Always appreciate feedback! Hope you guys enjoy! Sorley's voice has been a bit more difficult for me to figure out so I'd love to hear people's thoughts on that. Thanks!

Chapter 3: Fall, Sorley

Addison stared down at the patch of mud she'd landed in when she first arrived here weeks ago. They had to be reaching mid-November now, by her count, and the days had blurred in an odd assortment of sights, experiences, and smells. She'd learned how to properly launder clothes in a river, and how to forage for food. She could start a fire now and was not — under any circumstances — to be trusted with the skinning of any animals for dinner. All in all, the villagers regarded her with an assortment of suspicion, impatience, and humor. She was useless, but she had made progress. Despite all of this, she desperately, desperately missed home.

It had taken days, and Beatrix, for Addison to break out of her depressive stupor. She had vague, almost fever-dream, memories of Ailios spoon-feeding her broth and water. She had memories of cold nights cuddled in next to the woman. She remembered being dragged out for fresh air by the children, and Old Man MacPhearson peeking in every once in a while, shaking his head at the sight of her.

Finally, after a time, Ailios had fetched the midwife for her counsel. Beatrix had pressed her hands to Addison's forehead, and there had been a warm sensation at the touch. Unnaturally so. And she felt, for a brief moment, that she was home. In her mind's eye she was walking through the front door of the small house she lived in with her grandmother. She was sitting in a café, and then going to the movies with friends, and sitting at the kitchen table to do homework. She was cooking and driving to school and finishing her freshman year of college. She was happy and safe and warm. The midwife pulled her hands away as though she had been burned and stared down at Addison. She looked curious. She looked like she knew something — like she had seen Addison's memories too. She looked like she understood that there was more going on here than met the eye, but Addison could hardly believe what was happening herself. There was no way Beatrix knew.

This morning was quiet, with just a handful of farmers up and about working their small patches, and large fields. The tanner's boys were running around as they always did in the early hours, and the blacksmith's apprentice had only just lit the fire for the day. The remaining drunks of the village were still passed out in the little hovel she'd come to see as a sort of provisional tavern. There was a larger one somewhere, she'd gathered, but this hut here was a local place where any could come and drink their fill for free so long as they belonged to the village. Any of the men, anyway, no woman who wished to maintain her dignity would be caught dead inside that hut.

Addison was standing in the spot where she'd landed that first day. She glanced around. No one was paying her any mind. She wanted to go home. Had once again laid awake all night with a gaping feeling in her chest. An open and festering wound. Like someone had reached their fist inside of her and yanked out something vital, she wanted to go home. And then the darkness of the night began to fade. Addison thought to herself, maybe if she went back to this spot, it would, she didn't know...swallow her up? Put her back where she came from?

It was a long shot. The invisible wound in her chest throbbed. Everything in her said that this would not be the way. But still... another glance around her, and Addison hiked her skirts up over her ankles, so she didn't accidentally stomp them and trip. She hopped. Once. And waited. Hoping to wake some sort of dormant magic there. Nothing. She bit the inside of her cheek. Jumped a couple more times. Nothing, but still...she had hoped. She let out a great, childish sound. Exasperated and out of breath and desperately trying to keep her invisible wound from bleeding all over the place. Addison crossed her arms over her chest as though it would stem the flow. Maybe... Addison shook her head. No. But...maybe...

She dropped to her knees and laid down flat on her belly, face first in the mud. She assumed the position her body had fallen in when the universe had unceremoniously dropped her there. Then, just like that, lying prostrate and ridiculous on the ground, she waited. She thought maybe if she recreated the moment, it would do the trick, but nothing happened. Addison groaned and then spit a bit when some dirt got in her mouth. This was stupid. But she stayed like that, uncaring about the mud that squished beneath her nose or the small rock that pressed into her forehead. It couldn't hurt her anymore than her brain already was. Since she'd arrived, she couldn't keep her thoughts from spinning, her brain from hurting, constantly hurting. How could she when the only logical explanation was that she'd been ripped through time and sent to this hell hole of all hell holes. Addison still wasn't entirely convinced that she hadn't simply gone and lost her mind. Maybe she was still in the twenty first century. Maybe she was just insane. But that felt wrong; her gut told her she wasn't crazy. That this was real. And so, she was here, desperate, and prostrate and maybe slightly losing it a bit, a little, slightly. She willed the universe to take her. Take her away. She honestly didn't care where as long as it was far from here, but that wasn't true either, because if this was a possibility she didn't want to find out where else she could end up if not home.

