Chapter Rating – M for blood and violence

Heart's Blood

Four days go by, in a strange but not uninteresting routine.

Jamie and Murtagh, clearly well used to running Colum and Dougal's errands, range all through the villages, small holdings, and rented lands on our route, falling back into their role as a co-management team for Leoch almost without thinking about it. They take me with them sometimes, and at others I stay at the hotel, or explore the town, or go foraging round the edges of back gardens and in hedgerows and lower fields. Either way, I meet the people who live at the farms, or in the nearby cottages, and am constantly reminded of Mr. and Mrs. Graham, and all the small folk of Cold Island 12, and Lamb, and just how devastatingly much the world can change without seemingly changing people at all.

The faces I see here and now may be different than the ones I knew on Skycity 15, their voices may be different, and their language might still be strange enough to me that our attempts as conversation reach the point of mutual incomprehensibility terribly quickly, but their eyes are the same as they ever were. They have looked at different skies, but they see the same dreams. They sing different songs, but the music is just as beautiful. They hope for a different future, but the shape of it hasn't changed.

These are all things I have known the whole time I have been here in the past, of course, but to learn them again, now, in peaceful, harmonious company with two men I love and who love me, is to learn everything anew as if for the first time.

Jamie felt like home from the first. Scotland hasn't felt like home until now.

For the first time in far more years than I care to count, I wake up every morning looking forward to the day, and fall asleep at night thankful to be alive.

It's more than being Jamie's wife. It's more than being his lover. It's more than loving life. It's more than love.

For the first time since I was at school, I feel like I can grow. I feel safe enough, and strong enough, and well established enough to put forth the tiniest wee leaf-sprout into something new.

Well, not entirely new, but new enough, to me. . .

Jamie finds me in the kitchens at lunchtime, having a serious discussion with our landlady on how to properly root herb-cuttings.

He sidles up next to me and kisses me briefly on the temple. "Smells good in heer," he says during a break in our conversation, "Any chance of a meal befoor Murtagh and I must go back out tae Mill Farm?"

I frown, concerned, "All the way back out there? The place past those two boggy stretches of riverbank?"

"Aye. Alas."

"But the only way to get there is by that really rough track." I shake my head, "Awfully inconvenient place for a watermill, if you ask me."

"Aye. Except that it's some sort of culturally important historical recreation, or restoration, or whatever they call those kinds of things, an' happens tae have been built on the exact site where the village usedtae be, some five or six hundred years ago."

I consider, then shrug, "Okay, I'll grant you that one, but why do you need to go back there at all, love?"

"Said mill is actin' up, an' Murtagh an' I are cheaper than callin' out a divin' team an' a crew of experimental archaeologists."

I snort, "I'll say."

The landlady has been bustling around, and now comes up to us with two heaped plates, "Early tea for ye, Mr. MacTavish." She nods cheerfully at me, "We'er both blessed taeday. Yer wife cooked for ye." She hefts the plates, then sets them in front of us at the table, and leaves us to eat.

My stomach tightens a bit as I look down at our two portions of scrambled eggs on toast with onion gravy.

I know it's not terrible – the landlady has already told me as much – but I don't know if he will like it yet. . .

Jamie inspects his plate, smiling, "I didnae ken ye could cook, Sassenach."

"Well. . . I can't really. Yet. I know how to heat and re-heat, and stir, and chop, a bit, but that's about all I ever managed to learn on Skycity 15. And I've just been feeling. . . well. . . like I want to branch out a little. So I asked the landlady to walk me through the basics."

"Mm." He sniffs delicately, "Smells good. Daresay it won't try'n bite me back. Ye dinnae need tae look sae scairt, mo Sorcha. It isnae poison, is it?" He winks, playfully.

I smile, but shift a bit awkwardly, "No, it. . ." I slouch over my plate a little, "I'm just. . . trying to be ready for you to be brutally honest, I suppose. . ."

His eyes widen, "Agch. Honest I'll be, but am I likely tae be brutal wi' ye Sorcha?"

My cheeks go warm, "Well I. . . it's just that this is the first new thing I've tried to learn in a long time. So much of my time here in the past really has felt like the past for me, Jamie. Personally, not just historically. I've been relying on all my old talents for so long - things I learned by heart as a child, or did at school, or things I saw or did once or twice ages ago. Even learning Gàidhlig has just been an extension of singing for me, really," I gesture down at my plate, "This is the first time in a long time I feel like I'm truly moving forward, not back. Finally leaving my past behind. Even though that past happens to be in the future. So I guess I'm nervous, that's all."

His eyes soften, and he takes my hand, "Weel then. What are ye most proud of doin'?"

