Billy's Bones

The Ballad Of Bill Doherty

My name is William Doherty. But that's Bill, to you. I reckon myself to be a canny enough lad. I'm no saintly, nor righteous sort. But I'm alright. I'm fair enough. Don't read me wrong, I've had my brush ins with the law - or rather, the law brushed me and left me with it's tar. It was my fault anyway and always has been.

But I'm no bad lad. I'm no creep or nasty sort. I don't reckon I've got that capacity for wickedness that some other men have. Like, I could never hurt a bairn, or some poor old fucker. That just isn't me.

Look at me, I'm going off on wild tangents already. My Aunt Lly taught me my letters not long passed, you see. And I wanted to put it to use. This is a new skill. I'm trying it on. I'm skating all about this parchment and leaving my mark so that you might see me. So that you might know. Listen to all that befell me. I don't know who you are. Maybe I'm writing for myself, anyway. Bugger you.

I'm not a big lad. I'm only little. Like, in the sense of stature. I'm not sure how tall I am. I've never had coin enough to be measured for a suit. But I'm short enough that I have to tip my chin up look up to other men. It does something to a man that, you know? Always having to look up. It does something to your soul. The feeling of /littleness/ presses down on you. And before you know, you're littler still. I'm little enough that the lasses ruffle my hair whenever they get the notion. Just reach right on out and do it. Do whatever they like. No warning. No request. Just reach for me like I'm a dog. Like I ought to be grateful. And I hate them for it. I never tell them. But I do. I hate them for it.

Speaking of littleness and dogs, brings me to another point. Cos, as you may well already know - it's not the size of the dog in the fight, but the size of the fight in the dog.

I have plenty fight in me. Little dog. Mutt. Mongrel. I'm small, sturdy, and will likely outlive the likes of you. I survived my own mother. I've survived countless stretches in Honorhall. I've survived hunger and cold. I've survived bootless. I've survived Skyrim - where every fucker seems intent to kill you. The Sea of Ghosts can go fuck itself and all. I'll be damned before that cunt ever gets me.

Another thing you ought to know is, I lost the best half of my teeth two years ago. I got them kicked out of my head by a lodger of my mam's. His name was Finnick Mallroy. And by the Nine, I'll get him back one of these days. For, who does that to a mere lad of sixteen? For that, I don't know the answer. I don't know the answer of how I'll enact my revenge neither. But I'm sure that a surge of creativity will come and enlighten me when the tide is right and the time is ready.

There was always bother between me and my mam. Nancy Doherty. To give her her due, she was only a bairn herself when she had me. So I can't lay too much blame at her door. She hailed from Bravil. She named me William after her own Da. I've never met the man, though. And I've no care to. He got shot of her as soon as she started to fatten with me. Though whenever situation finds me down that way, I do keep my ears pricked for mention of his name. I never have heard it uttered once though. If anything, I don't know what I'd do if I heard it. But I do sometimes think it would be nice to look upon him. My father is just as much of a shadow. I've never seen any other person that I might call kin - save my mam. So yes, I admit, that I would like to look upon him. Just so I could behold another man that has the same blood as me. I wonder if we are similar at all. Maybe we have the same penchants and likings? Maybe the gait of our stride is alike? I don't know. Maybe I allot meaning to where there ought not be any.

My mam was always a bugger. She's a bugger for men and mead. We drifted alot when I was growing up. Drifting always came easy to us, because we never did own much. No packing, you get me? Just up and go by night. Leave the landlord scratching his head.

She's a little woman, my mam. Little, like me. Her hair is the colour of straw and her eyes are brown. I reckon her to be five and thirty, there abouts? She never should have had me. She doesn't like kids. She should never have been a mother. She likes me better now that I'm up and grown. She gets teary when she's in her cups and she thinks about me. When she thinks about me, as a boy, sleeping out by the wood pile. When she remembers me with an empty belly. When she recalls the time I was flung across the kitchen table. Big hands - man's hands - that rained blows down on me. Me. In my child's body. In my small body. Smaller, even than I am now. That body, that Nancy Doherty never kept safe. Even when I was in her womb, she took no care for me.

So aye, she should weep for all of that.

But as I said, I'm not a bad lad. I still see my mam, when I'm about. I still send her coin, when I have it. But these days, her busted lips are her own business. I've given up any thought of intervention on that part.

Nancy Doherty can weep all she likes, but she'll never be clean of me.