#highlander au

“There’s nothing to tell, what are you talking about?” you snap, thumping your palm against his shoulder to get him to relinquish you. His shoulder is hard underneath his white cotton shirt, firm muscle that flexes as he adjusts his hold on you.

He doesn’t. Just continues to laugh, as if you hadn’t even spoken, eyes sparkling as he seems to be caught up in some other thought. Let's go of you but you can’t go far before he has your head held in his hands. “My father will want a full ceremony, so we can make it official there, Am sorry that I announced it before, a couldn’t help myself.” He nudges his nose against yours, affectionate like he’s allowed to be.

“I don’t understand,” you whisper, a twist in your mouth. You think about your brother, think about how you are going to get back to him. You’re starting to think that maybe you were the one to leave the pitchfork in the hay and guilt curdles in your stomach, another mess for Ian to clean up after you. Johnny’s hands cradle the back of your skull and you think that you are stuck here. Walked into the maw of a lion and were surprised when it bit down and caught you.

“That’s alright, angel, I can sort everything,” Johnny soothes you, but it just raises your hackles more. He nuzzles his face into the size of yours, the bristles of his beard catching on your skin and leaving you feeling raw. He pulls back, just enough to nudge his nose against yours. His mouth is so close to yours, and he seems to realise this, blue eyes going half-lidded as he sways forward.

“Johnny,” you interrupt, and his breath hitches in his chest, a fine tremor running through him as his name sits in your mouth.

“A know, cannae help maself around you,” he admits, leaning back just the smallest amount, a hint of bashfulness that you narrow your eyes at. Like he’s putting it on. “I’ll go speak wae my da, see if we can speed up the wedding, yeah? Then we don’t have to be so nervous.” His eyes shine, as if caught up in a fever dream.

“Johnny, I don’t -” you start, but he gives you another kiss on your cheek and darts away before you can finish what you were about to say.

Maybe that is how he justifies this to himself. If he isn’t here to hear you protest, then maybe that means you aren’t protesting at all. You scowl around his room, wondering how much destruction you can get away with.

It’s messy, which is about what you would expect. An oak table in the corner with a few dishes on it, left behind presumably from the last time he left - you hope. His bed tucked into the corner of the room, rich red sheets, crumpled, as if he had left in a rush. You wander around, drag your hands down the wolf hide thrown over the armchair by the fireplace. Imagine yourself being here, living here. Dig your fingers into dead flesh, the give of fur that has been stripped from a living thing.

His blood is still under your nails. You suddenly decide that you need to be clean, need to be scrubbed down of any traces of the last couple of days and start anew. Maybe Johnny is like an animal, if you stop having his blood on you, he’ll let you go.

There is a metal basin in the corner, but there isn’t any water in it yet. You falter, uncertain as you look down at it. Then square your shoulders. If you were going to convince Johnny to retract his proposal - that was more skipping past proposal and straight into matrimony - you would need to be brave enough to at least ask for warm water.

You poke your head out of the room, trying to catch the eye of anyone wandering. A stout woman is wandering past with a basket on her hip, filled with sheets. You tentatively call out and she turns a questioning look on her face. “Hello, sorry to bother you. Do you know where I can get some water for a bath?”

The woman - grey streaking her hair even crammed into her bonnet - squints at your face for a moment before she glances at the room that you are poking your head out of. “Ah! Johnny’s bride, aren’t ya? Nae bother, lass, I’ll run and get ye some water just now.” She pauses, giving a frown at the general state of you. “I’ll grab ye some clothes as well, poppet, ye look a right state.”

She’s off before you can find the words to let her know that you are not Johnny’s bride. Not that you know to even begin to articulate such a statement. You wonder if you do protest too much, if you would just be forced out of the keep. Told to find your own way home then, if you were happy enough to rudely reject the heir. You know that you are to the west of your home, but the intricacies of the journey are lost on you.

You slink back into Johnny’s room and settle into his armchair, feel the fur of that dead wolf on the back of your neck as you sigh. Stare down the portrait of what must be one of Johnny’s old relatives on his wall.

The older lady is efficient, barely any time has passed before she is back, bustling in with a bucket of water that she sets by the fireplace and starts trying to spark a flame. Mrs Duncan, she introduces herself as she settles down on her haunches with a grunt. “Oh, I can sort that - it’s alright,” you start to say, standing from the armchair and hovering as if ready to take over.