After a few minutes like that, just lying there and breathing, and thinking about leaving this place, she had to admit this was kind of nice. Peaceful even. The ground was cool from the November chill. Bits of frost had collected overnight on the grass. If she reached her fingers out, they could just brush over it. One of the men in the hovel was snoring. A bird called down from the trees beckoning the coming morning. She turned her face a bit so she could breathe better and watched a rollie pollie amble its way over a tiny pebble. Faintly, she registered a vibration in the ground. Her heart caught, and she pressed her face more tightly into the mud. Listening as the sound got louder, the vibration, stronger. It was working. It was working. She could have wept at the sensation of it. Fighting back a laugh or a sob, she couldn't tell which, Addison pressed her face back down into the mud. Blocked out the morning light and engulfed herself in darkness. Then, the vibration stopped. Addison's head snapped up; her eyes popped open. What the hell?

That's when, instead of the incessant buzzing she had expected to hear, her ears registered the snort of a large animal. The sound of metal clinking and the groan of leather as someone — a very large someone, from the sound of their feet hitting the ground — dismounted a saddle.

Addison felt a pool of dread settle in her stomach. There was only one kind of person around here that could make those kinds of sounds. She quickly pushed herself up on her hands and knees and whipped around to face the knight that approached her from behind. Scrambling backward, Addison felt her heart stutter at the sheer size of the berserker before her. He towered above her, the metal plating on his armor clinked and rubbed against worn leather. He moved slowly but it did nothing to quell her fear. The man reached out a hand, cautiously, like he was approaching a startled horse and spoke to her. She shook her head at him. There were two men with him, both wearing kilts, still mounted and looking down at her curiously; one held the reins of the giant man's horse.

When Addison refused to speak to him or take his hand, the knight became a bit exasperated. His eyes looked...amused...she thought. But Ailios had made it abundantly clear to her that the knights were dangerous, and she was not to be caught alone with them. It was the kind of warning from one woman to another that you could understand no matter the language you spoke or the time you came from. It was an inherent comprehension — a shared experience that superseded the passage of time, and Addison had no intention of ignoring her guardian's warnings. The knights were no friends to young, unmarried women that had no family or money to their names.

He gestured wildly at her and looked back at his fellow knights for guidance, but instead was met with a series of unhelpful looks and comments. Finally, he simply reached down, ignoring her backward scrambling and noises of protest, and hauled her bodily off the ground as though she weighed no more than a stray cat. Once she had been firmly righted back on her feet, and he was convinced she would not fall back on her face, he kindly brushed off her shoulders and stepped away. He eyed her skeptically and nodded in her direction. But when he spoke, she couldn't catch what he was saying. Then the knight mounted his horse once again; he shared an odd glance with his brothers in arms. He passed once last curious glance over her and clicked his horse forward down the path once again. She responded to their attentions with her continued silence, scooting back further to clear the way as the other two knights followed him toward the woods. They spared her intrigued glances but otherwise kept to themselves. Addison held herself stiffly until they were gone, lost in her thoughts.

"There you are!" Ailios cried out as she picked her way toward Addison from their small hovel just a ways away. They'd figured out the basics of how to communicate since she'd arrived there. To be honest, Addison was only assuming that was what Ailios had said by reading her facial expressions and their makeshift form of sign language. For all Addison knew, Ailios could have been saying "fuck you, you daft cow. They should have run you over." And, to an extent, Addison wouldn't have blamed Ailios for saying it. But she thought it was more likely that the older woman was saying "there you are," so that's what she was going with. Ailios reached her, heaving from the exertion of running uphill in the cold, and wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders muttering to her some more, too quickly for Addison to even pretend to understand. From the unhappy look on her face though, she was pretty sure she was being scolded.


Sorley, son of Ragnall, had seen 26 summers in his life. He was born to second-generation Viking father and a native-born Gaelic mother, Eby MacClean. He grew up in the Southern Hebride Islands just off the coast of Scotland, surrounded by his mother's clansmen and his father's Viking kin. This had been the way of the Hebrides for generations since his father's people had landed there and ruled centuries before. Ragnall had been warrior from a long line of Viking warriors before him. And the MaCleans were a fearsome clan, all skilled in the finer arts of combat and war. Sorley, with the benefit of both of these cultures at his back, had spent a lifetime learning a fighter's trade. He reckoned he learned it well.

