OOM: An impossible dream
Urquhart hadn't died in Cologne. Oh, of course he hadn't died in Cologne. He'd done his work as always, he'd taken his money, and one day, he'd decided to go home with his friends.
He'd picked them up on his way, at some stage, and they fitted each other perfectly. The quiet, skilful counterfeiter and confidence trickster whose pleasant smiling face was so commonplace he could go anywhere, as anybody; the most beautiful red-headed woman ever to part a besotted rich man from his money; the tall blond killer, strong and merciless, well-spoken and calculating. Together, they had become very, very rich. And one day, they had decided to reclaim the home of the only one of them who still had one.
Urquhart's friends were quite uprooted -- he had been the younger son of a lesser Bohemian nobleman, landless and rebellious, educated and resentful of all the traditional ways out that his situation did not really offer. She had been sold by her parents so early, the other two secretly suspected she didn't remember whatever name she'd been given in baptism, long ago. Highly intelligent and utterly ruthless just as the men, she preferred taking by trick or force to plainly delivering the goods expected from her.
But Urquhart had a castle to go back to, waiting for him in the Highlands, and one day, they had embarked there, and reclaimed it. He was still the laird, and nobody even thought of doubting the honour of his faithful sidekick (much more than just a squire) and his breathtakingly stunning wife.
They were sitting on a lonely rock now, at the shore of the Loch, just out of view of the castle, in the sunshine, comfortable and content like three dogs curled up before a big roaring fire. "If we ever get bored being lazy," Angus was explaining to them -- of course they knew his name was Angus! -- "we have this entire England south of the border, full of all these snotty Norman barons and uncouth Englishmen" -- they all chuckled, as there had been one special big burly uncouth Englishman who had tried to meddle with them, aroused their personal displeasure, and lived to regret it -- "with whom we can do whatever we want, in really inventive new ways, and when we come home with loot, we'll be heroes every time. We'll never get bored."
The chuckled, appreciating the thought, but as yet, still content to not have to move again.
Urquhart pulled them close in his arms and whispered to them what he could finally, sometimes, really feel again: "I --"
When Urquhart woke up, after a brief, unscheduled, uneasy nap in his room, he didn't first realise what was wrong with him. His face was hot and his throat cramped, his chest constricted, his breath coming in short, painful hiccups, his eyes burning. Urquhart hid his face in his pillow until the unfamiliar convulsions subsided; but the pain in his chest was still there.
His pillow was damp.
Only then did he understand what the real curse of the goddess had been, and what was really wrong with him.
Stop talking and learn to feel your own feelings, you foolish ego driven man, she had said.
So his voice no longer obeyed him -- he couldn't even sob! -- and he was feeling things he hadn't known for over a decade. They had become so strange, he hadn't even identified them before this.-
He'd picked them up on his way, at some stage, and they fitted each other perfectly. The quiet, skilful counterfeiter and confidence trickster whose pleasant smiling face was so commonplace he could go anywhere, as anybody; the most beautiful red-headed woman ever to part a besotted rich man from his money; the tall blond killer, strong and merciless, well-spoken and calculating. Together, they had become very, very rich. And one day, they had decided to reclaim the home of the only one of them who still had one.
Urquhart's friends were quite uprooted -- he had been the younger son of a lesser Bohemian nobleman, landless and rebellious, educated and resentful of all the traditional ways out that his situation did not really offer. She had been sold by her parents so early, the other two secretly suspected she didn't remember whatever name she'd been given in baptism, long ago. Highly intelligent and utterly ruthless just as the men, she preferred taking by trick or force to plainly delivering the goods expected from her.
But Urquhart had a castle to go back to, waiting for him in the Highlands, and one day, they had embarked there, and reclaimed it. He was still the laird, and nobody even thought of doubting the honour of his faithful sidekick (much more than just a squire) and his breathtakingly stunning wife.
They were sitting on a lonely rock now, at the shore of the Loch, just out of view of the castle, in the sunshine, comfortable and content like three dogs curled up before a big roaring fire. "If we ever get bored being lazy," Angus was explaining to them -- of course they knew his name was Angus! -- "we have this entire England south of the border, full of all these snotty Norman barons and uncouth Englishmen" -- they all chuckled, as there had been one special big burly uncouth Englishman who had tried to meddle with them, aroused their personal displeasure, and lived to regret it -- "with whom we can do whatever we want, in really inventive new ways, and when we come home with loot, we'll be heroes every time. We'll never get bored."
The chuckled, appreciating the thought, but as yet, still content to not have to move again.
Urquhart pulled them close in his arms and whispered to them what he could finally, sometimes, really feel again: "I --"
When Urquhart woke up, after a brief, unscheduled, uneasy nap in his room, he didn't first realise what was wrong with him. His face was hot and his throat cramped, his chest constricted, his breath coming in short, painful hiccups, his eyes burning. Urquhart hid his face in his pillow until the unfamiliar convulsions subsided; but the pain in his chest was still there.
His pillow was damp.
Only then did he understand what the real curse of the goddess had been, and what was really wrong with him.
Stop talking and learn to feel your own feelings, you foolish ego driven man, she had said.
So his voice no longer obeyed him -- he couldn't even sob! -- and he was feeling things he hadn't known for over a decade. They had become so strange, he hadn't even identified them before this.-