#billy quite literally has a scottish accent

[wholeshebangs]

cloak and dagger

( these are two scenes i wrote... 4-3 years ago? for a harringrove witcher au i was working on with @aggressiveviking during the beginning of covid. i didn’t want these to keep gathering dust in my docs so, i’m turning them into a drabble here.

the one where billy is a witcher and steve is the missing noble he needs to bring back home. )

First, he hears the steady beating of his own heart, then the crackling of a campfire.

When Billy opens his eyes, bright specks fly over his face. Embers floating above the flames, soaring like fireflies in the dark.

His pupils shrink at the sight and – immediately, it makes way for a wave of nausea. It causes his stomach to churn, and his eyeballs to throb. Leaves him feeling a bit sick and pallid. The glowing warmth beside him heating the blood beneath his skin and seeping from it thick beads of sweat.

It doesn’t take him long to realize he’s just woken up from deep slumber. His memories are blurry. He can only wonder when exactly his consciousness went adrift. His bones feel heavy and his limbs are numb. And for a moment, he thinks his body is slowly sinking into the dirt below him.

His eyes grow wide, he draws in a gasp, and suddenly a far more pleasing sight welcomes him.

“You shouldn’t move,” Steven’s face is there, the sound of his voice ever so soothing. He hovers over Billy, hair messy and ungathered. His features are gentle, handsome, save for the new cut on his nose. “M’not sure if your wounds have healed yet.”

“Wounds?” Billy all but croaks like a lake frog. He’s then suddenly more aware, and despite what he’s told, he props himself up on his elbows with a groan, desperate to get a look of their surroundings; just a bunch of fuckin’ trees and a small clearing. “What happened?”

Steven is there again to push him back, canteen in hand. He frowns. “Don’t you remember? Thought we were huntin’ for a foglet on the prowl. Turned out it’d been dead all along. A taller, much ugly bastard knocked you out cold. Didn’t value my life enough to flee.”

Billy stares at him, because Steven looks, well, not any worse than he feels. “What’d ye do?”

Steven shrugs and answers simply. “I killed it.”

“What?”

Billy figures he deserves the cold glare he receives in return. Steven purses his lips, a wrinkle growing in the space between his eyebrows. He’s never been one to enjoy being underestimated. “You had some sort of concoction on you. Threw it at ‘em and the fucker blew right up. Wasn’t pretty.” Steven isn’t very delicate in the way he pushes the canteen against Billy’s lips, but Billy drinks up anyway. His throat feels better already. “Decided to keep the head like you do, hang it up on my steed, and I must say, looks rather… morbid but the satisfaction is still rewarding.”

Right as Steven says this, Billy turns to their horses. They’re both standing together, chewing on the grass. His own carries a griffin’s head, and Steven’s -- “An ekimmara.”

“Hm.”

Steven doesn’t sound at all like he even knows what the creature actually is, a fact Billy almost finds impressive if not amusing. Its head hangs there, still fresh, oozing with blood and staining its white beard a nasty red. They are ugly. And Steven just… cut its head off like that.

What catches his attention the most is that he remains here, by Billy’s side. He’s been watching over him, tending to his wounds, eating the remains of their fuckin’ trail mix, Billy’s guessing.

He does look exhausted though. Hungry. Didn’t value my life enough to flee, Steven had said, acknowledging that he could have ran, but didn’t.

While Billy’s too conflicted to say anything, Steven unfolds the bandages he’d apparently wrapped around his torso. It is then that Billy notices the heavier parts of his armor had been removed. His skin has already scarred. “You’re lucky your kind don’t die easy,” Steven says.

But his kind do. His kind get the flu and die within a week. His kind get lost and never return. And he stayed long enough to blow a monster up. Long enough to boast about it.

Could’da ran and hid where Billy wouldn’t find him again.

Billy’s face drops. “Are ye hurt?”

Steven looks up at him, seemingly taken aback. He shakes his head and nibbles at his bottom lip. “Nearly shit my trousers and lost my bloody hearin’ for you but I’m good.”

Billy feels it, the itch of what could’ve been a laugh at the base of his throat. He likes Steven’s character.

But that slight resemblance of a grin soon falters. Steven’s fingertips brush over his abdomen, gingerly, tracing the scars that reach his navel. Billy figures he must be taking a last look. Surely, with no ulterior motive. It is Billy who draws in a breath and holds it in, not Steven.

There’s a pause that indicates hesitation. Billy’s eyelashes flutter, his skin burns up, and he waits. Stares at the hand that’s giving him a heated thrill. Stares until the red against pale skin leads his thoughts elsewhere.