He and his best mate Lindon, a troublesome pair from birth, had served as squires to each other's fathers the moment they were of age. They'd learned proper care for weapons, horses, and armor alike. And most importantly they learned what it was to be men. Or so they thought. A few years and a handful too many dustups for their own good; their fathers had taught them all they could from home. When the time came that their fathers could teach them no more, they sent Sorley and Lindon off to experience the world and told them not to come back until they did. They needed to see something other than their home, to make up their minds on how to be men. Only then would they come back to Clan MacLean and rejoin their kin there.

So, they'd set off in search of fights worth fighting and stories to tell. They thought themselves braw fighters and a catch for every lady, girl, and woman of loose morals who crossed their path. They worked fields, and worked horses, and searched for a laird or a cause for which they could pledge their blades. They'd labored and fought their way north through the Mackenzie territory, as well as through the territories of the Sutherlands and the Mackays, but never found any need or want to stay. They joined in on a few cattle raids, took up arms against a few stray Normans who'd gone and kicked up trouble, and helped defend a few farmers from rogues and reivers.

When they landed in Arregathel and found, at the very least, that they liked its nearness to the sea, Lindon and Sorley decided to stay. The laird was Laird Suibhne. His castle, the Castle Sween. He was a heavy-set, lazy man, with a wandering eye and an unhappy wife. But he coveted warriors like Sorley and Lindon, sons of mixed Viking-Scottish decent. Many lords did in these parts, both young men knew. When not on their home islands in the Hebrides, they were known as gall óglaigh. Foreign warriors. Well...sort of. They were native-born foreigners — somehow part of the land and apart from it in a way that other Gaels made note of and judged them by. In the end, the choice had been surprisingly simple and easy to make. Arregathel became their new, if temporary, home.

Over the next handful of years, Sorley would learn what his father could never have taught him from home. Something only the world could teach him, and a lesson not every man had the sense to learn. He found that there was no honor in killing. No honor in taking another man's life. There was no honor in power for the sake of power. He learned the hard way that he would spend the rest of his life as a gall óglaigh surrounded by men who made the wrong decisions, who hurt for the sake of hurting, and raped for the sense of power. Men who pillaged for sport. He learned that swearing your fealty to another was a sacred act that should not be taken lightly. And he learned, rather quickly actually, that his lord was not someone who deserved his fealty., but by that time, he had already bent the knee. His blade had been drawn before the man in his seat of power. And promises of fealty had been made. And so those promises had been kept.

He learned his honor lay in his choices; his courage lay in his voice and his actions. He learned you could, in fact, call a man brother and fear turning your back on him. And he learned to defend that brother from death despite that very truth.

He'd been more boy than man when he'd arrived at Castle Sween with bright ideas of what it was to be a knight and warrior. More than five years had passed and still, though he could go, Sorley chose to stay. He knew of course that he had a place he called home back in the Hebrides with his mother's clan. He knew his father was there, blacksmithing and living out his days as a grandfather to Sorley's sister's brood. He knew that home would be an honorable and worthy place to be, surrounded by kith and kin. Like-minded men who'd been raised with the same moral code, the same sense of self as he had been raised with. He could take a wife there where he'd feel safe to leave her, knowing she'd have the support of his clansmen and his family should he die in battle. But here, Sorley felt suspended. Frozen in place and not eager to move. He couldn't go home. Something pressed him to stay at Arregathel. To continue serving an undeserving lord. To continue fighting beside a brethren of untrustworthy fighters. The corruption, the greed, the superiority of the noble occupants of the castle. The casual violence of their hired swords. It was the way things were, and Sorley, though none too shocked by it and in no possession of grand ideas of change, felt compelled to remain.

It was hard to explain — a gut feeling. Like a tether right at the heart of him that kept him in place. He'd become invested in the people that occupied the lands surrounding Castle Sween. Felt honor-bound to safeguard them from both external and internal threats and dangers.

There was uncertainty here. An oft bad-tempered spirit that permeated the air. But there was an assuredness here too. He felt it, quietly. A sense of purpose. In moments on patrol with Lindon and another loyal knight, Bróccin, who'd quickly befriended the pair. The three of them were thick as thieves wading through the drama and politics of life serving an ill befitted lord. He felt that tether inside of him when he was dealing with the villagers as well — when he was helping the tenant farmers in need of a strong hand, consulting with Wallace MacPhearson, the village spokesman, and keeping up to date with the blacksmith and hunters on their security concerns around the village.

