,†his father’s hands shot up and gripped his shoulders squarely, preventing him from moving or looking away, and the sudden direness of his voice quickened trepidation subtly onto the lad’s face, “Promise me you will heed these words.â€
“I promise,†said the boy with neither hesitation nor reservation. Such was the trust he had in the man.
“Good,†satisfied, the highlander stood with a grunt, and flashed a rare smile at the young man before raising to his feet once more, “Is that fish I smell?â€
“Mmhm. Mother is cooking perch,†confided the boy with secret glee, knowing the reaction it would glean.
“Oh-ho! My favourite!†the man’s eyes lit up, and he bounded for the exit of the baths, “You’d better hurry before I eat yours!â€
By the time the lad turned, his father was already out the door, “W-wait up, Dad!â€
Though those dour words were swiftly forgotten, their portentous nature would see them cycle back into the lad’s life much sooner than either of them would have expected.
(( Part two has been written! But, due to its length, I've separated it into its own post.  Part two here! ))