“Yer bleedin’.”

When he looks up, he notices Steven’s cheeks have gone rosy. It catches him off guard for only a second. “It’s nothing,” Steven grumbles, pulls his hand away almost immediately and stands, hair askew. “I need a wash. There’s a river nearby.”

“Steven –”

“I’ll be back,” Steven gives him that authoritative look that always shuts Billy up, but it is somehow also reassuring. Enough that Billy deflates. “I shouldn't take too long, and you can look after yourself.”

“That’s not why I worry.”

“I know.”

Steven doesn’t give him a chance to answer. He turns on his heels and leaves, back to Billy, clothes so dark he blends in with the trees once the fire’s glow no longer reaches him. Billy focuses on his senses only so he can hear where Steven runs off to, catches the sound of a steady stream and of rippling water and realizes Steven wasn’t lying after all.

He feels foolish, embarrassed even. He doesn’t know whether to blame himself or Steven for having done it before.

One of the horses huff, and when Billy looks, Steven’s steed has a dark stare fixed on him.

“Don’t look at me like that.” It doesn’t look away either. “Stop.”

It troubles him when he wonders who trusts the other more. Most days he doesn’t know what to make of the things Steven does and says. Perhaps he ponders too much on it, too unused to being seen as something other than a mutant freak. He’s not quite sure why he continues to entertain the thought that Steven isn’t them, the people who spit on the ground Billy walks on and that throw their coins at his feet when he finishes the job.

He looks to where Steven took off, takes a deep breath and decides he too longs for a wash.

~

When the sky grows dark and the dim light of the sun fails to pierce the billow of fog just ahead, on the other side of the horizon, the moon rises. Tonight, it will be full, and it will mark another day where his future seems more uncertain. He doubts even an old seer would have anything good to say about his fortune. For the deadline was due a month ago and their path was still long. They’ve just gotten to the Crossroads. Novigrad was perhaps another full moon away as well.

It will also count as another day where Steven still hasn’t made it back home. Billy wonders if Steven would even want that. Or if he'd stay, in the end. Once, that kind of setting fit him like a glove. But now?

"–the poor old sod gots this look in his eyes. He's sweatin' down to his knickers, shakin' in his boots and everything. Over a ladle. Can you imagine? I've won many things over a round of cards. But a ladle? Oh. And not just any ladle," Now Billy wonders how Steven’s parents would react to a story like this. He can imagine a banquet, a feast across one of those big, long tables, with proper rich guests hearing a nobleman’s son boast about how he won a round of gwent to some old bastard in Oreton.

"A golden ladle. Made stews and whatnot taste different, he said. I myself learned to settle for roasted wild dogs, but I couldn't turn down a good challenge. I won the damn thing too, you know. Looked mighty fine held up in the sun. Didn't do shit with it though. Lost it one night I got much too drunk. I wonder what happened to it..."

Billy doesn’t know what to say, so he only offers, “My condolences,” and gets a somewhat amused look from Steven. “Can’t imagine what it must feel like to lose an item so valuable.”

If Steven notices the thick sarcasm in his voice, he doesn’t show it. “And I never got to have a bowl of stew stirred with a golden ladle. Shame.” As an afterthought, he adds, “I’ve eaten gold flakes off a tart once though.”

Billy frowns. “Did it taste any different?”

A breeze blows over Steven’s loose string of hair, before he answers, “Nah, not really.” He fiddles with the reins in his hands some. “Emptyin’ my bowels however--”

“Please shut up.”

Steven grins wide, snickers loudly, before they fall silent once again. They’re both tired, worn down to the bone. Steven no longer sits straight and proud over his steed like usual, but he hunches over him, running a soothing hand over the horse’s neck every now and again. The beast huffs louder now, flares its nostrils like a hunting hound.

"We should stay here the night." At this, Steven only hums, a throaty sound that makes Billy’s mouth water. Steven’s eyelids are heavy, his lips wet from licking, he thinks. The weather is cold, the air dry. His lips must be getting chapped. And perhaps Billy must be thinking about them for too long, because Steven turns to look at him like he’s gone mad. “You must be tired.”

Steven squints a bit, then goes, “What about you? Not gonna’ meditate again, are you? It’s so boring.”

“Ugh, stop complaining.” Billy has yet to understand why this bothers the other so much. “Yer not meant to watch. Nothing fascinating will happen if you stare long enough.”