It was a sign of the times he supposed that the noblemen of the area, especially Laird Suidhne, were more concerned with keeping up with the likes of the French than maintaining their lands and people. It often left pockets of misery — starvation and violence and lawlessness in the place of order and peace. This was not the world Sorley had expected to see when he left his home all those years ago with dreams of gallant acts of bravery and damsels in need of saving.

Instead, he found blood and shit and corruption. Men who cared little for the people they inherited with the land. And because Sorley found all of this and decided to stay, Lindon had decided to stay with him too, no matter the perpetual bad mood he'd been in since he'd made up his mind about it. This place could make a man crazy if he didn't find a way to take his relief. Sorley, for his part, had found his relief in taking up the duties of the laird, at least in part. He found a sense of rightness in helping the servants and villagers find their way and meeting their needs as best he could.

He'd become a deft hand at talking the laird into feelings of goodwill and generosity and had racked up a series of debts from most of the inhabitants in the castle. From reeling in drunk, gambling sons and heirs, to chaperoning daughters while they were courted by important men, Sorley had made himself an invaluable asset to the men in charge. More often than not, he had several prominent nobles who owed him some favor or another that he could often turn into a benefit for the village at large. Lindon, for his part, had found his release in a string of constant complaints and a series of perpetual lovers, all married, and all ladies he desperately wished to keep as his own until he found someone more beautiful and more interesting than the one currently in his bed. Or until whichever wife he was bedding kicked him out for a new and better lover.


Sorley reached out and plucked an apple from a nearby tree while he rode. They were on their way back to Castle Sween. Lindon was at the head of their small party, leading the way through the thicket of trees. The trail here was at its thinnest, and the men had formed a single file line to filter through. His best mate had been quiet for most of the return journey, and Sorley couldn't help but chuckle silently to himself at the man's near-perpetual angst. Behind him, Bróccin filled the silence with yet another bawdy story about times past.

Patrol had been an uneventful affair. The people on the outskirts of the Suidhne territories had been busy finishing up the fall harvest and preparing for the coming winter tax. The knights' presence over the past few days served as a reminder to them all of the collection that was coming. And though it was often a message meant to incite fear, all who knew Sorley and his men felt a wave of relief. The three gall óglaigh had quickly set themselves to work. They aided tenants and serfs alike, helping with any final repairs to homes before the rains came in, and pitching in with work in the fields and mills. The group had made their usual rounds, stopping in at the tavern to check on the comings and goings of the road; catching up with the tenant farmers and the state of their crop; and helping a few serfs lug some of their more burdensome baskets of fruit and bags of grain toward the winter food stores. Such things would be counted and packed away for collection and distribution at later dates.

The Campbells to the south of them had kept to themselves as of late. Reports of raids had lessened significantly over the last weeks and the merchants at the tavern had reported peace on the roads between the two territories thus far. It was as if the usual bandits and rogues that haunted these parts had disappeared into thin air. Sorley wanted to think this was good news, but his gut told him that there was still time for violent men to do violent things before the first snow fell. Surely, when they arrived home to report their findings to his lordship, their news would bring a night of revelry to the great hall. The man they'd sworn their fealty to was daft, entitled, and arrogant. He cared more for good food and the approval of the French across the sea than for strategy, or the safety of his people. But Sorley did not want to celebrate. He didn't think this peace would last until Spring.

He took a bite out of his apple, relishing the bittersweetness of it on his tongue, before listening back in on Bróccin's story.

"And I says—" Bróccin cut himself off with a wheezing belly laugh, "I says 'woman, if you'll not go back to your man in this state, what makes you think my wife'll let me bring you home—'" Another wheeze.

Sorley let out a small laugh at the memory of the night some months ago. At the height of the summer fighting season, Mavis Duncan, the tavern owner's wife had drunkenly tried to seduce his brother-in-arms. Lindon ahead of him was shaking his head in exasperation at the story Bróccin was telling for the millionth time.

