A Merry War
Disclaimer: I am not BRAVE enough to claim that I own Merida, the Suitors, or anyone else.
Summary: The Macintoshes are not the only family in Scotland whose temper is the stuff of legend. Young Macintosh/ OFC.
Chapter Seven
Dreams, wee ones, are not wishes your heart makes. If that were so, what kind of heart do we have that gives us nightmares?
~ Nana Calleigh to her granddaughters on a cold evening in the Castle Dunbroch
Rosalyn awoke slowly, the pale golden light of morning a gentle caress on her cheek telling her softly it was time to begin her day. The sunrise played hide and seek with her through the canopy of leaves in fiery hues of red, orange, and yellow. The fall finery casted jewel colored shadows about her and across the snowy white furs and fabrics of the bed. A broad, lazy smile split her face and she stretched long, like a cat. With a contented sigh Rosalyn sat up.
She was promptly pulled back down into the plush blankets and back into the strong embrace of her husband.
"Five more minutes." He yawned, "Stay with me another five minutes." She happily obliged, curling into his side, her dark hair blanketing across his strong, bare chest. She could feel his smile as he buried his nose into her hair, dropping a kiss onto her crown. She looked up at him and he dropped a second kiss to her lips – long, slow, and sweet. She smiled.
"I love you. I have for a while." He told her, his forehead resting on hers so they were eye to eye. Looking straight into his sea green gaze she replied without hesitation,
"I love you too, Dougal."
"You mock every suitor out of himself." Dougal told her darkly, one hand resting on the doorknob. "You put down everyone, crush them under your heel rather than allow them to get close to you. To get to know you."
"Why would you even want to?" Fiona crowed. He was leaving her, egged on by her sisters who were circling the room – circling her and laughing madly.
"I had not had enough to drink that night, I thought I had but-"
"He got a good look at you and realized there wasn't enough drink in the world to make you pretty!" Ina cackled. He had one foot out the door. She wanted to stop him; she had to make him stay. To forgive her, to love her, to make her a better person in the way she knew only he could. Yet she couldn't speak. Her open mouth made no sound even though she was screaming. Stop! Please! Wait! Stay! Her whole body felt like she was moving through molasses in January.
"If you weren't so full of yourself," He continued his voice rising, "and did not spend your time trying to find ways to cut every person who tried to get near you, you'd see that I-"
"Am leaving you for me!" Catriona exclaimed bursting through the door and into Dougal's arms. They kissed passionately and Rosalyn felt a cold knife slice through her chest.
No. No, no, no, no
"No!" Rosalyn sat up in her bed, a scream ripping from her. She couldn't breathe, not deeply, her chest rose and fell rapidly with each shallow, painful breath. Her skin was clammy and her night rail and sheets were tangled in sweaty knots. Her hair had worked loose from its plat and clung to her neck like it would suffocate her. Her hands were shaking as she wiped the moisture from her cheeks and remembered where she was. She was at home, in her room, it was the beginning of her fourth week of being grounded. She had had a dream. The nightmare had turned to mist when she opened her eyes, leaving only a faint memory and vague feeling in its wake. She was confused, conflicted, and unsettled. She knew Dougal was involved somehow but she didn't know how. Her mind was everywhere and nowhere at the same time. At night she couldn't sleep and during the day she couldn't focus.
It was blacker than pitch outside her window and she knew it was still the middle of the night. She also knew there was no way she would be falling back asleep again. She buried her face in her hands. A soft knock at her door made her jolt as if she'd been struck by lightning.
"Rosalyn?" Agnes called softly, opening the chamber door slightly. "Sister, are you alright?" Rosalyn took a deep breath and exhaled with a hiss through her teeth.
"Yes, Nes, it was just a dream. I am sorry I woke you." Agnes did not accept Rosalyn's words, instead she entered her room and closed the door firmly behind her.
"Just a dream? It is the second one this week you've woken me up either screaming or sobbing and the fifth time this month. It's very plain you are not sleeping well, won't you tell me what's wrong?" Rosalyn stared at her younger sister as if she had no idea who the girl before her was. Since when did her baby sister become so perceptive?
"Agnes, really, there is nothing wrong, it was a dream. I barely remember it." She said, hands nervously playing with her hair. "Go back to bed, get some sleep."
"Not until you talk to me." Ros, please, I know there is something if not wrong then not right. You are not right, not yourself." Little Nes padded over from the door and crawled into bed with her. How many times had she done this when she was a wee babe - seeking comfort from her sister in the night when the monsters and the weather threatened? And now she was the one giving the comfort, not receiving it.
"I have been having trouble sleeping some nights, that's all."
