"Fighting, and Free"
Achnacarry – 1855
He stared through the window, his face framed by the delicate rose etched into the glass. Penance's eyes absently followed the beginning of the Dark Mile trail down below, only now it was afire with late afternoon light. On the nightstand beside him Galabeg stared up at him, dumb. Beside that was his knife, and beside that the handsome gold ring with the ivory sigil: the arrows of Clan Cameron.
But for the daylight it was almost exactly like that first night, 18 summers gone, when he'd woken up in a strange bed and a strange house.
Neither were strange to him anymore, although for most of the first year he called that decaying sandstone mausoleum in the Cameron cemetery his 'bedroom', only making an appearance of retiring to the Lochiel's room each night. 'Bedtime' truly began with a leap from the window and journey to the cemetery. His pre-dawn exercise, consequently, consisted of scurrying back up the wall and into the bedroom.
All maintaining the fiction of a 'proper' young lad, naturally.
It was pointless theatrics, really. Gilbarta very well knew where he spent his nights, as did the few trusted staff she kept on to maintain the castle. Not a word was exchanged between them about it.
The lady, by her pledge, had no interest in such things. And she was as good as her word.
And when— like a cagy wild animal fed scraps from a tribe might one day decide to curl up close to the campfire—he stopped making those nightly trips to the mausoleum and bedded down in those silk sheets for good Gilbarta also said nothing.
There were other differences from that first night. For one his little knife's grip was freshly replaced with a new chunk of local staghorn. He'd become quite proficient in repairing his grips.
These past years he'd gone through a lot of them.
Briefly he thought about the Dark Mile's end and that lonely loch. His mind then turned to the bleak business of chains and weights.
He'd gone through a lot of those, too.
The world around Achnacarry was small, its communities tight-knit and Gilbarta's ability to control things even tighter. But still there were whispers and grumblings. Of course there were. Word had obviously spread about the curious foundling now living with the Lady Cameron: an unfortunate thing with a weak body and peculiar malady, the one whom doctors (that did not exist) diagnosed with exotic disorders whose names you couldn't pronounce. He suffered a sheaf of illnesses that made him appear a child when, of course, he certainly wasn't, anymore.
He was called the 'wee Lochiel' by those who spoke to him, or of him, with good-natured Scottish jest. Penance didn't mind that at all.
He did mind the other name some of the more observant (or bold) people had started to call him behind his back, although he admitted that it was unavoidable.
They called him "gille gu bràth".
The "forever boy".
And they did it without jest.
It was, again, unavoidable. As it was unavoidable that his strange story would make its way out of Achnacarry. Which, consequently, made it unavoidable that enemy ears would hear it.
And, thus, that Achnacarry's grounds would be watered in blood from time to time.
Penance spent uncountable hours exploring all of the Arkaig area, the wilds around Gilbarta's holdings and beyond. He knew nearly every stone and tree by memory, and with his meditative abilities he could tell with vigilant precision when, where, and how each attack upon him would come.
Some of the Immortals got creative, occasionally, and they used outside help. Like Kingfisher did.
Sometimes it was a very close thing, even.
But it was never quite enough.
And so he'd gone through his fair share of weights and chains, too; Loch Arkaig had fed well on his kills.
Although this unpleasant business was always on his mind in some form— even if it was only in that dark, predatory part of his brain keeping constant vigil, the part that Galabeg berated and chastised him from— he didn't really like to think about it, otherwise. Like a rancher culling livestock, or a farmer reaping the harvest, Penance only considered his kills the dull-as-dishwater "day's work": a routine that allowed one to live the way they'd chosen.
And he'd chosen this, just as Gilbarta had chosen him.
There was nothing more to say on the matter.
Of course there was a great deal more to say, and Penance occasionally found himself in one of his little melancholic moments. It was a rare sentiment at this time in his life; living with Gilbarta wasn't always pure sunshine and bliss, but it was the happiest he could recall being for a very long time. Maybe forever. Still, it didn't always keep the melancholy away entirely.