"— And her husband—the poor wee fella—" Bróccin continued. "You'll remember him, Lindon, you'll remember. He—" Bróccin's head bowed back in laughter at the memory of the scrawny tavern owner who'd walked in on the sight. "He—he—"

Bróccin's body bent over the pommel of his saddle. His horse snorted impatiently at his rider's movements. The knight's whole body quaked with the force of his laughter. He couldn't get the rest out, but he didn't need to because—

"Aye, you great buffoon. We all remember. Christ man, we were there," Lindon called back impatiently, digging his heel into his horse's side and speeding up their pace. Sorley gave in to his own laughter then. Spurred on by Bróccin's booming guffaws as they sent the birds flying from the trees. Both men kicked up their paces to keep up with their surly friend.

Once they cleared the opening in the trees, Sorley pulled his horse up beside Lindon who had begrudgingly stopped to wait for them. Bróccin pulled up short beside Sorley, leaning around him to get a better look at their brooding companion. He fixed Lindon with a glare.

"Oh aye, and what's crawled up your arse and died?" Bróccin snapped at Lindon.

"My arse? What's crawled up my arse?" Lindon's voice rose a bit in annoyance. "Nothing's crawled up my arse that you haven't—"

Sorley saw the growing fight for what it was and clapped a friendly hand down on Lindon's shoulder, giving it a light shake before smiling and turning to Bróccin.

"Don't mind him, man," Sorley said. "He's just sensitive 'cause her ladyship's been keeping her hands to herself now that his lordship quit his mistress and moved back into her chambers."

Lindon spluttered, and shook off his friend's hand, kicking his horse back into a trot as Bróccin once again filled the air with raucous laughter.

"Where're you goin?" Sorley called out good-naturedly. "We hadna finished discussing your predicament, brother."

He caught up to Lindon easily enough with a wide grin and a twinkle in his eyes.

"Oh, my predicament? My predicament doesn't need your input, you daft—"

But Sorley cut him off again. "Oh, I'd say it does. I'd say you need to find yourself a nice—"

But Lindon growled out an aggravated sound, reached over, and snatched the apple from Sorley's hand, leaving his brother knight behind him with a mildly offended look on his face.

"I'll tell you where you can shove—" Lindon cut himself off this time, taking an angry bite of Sorley's apple and chewing it loudly. He chucked it into the bushes, half-eaten before once again leaving them behind.

Bróccin caught up with Sorley then, still chuckling good-naturedly. He clapped the tawny-haired knight on the back. "Brother or no, I'd stick my axe in any man who took my food from my hands."

Sorley shot his jovial friend a wry look of his own, tilting his head in silent agreement. He clicked his tongue at his horse and moved on.

Lindon had outpaced them significantly in his aggravation and had already passed the mouth of the village entrance. He made his way past the serf's huts and evaded the horde of children that ran from their chores and homes to greet him. This was a common occurrence. They'd descend on you like locusts if you let them catch you unawares, calling out their eager questions and requests as they always did. They were not deterred by Lindon and his bad mood; however, turning instead to Sorley and Bróccin with their flood of admiration. Sorley took their questions in stride, doing his best to field inquiries as they came. Things like: Did you kill any rogues today? Any bandits? Did you find the traitor knight Colum McCrae? Can I ride your steed? Will you make me your squire? Sorley laughed at some, scowled at others, and answered what he could to the best of his ability.

He stopped once to make sure an older brother picked up his young sister when the crowd knocked her down, and another time to wait for Bróccin who had reached down to lift one of his own children up to ride in front of him until they reached the other end of the village. They passed the blacksmith and his line of waiting men. The tanner nodded a quiet acknowledgment. The baker's wife waved politely, and the old midwife came out of her hut to scold a pair of the children for trampling her herbs. The village seemed quiet and happy for the time being, still healing from the events of the summer but doing better still. He took it as progress. Old Man MacPhearson caught his eye from across the way, and he nodded a silent acknowledgment that he'd return the next morning to get his updates on the state of things.

Beside him, Bróccin murmured quietly that the Widow Ailios's hut seemed to have had a hole in the roof. Aye, Sorley had noticed the same when they'd passed by there too. He glanced at Bróccin in quiet acknowledgment but said nothing in response with the children so nearby. They'd look into it. They always did.


The next day found Sorley doing exactly that. He had ventured into the village in the wee hours of the morning, stopping by the blacksmith to drop off a sgian-dubh and his gauntlets for repairs. He kept his claymore sheathed at his side as he did a quick perimeter of the village. He noted a rotting fence post down in the paddock and made a note to bring it up with MacPhearson when he ran into the old man. He dropped by the Widow Ailios's hut to find she'd already gone for the day. Her weans were off with their chores, the eldest girl sending him a friendly wave from where she sat weaving a new basket for foraging. He nodded at her kindly and moved along.

