Morrigan by Jonathan King (cat reading book txt) 📕

toweled himself off. Mac had left him one of his nightshirts, a red-striped monstrosity like the ones worn in cartoons, and it was far too big on him. The neckline exposed most of his chest, and the sleeves and hem drooped and dragged and made movement nearly impossible. He rolled up the sleeves as tight as he could and lifted the hem above his feet, feeling awkwardly like a bride going down the aisle.

It was dark outside the bathroom, all silent and still as the gods slumbered. Except—he leaned toward the door, straining to hear—a faint rhythmic clanging came from somewhere in the shop.

He stepped out into the darkness, groping along until he spotted a light flickering from down a set of metal stairs. Easing down the steps, he found himself awash in the heat of a forge. Brigid stood silhouetted in the orange glow, her shadow dancing on the floor as she hammered steel into shape on the anvil. Strike after strike landed, flattening to an edge and point.

Abel watched, mesmerized. It was a simple, repetitive action, nothing magical about it, and yet Brigid looked as natural and powerful and right working her forge as she had wielding fire earlier. In the core of his being, he knew this was what she was supposed to be.

Brigid waved to him and shocked him out of his trance. “Don’t be shy. Come on in, lad.”

Abel shuffled down the last few steps, grateful that the nightshirt was made of breathable fabric. He was already sweating in the heat. “Working kinda late, aren’t you?”

“Sure, but I wanted to get this done before we left.” Brigid plunged the sword—it definitely was a sword, Abel saw—into a bucket of water, producing a cloud of steam. “In fact, I wanted to finish before you saw it, but now that you’re here, you might as well have a look.”

Abel puckered his forehead. “You didn’t want me to see it?”

“Of course not. It’s a surprise for you!” She pulled the sword from the water and held it to the light. The steel glinted silver and glowed with dying heat, unpolished but beautiful, with a hilt in the shape of a Celtic cross.

“It’s great,” said Abel.

Brigid giggled. “Go on. You really think so?”

“It’s fantastic. And you did all that in, what, a few hours?”

Brigid shook her head. “This is the end result of days of work. Making swords is a hobby of mine, and this is my latest. I only thought you might find it useful.” She handed it to Abel. “How does it feel?”

Abel shifted the hilt in his hand and tried a few practice swings, surprised to find it slicing the air gracefully instead of the clumsy strokes he’d expected. “It feels good,” he said. “I think. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing with this. I’m not much of a swordsman.”

“You’re not meant to be,” said Brigid. “It’s only to defend yourself as a last resort, if we’re taken down and you can’t shout your enemy apart.”

Abel snorted. “A lot of good I’ll be then. I’m no warrior.”

“So you said.”

“I almost died today, you know. All because I made a stupid mistake. And who’s saying the monster we face tomorrow won’t be twice as deadly?” Abel sighed and sat on the steps, letting the sword droop in his hand. “Mac’s the god of the sea, right? That’s got to make him pretty potent, not to mention that special sword of his. Morrigan’s got her fighting skill and her powers, and you throw fire around like a beach ball. I’m just me, the kid who quotes Scripture and grows herbs in mason jars and couldn’t work up the nerve to leave home for seventeen years.”

“Sounds like you’re pretty hard on yourself,” said Brigid.

Abel sighed. “I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder why Morrigan chose me in the first place, or why she didn’t leave me to the Red Caps, or let that vampire suck out all my blood.”

“That’s not who she is,” said Brigid. “You’ll see. And she chose you because she likes you.”

Abel looked up in surprise. “Really?”

“Oh yes. I could tell, even when she was cross with you in the pub. There’s something between you two.”

Abel pushed his glasses up his nose to hide his smile. “I mean, yeah, of course I like her. She’s amazing.” The smile faded. “But why would she like me?”

Brigid pondered the question for a moment. Then she reached down. “May I see the sword again?” Abel handed it over, and she examined it from blade to hilt. “Y’know, there was a time when I spent months working on a single sword. Not because it made it any better, but because I had to make it absolutely perfect. Even now, I could focus on the flaws, the imperfections, the parts that don’t meet my standards.” She eyed Abel. “That’s your attitude.”

“Yeah,” said Abel, his eyes dropping to the floor.

“We’re artists, you and I,” said Brigid. “But your creation is yourself, and you’re not happy with it. It’s not your fault. Dissatisfaction is in our nature. Especially when we have so many people telling us we’re not good enough.”

Abel’s mind jumped again to the Reverend. He’d never said it, but the message got through loud and clear. “I know what you mean.”

“But if I made every sword perfect,” said Brigid, “they’d all be the same, and what’s the point in that? There’s no craftsmanship, no art.” She swung the sword through the air. “It’s the imperfections that make this sword this sword and no other. It’s unique, one of a kind, and it was made that way. Just like Mac was made for the sea, Morrigan for war, and I for fire.” She tapped Abel’s chest with the point of the sword. “You were made to be you, whoever that may be. Don’t measure yourself by us. You don’t have to be anything like us. And you certainly don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be you.”

Abel smiled.