Steven just shrugs, turns to face ahead, where the village has become clearer to the view. “Can’t sleep knowin’ you’re just sitting here. It’s awkward.”

“Uh-uh.”

The village isn’t boasting with people. The townsfolk must have gotten ready for bed. The cattle chew slowly on the grass, the poultry peck on the dirt. The candles glow from the other side of the windows, yet the village remains quiet. There’s an old man with a dog sitting on a porch, watching. But the old man does not squint, and the old dog does not bark. They seem friendly, but looks can be deceiving, he’s learned.

The mud here is wetter than usual. The wind whistles. The sky is gray as the starry night takes over. It should rain soon enough. The misty weather would do nothing to him. Steven though, he gets sick like any other person.

“We keep to ourselves,” Billy starts, beginning to grow wary now that he’s certain his luck must be turning foul. He should have been back with Steven weeks ago. “No blabbering or nothin’ with anyone. No playing cards with strangers–”

But not to anyone’s surprise, or to his own really, Steven isn’t listening. He isn’t even next to Billy. He stopped his horse to read the frayed notice board.

They shouldn’t be taking contracts anymore. Steve knows this. Billy’s been in a hurry since he first left Novigrad.

However, the closer he inches to Steven, the more cautious he grows. Because he’s staring at something, expression somber. He looks upset, almost. And when Billy takes a look himself –

It’s one of those missing posters he’d seen some time ago before he found Steven, where he’s younger and doesn’t look much like he does now. The sketch is rougher than the one Billy keeps, with thinner lines and little details. It’s still Steven though, even if the paper is weathered and yellow. His eyes look sadder in this one. Shinier even. It’s almost like the artist wanted people to feel pity.

Billy wouldn’t have thought those posters would make it this far into the area. He wonders if the villagers here even know who this boy is, or was.

“They looked for me,” Steven all but whispers. Billy guesses he must be referring to his parents. It’s a bit of an awkward predicament. He doesn’t like the solemn tone in Steven’s voice.

“Of course they did,” As far as comforting words go, he doesn’t seem to do so well. Steven’s face grows a bit more sour. “Yer their son after all. They sent me looking for you for a reason.”

“Would’da expected it from mother,” Steven comments, shoulders falling. “But father…”

Billy doesn’t have many great things to say about Steven’s father. Man’s a bit of a flaccid prick. But mothers always lose their wits when their children go missing. “You disappeared without a trace. ‘Twas to be expected.”

Steven doesn’t answer. He stares at the poster, like the sight of himself as a young lad strikes him wrong.

“Come,” Billy calls, kicking his own horse so that it moves a few steps ahead. “It’s getting dark.”

“Wait.”

Boy’s got eyes almost as good as his own. The notice board is littered with all kinds of papers and contracts, like the people couldn’t be damned to keep them in order anymore. There’s one nailed over another yellowy poster, too. Steven reaches out, rips it away, and pauses.

“Oh,” His big eyes grow wider. Billy feels his face and ears grow hot. “Oh! Uilleim – they got you all sorts of wrong. Take a look at this!”

Billy doesn’t want to, because he knows exactly what the fuck it is. He saw it from the peripheral of his eyes. He’s avoiding having to look at it, but Steven’s shoving it in his face as their horses bump together, suddenly lacking the concept of personal space.

Steven all but guffaws. It’s loud, so loud. That old man he spotted with the dog turns to look at them. “Steven –”

“By the Gods, man, what did they do to you?” It’s very fitting for him to point everyone to the wanted man. Because, it’s a Wanted poster, offering a considerable prize for Billy’s head. The scars look worse than how they actually are, deeper and rougher. His eyes? He looks like a fucking lizard in this. He doesn’t remember his eyebrows ever looking that neglected. And he knows he looks healthier than that. “Ya look like you missed a month’s worth of rations. A skinny fellow, like those bandits on the road! Remember that thin, shit-eating twat from Condyle?”

“Could you–” Billy has little luck swatting the poster away from Steven’s hands. When Billy stiffens and glares, Steven holds the poster up again to compare. He wheezes.

“They did you no justice. You’re far more handsome than this,” Flattering, except the jest doesn’t seem so funny when it means Steven’s father is quite literally out for his blood. Steven’s eyes water like he’s seeing something so hilarious his bladder may burst. “You look like a basilisk.”

“If you don’t hand over that poster right now I will rip yer guts out,” He has no such luck. Steven’s never been afraid of him. Any other day he would’ve found that endearing. Today though? “Steven.”

“Can I keep it?”

“What–” Billy scowls. “No.”

