Being at the end of a blade would afear anyone; not her. Not Eilodh’s blade. True and valourous, much like the woman who wields it, Laera knows never to worry about who the real enemy of hers is. Still, for all her reassurances, Laera stays back and away, fearing something else.
She hides it well, expression failing to betray the inner turmoil that grips her chest; the anticipation of her reaction being anything but kind… Laera knows how Eilodh is, how Alasdair is, too: Their hatred of the English spanning centuries, cultivating and nurturing a grudge as black as the River Clyde. It’s a deep heartache Laera will never know, and in the eyes of her friends, her kinfolk, she can’t bear the thought of wearing the mantle of traitor.
❝ Is ‘e…? ❞ She asks, tracking the path down the tiny hill, into the town proper, to the smithy. ❝ I didn’t know ‘e knew ‘ow to smith, ❞ Comes her response, though she supposes with an unending life, it would be a waste to pass up resourceful opportunities.
Aurburn brows furrow, a frown settling on her face as if catching wind of something foul. In her chest, her heart seizes; she doesn’t want to answer. ❝ Alasdair’s just one man. And I ken they won’t be bringing those folk back… Less it’s in a coffin. Seems to me you’ll be staying longer than either of you like, ❞ An aversion to Eilodh’s question, and Laera musters up the courage to advance a few paces before she stops. ❝ Do you ‘ave any talents worth a surprise? Stitching, maybe? ❞ It’s the first time she smiles, half-heartedly grinning at the thought of Eilodh sewing. Nae, she’d rather wield a blade than a seamstress’s needle.
Many a time had Eilodh stared directly at a blade pointed to her throat. Once, long ago, it had meant something. For there was a time such a blade might end her life, as it had ended many lives upon her beloved ground. But no blade could end her— not anymore. And so, as years passed, she stared up along the glinting metal that taunted her with a wild and wicked gaze. But for Laera, the blade still held the possibility of an end. And still, Laera was ne’er one to back down from a fight. Still, Laera did not yield.
You are sword and shield because you have to be.
In a moment of rarity, Eilodh sheathed her sword. Her gaze did not follow that of her friend’s, but instead turned to the rolling wilds on the opposite end of the horizon. “Aye, he does. Apprenticed many a year ago under some smithy long gone.”There was heartache there in her voice— the sting of outliving everyone she’d ever know, save for her brother.
Something made her turn then. Perhaps it was Laera’s next words, or the sense of something that shifted in the wind. A long moment passed in silence with only Eilodh’s knowing gaze upon Laera. “Ye know Alasdair. He goes by his heart. An’ it’s what would hae killed him, if—”
She stopped. Alasdair died the first time for her— stepped in front of the blade to keep her and her secret safe. She should not have been on the battlefield that day.,,
Eilodh was almost glad for the change in the subject. Still, the abrupt change was enough to knit her brows. “Do ye always answer a question wi’ a question?”
“I cannae stitch pretty things, but I can stitch a wound.” That wasn’t her question, though. Something else beyond the fight. Her gaze drifted to the soil by her feet, as if she had to will it to spring forth from the ground. “I was once a right good dancer. An’ rider. Hae ye e’er ridden across th’ lowlands, lass?”
Laera lingers just out of the light of the day, shrouded under an arch of stone, watching, rehearsing, and anticipating the worst. Her dark eyes stare into the open space, just out of sight, consciously counting the swing of Eilodh’s sword as it seamlessly arcs through the mid-noon air.
She’s had the honour of crossing blades with her – as fine a swordswoman as she ever knew – and equally as devoted to their homeland. She’s brave, she’s resilient, and she also a temper unlike Laera has ever seen. The thought alone makes her jaw tighten, and in the back of her head, she can hear the other woman shouting, swearing… Laera is unsure if she’s prepared to face that.
In preparation, she breathes deep: ❝ Eilodh, ❞ Laera starts, timing her emergence from under the shadow of the archway with the swing of her blade, and she doesn’t get nearly as close as she wishes. Her nerves keep her away, but the rigidity of her expression softens, just a bit, ❝ You never stop, do you? ❞ And she nods, gazing at the sword. They have that in common: Stubborn persistence. To them, stopping meant defeat. ❝ I thought by now you’d be gone… Villages that are more than a few people tend to ‘ave you scattering. What is it that’s keeping you longer a few months? ❞
A change of tactic, she decides, at the last second. Eventually, she will get to what she needs to say.
There was a bitterness to the way in which she swung her sword— like years of wrongdoing setting the course of the blade. Eilodh stared at nothing, and everything,all at once. Phantom memories rushed upon her with foreign, traitorous feet. Cruel were the years that passed, for she knew such phantom memories would soon become reality. The ghosts of what had been did not stay that way for long. They always came back with each generation. They promised change— promised lessons learned. But such plans gang aft agley, as Rabbie Burns once wrote. She smirked as she struck her blow to the air. Aye, Alasdair had rubbed off on her over the years.
The sound of another prompts her to pivot sharply on her heel, blade sweeping with her in defense. With gritted teeth and wild, dark eyes, Eilodh stared down the length of the blade only to catch the visage of a dear friend. Something sparked in her eyes, and a near devilish grin followed soon thereafter.
“Laera,” she greeted, lowering her blade. “I canne stop, as ye cannae.” There was a kinship between them, and if Eilodh had ever seen a reflection of herself, it had been in Laera’s eyes. The struggle. The fight. The resilience. But it was her next observation made Eilodh set her jaw before turning her gaze toward the village. A small cluster of houses built stone by by stone nestled at the foot of the hill.
“Alasdair’s in th’ forges. Th’ smithy’s son got snatched up by twa recruiters for th’ English.” Highlanders for the British Empire. How quickly they changed their tune! First killing off her kin, whom they branded as brutes, and now recruiting them for their own gain. Eilodh spit over her shoulder. “Took half th’ lads o’ th’ village, they did. Includin’ th’ smithy’s only bairn.” She turned to Laera. “He couldna keep up on his work alone, so Alasdair stays an’ works fer ‘em.”
She turned back to Laera, eyes watching her for but a moment. “What brings ye tae us?”