His last little funk came a few months back, while he was skimming broadsheets detailing the latest events in the Crimean War. Back in late October a group of British Dragoons, Lancers and Hussars— what they called a 'light cavalry brigade'— had made a daring charge into the enemy ranks and got worse than decimated for it; at least one in six men died. But it was all worth it, of course, for the war effort and for the greater glory. The papers praised the whole affair as a noble, sacrificial act of blessed martyrs.
At least until the more 'official' accounts of what actually happened started pouring in.
Turns out it was all a matter of gross incompetence. The brigade was supposed to mount a charge to keep the enemy away from some friendly artillery that was in danger of being captured, but instead they went for a head-on assault against an entrenched enemy battery through a mile-long valley, all the while having an open line of sight to those enemy guns.
Penance was by no means a military tactician, but even he understood that this was not, to put it mildly, a 'sound war strategy'. It was, in fact, as stupid as if he were to confront all the 'callers' who came to see him head on. Kingfisher was the only one who got that particular pleasure. The others who came for his head? Most of them never so much as saw his face.
Most of them died never once looking into the eyes of their killer.
That last word struck Penance sour, but he quickly banished the reservation from his head; that word was what it was— he was what he was— and it was as simple as that.
So Penance didn't fight like a British cavalry, certainly, but the melancholy he felt reading the story still hinged on a similarity he found between himself and the light brigade.
That similarity was the idea of 'futility'.
Some fellow had written a catchy little poem about them, yes. The public was at first enamored of the bravery of the light brigade, then aghast at their commanders' stupidity, sure. But what did it ultimately matter? What would be remembered of them— of any of it— a hundred years from now? And beyond? Penance doubted your average schoolchild would know a lick about them, by then.
"Nothing lasts forever," he mumbled.
And so— a hundred years, and beyond— what would Penance's time with Gilbarta really matter? What point would there have been, that a damned little urchin had found such happiness, however brief, with a wounded woman deep in mourning?
Would he even be alive by then? He thought not. And if he were could he look back and justify all the bother and all the cagey, tortuous arrangements they'd had to make for each other— Gilbarta's spending of time and capital and upending the whole workings of her estate and her life, and Penance surrendering the one thing he always had, even when things were otherwise at their worst: his boundless freedom?
And could he justify all the staghorn grips he'd gone through?
Could he justify the weights and chains?
Penance didn't have an answer to those last two questions. His answer for the other one— at least his part of the equation— was a bit of a paradox that he might've found amusing if he weren't so determined to feel sour and down, today.
The odd truth was this: living here with Gilbarta— forced to stay near hearth and home, bounded on all sides by a constricting geographic border, more times than not locked in the 'prison' of his own mind, always vigilant and obsessed with searching for the next Immortal interloper coming his way, and then unable to run for the hills, required to stand and fight in opposition to his nature— was a kind of imprisonment all its own.
That was undeniable.
But the truth was this: never before in his life had Penance ever felt so free, either.
He looked down at Galabeg on the dresser, and slowly he nodded.
"Yeah. It's 'cause the price is worth it, to me."
He watched the lifeless eyes of the fox glare at him.
"You know that I've been called worse than that, Galabeg," he teased.
Still the eyes glared at him (as if they had a choice) and Penance couldn't suppress a chuckle.
"Okay, maybe not worse than that..."
He leaned back from the window, straightening his back and twisting his shoulders, letting the fine tartan jacket hang off his body in perfect symmetry. Unthinkingly he struck a fine pose, his rosewood cane balanced evenly between the feet, gloved hands resting naturally on the alabaster head of the stick. The cane was but one of the signs of the 'wee Lochiel's' infirmity, as was the ashen paint he'd so expertly learned to apply to his cheeks and brow. He'd let those two offending white sprouts of hair above either ear grow out, and they added to the picture of 'un-wellness'.
All the same Penance understood that he and Gilbarta were fooling very few, no matter how good his makeup skills got, and no matter how much he relied on his cane for support.
His eyes then fell on the last thing in the room that was different from that night so long ago when he first arrived at Achnacarry: the gold and ivory ring sitting on the dresser now bore a healthy coat of dust. Penance picked it up, and the dust left a small ring on the dresser.