"Trouble sleeping usually doesn't involve screams of 'Please' and 'No' and 'Stop'." The look Agnes gave her was pointed, a perfect mirror of Rosalyn's skeptical gaze. The elder Brolchain did not appreciate being on the receiving end. Agnes continued; "The rings under your eyes are too dark to be from a rare bad night. You're not sleeping, but you're also not awake. You're not here with us, most days your mind is miles away. You're an empty shell at the table."
"What happened to my baby sister? Since when did you become so observant?" Rosalyn tried to deflect.
"What happened to my opinionated big sister?" Agnes countered, "You've been pensive since that party. Did something happen that night?" The kiss flooded her mind and Rosalyn closed her eyes, willing it to leave her be. Willing her pulse to cease to race.
"Nothing improper occurred; by The Dagda I swear it."
"It certainly did not sound like the case tonight. Please, Rosalyn, if something happened you must tell someone. There is no shame in it." Rosalyn's head shot up so that she might stare and glare at her sister.
"Do you truly believe Dougal capable of that?" She hissed, "You dare to suggest that he would force himself on another?" Agnes' eyes grew wider at the venom with which Rosalyn spoke.
"Sister I suggest nothing, I simply ask. Your dream sound-"
"I remember nothing of my dream but I do know it was not about that." Agnes nodded, blinking a few times. She regarded Rosalyn carefully before speaking again.
"Did something else happen? It does not have to be improper to have affected you – you did spend time alone with someone you hate. Have you reached a truce? Do you like young Macintosh any better?" Against her will tears welled in her eyes. She didn't know. She didn't know anything anymore, least of all what she was feeling.
Rosalyn woke the next morning to the sensation of a giant cold, wet spot forming on her shoulder and something dripping onto her clavicle. Agnes was drooling on her shoulder. Last night Rosalyn had cried herself back to sleep and apparently rather than return to her own room Agnes had fallen asleep in bed beside her. Sunlight streamed in through the window, streaking her tangled sheets gold.
Last night came back in waves and phases and bits and pieces. Rosalyn rubbed her eyes with the heel of the hand Agnes wasn't sleeping on. Her waking and unwaking hours were plagued with what she didn't know. She did know that it had to do with Dougal. She did know that she didn't know, nor understand anything else. It was driving her mad.
Gently she removed Agnes from her shoulder, the drool starting to give her gooseflesh. Like a rock the girl rolled into the pillows utterly unfazed. Rosalyn got out of bed and went to sit on her window sill. The sun was up and bright but still fairly low in the sky. The rhythm of outdoor labor had just begun.
"I think you're beautiful." In her head she could hear Dougal say those words but she didn't know if he had or had not in reality. Her dreams and real life were blurring. Had he truly been so kind? Had she truly enjoyed his company? Was the peace she'd felt imagined – the safety, the care? Did she dream that he had said he loved her? Surly she must have. It could not be so. More than anything she wondered if the kiss had been as good as she remembered.
Absently she ran her finger tips over her lower lip as she looked out toward the Castle Macintosh.
Try as he might Dougal could not sit still. Energy and uncertainty rolled within him like a pot of water on a flame. It had been a month since his night in the woods. His parents had bellowed at him then embraced him in tears, overwrought with relief that he was alive and well. He'd been grounded for life, but that house arrest had not lasted a fortnight. Life was now back to normal, at least so far as his mother and father were concerned. He'd trespassed, repented, performed his penance, and was now forgiven – though he doubted the sin would ever be forgotten. He certainly could not forget it. She truly thought ill of him. Rosalyn thought him incapable of finding her attractive. She thought him capable not of love but of taking advantage of her. She believed him shallow and mean enough to play with her emotions and to never engage his heart. Instead of allowing him to dispel her notions with the truth she assumed the worst and retreated in on herself. He'd not meant to but he'd hurt her – or at least he'd put salt in an existing wound. Moreover the truce, the comfortable understanding they had reached was now in ruins.
How much clearer do you need her to be, man? Sean had asked when he had given him and Ian an abridge account of what had happened after he and Rosalyn had stormed from the dance. He'd left out the whisky, the undressing, and the bed and glazed over as much of the kiss and emotional aftermath as he could.
She hates your guts Dougal; if that time together didn't change that then I doubt anything will. Ian had spoken truth. Dougal was sure he was right. She was never going to love him – to even like him.
Give it up! Sean and Ian had both said. Move on. They were right of course, he knew they were right. In his head he understood but his heart was another matter entirely. His heart refused to listen. Grimly he realized he could no sooner stop loving Rosalyn than he could stop eating. Yes, he could fast for a time – pretend he didn't care and ignore his heart but in the end he would waste away.