“Nonsense, ye’d likely dae it wrang and then I’d have tae come back and do it fer ye anyway,” she says. The words are harsh, but the manner in which she says them is as if she hadn’t just insulted you. You bristle, beginning to frown. You’re interrupted when she catches sight of the rest of the room. “Ah, look at the state of this. See that boy, absolutely no shame, y’know if he expects a woman to be living here wae him, he cannae be leaving it in a state like this,” she tuts, fire catching finally and she bustles around leaving the fire to warm up the bucket and gathers up any of the dirty dishes that have been left behind.

You twist your mouth, trying to hold back a scowl. Mrs Duncan is gone again anyway, returning with another bucket. There is a constant stream of conversation, even if you aren’t contributing much to it. She has a nephew in the keep, the stablemaster, and apparently he is as messy as Johnny. You hum politely, nodding in the right places.

You jolt back to yourself when she stands you up, the buckets of now steaming water in the basin, reaching behind you to undo your cloak and tossing it at her basket of sheets. “I can do that myself,” you yelp, stumbling away from her as she reaches for the stays on the front of your dress.

Mrs Duncan pauses, watching your wriggle away from her. She looks a moment away from protesting and yanking your dress off anyway, but the mullish look on your face pulls her up short. “No need to be prudish around me, poppet, I’ve seen all sorts in this place. I’m sure you haven’t got anything that would concern me,” she tells you, raising an eyebrow at you.

“I’m not - I just would rather sort myself out,” you manage. Her face doesn’t move. “It’s been a long couple of days, I just would prefer to.” She relents at last, a gust of a sigh before she scoops up her basket and leaves. You are left with firm instructions to leave your ruined dress by the door and put on the new one she brought for you - a pointed pat on the fabric that she has laid on Johnny’s desk.

Alone again, you tip the water into the deep basin, watch the steam wrap up in the air. It catches on your face and sticks, curled into the curve of your cheek and leaving behind the faintest of moisture. You yank your dress off, finally taking stock of it. It is ruined, Mrs Duncan hadn’t been exaggerating. Blood and muck and dirt, the skirt torn at the edges slightly. You hope that Mrs Duncan doesn’t toss it away, it had been your favourite for a while. You wonder if she would notice if you managed to get it cleaned in the bathwater after you were finished. Something tells you that you are unlikely to get away with it.

There’s more water than you’ve ever seen here. Usually, there is a single bucket that you manage to heat up and tip into the basin that you and Ian had been using since you were young. You suppose this is Johnny’s bath, and must be large enough to accommodate him. Deep and forged with a thicker metal than your basin back home.

Standing in your slip, you gnaw on your lip as you watch the door. There is an overwhelming urge to be cleansed. Some sick combination of Johnny and those Englishmen’s blood has seeped through your clothes in some places and have stained your hands, your legs. Your skin crawls with the need to scrub it off. However, the fear of Johnny coming back to his room and finding you naked is enough to give you pause before you jump into his bathtub.

You pause, twisting bare feet on the cold stone of his floor, as if you have created the time in which he will come back in. A few beats pass. If he comes back, which is unlikely, then you will just ignore him, you decide. You tug the filled basin slightly around the corner just in case. Childishly hoping that he may not notice you now at all if he does come back.

Your slip comes off and you sink into the warm water, groaning at the feeling. You dip yourself down fully, suspended in water for a moment before you pop back up, reborn again.

You scrub at yourself with your nails, dig off grime and blood. There’s a hardened piece of animal fat, soaked in a sweet smelling oil that you imagine is Johnny’s soap. You scrub yourself with it, an old version of yourself slicking off and sitting as a filthy film in the water. You dig into your hair next, lather and rinse until your scalp stings.

Perhaps you overindulge. Lie with the rim of the basin digging into the back of your neck and stare at the ceiling for a little too long. You think that the more likely reason is that Johnny is able to sense that you are naked and comes running.

The door opens and you flinch, sinking further into the water. The liquid surges, almost capsizing over the sides at the startled movement. Johnny flies in through the door and stutters to a standstill, almost hurling over himself at the sight of you. Blinks and breathes through his mouth, a faint wheezing noise.

