CONTENT WARNING - Blood/gore

A Hog Too Many

"Twelfth night! Or what you will. . ." Jamie welcomes me into his herb workshop with a quote, a grin, and a kiss, "How was your first Yule with us, Sassenach?"

"Oh, you know," I flop gratefully onto his couch, "Other than almost losing my son and his best friend to poisoning, meeting more MacKenzies than I can possibly count - let alone keep track of - witnessing family drama that has very possibly international implications, participating in family drama that has who knows what implications, and trying to keep my daily sugar and fats intake down to something just slightly less than lethal, it's been pretty nice overall." I stretch and yawn a bit, scooting a little closer to the space heater next to the wall, "On the plus side, it's snowing again, our son didn't die - and is pretty awesome generally – and not only does my boyfriend make the best gifts, and gives me the best kisses, he also takes me on the most interesting dates." I grin up at him, "So, there's that, at least."

"Speaking of dates – are ye almost ready for the campaign trail?"

"I suppose so. I don't need too much – I'm only going as maintenance staff, after all. I've already packed some clothes and some books. I've added a few extra tools to the usual set every vehicle carries, and I've filled my four allocated boxes in the supply van." I wave a casual hand, "Easy."

"That part of it is, I suppose," says Jamie, going back to what he was doing before I came in, "But are ye ready in your mind? We leave in two days – that's no' much time tae get ready if ye'er no' already." He dips a long strip of cloth in melted paraffin, and begins to wrap it tightly around one end of a pine-smelling stick.

"Oh, I'm never going to be ready for two months on the road with Dougal. Resigned to? Yes. Ready for? No."

He half smiles in reluctant agreement, then nods at a cardboard box on his desk, "Speaking of two months – did ye get them all done?"

"Oh those! Yes, I did. Finished them last night." I take off my new canvas shoulder-sack and pull out a small paper bag, "There you go."

He dumps the bag into the box, smiling at all the little pieces of folded paper. He runs a hand through them, mixing them with the pile of paper slips that were already in the box.

"Wonderful," he says, taping the box shut, leaving only one small slot open where the slips of paper can be removed, "Now Fergus c'n have a note from one or the other of us every day while we're gone."

"And I told him yesterday that we'd use some of whatever personal time we get on our coms to keep in touch with him."

"Aye, that we will," he says, brightly, tying another long oil-soaked cloth strip to the end of another stick, and hanging it upside-down to dry next to several of its fellows.

"Why are you making torches, Jamie?"

"For the torchlight procession taenight, a'course," he grins, and starts another one, "Auld Hogmanay tradition."

"Oh, yes, of course. Should have known."

He half-smirks at my sarcasm, "Aye, weel – we mus' light the way for the First Foot."

I chuckle, and shake my head, "You know what? I'm not even going to ask."

"Weel, if ye'd spent less time readin' the Clan Restoration Act an' suchlike, ye'd have had time tae ken that on the Eve of-"

He is interrupted by a long call on a horn, a lot of hounds baying, and the bellowing, inhuman shriek of a wild boar.

"An' they're off," he says, shaking his head, helplessly, "I keep telling Colum someun's gonna get hurt if they keep doin' it the auld way, wi' ghillies an' horses an' hounds. Bu' he wilnae hear of addin' chase cars, or evan a protective stunpike barrier. Two hounds were gored last year, an' a horse was lamed the year before that. I dinnae like blood sport, but there's ways an' ways of conductin' one. There's bettar ways than this, an' no mistake."

I go over to one of the diamond-pane windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of the hunting party, "Jamie? How do they. . . I mean, how can they. . . when it's. . . over. . . and they have to. . . end it. . . what do they use? Aren't all non-ceremonial guns banned until after the Transitional Period?"

He looks at me with mild surprise, "Well a case might be made here, bu' they use a spear-gun usually – those are allowed for huntin'. . . an' d'ye really think all of Scotland is unarmed jus' because the English say we mus' be?"

"Well, no, not exactly, but if a Peace Agent found someone with a gun, they could-"

He scoffs, "An' Agent doesnae have tae find annythin' tae mek an arrest, Sassenach! All they haveta do is suspect – an' they dinna need proof tae bring a charge either. So mos' people figure – why bother tae comply?"

"But. . . but. . ." I flail.

"For someun' as smart as ye are, Sassenach, ye do have some of the strangest blind spots." He shakes his head, "The Peace Agents areno' heer tae be agents of peace – they're a militant police force, who abide by few rules save whatever cruelties wander through their heids on any given day, an' they serve nae purpose but tae be hammers for the higher-ups, keepin' us Scots in line, whatever that might mean on any given day. The Watch are thievin' murderin' rogues, an' I'd risk runnin' afoul of them evary day for a year before I trusted a loaf of bread in the hands of Black Jack or his like."

"But they aren't all as bad as Black Jack, surely?"