"The gravy. It was lumpy the first time I tried to do it, and the cream split. But I got it on the second try."

"Well there ye go. Ye'ev had one triumph, at least, nae mattar how the rest of it is. Build on that, an' ye'll be Francesca Durini in no time."

I blink.

"Famous television chef, Sassenach."

"Oh."

He smiles, and then takes up his knife and fork, and begins to eat. He's deliberate, and very businesslike about it, showing almost no reaction other than pleasant tolerance. He's remarkably fast about it too. No matter how well he likes my cooking, he must be terribly hungry. . .

I eat too, though more slowly than he does.

He waits for me to finish, then goes over to the tea cupboard and switches on the kettle there. We don't talk as he makes a hot drink for each of us.

He brings back our tea and coffee, sits next to me this time, and puts an arm around my shoulders.

"So then, Sorcha. Ready for the verdict?"

I sigh, "Yes. . ."

"Perfectly edible."

I grimace, "But?"

"Not enough you."

I blink. "What?"

"Not enough you, Sassenach." He nods at our empty plates, "If ye'ed served me that an' hadn't said anything, I doubt I'd have noticed anyone different had cooked it. It's early days, a'course, but it didnae show yer spirit. Considerin' it's yer first try tho? I'd say t'was a grand success - but I do hope ye'll learn fast. Ye'er too creative tae get stuck over eggs an' toast an' gravy, my heart. Sweet acorn flour cookies wi' candy-cap mushrooms in 'em, an' some sort of experimental gorse flower icing'd be more yer style. Or some huge impossible bread sculpture that's also a functional water fountain oor summat." He takes a long drink of coffee, "Things that any reasoning person would think cannae possibly work, but somehow it does, and they must take pictures of it immediately or nae'un will believe t'was real when they tell stories of it."

He's serious. I can't help but laugh. "You really think I-"

"I know ye can, Sassenach," he interrupts with a kiss on my cheek, "It's cookin'. 'Tis nowt but chemistry with a detailed instruction manual. Ye'er a scientist, a farm manager, a mechanic, and a Scot-wrangler. What's a few ingredients and an auld recipe book tae those? An' even if you somehow turn out no' tae be overly skilled, who cares? Nine times out of ten, practice makes up for talent anyway. Christ, if a kid at uni c'n manage tae cook, a grown professional like yourself ought tae be more than able. If ye want tae take the time an' make the effort tae learn how. Which ye do. Sae there's an end of it."

I smile softly, heart overflowing, "Or a start."

He grins and nods, "As ye say." He stands, and offers a hand, "Come wi' us tae Mill Farm?"

I take his hand, let him help me up, and then link my arm through his, "Are you sure you want to go back there today, Jamie? By the sound of things it might be dark by the time you're done – will it be safe for you two to be out and about by then?"

"Ach. The farmer will drive us back if we'er at all worried about getting lost on our own."

"Oh, I didn't mean that, I meant. . ."

"Aye?"

"Aren't you concerned about the Watch anymore?"

"No' on MacKenzie land, Sorcha," he shakes his head and points to the sgian-dubh I have sheathed on my hip, "Dougal's taught them enough lessons in the past four years they keep away now."

"Oh." I pause a bit, and consider, "And you really think you and Murtagh can fix whatever ails the watermill?"

"Aye, probably. It's similar enough tae the ones I saw in Broch Mordha growin' up. An' if we can't do it, ye'el be there, aye?"

I snort a laugh, "Me? Jamie, even if I knew anything about the inner workings of reproduction antique water-powered mills - which I don't – you mentioned a diving team, so I assume there's a fair chance that fixing it is going to involve swimming – which I can't."

"Ye cannae swim, Sassenach?"

I shake my head, bemusedly, "And just when and where do you think I'd ever have had a chance to learn how to swim, my love?" I chuckle, "The ocean is deadly toxic, hydroponic vats are too small, and, strangely enough, steamshowers use steam."

He shrugs, "Aye, point taken."

"And besides – water is one of our currencies. I might have been born rich, but we were hardly Scrooge McDuck rich."

"So d'ye wantae stay here, then?"

"No. I saw some wild herbs in early flower out there yesterday, and if you have to go back, I might as well forage a bit while you work."

"An' failin' all else, ye c'n hold my towel."

"Exactly."

He smiles, and kisses me briefly on the lips. "I'll meet ye in the courtyard in ten minutes."

"Deal."

The track out to Mill Farm is narrow, lumpy, soggy, pitted, and several more types of very poorly maintained. I'd complain about it to Murtagh, but he is too busy complaining about it to me.

"The tenants ha' all been onta Colum about trackway maintenance for ages, bu' there's allus been something else more pressin'," he grunts as we finally pull up next to the mill, "Weel he'll be hearin' from me next."