“If I leave it here the others might spot ya,” At this, Steven pauses. “I don’t think they’ll be able to tell it’s you actually. Not with their gawkers.”

Billy can’t tell if he feels embarrassed, angry, or humiliated. He’s tired however. He doesn’t want to spend all night trying to take that horrendous piece of work off Steven’s greedy hands. “If you show it to anyone–”

“What?” Steven gives him a daring look, as if this were even the time. “You’ll fight me?”

Billy glowers at him. “I’ll show them this.”

He feels and thinks he sounds ridiculous. ‘Cause he actually likes the sketch of Steven he kept. The one where he wears his noble clothes, where his hair is style, where his eyes are kind and almost soothing. But to Steven this is embarrassing, shameful, and he turns bright red at the sight of it. His little bully act? It falters. He looks horrified even. “Mother made me sit down for hours so the painter could finish that,” He’s sharing this memory like it’s the most awful experience he’s ever gone through. “My ass hurt after.”

“Yeah, well, it’s going to hurt more if you don’t shut it.” It’s not the choice of words he meant to choose. Steven stammers to say something; Billy tries not to think of the hotness in his own face. He needs to be able to meditate later. “Let’s go.”

Steven follows, though with little enthusiasm. “You’re a bore,” Billy rolls his eyes. “I don’t find your quick wit amusing anymore.”

“Hey,” Billy turns back to the inn. “Feelin’s mutual.”

[pigballoon]

Outlaw King

(David Mackenzie, 2018)

As a big fan of almost everything that David Mackenzie has done to date, a filmmaker who even when his films are not quite outright winners is usually interesting enough as a filmmaker, or playing with characters from far enough out of left field to be supremely watchable I have to say without a shadow of a doubt this is by some margin the weakest film of his that I have ever seen.

It’s a damn shame too, because after his breakout American movie, the Oscar nominated Hell and High Water was not only lauded by critics, but performed impressively at the box office you would think the world would be his oyster. Indeed, he’s made the most of that success, Outlaw King is by far the biggest production of his life, and it all looks wonderful, there’s never any sense of cheapness around the movie, the costumes don’t look especially like costumes, the world looks lived in, the visuals are impressive, and he’s assembled a cast of enough note that they can at least lend this film the appearance of prestige and class, but when it comes down to it this Scottish directors big Hollywood Scottish movie is... More Hollywood fairytale than Braveheart was.

It sells itself as something more, no kilts, no bagpipes, it’s a much more sombre affair in general, yet when it comes down to it the film is as loose with the truth, and as romanticized in its portrait of its leading man and lady as Mad Mel’s much maligned Best Picture winner.

Not that a film in this day and age about a history 700 years in the past should ever be expected to be remotely accurate, anyone that has seen enough movies will know better than that by now, but if you’re selling yourself as a more accurate take on a history that has already been popularly told then maybe try harder. The representation of both Robert the Bruce and his wife Elizabeth is so comically 21st century in the midst of all this 14th century brutality that it renders the movie at its very core quite impossible to take seriously. Beyond that, and more importantly than that, the film in general is a gross simplification of complicated people at a complicated time in history, which is a damn shame because Mackenzie has proven himself time and time again a man who delves into the complex natures of people, into their dark hearts, and so for him to be basically doing Robin Hood in Scotland with dodgy accents to boot is just such a wasted opportunity.

Still, all that moaning aside it’s a very watchable movie. As already noted, the production values are great, as the pretty, laughably romanticized leads Chris Pine and the wonderful Florence Pugh are both fine (their sex scene is one of note, one of the few interesting things in the entire film), James Cosmo lends a little class and authenticity, Billy Howle continues to fill the niche of obnoxious, pathetic asshole brilliantly to the point you can’t tell if he’s awful or wonderful, Aaron Taylor-Johnson creeps along quietly, normally, until his time comes to shine, and then he flies off the fucking handle with aplomb in another of the movies genuine highlights. The final of said highlights to take note of is the mighty Stephen Dillane, bringing far more class to this movie than it deserves, doing a total 180 from Patrick McGoohan’s legendary take on the same monarch, fleshing him out through performance in a way that nobody else here manages to do, and being far too underused. 

If you’re into the whole historical drama thing then it’s an easy to watch one too, and in spite of its sombre nature it never drags, it’s a really classy piece of work on Mackenzie’s part, but the fact that it has 5 credited writers, and pretty much every other movie he’s ever made have had 1 or 2 at most kind of shows. The human element is totally lost, but at least it has guts, literal ones, not narrative or cinematic ones.