Pacing did channel some of his nerves into something other than worry but it did not relieve all of the tension clawing his shoulders. The Brolchain clan was expected for dinner. It was the heaven and hell of the friendship their families shared. It would be the first he would see of Rosalyn since that morning. He didn't know what he wanted to say but he needed to speak to her. If he could not apologize, if she would not be wooed he at least wanted to see her smile. It had lit up the cabin like sunshine in spring. He just wanted to make her smile.
Laird Brolchain entered the hall first, his lady beside him. Behind them ornamented and preening was Catriona followed closely by Fiona. Ina was on their heels. Agnes, the youngest, came last. Rosalyn did not follow. She was not lagging behind in protest or tarrying outside. She had not come at all. Dougal felt as if he had been slapped a second time. She had not come. She refused to be in the same room as he ever again.
Agnes did not often think about her age. She was eleven, two years younger than Ina and eight years younger than Rosalyn. There were times she was annoyed with her age – being young had disadvantage. She could not dance unless it was with her father. Her elder sisters, especially Ina, always monopolized their lady's maid Iona or dressing because they were out and she was not.
As she sat at dinner, Agnes discovered one benefit of youth. As conversation flourished around the table no one included her. Usually she hated the exclusion but tonight she relished it. Something had caught her attention more than the discussion of the King's new young General.
Dougal.
He sat a seat down from her, near the head of the table, at her mother's right. Between him and her was Ina, who alternated between lording the seating arrangement over the fuming Catriona and Fiona and attempting engaged the young Lord in conversation. Agnes had not been around the Laird long, all her life yes, but it was not long. She could, however, say with confidence that Dougal Macintosh liked attention. He relished attention. Except tonight. This night his mind was on the far side of the moon and his mood was just as dark. He was closed off, his attention undivided from the empty chair that was across from him. The chair Rosalyn should be filling if she was not still banished to her room. Dougal watched the vacant chair all night and Agnes watched him. He only spoke when spoken to and then only briefly. The circles under his eyes were not quite as dark as they were under Rosalyn's eyes but his gaze was just as hollow. Agnes could feel him hurting just as she could feel her sister's strife. Agnes was now certain something had happened between the young Lord and her elder sister. Something Rosalyn would not admit. All through desert Agnes wondered if she could get the answer from Dougal, however, she had no idea how she would ask given the way Catriona, Fiona, and Ina tracked his every move.
Agnes took a seat near her mother in the family room, it was the first year she joined the adults in their after dinner time instead of being shut away in the nursery. Years before it was a boisterous room as all of the children were too young to amuse themselves in adult company. Rosalyn had been first to leave the nursery, she had always had a gift for finding her pleasures in quiet activities, individual activities – reading and sewing, listening and watching. Time later the more social Catriona, Fiona and Dougal finally left and Rosalyn returned to the children's room. She'd sit on the sill with a book in her lap or sometimes on the floor and play with the still too young Agnes. Even as a girl Nes had known Rosalyn was not staying in the nursery with her as a companion but instead as a way to avoid the family room.
Agnes busied her hands with the repetitive rhythm of knitting - a mindless task that allowed her to watch and participate in conversations around the room. Idly she wondered what Rosalyn would be doing with herself now if she was not still grounded. The nursery was now closed, there was no escape. By the fire Mamma and Lady Calleigh were sewing and speaking of those delicately domestic manners that occupied a woman of status' life. Papa and Lord Macintosh were playing a very involved game of cards, the rules of which Agnes did not understand but apparently required violent swearing at certain points. Dougal was attempting to play as well but he seemed to be losing – he was damning his opponents less and his face was as dark and ominous as a thunderhead. Catriona, Fiona, and Ina did not seem to notice this grey mood as they conversed and preened loudly – calling as much attention to themselves as they could, undoubtedly hoping to distract Dougal from the game. Agnes was amused to see he was resolutely ignoring them and their exploits. She could just see Rosalyn sighing heavily and murmuring a cutting remark under her breath as she rolled her eyes. In her honor Agnes shook her dark head. It was unfair Rosalyn was excluded from this moment, but perhaps it was merciful – she was spared the torture.
Dougal was not an expert at the game of cards he was engaged in. He did understand that his father had won the round, but why that warranted more swearing than if he had lost was still a mystery. As Thomas Brolchain shuffled the deck, calling for a rematch, Dougal gazed out the dark window. Brolchain House was not visible save for the absence of stars in the sky where it stood on the horizon. It was too far to be truly seen but in his mind's eye Dougal could see the house, black and still save one light in her room. He could picture her silhouette, wearing not but her slip, the way she had in the cabin, sitting on the window sill. Her nose would be in a book and her mind would be anywhere but on the dinner or on him.