"Us," says Jamie, grinning.

"Aye. An' we c'n be very pressin'."

"I'm sure you can," I say, and take one long look around before I leave them to it.

I find the grassy, tussocky, squidgy ground around the mill is ideal for herbs that like the wet – like watercress, or mint, and I even spy some wild celery. There are a few tiny hillocks that stand clear of the water line enough to bear some plants that need well-drained soil too, and all the labyrinthine gullies in between hide some truly fascinating miniature Edens. Even harvesting very conservatively, I still fill the little basket I brought, finishing up with a double handful of beautiful heartsease pansy blossoms. Perhaps I can convince our landlady to show me how to candy flower petals. . .

Suddenly, Murtagh is beside me, clapping a hand over my mouth and making me drop my basket. He drags me in the direction of the mill for a few steps before I manage to slap his hand away, but I don't scream, or wonder, or beg, or plead. I don't even ask questions, just nod at him without a word, draw my knife, and feel the cold fire of Red Sorcha turn herself uppermost in my mind.

Jamie is in danger, that much is clear. And he's probably unarmed, since Murtagh chose to come get me for backup. But the danger can't have been too immediate, since Murtagh left him to come get me.

We're creeping up behind the mill when I whisper, "The Watch?"

"Nae. Agents," he whispers back, "Renegades. Deserters. Lookin' tae join the Watch."

"Jamie?"

"Millpond. Told him no' tae go in. Air felt wrong. Went in annyway."

"How many?"

"Guessin' two. Might be three. Comin' up the trackway. Loud. We'll hear 'em before we see 'em."

"Armed?"

"Likely."

"You lead, I'll follow."

"Aye."

We both ease around the corner of the mill just enough to see the pathway leading up to it. We are out of sight of the pond, but the soft sound of water slapping tells me the wheel is turning now when it wasn't before.

"Fixed it," I breathe.

"Aye."

There is a brief, sharp zapping sound, not too far distant. A few small birds fly up out of the nearby hedges, and some blunt, raucous laughter reaches us. Then the hedges part, and two male figures appear, dressed in white and dark blue, their jackets slung untidily over their shoulders.

Murtagh and I pull back into hiding. We hear the moment they see Jamie, though their exact words are obscured by the rising sound of the cascading wheel.

"Fe. . . math. . . grich."

". . . dy Scot."

"Bet. . . you wo. . . he will. . . an't"

Murtagh gives me some gestured instructions that I understand very well. I turn back in the direction of the pond, steeling myself for some very quick action.

I peek around the corner again. One of the men has drawn his blast pistol, and is pointing it crossways at something I cannot see, but I assume is Jamie. The second man is a pace or two back from the other, but angled away from me.

"Don't be. . . ou kno. . . uick."

"See if. . . rm you up."

It is a long few seconds before I hear Murtagh's battle cry, but when he does charge, it's so sudden it shocks me too.

"AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHGGGGGGHHHHHHH!"

Both Agents whirl towards the noise, and I see Murtagh dart in so fast he gets under the first man's gun arm, and bats it away. Then he attacks his chest somehow, but I have no more time to watch, because I am leaping from my hiding place, and charging straight in to the one with his back to me.

I don't think. I don't plan. I just act. My dagger buries itself into his lower back, all the way up to the hilt. Then I twist my grip, as I have recently learned to do, and with a sharply mechanical click, the dagger transforms, spreading metal spikes wide within his body.

The momentum of my attack sends us both forward, crumpling us to the ground in a tangle of cloth, and limbs, and flying, pouring, gushing blood. I land hard on top of him, crushing his chest beneath my full weight, but the only sound he makes is one of desperately escaping air. There are no screams, no groans. There isn't even a whimper.

One minute he was alive. The next he was not.

One minute I was a forager. Now I am a killer.

It is all so utterly, terrifyingly simple.

I look up, and see Murtagh has dealt with his Agent too, and now is helping Jamie out of the millpond.

He settles him on a nearby log, and then comes over to me, and looks down at my dead man for a very long moment.

Then he stoops, and helps me up. He makes me sit next to Jamie, and then makes both of us take a drink from a flask he hands us.

"Did it evar occur tae ye that getting' married may no' have been the wisest thing ye evar did, mo chuisle?"

Both shivering, neither of us answer him.

Mo chuisle.

My pulse.

Bitterness gathers in the back of my throat.

Mo chuisle.

My heart's blood.

Trust Murtagh to either totally miss the irony in saying such a thing at such a time, or to not in the least care about it.

Mo chuisle. . .

My dear child. . .

It isn't until hours later that I think to question which one of us he was speaking to.

By then, I know it doesn't matter.