Aberdeenshire, Scotland
January 2015

But you can make decisions, too

There's a bang, the rifle jerks in my hands and something feathery flutters from the sky.

"Great shot!" declares Persis and beams at me.

I lower the rifle and stare at the feathery heap on the ground.

Persis marches over to the… the thing, deftly picks it up and holds it aloft by the neck. It's a brown and grey speckled bird with a white face and a distinct red beak. It's also undeniably dead.

"A red-legged partridge," announces Persis and offers it to me.

I take a step back.

Persis laughs. "It's okay, you can take it. It won't suddenly come back alive."

Yeah. I'm not wholly convinced I wouldn't prefer if it did.

Reluctantly, I walk closer to where Persis is standing, but still don't take the bird from her. It feels… odd, knowing that I fired the shot that killed it.

"We'll have them for dinner tonight," Persis decides as she drops the bird into a basket that already holds her own kills. "Cook has a delicious recipe for roasted partridge."

Cook has many a delicious recipe, as I can attest. Still, this whole business of shooting and eating birds… It's a weird feeling and not only because I know Carl would most definitely disapprove.

"We breed them," Persis informs me suddenly. When I look at her, I find her peering at me closely. "Their purpose it to be hunted and until it happens, they live a happy life on the moors. You don't need to feel bad for them. They have it better than those poor chickens bred for supermarket meat that never see the light of day in their lives."

I sigh. "I know, I know. It's just…" I break off and gesticulate toward the basket of dead birds.

The thing is, I do know. The arguments aren't new to me (and I'm sure I've employed them against Carl before) and I know that Persis, who loves all animals, would never be cruel to any animal she encountered. It's just… the rifle suddenly feels very unwieldy in my hands.

"It's really very natural to hunt for your own food and we do eat everything we shoot," Persis promises. "Or, if we can't eat it all, we give some of to staff or tenants to eat. It's not wasted."

I nod slowly. "I didn't think it was. It's more the idea of having, you know, shot another being that takes some getting used to."

"You will get used to it," Persis soothes and pats my shoulder. "You're such a natural with that rifle that it would be a shame to miss you on future hunting trips."

I look down at the rifle in my hand. "Maybe I should still practice some more on the clay pigeons before coming out with you again."

Persis shrugs. "Sure, if you want to. But you don't need any practice. I've never seen anyone shoot with such accuracy the first time they're out on the moors."

Well.

I'm not actually sure that's a skill I'm too wild about possessing…

Seeing my indecision, Persis takes the rifle from me and offers me a smile. "We'll take it slowly," she assures me. "No deer stalking for you this winter."

"Please not!" I feel my eyes widen in horror at the prospect. Birds are one thing (I mean, they're birds), but I'm not sure I could stomach shooting an actual deer, no matter what Persis says about my supposed skills with a rifle. Besides, Izzie would never forgive me for shooting Bambi's Mum!

Persis grins. "Baby steps."

Realising she's just teasing me (didn't Ken once say something about her not hunting deer either, many moons ago?), I stick out my tongue at her, making her grin wider.

She squeezes my arm companionably, before casting a critical look at the basket and deciding, "I think that'll do for today. Shall we head back?"

"Yes. Good idea," I reply, trying not to sound too eager.

I don't think I'm fooling Persis, but she just allows herself an amused smile while signalling for the two gillies to come closer. Gillies, I've learned, are Scottish hunting attendants who are especially useful for rookies such as me. I'm only too glad to watch Persis hand our rifles to one of them, while the other one picks up the basket with the dead birds and carries it over to the cars.

Up here in the Highlands, the royals use cars they wouldn't be seen dead in when in London. The main object is sturdiness, which translates to a lack of speed, comfort and amenities. The mud-splattered Land Rovers master the uneven ground easily, but a comfortable drive it is not. It's not at all helped by the fact that Persis is not the most careful of drivers. She doesn't slow down unless she absolutely has to and a pothole definitely isn't reason enough for her. (After we've driven through a particularly large one, I look in the mirror to catch the eye of her PPO on the backseat and see him wince.)

Thanks to Persis's driving, we make it back to Balmoral Castle in record time and pile out of the cars.

"Do you want to go shooting again tomorrow, Ma'am?" one of the gillies asks Persis.

She looks at me slyly. "I would, but… maybe we'll just go for a ride instead?"