Nothing could have possibly happened. We know how much she hates you!
…You can't just kiss me like you mean it when you don't…
"It is a shame Lady Rosalyn could not join us, this tapestry has reminded me, had she not begun piecing a quilt?" Lady Calleigh commented to Rhiannon as she held up the sampler she had been working on to admire her stitching.
Unfortunately Rhiannon and Agnes were not the only ones to hear Calleigh's casual comment. Ina's ears pricked up and she turned her nose in the air.
"I for one am glad she is at home, this evening has been so pleasant without her ouroboros presence."1
"You mean odious, idiot." Fiona snapped, annoyed her sister had shown her up with such a strong stone to cast at their favorite target.
"Don't call me an idiot." Ina whined.
"Well, you are." Fiona replied.
"Yes, well, you're ugly." The gauntlet was dropped. As Fiona and Ina descended into petty insults, and Rhiannon and Thomas tried to prevent the spectacle the argument was becoming, and Calleigh and Craig tried to politely ignore the middle Brolchain children, Catriona raised her chin and in a haughty voice said:
"You're quite right, Ina, tonight was most enjoyable." She batted her light eyes in Dougal's direction. His gaze was now firmly focused on the cards in his hands, his blunt fingers bending the corners until they creased. "Rosalyn is too sullen and tiresome to appreciate nights such as this or to make them pleasant. She is too headstrong, too selfish and so self-endeared. If her breath were as terrible as her terminations, there were no living near her; she would infect to the North Star."
Several things happened at once, so quickly that Agnes wasn't sure what happened first. Dougal's heavy wingback chair was now flat on its back, legs in the air like a hound playing dead. He'd thrown his cards, now crumpled pieces of paper, onto the table and was now standing with all of the ominous energy of a thunderstorm. His cerulean gaze was fixed on Catriona; if looks could kill she would be not but ash and bone.
"You accuse Rosalyn of being tiresome?" he asked, voice low and barbed. "I have never heard you speak save to insult and defame your sister. You are the selfish one. The vain one, with your spoiled temper, and your capricious and insolent carriage. From morning to noon and from noon to night you seek to build yourself up by putting your sister down. Rosalyn is beautiful, and she is smart, and she is kind and she is a threat to you – one you wish to destroy. But I tell you this the uglier you speak of her the uglier I find you!" The speech exploded from his chest, increasing in volume and pace and decreasing in articulate rhetoric. At the end of his little tirade, a near match for the tantrum of the archery field he stormed from the room leaving in his wake a stunned silence so still that the slam of his door echoed around those who remained behind.
Catriona's jaw was so unhinged Agnes could not help but be reminded of a snake. It certainly did not help that her eyes were also narrowed to slits. Fiona and Ina had stopped arguing and were staring at their sister, Rhiannon and Lady Calleigh were staring at the door which Dougal had thrown open in disgust and the Lord and Laird were exchanging identical looks of utter confusion.
Dougal slammed his bedroom door behind him with such force that his sword and scabbard that had been hanging on a hook on his wall fell to the ground and left a large dent in the wood of his floor. He stormed to his window seat and with the forceful sweep of an arm flung all that had been resting on the ledge onto the floor. Sheet music scattered across the floor and under his large bed, one of the strings of his crwth snapped, but the frame, mercifully did not break.2 He threw himself onto the sill and pulled the curtains over the window, blocking himself from view and creating a small, private haven.
The glass was cool against his shoulder and without a candle his small little world was lit only by the moon outside which now appeared more pale and sickly than full and round. He could still feel himself shaking as even more venomous thoughts came to his head. How dare she abuse Rosalyn like that?! How dare her parents not stop her right away?! He could not believe one sister could be so malicious toward another.
I am still alone he could hear Rosalyn's sad confession in his head. He was the only child and yet she was the lonely one. Dougal leaned his head back against the wall and looked out to the darkness on the horizon that was Brolchain House, his thoughts now turned fully to his lonely Rosalyn.
1 The Ouroboros is an ancient symbol depicting a serpent or dragon eating its own tail. It often represents self-reflexivity or cyclicality, especially in the sense of something constantly re-creating itself, the eternal return, and other things perceived as cycles that begin anew as soon as they end. Also it is the tattoo Scully gets in one of the later seasons of the X-Files #funfact
2 The crwth is the ancient Celtic lyre. The lyre is also the symbol of clan Macintosh and by the playing of a magical tune it can be used to kill Dingwalls.