You sink further into the water, cradling yourself as if to hide from his view. “Could you be a gentleman for one minute, and leave so I can get out?” You ask, trying to sound firm, but it comes out as a faint plea that makes you wince. Your plan to ignore him has fled, he commands too much attention, too much of your attention.

He barely seems to hear you, eyes focused on the flesh he can see through the water. As if entranced he stumbles towards the basin, distantly starting to tug his kilt out of the pin at his chest. Slow at first, then faster as his chest starts to heave.

“What - Johnny !” you exclaim as he strips off with an eagerness that almost throws him into a wall before he’s bare and striding towards the basin. He’s all muscle, built with no give in him. There’s hair over his chest, thinning to a line down his belly that has you averting your eyes with a flush. “I can get out -” you start, one hand still trying to cover yourself while the other tries to find some purchase on the edge of the basin.

You’re lifted up by your arms before you can stop him, squealing as he all but jumps into the basin and drags you down on top of him. Water sloshes everywhere, you hear the slam of it on the floor as he gets settled. It rocks around the two of you for a moment before it finally starts to settle.

Flesh squeaks against flesh, your breasts pressed against his chest as he holds you still until he’s sat down, you half-cradled into him. A familiar position, although it irritates you a lot more than it did in the saddle. You wiggle, trying to struggle free but it only makes him groan, hands seeking out the expanse of your back to grip, making you still. “This is inappropriate,” you hiss, feeling something twitch on the soft skin of your belly. Animal panic, the kind that makes you want to buck and kick him away but also freezes you in place.

“You’re the one who’s bare in ma bedroom,” he points out, hefting you further up his torso so that your faces are pressed together before you lean back. He almost goes cross-eyed, trying to take in your face as well as the press of your chest against his. The hair on his chest is wet, flattened down but it still tickles when you shift slightly. Fine but dark, plastered to tan skin. A freckle on his shoulder that catches your attention before you drag it back again.

“I was taking a bath,” you try to justify yourself. He hums in response, smoothing his hands up and down your flank. A hand up your side to glance against the side of your breast which makes him groan. “Johnny, we’re not even married yet - this is so inappropriate.”

He laughs at your scolding, dipping his head to press a kiss to your cheek and then bites at the apple of your cheek. Light, more to feel you jump under his hands more than anything. “We’re no’ swiving,” he points out, nose in the wet of your hair. “We’re promised, a reckon the Father wouldnae look too harshly on us fer getting tae know each other.”

“I would,” you snap.

“Ye look like a water nymph,” he murmurs, half-dazed as if he had been struck. Half the water is out of the basin, leaving your back cooling in the air. He's like a furnace, against your will, you instinctively curl into him, try to keep warm. His hands are grabbing at your back, as if he wants to touch all of you at once.

“Johnny,” you start, trying to get up again. Palms flat on his shoulders, try to use this momentum to force yourself up, but he all but yanks you back down. Your hands barely cover the breadth of his torso, small as they curl into his collar.

He sighs against your temple, a groan trapped in his chest. He bucks against you, forcing you still again and you feel him slide against your belly. “Ah, fuck,” he mutters. “C’mon, c’mon.”

You don’t know who it is that he’s speaking to, feel the kick of his leg as he braces you against himself, the rock of his hips against yours. Flesh and water, feel the lap of it around the curve of your waist. His breath is hot against the skin of your cheek, your scalp, your neck. He digs his fingers into your backside until you flinch and whimper which just makes him moan even hotter against you.

You hold tension in your back until you can’t, a twinge in the muscle. You deflate, let yourself sag into Johnny as pants into your ear. There’s a coil in your belly, has you tucking your head into his collar, waiting it out.

The sight of you giving in must be too much, you feel the same wetness from the forest only this morning, kick out onto your belly. The water likely washes it away, but you feel it like it’s branded you. He whines your name out, sounding pained. The sound of his punched out voice has something in your belly clenching, even as you ignore it.

His hands are still rounding over the curve of your backside, but you let him. Decide to save the energy for something else you will need to argue about. There’s a red scratch hidden in the scratch of his beard. You lift your hand and thumb over it. He hisses slightly, but you feel his cock kick at the feeling. “This from those men?” you ask, voice hushed.

The quiet of your voice seems to catch his attention more than you’re yelling does. Attention stretched to you, catching each word in a tight net. “Aye,” he murmurs, turning his head as much as he can without shifting your thumb from the bolt of his jaw. His eyes are half-lidded, but alert when pointed at you. His hair curls into his forehead, dark and soft looking.