He stopped in at the parsonage to have a word with the old priest, leaving quietly with a blessing and a request for him to pass a message to Lindon to come and see him about his soul. Sorley had solemnly promised that he would deliver, but left the good Father's humble abode, shaking with silent laughter at the plight of his friend.

By the time Old Man MacPhearson had slept off last night's drink and come to find him, Sorley had already completed most of his rounds for the morning. They perched themselves on the low wall near the masonry, close to the center of the village where most people were bustling about, completing their work for the day. In one of the huts near the center, a group of women could be heard singing and laughing while they worked diligently to waulk the rest of the wool before winter. Sorley accepted MacPhearson's waterskin, unsurprised to find it full of whiskey. He took his fill and passed it back to the man. Some of the village men stopped by to catch up on the comings and goings of the castle as well as news of the villages interspersed through the outer parts of Suidhne territory. MacPhearson had mentioned to Sorley, quietly, that the village had acquired a new resident. A young woman who wore strange clothes and didn't understand a word of Gaelic. Sorley asked him if he was concerned about her presence here, but he'd assured him that the girl seemed harmless if unusual. His judgment was enough for the knight, who accepted it freely. MacPhearson had deposited the girl safely in the care of the Widow Ailios down by the wood, making his assurances that he'd be keeping a solid eye on them both and the state of their affairs. The stonemason popped his head out to ask if there'd been any news on the rogue knight, Colum McCrae, and Sorley regretfully told him that they'd seen neither hide nor hair of the man since summer.

When the sun had finally risen to its highest point in the sky, Sorley took his leave. He stopped back over at the blacksmith, grateful to collect his finished things, and made his way to Bróccin's home. His fellow knight had a small house at the edge of the village nearest the castle. It was there he and his wife lived with a horde of rabble-rousing little demons they called children.

Bróccin had one little girl tucked under his arm, holding her like he would hold a bedroll. She was screaming and giggling, and her father was grumbling and begging her silence. This only made her giggle louder until finally Bróccin dropped her unceremoniously in the grass. She hiccoughed once in shock from the fall and then returned to laughing at her father's antics. Sorley raised an eyebrow at his friend, who was trying and failing spectacularly to fasten the brooch that kept his kilt secured around him. The older man let out a series of curses and turned to stomp back up the steps and into his house to make his wife help him with the damned thing. A few minutes passed while the happy couple inside yelled and dressed each other down for every perceived slight and incompetence that they could find. By the time the door opened and Bróccin returned, he was chuckling to himself and in a much better mood. He passed his youngest child who was happily playing in the grass and patted her affectionately on the head, before reaching Sorley and patting him on the back.

"Two minutes of fightin with your woman, and you've got a smile on your face like a boy just discovered a lassie for the first time," Sorley raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"Oh aye, ma duinne — she's a fierce one," Bróccin chuckled and wagged his eyebrows at the younger knight. "Come on then, it's been a minute since I've knocked you down a peg. You've been looking smug these days. Go grab Lindon, the sulking bastard, and meet me in the training field."


The weeks ambled on for the nobles and fighting men of Castle Sween. The three gall óglaigh had, on more than one occasion, been dispatched to reel in the laird's drunken son from yet another night of revelry and spending. His young lordship was nearly ten years Sorley's junior and carried himself with the air of a child that hadn't had to wipe his own ass a single day in his entire life. He was prissy and young and fancied himself a man but hadn't the experience to truly prove himself of that fact.

Sorley had watched the boy grow up into the person he was today. Had watched and dreaded the moment the boy decided he could make his mind up for himself and take actions into his own hands, regardless of his father's orders. For years, he dreaded the day the boy would inevitably shift from a precocious child who revered the great knights, and their stories of battles fought and won, to a young man who felt he was entitled to their loyalty and power without earning it. That day had arrived two years ago this winter. And Sorley had fancied backhanding the wee bastard ever since.

He was making his way from the inner keep to the stables when he heard a commotion coming from the great hall. Sorley quickly scanned the area and caught Lindon's eye. They shared a grave look. Settling their hands on the hilts of their blades, they followed the rush of guards streaming past them toward the sound.

They pushed through the crowd and the tall doors that led to the great hall, picking up their pace at another resounding crash and clamor. Something large — something metal — made impact with stone. The sound reverberated through the lower levels of the castle.