"Yes," I agree. "I'd like that."

The Scottish Highland Ponies are as sturdy and sure-footed as the Land Rovers are and their disposition is both gentle and brave. Riding them through the spectacular scenery of the Scottish Highland is something I'll never grow tired of. Since coming here after New Year, I've gone riding almost every day, with various members of the royal family to accompany me. (Twice, Ken and I managed to sneak away on our own and let me tell you that as far as romantic outings are concerned, riding through the Highlands is up there. Outlander wasn't lying about that particular detail.)

"So, riding it is," decides Persis as we walk towards the castle. "Do you want to ride up to the pastures and check in on the cows?"

The royals breed Highland Cows and I'm unashamed to admit that I'm perfectly enamoured with the calves. They're shaggy, fluffy and incredibly cute. I'm usually indifferent about cows, but you'd need a heart of steel not to enjoy observing the Highland Cow Babies playing in the snow.

Persis raises her eyebrows questioningly and I grin in answer. She laughs. "That's decided then," she declares, before looking down at her watch. "It should be time for tea now, but afterwards, do you want to try your hand at plucking the partridges?"

Not deigning that with an answer, I simply throw her a withering look. She laughs again, completely unconcerned, and reaches out to hold open the door for me.

Balmoral Castle, I've found, is the royal family's most rustic home. From the outside, it looks like any self-respecting fairy tale castle ought to, complete with towers and turrets, but on the inside, there's nothing fancy or gilded or shiny about it. It was clearly furnished with comfort in mind, with lots of squishy sofas, snuggly blankets and merrily burning fireplaces. The design itself is heavy on wood and tartan. Honestly, there's tartan everywhere. The curtains are tartan, the upholstery is tartan, the blankets are tartan and even the carpets are tartan. It's not exactly pretty, but I guess at least it's consistent.

(In addition to being not at all subtle about the tartan, Balmoral is also bloody freezing, despite the fireplaces and the copious amount of electric heaters dotted around the rooms. Ken and I had to come up with several new and inventive ways to keep warm at night, some of which involved a whole lot of clothing and some of which… didn't.)

Having been informed by a footman called Geoffrey that Ken and his parents are in Owen's private study, Persis and I stroll along the tartan carpeted-hall to the southern end of the castle. Upon reaching the office, I knock and, after Owen calls to enter, open the door.

The moment I do, I know something is the matter. I can't put my finger on what it is, but something feels… different. There's a kind of tension in the room, only I can't tell if it's a good or a bad one.

Persis doesn't seem to notice. "Rilla and I went partridge shooting and she's such a natural!" she announces brightly. "She took a bird down on – what was it? Your fifth try?"

"Something like that," I reply distractedly as I survey the room.

Leslie had her back to us when we entered, but now she turns and gives us a half-smile. Ken is standing by the desk and as I look at him, I notice that there's an undercurrent of excitement in him. He almost seems to be vibrating with the anticipation of… of what?

"That's lovely, darling," Owen tells Persis and I snap my eyes over to him. His expression is perfectly kind and amiable, as it so often is, and it's not giving anything away.

"Come on," he encourages Leslie, turning towards her. "Let's leave them to it."

Let's leave who to it?

I just open my mouth to ask (even though I have a pretty good idea), when Leslie nods and pushes away from the window sill. The smile stays on her face as she walks past us to hold open the door

"Let's go, Monkey," Owen prompts Persis and holds out a hand for her to take. "We'll find Teddy and have some tea. Rilla and Ken have something to talk about. They'll join us later."

For a moment, I think Persis will protest, but then she nods and allows him to lead her from the room. When they pass me, Owen stops briefly and puts a hand on my shoulder. It only lasts a second, but at the gesture, there's a nervous flutter in my stomach.

Something is clearly going on.

I hear the door close behind Ken's family and look over at him almost automatically. He's all wired up and when my eyes find his, I can see that they're shining with excitement. It looks like whatever is happening is something good.

"Hello, love," he greets me, his lips curving into a smile.

Stretching out his arms, he almost bounces over to me and clasps both my hands tightly between his.

"Hello?" I reply tentatively, the word coming out as more of a question. When I smile at him, he grins back widely, before raising our entwined hands and pressing kisses to both of mine.

"You're very happy," I observe, feeling myself being caught up in his excitement.

