Back To You

I am nearly asleep, fading back into this ancient castle Leoch as if into a dream, when a voice comes out of the dark.

"Jamie? Mr. Jamie sir?"

The warm pair of arms encircling me stir a bit, "Yes, Willie, what is it?"

"It's Mr. Dougal sir. He's fainted. They've had tae take him away from the Oathtaking. They say he won't wake up sir. An' nae'un could find ye, sir – t'was Murtagh sent me heer, jus' tae check – what should we do, sir?"

A low rumble sounds beneath my ear, "Did Dougal hurt himself when he fell?"

"No, sir. The men takin' the Oath jus' then caught him, sir. They say he's snorin' good an' proper, sir."

"Then jus' let him sleep it off. There's probably nowt far wrong."

"But sir. . ."

"Make him comfortable, an' leave him be. Understand?"

"Yes sir."

"An' Willie?"

"Yes sir?"

"Ye dinnae have tae call me sir."

"Yes sir."

There are faint shufflings, and the arms around me re-settle themselves. The dark goes silent again.

Once more I fade, back, back, back into a thin grey mist, swept across stone and earth and sea, swirling, drifting, clouding then clearing, a soft, pale silver wave, floating under the moon, and under the stars. . .

A circle of trees spring up around me, each burning bright with blue-edged argent fire. I fall to the ground like snow, and run across the earth like a dozen flooding rivers, crashing and boiling with stony, ice-cold rage. I pour into a burning pit of brimstone, and rise like flame, red and fierce and wild. I lead a wall of fire across the plain, evaporating all in our path, and ending the world with a thunderclap. A great pearl-white beast steps out from oblivion, golden winged, blue-eyed, and crowned with scarlet berries. A beam of red-gold light comes from the single horn on its head, reaching out to illuminate one star in the western sky.

Spring-green leaves unfold and cradle me, and scented white flowers breathe warmth across my chilled skin.

Something petal-soft gently touches my mouth.

"Sleep well, Sassenach," says the warming, healing wind.

I turn my head, and smell the sachet of sweet herbs Mrs. Fitz always puts under my pillow.

"G'night," I grunt.

I hear my door close. Then I fall into blessedly dreamless sleep.

When I wake up in the morning, I feel absurdly like I have a hangover.

It doesn't make any sense, but I don't question it. I take a shower, and go down to the kitchens for breakfast.

When I get there, the place is alive with chatter.

"Hev ye heard. . . hev ye heard. . . hev ye heard?"

Annie and the rest of the girls are gossiping over by the porridge buffet, while the male kitchen staff are clustered around three large crates they've just dragged in from the delivery bay.

"Whoo're thay from. . . wheer d'we tak them. . . whoo're thay for. . . what are thay?"

I smile as I serve myself up some toast and bacon. Stage Four completed, and Stage Five loaded and ready. . .

"Have I heard what?" I ask casually, sitting down next to Coira and Mai.

"Dougal fainted halfway though the Oathtakin'! Nae'un kens why. Bu' he's up an' about this mornin', an' furious – so Mrs. Fitz says-"

That good lady herself enters the room then, going over to the three crates, and shooing the men away from them, "Be off then!" she orders, "Finnish yer breakfast an' dinnae mind what's nae business of yourn. Nae doot et's jus' a Boxin' Day present for some of th'men – we should all be sae lucky! - go on, go on!" She snaps her hand towel at the retreating back of one of the chore-boys, and then finally turns to the crates, her lips moving and eyebrows rising as she reads the labels.

I smile privately. Leticia came through handsomely. . .

In ones and twos, the men of the stables and garages, Colum's private staff, and Dougal's dedicated campaign team, all show up in the kitchens to eat a leisurely breakfast, and indulge in the even more sustaining meat of gossip.

I've finished my food, and had two relaxing cups of tea when I stand up, go over to one of the men's tool boxes waiting for them along the back wall, and pick out a good crowbar. Then I walk up to the nearest crate, and with a few swift motions, crack the top right off. I fish in the excelsior packing, and bring out a small card of thick, embossed paper, written with a flowing, formal script.

All eyes are already on me, and I do not have to call for silence as I read out what it says.

"For standing by me in our hour of need. May you have a blessed Boxing Day, and sixth day of Yule. Luceo, non uro. Regards, Dougal Mackenzie."

I reach into the crate again, and bring out a very nice bottle of champagne. I've unpeeled the gold foil cap and uncorked the bottle with a loud pop before the rest of the room finds its voice again.

"Bu' what's he thankin' us for?" asks Angus, a sentiment loudly echoed by nearly everyone else in the room.

Gil and Harry both look expectantly at me.

I shrug, and start to fill the glasses that Mrs. Fitz brings over to me, "Who can say? Probably for keeping the gossip all about him this morning."