The young lord had cut loose one of the ropes that held a giant chandelier in place — suspended above the center of the room. Metal and wax were strewn across the floor where it fell and the little monster of a man was still swinging his blade about blazing drunk and singing a bawdy tune.

Sorley took a quick inventory of the room. His young lordship was the ranking noble in the vicinity, so his orders would inevitably have to be followed to some capacity, several other knights had rallied at the noise and now stood braced for the impending chaos. They had scattered themselves strategically about the room. Sorley quietly dismissed the guards that stood in front of him back to their duties, and carefully stepped further into the center of the hall. There was a maid kneeling carefully next to the boy. Her eyes were averted. She was shaking, but she knew enough not to cry. Crying only ever made it worse for the servants, and had at one point cost someone their hand. There was a basket beside her, emptied of most of the food it had once held which was now intermingled with the disassembled chandelier. Everything was covered in half melted wax. The young lord swung around to face him, eyes bright and mocking, a laugh still on his lips from the song he sang. Noticing it was Sorley who approached, the boy — insecure and full of a need to prove himself against his childhood keeper — jabbed forward in a sloppy motion with his blade. Sorley didn't flinch, instead he watched the child stumble and the sword fly from his hand, echoing through the hall as it slid across the floor toward the hulking gall óglaigh. The boy cursed, pushed himself back up on his knees and dragged his hands frantically through his hair as he let out a long, aggravated yell.

Then with his other hand, he brought a jug of ale to his lips and took another long pull. He staggered back up and delivered a swift kick to the maid on the ground. She whimpered and Sorley jerked forward.

"This is unbecoming of your lordship," Sorley said, his tone matter of fact but calm.

"You will mind your tongue, foreign dog," The boy growled back at him.

His chest was puffed up and heaving. He moved closer to look Sorley in the eye. The boy had grown much in the time Sorley had known him, but even then, his head only came as high as the knight's broad chest. He had to lean back to fully confront him. Sorley cocked an unamused eyebrow and ducked his head so the child could see his face and eyes more clearly, ever the humble and loyal servant he was.

"I require my blade," the boy spat up at him.

"Oh aye," Sorley said. "Well, it's just there on the floor, now isn't it?" He gestured to the discarded sword at his feet.

"Pick it up and hand it to me."

"I cannae do that, your young lordship."

"You can and will. I order it. I command it."

His breath reeked and Sorley wondered how long he'd been at it this time. It wasn't even midday yet. He wasn't going to be stooping down before the child to pick up his blade. He'd sooner take himself out with his own axe than do that.

It was Lindon who interceded on his behalf with a bold lie but one every knight in the room — friend or no — would let him get away with. None of them were fans of stooping before untried and untested laddies who thought they knew what was what.

"Surely his young lordship remembers his lessons," Lindon cut in. "A knight cannae lay his hands on a noble blade. It would cost him his fighting hand, ye ken."

The boy turned his bleary eyes to Lindon and processed this bit of information. He had not, in fact, remembered such a thing. And every knight in the room held their tongue, for what Lindon told his young lordship was simply untrue. The boy nodded slowly and stooped before Sorley to grab his blade from the ground. Sorley moved his foot over it and held it in place for a moment beneath an iron toed boot. The boy tried and failed to tug it up under the weight of the gall óglaigh's heavy foot. He snarled and looked up at his former keeper in defiance.

"Move your foot," he hissed. "Or I'll have it separated from your body."

"Just keeping the blade steady for your lordship. Easier to grasp this way, ye ken. I only wish to be of service." But he kept his foot pressed down on the blade, holding it in place a bit longer while the boy resentfully struggled.

Sorley nodded at Lindon to collect the maid, and his brother did so with haste. He watched, patient and unconcerned by the young noble at his feet, as Lindon and the maid piled the fallen food in her basket. The other knight ushered her from the great hall back into the waiting hands of the head of house Mrs. Macleod. Only when the maid was gone, did Sorley step back and allow the boy to retrieve his weapon and stand.

"My father will hear about this, dog."

"Oh aye, he will," Sorley said.