He swings our clasped hands from side to side and nods, looking rather like an overeager puppy. It's not a simile that enters my mind often with regards to Ken, making this… situation all the more remarkable.

"What happened to make you so happy?" I query, inclining my head slightly. I'm still a bit confused, to be honest, but his apparent joy draws a smile from me instinctively.

"It hasn't happened yet," Ken replies, sounding positively chuffed. "But it will happen soon."

Oh?

My mind is running into overdrive, trying to figure out what he's talking about. There's a possibility, but… I mean, I wouldn't want to assume…

"Care to enlighten me?" I ask, making sure to keep my tone light and teasing, so as not to give away the fact that my heart is suddenly beating in my throat.

Ken smiles his most brilliant smile and the heart in my throat beats twice as fast.

Could it be…? Can it be…?

"I'm going to Cyprus," he announces happily.

My heart plummets back down in a fraction of a second.

"Wh-what?" I manage.

"I'm going to Cyprus," he repeats, clearly oblivious to my organs riding rollercoaster in my body.

I blink at him, trying to wrap my head around what he's saying.

"Why… why Cyprus?" I stutter.

Whatever I thought – hoped – he'd say, Cyprus wasn't it. The mention of it came so out of the blue that I can't seem to move past it. I'm just… utterly, utterly confused.

Ken laughs good-naturedly. "I'm not making sense to you, am I?"

"Not particularly, no," I confirm, frowning. "Are you going on some kind of tour?"

It would be the obvious answer, except he's never once been even half as excited about a royal tour as he's now. I just can't see how –

"No tour." Ken shakes his head, still distinctly amused. "By Cyprus, I really mean RAF Akrotiri."

My heart, so light and fluttery just moments ago, settles like led in my stomach.

"RAF Akrotiri," I repeat, but it's no question. If I was confused before, I now see with sudden clarity. I might not have all the details yet, but there are a whole lot of implications to what he's saying and I don't think I like even one of them.

"It's an air force base in Cyprus," Ken adds helpfully, as if I hadn't figured that out on my own.

"And you're going there… to train?" I ask slowly. "I thought you were done with training."

After all, when his Tornado training finished last May, it was communicated both to me and the world that Ken's active military days were over. He was allowed to keep the link intact with his part-time job at the base in High Wycombe, but that was just desk work. No-one said anything about him taking up flying again!

"I am done with training," confirms Ken. "I'm going there to do the job I was trained for."

The job he was trained for?

He doesn't mean…

He couldn't possibly mean…

"RAF Akroriti is the base from which the missions to Iraq are flown," explains Ken, still looking far, far too chipper considering the situation.

Iraq.

The very name of the place invokes a sense of unease. There's a sudden feeling of cold within me, starting at my very core and spreading out into the tips of my fingers.

Iraq means… war.

He's telling me he's going to war.

(And here I thought that he might have planned to… What a fool I was! Stupid, foolish Rilla!)

"You're going to Cyprus to fight in a war?" I clarify, my own voice sounding all wrong. This is so… surreal.

Ken shrugs. "It's hardly a war. We're flying missions against terrorists."

"Bombing missions," I amend. I haven't paid much attention to it, but even I didn't miss the news of the British government authorising bombing missions to be flown against terrorists in Iraq last autumn. I did read about it, I just never thought it would become in any way relevant to my own life.

"I'll probably do more reconnaissance work than actual air strikes," Ken tells me. There's a half-smile on his lips, trying to convince me that this is no big deal, but for once, I'm past being soothed by his smiles.

"Like that makes a difference!" I blurt out.

The smile slowly slips from his lips. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying it makes no difference," I repeat, more hotly this time. "The outcome is the same, whether you're the one scouting out the target or the one dropping the actual bombs."

"And what would that outcome be?" asks Ken. His voice is still calm, but there's a sudden edge to it. He's not smiling anymore.

I draw my hands back from his hold and he lets them go without resistance. Deprived of the warmth of his skin, my fingers are colder still. For a moment, I think I can once more feel the icy steel of the rifle in my hands.

"People die." My voice is toneless.

"Terrorists die," Ken corrects immediately.

"How can you know? How can you be sure?" I implore.

"We have good reconnaissance and –" Ken begins.

I cut across him. "But you can't be sure. You're up there and they're down on the ground and you can't be sure they're all terrorists or extremists or whatever."