You twist your mouth, study that small scar. There had been a fight in your village once, daggers drawn between two men. One of them had cut the other across the throat, you remember the spray of blood, vicious, like it was escaping. A smooth arc in the air before it landed, the horrible choking that had followed. Blood spraying, gurgling as if it had changed its mind and wanted to stay instead.

One of the men must have had a dirk on him, must have caught this a little before Johnny had dealt with them. You imagine if the Englishmen would have cut your throat in the same way, if your blood would jump out of your throat, or stick close by you, dribble down and stain your skin instead.

You sigh, and drop your hand. Evidence of the hurt Johnny has earned himself is enough to quiet you, leave you ruminating over him. It’s distracting, being naked on top of him, everything that has you reeling at the impropriety of it all. Then, there is the scar on his calf, the cut on his jaw. Marks of hardship. For you.

Johnny nuzzles his nose into the space between your ear and your hair, inhaling loudly. “You use my soap?” he murmurs. You nod and he sighs happily again, you ride the wave of his chest deflating beneath you. “You smell like me.”

Even though you had been the one to use his soap, it’s another branding mark. You’re spared having to make some kind of response, another justification for your behaviour, as a fierce shiver shudders through you. Johnny may be a burning furnace under you, but the water is tepid now, and most of your body is left out of the water to the cool draught in his bedroom. He laughs at you, wrapping his arms around more of you as if to catch your shakes. His chuckle is a boisterous thing, starting in his lungs and bursting out. A nice sound, you imagine, if it didn’t always seem to be at your expense.

“Up we go,” Johnny hums, his hands scooping you out of the water like a messy toddler. Water cascades again but the mess was already there, so you barely give it any notice. Your feet almost slip on the stones but it barely matters with how Johnny won’t let you go.

You cover yourself as best you can with your hands, Johnny frowning at the sight as he holds the towel that you need. You frown back at him, one hand holding your breasts from sight, the other crossing your belly to cover the crux of your thighs. You can’t reach a hand out for your clothes without exposing yourself. Johnny seems to realise this and his fists tighten in the cloth, expectant grin. Open maw.

A heat in your cheeks, but you rationalise that he has already seen most of your body anyway. One hand still holding your chest, the other reaches for the towel. Johnny snaps his arms around you again and lifts you against him, something between a snarl and a laugh as he drops his head to your collarbone. “Can I get dressed, please?” you hiss, cold and irritated.

He presses a harsh kiss to your skin, beard catching and scratching at your skin, amused at your annoyance again. “Aye, my dear,” he smarms, letting you take the towel from him. You dart away, but you think that he lets you, more than capable of crossing the distance with a few strides and yanking you back into him. The towel must be his, large enough to cover yourself from view but also catch the damp of your hair as you tousle it dry.

You glance over your shoulder at him, and find him watching you, eyes suddenly sharp, taking you in. “What is it?” you ask, hiking the towel further up your chest. He’s still naked, dripping water shamelessly on the floor, adding to the mess.

He’s quiet, which immediately sets you on edge. Appraises you, eyes darting between yours, then all over. Silent. His size had been an annoyance, but you suddenly understand how those Englishmen must have felt when he came at them. You’re standing, a drenched cat, in the shadow of something much larger than yourself.

He still hasn’t dressed again, just watches you with water droplets all over his chest. The flex of his waist as he inhales, the twist of muscle there, seeming to flex as your gaze drops there. Everything in reaction to you. You refuse to look any lower, drag your eyes up and frown at his face.

Whatever he sees must satisfy him, because he takes a step forward and cups your face in his hands. You startle at the heat of his palms but he doesn’t let you go anywhere. Leans down and kisses you before you can stop him.

Strange to think that this is the first time that you’ve kissed, everything is out of order. You have only been kissed once, with the butcher’s boy who was a few years older than you, and had been sweaty. He’d tried to put his hands up your skirt and you had pushed him into the dirt and stormed off. You don’t imagine you could do that to Johnny, likely he would drag you down with him.

The sweat has washed off of Johnny, but you barely have any time to discern the press of his lips before they’re opening and you’re gasping, a revelation. His tongue in your mouth, licking into you like you were meant to be tasted. His thumbs on your temples, the span of his fingers cradling your skull. Held in place as he groans and licks further into your mouth.