Then the young lord turned on his feet and stomped away, shoving past the gathered knights, issuing curses and abuses at them as he went. They heard his sword clang violently against the stone of the wall in whichever hallway he had taken to escape his embarrassment. The room breathed a sigh of relief. The tension slowly shifted from the gathered knights and servants. And slowly everyone filtered back to the day's duties. Lindon nudged Sorley's arm to get his attention and jerked his head back the way they came. They had rounds to complete and training to do. There was no point in dallying any longer here.


A few days later, Sorley rose in the dark hours of the morning. He dressed in his usual breeches, tunic and light armor, not bothering with the more cumbersome elements of his uniform. Patrol always carried its risks; he was none too worried about what they would encounter this day on the road. He ran his hands carefully over his plaid, before leaving it piled neatly in his trunk, unwilling to wear his clan's colors while he served a place such as this one. He met Lindon and Bróccin in the stables, and the three of them set out together along the road that would take them south of the village for a few days' time.

As they neared the edge of the village — and the path where their small hamlet met the woods, where the serf's huts were located - Sorley noticed an odd figure on the ground, blocking the road. Bróccin and Lindon traded a glance. Hands resting on the hilts of their swords, the group thundered forward and then quickly pulled their horses to a stop.

It was a young woman, a lass really. Face down in the mud, just lying there. A sudden and all too familiar world wariness washed over him. She looked dead. His horse snorted impatiently, eager to move along. But Sorley held him fast, shifting in his saddle. The girl jolted. Her face shot up from where she had firmly planted it in the mud. The movement would have startled him if his nerves hadn't been dulled already by years of fighting and bloodshed. She caught him off guard, but he couldn't say he was much affected beyond that. That old familiar tether, the one that was centered deep down somewhere in his gut, gave a small tug. He brushed it aside as a knightly sense of concern and dismounted. Sorley handed his reins to Lindon. The girl registered his approach. She scrambled back and away, turning to face him as she did. When she caught the full breadth of him, she let out a gasp and crawled backward even further still. The image of her called to mind days spent hunting in the woods, and the frantic movements of wild, but captured prey. This wouldn't do.

"Are ye well, lass?" He asked her. He knew fear when he saw it and this girl was one with the feeling. Sorley knelt down a bit closer to her level, extended his hand.

Bróccin rumbled quietly behind him that he'd not seen her before. Lindon agreed.

"You from around here, girl?" Sorley asked her.

She did not look to be from around these parts at all, he thought to himself. Her features were all wrong. Definitely not a highlander, at least not in full. Her hair was a rich black color, like the waves of a night dark sea, and he'd not seen any so smooth and well-tended as hers appeared to be. Especially not among serfs and villagers and the like. Her skin was richer too than any lass he'd ever seen, and smooth. Baby smooth as though it had not been weathered by a single day of work in her life. She had the skin of a noble child, not a serf girl. Her eyes, deep pools of liquid bronze, stared up at him wide and unblinking. Her chest heaved in some unspoken terror. He knew he cut a fine fearsome figure and did his best to make himself small. "You must not fear, lass. I only wish to help you."

When still she cowered from him, he looked back at his fellow knights unsure of what he should do.

Lindon shrugged and studied the girl impatiently.

"You think I ken what to do with her? She's obviously not right in the head, man. Pick her up and leave her be. Best get on with it before the day escapes us."

Sorley scowled at his brother knight and turned to Bróccin who too looked bored and tired and unconcerned by this entire exchange. All women were daft and unexplainable to him. Sorley would find no help from either of the men. At a loss, he turned back to the girl who studied him just as wearily and silently as before. At least she had stopped actively trying to crawl away, he thought.

With a sigh and shrug, he advanced. She let out a noise of protest, but Lindon was right, and they had not the time for it. He lifted her as gently as he could — righted and situated her, standing her just off the road and to the side a bit. She was covered face to foot in mud and he couldn't keep his curiosity from revealing itself. The tether inside of him — the one that had kept him tied to this place despite its brutality — gave a sharper and more unexpected tug. She was foreign and quite possibly simple in the head, but he felt somehow that he knew her.

At another sounding complaint from Lindon, he nodded at her in farewell, backed away, and mounted his steed. Sorley clicked his tongue and moved on as he always did, but she stayed with him. Her face lingered in his mind a little longer than he thought she should have. And when he returned from his patrol days later, eager to pass the night with a roof over his head, he found his eyes straying to that small patch of mud. Upon finding it empty of any fallen lasses, they strayed further still. He swept his eyes around the village hoping in vain to catch another — just one more — glimpse of that strange girl and her liquid metal eyes.