"Bu' what else would we be talkin' about?" asks Angus, grumpily taking a glass of champagne, and drinking it back in one go.

I shrug again, "Colum?"

Everyone stares at me.

I gesture as though what I'm saying is a matter of course, "That is a big part of the Oathtaking, right? Watching to see if the Laird is any the worse for drink?"

"Aye lass," growls Marc, "But what-"

"Well, what other reason could there be for Dougal fainting out of nowhere? He saw that Colum was starting to flag, or that he needed a break, or maybe even was starting to feel the effects of the Oathwine. And what else was there to do but direct the attention away from him for a while?" I pass a few full glasses to Annie and the girls, "I doubt it's the first time Dougal's taken a fall for Colum' sake, and it probably won't be the last - not by a long way."

The room falls deathly quiet.

Two of Colum's personal staff come up to me, and after asking permission with their eyes, from both me and Mrs. Fitz, start to unpack and serve out the bottles of champagne.

Everyone takes their glasses solemnly, not drinking from them, only looking contemplatively at the glittery golden bubbles.

Now, to see if I've timed this right. . .

Sure enough, at this very moment, the kitchen's big double doors slam open, and a frothing, seething Dougal bursts through, red-faced and spitting curses.

Instantly, he is swept up into a resounding cheer of "Hip-hip-huzzah!" and several overlapping choruses of "For He's a Jolly-good Fellow". Angus and Gil parade him around on their shoulders for a minute, and then spend several more toasting him with at least three bottles of champagne.

I let things go for a good while, and then start handing out unopened bottles, saying, "Why not go share with the folks in the dining room? It is Boxing Day, after all. . ."

I hand the very last bottle to Mrs. Fitz herself, who kisses me delightedly on both cheeks, and goes up to the dining room on Murtagh's arm.

Leaving the kitchens empty, with just me, and Dougal.

Stage Six.

Endgame.

He's still holding a half-empty bottle. He stares at it dazedly for a moment, as though contemplating whether to drink from it, or use it as a club.

In the end he does neither, setting it down carefully on the long table next to me. Then he crosses his arms, and glowers in my face.

"Awright lass. Who are ye?"

I huff a surprised laugh, "Who am I? Claire Beauchamp, formerly of Oxford, now Farm Mana-"

He jabs a finger at my chest, but doesn't actually touch me, "Ye ken what I mean. We've played this game long enough, you an' I. Now who are ye? An' what are ye doing?"

I back up a little, sitting on the edge of one of the empty crates. I look up at the ceiling, dreamily.

"How long do you think it'll take?"

"What?"

I look him directly in the eye, "How long, Dougal? It's happening already. Only a few of them are doing it now, but it'll be more and more each time. How long do you think it'll take before it's all of them? Months? Weeks?. . . Days?"

He stares hard at me, trying to be intimidating, succeeding only in being bewildered.

I cross my arms, "How many times, Dougal, can I give your face back to you before your face comes from me? How long do you think it'll take before they start looking to me, and never look back to you at all?"

I stand up, and press a finger to the middle of his chest, "How long, do you think, before I'm the Laird of Clan MacKenzie?"

He blinks, aghast, "Ye wouldnae dare-"

I scoff, "Haven't I already dared? What do you think all this has been, Dougal? Chess? In that case, this pawn just got made Queen, and you know it."

He slaps a hand down on the table, making plates and bottles jump, "What did ye put in the Oathwine?"

"The Oathwine? Nothing."

"Dinnae lie tae me, ye must've-"

"There was valerian root extract in your lunch. Powerful, but slow-acting. And harmless. All we needed was for you to fall asleep."

"We?"

I sigh, "I thought we were done playing games? You know who. Or if you don't you're even stupider than I thought."

He grits his teeth, furiously, "What is yer game, woman? Ye have Wee Jamie, all ye'd need tae do is scupper me wi' Colum an' ye'd get Leoch – why all this. . . this. . ."

I laugh, hard, but mirthlessly, "Leoch? Leoch? You think I want Leoch? You think I want to take the Lairdship away from you? You think I want to be Chief of Clan MacKenzie?"

"But then, why. . ."

I throw up my hands in disgust, "And you still don't get it, do you? None of this was about getting Leoch. Or the Clan. Or about taking anything away from you. None of it, Dougal."

I get as close to him as I dare, and whisper in his face, "This was about showing you. Showing you what it's like." I gesture at the mess of the kitchen all around us, "This, Dougal, is what it's like when we are enemies."

I sit back down on the crate, cross my arms, and look defiantly up at him, "And you've never once thought about what things might be like if we were allies, have you? Well, time to think fast, bucko."

I grab the half-empty champagne bottle, turn, and stalk out of the kitchen.

His eyes follow me the whole way.