"We can be reasonably sure," Ken insists. "Yes, there's a residual risk, but there always is. On balance, the benefits of a successful air strike outweigh the relatively small risk of reconnaissance being not completely accurate."

"How can you say that?" I ask, incredulous. "How can you say that when there are human lives on the line? Innocent lives, possibly?"

"How can you say that?" he shoots back, narrowing his eyes. "How can we risk not to intervene what with everything happening in Iraq and Syria right now? Have you looked at the papers recently? Talk about innocent lives being lost!"

I clench my hands into fists, digging my nails into my skin. "So, now the ends justify the means?"

Ken nods curtly. "Sometimes, they do. This is a war –"

"You said it wasn't a real war!" I interrupt him.

Annoyance flickers over his face. "It's akin to a war," he amends. "It's a particularly dirty type of war and yes, it needs to end. If us flying air strikes helps bring the slaughter and abduction to an end then yes, the ends do justify the means."

"At all cost?" I challenge.

"At a reasonable cost," Ken parries.

"And who decides what is reasonable?" I want to know. "You?"

He clenches his teeth. "In this case, the British parliament did when they authorised the air strikes."

"And what gives them the right?" I demand.

"The British public," he replies, irritated. "But we're not discussing our political system right now."

"No," I agree tightly. "We're not."

"We're also not discussing the ethics of these air strikes either," Ken continues. "Look, I know you grew up in a family of hippies and peaceniks and that you can't help those early influences, but –"

"Hippies and peaceniks?" I splutter, indignant.

Ken jerks his head impatiently. "I'm fond of your family. You know I am. But you can't deny that their aversion to anything military-related isn't wholly reasonable."

"Oh? And you're the judge of that?" I ask cuttingly.

"I'm not judging anyone," Ken defends himself.

"Could have fooled me," I mutter darkly

"I'm merely saying that the world isn't black and white and that sometimes, military intervention is necessary to prevent a disaster from happening," Ken argues. "Just look at history."

"You're not dredging up World War II to justify you running off to play soldier!" I snap.

Ken's eyes turn to slits. "I'm hardly playing soldier. I was trained to do this. This is my duty."

I scoff. "It's not!"

"What did you say?" For a moment, he looks genuinely surprised, even forgetting to glare at me.

"It's not your duty to go off and fly airplanes in Cyprus," I clarify. "Your duty is here, to do your real job."

"This is one of my real jobs. I'm a soldier, as much as I'm a prince," Ken insists.

"So tell me, how many fighter pilots are there in the air force?" I want to know. "And how many future kings does this country have?"

He swallows heavily, probably in an attempt to calm himself down. "That's beside the point. I was trained to fly these planes and it's my duty to stand with my fellow soldiers against this threat to humanity."

"Nonsense!" I hiss. "You're not doing this because of duty or humanity or whatever. You're doing it because you want to. You want to go off and fight. At least own that. At least admit it's because you want to!"

"And you come off your high horse and stop pretending you care about the morality of war," Ken snarls. "You just don't want me to go."

"No!" I burst out. "I don't want you to go! And if that makes me selfish, so be it!"

We're standing nose to nose, staring at each other. My chin is jutted upwards in challenge, Ken's eyes are narrowed to slits. For a few endless seconds, neither of us moves.

Finally, he lowers his head, raising his hands to rub his face. I keep my stance, just to be sure.

"It's not selfish of you," Ken admits, face still lowered. "I know this is asking a lot of you, but… but yes, I want to do this. I want to! I want to finally feel useful, to no longer feel like those years of training were wasted. So many people put effort and time into training me and I don't want it to feel like it was just to satisfy the whims of a useless little princeling."

I bite my lip to keep from asking whether him going to war is not to satisfy the whims of a useless little princeling. Instead, I ask, "How long?"

A pause. "A usual tour of duty takes six months."

I draw in a sharp breath.

Six bloody months.

"I know it's long." Ken lowers his hands, his eyes seeking out mine. "And I know it's a lot, but I feel like I need to do this. I'm asking for your support –"

I cut across him. "My support? My support?" My voice cracks.

A fine line appears between Ken's brows.