He sighs deeply, "No' bein' a torturing rapist is an extremely low bar tae clear, mo nighean donn. An' a good half of them cannae evan do that."

I try again, "But. . ."

"An' jus' wheer is this comin' from, might I ask? An' wheer is it goin'? I havetae say, Agent apologism isnae somethin' I expected from ye, of all people, Sassenach. . ."

I sigh, and look out at the fields under their covering of fresh, newly fallen snow, "It isn't apologism, Jamie, really it's not. It's experience. Or lack of experience, rather." I turn away from the window, and sit back down on the couch, "You see, until that little run-in with Black Jack and his men, all my experiences with policemen of any kind had been uniformly positive." I rest my chin on my fist, "And when you haven't experienced something, your whole perception of it is different. It's like. . ." I half-smile at the irony, "It's like history, I suppose. You have to trust what historians say about things, and you do, because what else is there? But no matter how truthful they are, you still were never there. You don't know. Not actually know. And so your perspective is different." I lean back, staring up at the thatched ceiling, "I have no trouble believing the Peace Agents are bad men doing a bad job for bad reasons, but I still can't square it. Not with my own experiences beforehand, not with the actual situation in Scotland now, and not with what anyone in charge purports to want for the future. It doesn't make sense to treat people like they do."

"No, it doesnae, Sassenach," he sighs, and starts to wrap another torch, "The ones like Black Jack do it because they like bein' evil – they find joy in it."

I shudder. I know he's right.

"An' most of the rest of 'em follow along because it's the path of least resistance – which I could almost forgive, a bit, since resistin' Black Jack or anny'un like him c'n easily get ye killed – or worse. But nae'un's keepin' 'em in the force – if they didnae wantae follow horrible men an' do horrible things, they could jus' quit." He shrugs, "So most of 'em must get something out of it moor'n a paycheck."

I sigh, and shake my head, "I just keep going back and forth between wishing I understood, and hoping I never do."

He hangs up the last finished torch, "We've invented a saying heer, the past few years, Sassenach – one Peace Agent is one tae many. There isnae a single thing they've made bettar, and many, many they've made worse."

"I believe it. . ."

I trail off, and let my eyes rove all over Jamie's little office. There are a few wreaths and lights in evidence of the season, but little else has changed since the last time I was here. The piles of paper on his desk are different, of course, and. . . I smile. The decorations are different too. There are three clear resin cubes lined up next to his e-padd, each with a different specimen embedded in it. The first, a small grey rock with a fascinating pattern of red and yellow lichen all over it, the second, a piece of dark brown bark nearly covered with a startlingly emerald green moss, and the third, a beautiful iridescent blue dragonfly.

I'd found all three while walking the fields last month, before the snow. I preserved each one in this time's approximation of Chronicler's Resin – at first for my own collection, and then later as Jamie's Christmas present. It is unexpectedly good to see them displayed so prominently in a place where he sees them every day. I touch the little knitted cord I have wrapped around my wrist today.

Pieces of ourselves we've each gifted to the other. . .

I wonder, very much, what it actually means to be someone's soulmate. . .

There is a distant, but still very loud whoosh noise, and an agonized squeal, mingled with a great deal of agitated shouting.

"They must've got it," say Jamie, dully somber, "Odd. They usually span it out longer'n that."

"Well, at least it's over," I say, matching his depressed tone.

"Aye."

But instead of subsiding after the kill, the shouting grows louder and louder, and nearer, and more intelligible -

"Jam! Jam! Come quick man!"

Jamie leaps up, and grabs his first aid box just as Alain and Leo burst into the cottage, tumbling over each other in their haste.

"The boar got someun'," pants Leo, "For God's sake man, come on."

Jamie hustles them out of the cottage without a word, and we all jump on board the runabout at the gate.

"Who is it?" snaps Jamie, in instant doctor mode.

"Dinnae ken – we didnae see," says Alain, driving us urgently towards the forest line, "Gil did – he was in the middle of callin' the ambulance when he sent us for ye."

Jamie nods curtly, "The boar's dead?"

"Aye, Dougal got it."

"Bit close tae the house for a kill, isn't it?"

"Aye, it got through our cordon, an' we couldnae turn it. . ."

Jamie bursts out in a long string of fierce, raging Gàidhlig, "Did I no' warn the lot of ye? Time, an' time, an' time again?", he punches the roof support next to him, so hard he nearly bends the aluminum strut, and descends into vicious swearing once again.

It stops the moment he spots the small circle of men gathered in a white-wreathed clearing, their hats off, and expressions somber.

I just barely keep up with Jamie as he jumps from the runabout, and runs to the stricken figure splayed across the ground.

And then I am looking down at a mouth open in panting, silent screams, with blood and entrails making a red, ever-growing stain across the virgin snow, and the wide, pain-glazed eyes of young Willie. . .