It hadn't seen much use in the past 18 years, and he wore it only when the thing would be missed on his hand. The 'specialist of the special occasions', in other words. It felt wrong to wear it, otherwise; only when the thing was in his hand, or on his finger, did Penance get the chilly, ghoulish feeling that he was standing in a dead boy's room, living in a dead boy's house...
And loved by a dead boy's mother.
These were also hard truths to face, and yet he had to face them.
And it was still worth it, at that.
Penance ruefully turned the ring over in his hand. Just his luck that today was one of those rare 'specialist of the special' occasions: January 25th. To any true Scotsman that day is special enough. Penance, naturally, was no true Scotsman.
But he was a 'highlander'. Guess that's close enough.
"Still a pretty thing, is it not?"
Gilbarta had snuck up on him, catching him looking at the ring. Even on arthritic knees the woman was stealthy as a leopardess when she wanted to be.
He looked back over at her, smiling through the ashen makeup on his face.
"Bit tarnished."
Gilbarta retuned the smile. Her marble face now bore its share of cracks, and one of her great green eyes had turned a milky chartreuse. She got plenty of use out of her rosewood cane.
"All the years, and all the wonders of my purse, and still you're transfixed by that little thing. I'd still tell you to take it; you're owed that 'gift' befitting a guest, aren't you, Penance?"
He was still a 'guest', and Gilbarta still his 'host'. That was their way of describing things. They both knew how much more they'd become to each other, but like certain other things they wouldn't dare speak of it, directly.
Penance got the idea that they both felt the same way: to speak of things with any more frankness might 'spoil the spell'. Like a dreamer indulging their fantasy a little while longer before waking, they had no desire to do so.
He looked back at the rose-etched glass as he worked the ring onto his finger. Out of the corner of his eye he noted the woman's reflection. She was, in her own way, as strong as any woman he'd ever known— even Cadha— and age couldn't sap all that strength from her.
And she might have the luxury of living this fantasy 'till her dying day.
The notion brought equal parts comfort to Penance, for her, and misery, for him. But he wouldn't show a bit of it. She didn't need to know any of this. More accurately, she didn't need to be told.
And anyway, he was done being melancholy about things for today.
"Flow gently, sweet Afton,
disturb not her dream."
Gilbarta scoffed at his recitation.
"If you're practicing your Burns, boy, then you know the lines you should be going over."
His heart sank like a stone, not from melancholy, but genuine fear.
Today, after all, Penance would be confronting his greatest enemy of all time: an arch nemesis so devious and evil that he'd sooner fight ten Immortals at once than face it, head-on.
"You wanna know what 'gift' you can give me?" Penance said. "You can be the one to make the address—"
The woman silenced him with a few clicks of the tongue and a wagging finger.
"'tis the man of the house that gives the address, well you know."
The boy rolled his eyes and groaned.
"Remember the start and you'll be fine. You do, don't you?"
Penance nodded, his voice dipping into a practiced brogue.
"Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face..."
Gilbarta adjusted the collar of the boy's jacket, smiling at him warmly.
"Great chieftain o the puddin'-race," she finished.
They'd be piping the guests into the great hall downstairs in short order, and so the little 'lord' of Achnacarry followed the lady of the house out into the corridor and down the stairs, ready to greet the great throng of humanity coming for supper. As he descended the stairs Penance felt the last of his gloom lift, certainly helped by that loving smile Gilbarta graced him with. He could do without all these private worries, especially since he had a very public worry to think about: reciting a long-winded poem at the head of a table that would be 50-people deep, at least.
Halfway down the stairs this fear, too, disappeared.
Penance 'reached out' with his mind as he walked, as he was in the habit of doing at almost all times these days, and when he did this time he nearly stumbled down the stairs; he could see a rider turn on to the path towards Achnacarry, their speed slow but steady.
Even in the hot panic of the moment Penance thought to consider whether that person's name was even on the guest list. If it was then he'd have to give the staff a talking to.
"Because someone had blundered..." he hoarsely whispered.
Regardless of invitation they'd surely be coming for dinner, it seemed.
Or, at the very least, to feast.