"I haven't been anything but supportive! For years, all I did was sit back and support you!" I spit out. "I supported you when you were hiding from your life in New York, I supported you when you were hiding me from your life, I supported you when you went back to England and left me there, I supported you when you tried to figure out your relationship with your parents, I supported you when you finished your training and I supported you when you were struggling with your past. I supported, supported, supported and I never got much support back! How much do you think I have left to give?"

"I don't think that's fair," replies Ken tightly. "Last year –"

"Last year?" I mock. "Last year is increasingly starting to feel like a fluke. Some sort of… pretty but unrealistic dream. I mean, did last year even happen?"

"Of course it happened," snaps Ken.

"Could have fooled me!" I snarl. "Right now, it feels like we're right back where we started! You're making decisions that affect both of us without so much as telling me there even is a decision to be made and the end result is you fannying about doing what you want to so, while I'm supposed to wait and pine for you and be bloody supportive."

Ken grits his teeth. "Now you're generalising."

"Sure I am! Your behaviour follows the same old pattern every damn time, so you can be bloody well sure I'm generalising! I only regret I ever expected anything different from you. If I hadn't allowed you to lull me in last year, maybe you couldn't have blindsided me again!" I positively fling my words at his feet and as I do, I can see him flinch.

"I didn't want to tell you beforehand in case nothing came of it." He clearly trying to sound reasonable, but I'm not about to allow that. He doesn't get to play the sensible one and pretend I'm some crazy person. Not when it's him who's in the wrong!

"Even your excuses are the same as always," I accuse, jabbing a finger at him. "I was sick of them the first time around and do you want to guess how I feel about them now?"

Ken takes a deep breath and doesn't answer.

"I'm… I don't even have words anymore for how that makes me feel." I'm laughing now, but it's pure bitterness. "I'm so… so sick of it. I'm so done!"

The words hang between us, glaring and painful and… dangerous. Because now I've said them, I can't take them back. And I'm not sure I want to.

Silence settles between us, only pierced by my heavy breathing. Ken, on the other hand, stands very, very still. His eyes are boring into mine, but for once, I can't tell what he's thinking.

"Look, it's just for a few months," he implores. "I know it won't be easy, but it's not forever and when I come back, we'll get married."

Suddenly, I feel very, very cold.

I came here thinking that maybe this was where we were heading. I came in here knowing that if he were to ask, I'd say yes.

But he didn't ask.

It takes a long moment until I've ordered my thoughts, but when I speak, my voice is as cold as the feeling filling every part of me. "I can't stop you from making decisions. I'm apparently not even worthy enough to have a part in the decisions you make, but I can make my own decisions. And marriage – well, you'd do well to remember that it takes two for that."


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'And So It Goes' (written by Billy Joel, released by him in 1989).


To Rilla:
Yes, I saw you've read A part of you belongs to me as well! I keep promising I'll translate that one day, but so far, time is not proving to be forthcoming. I'm glad to hear you enjoyed it as well! Also, let me tell you, I absolutely feel you with regards to having to wait for installments. There's a reason I generally don't touch TV series until the very last season is done because that way, I can watch them in one go and be at peace ;). In that vein, I'd absolutely love to write and post more than one chapter a week! Problem is, this pesky boss of mine demands I actually work for my money, which is seriously cutting into my fanfic time. I'll let you know when I've figured out a way to solve this conundrum ;).
I'm not offended at all and you were in no way rude, so please don't apologise. In fact, I find it's an interesting discussion, to compare how history affects the viewpoint of people to this day. For me,
Rilla of Ingleside was my first succinct introduction to World War One, so my first structured approach to it was from the Canadian POV, which means it feels natural to me, even if that makes my ancestors 'the enemy'. I also don't know the first thing about how these ancestors experienced the war, so I'm not compelled to adopt their experiences and way of thinking as mine. These people lived in the same country I do today (or, well, a similar country), but they aren't me and I'm not them. I guess I don't identify personally with the German people who lived during WW1, so it's really neither here nor there from which nation's POV I look at the war when writing. I've also written original stories set during WW1 with German protagonists and that was fine as well (only much harder to research, because a lot of our sources from then went up in flames in the 1940s). Now, WW2 quite another beast and that's much harder to tackle as a German, even today, but with WW1 I feel fairly comfortable adopting different perspectives of looking at it. I'm not sure if this is making sense, but that's my best stab at explaining the thoughts that go into it.
Say Hi to your sister from me! :)