There has to be something blasphemous about this, something unholy. There’s nothing appropriate about Johnny’s spit spilling into your mouth until it slicks in the gaps between your panting mouths. Spills down your chin as he tilts your head back to reach more of you. His tongue on the back of your teeth, the space between your gums and your teeth. A place that you thought only you knew about.

You’re frozen until you sway into him, head heavy in his hands. He doesn’t seem to require much reciprocation given he’s in your mouth, but you tentatively lick back, try to slide your tongue against his and you almost shy away from how loudly he moans at that.

He pulls back, just enough to seal his lips around your tongue and suck for a moment, eyes heavy on yours. Filthy. He pulls his head back enough to let you catch your breath, but now he just rests his forehead against yours. You blink at him, bleary. His spit, or yours, on your face. His spend on your stomach. Water everywhere else, but it doesn’t cleanse like you thought it would.

“Ma da wants us tae have dinner wae him, tonight,” Johnny murmurs, thumb smearing the spit across your chin. Pupils blown, swallowing up the blue.

“Alright,” you whisper back. He hums in response, as if considering kissing you again. “I should get dressed.”

His eyes flicker back to yours, silent again. His hands bracket your neck now, hands spanning across your collarbone. A beat. Then: “I’ll see if we can get the priest over here in the mornin’.”

You aren’t left any room to argue, before he’s crowding you into another kiss and pulling back with a smack that disturbs you. A string of spit between your mouths that pulls until it breaks. He’s across the room, yanking on his white linen shirt and is out of the door with his kilt held in hand.

You shuffle, uncertain, dripping wet in a strange man’s bedroom. The water spreads over the stone floor, catches in the divots and speeds up. There’s the smallest hole in the mortar, the water spilling towards it.

The night was still young, and with the new addition to your group, restlessness settled deep in your bones.

The Scot had made himself comfortable, as if he had always been part of your expedition. He lounged casually against Espoir, arms folded behind his head, his expression unreadable in the flickering firelight. At first, he simply watched the flames, lost in thought. But soon, his attention shifted.

You felt it before you saw it—his gaze lingering, studying. Even when you weren’t looking, you knew he was watching. His eyes weren’t intrusive or harsh, rather, they held a quiet curiosity, as though he was trying to unravel the mystery of who you were. But he didn't talk. 

And that was how you spent the next few hours—the three of you silently waiting for the sun to rise. Sleep was impossible, no matter how hard you tried. Ser John didn’t even attempt to rest. In his eyes, Johnny was still a threat, one he had to remain vigilant against.

As for Johnny, he eventually leaned against the horse’s flank, the animal clearly unbothered by his presence. He closed his eyes for a while, but they would flicker open at even the smallest sound. He, too, was on edge.

You must have passed out without noticing because you were startled awake by John gently shaking your sides. Sitting up in a hurry, you found the knight kneeling beside you, his hands rubbing your arms in a soothing manner. Johnny was nowhere to be seen, making you glance around in panic. Had he decided you weren’t worth the trouble?

John must have noticed the panic in your eyes because he shook his head. "He didn't run off," he reassured you in a low voice. "Went to check the area, said something about multiples attacks in the past weeks." 

Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you exhaled slowly, trying to shake off the lingering grogginess. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but exhaustion and stress had clearly won. You nodded softly, not entirely sure why his disappearance had caused you such panic. You reasoned it was because he and his clan might be your only chance of getting back to your family. 

Your nerves settled as you packed your bag for the journey. It wasn’t much—just a few pieces of clothing you had gathered over the months on the road, paid for with Ser John's hard-earned money. Tucked among them was your journal, its pages filled with your thoughts, fears, and fleeting moments of hope. Writing had become your way of holding on to sanity, a small comfort in an uncertain world.

A few minutes later, the Scot made his way back to your camp, his presence as effortless as if he had never left. Droplets of water ran down his temples, tracing paths over his rough skin before disappearing into his neck. More trailed down his bare legs, catching the morning light. The sight of him felt unholy—almost sinful. Had he bathed?

Seeing the way your eyes followed the droplets tracing down his skin, Johnny couldn’t help himself. “Nothing better than a mornin’ swim in a Scottish loch, M’eudail,” he drawled, smirking as if he knew exactly what effect he had on you.

You understood that with a body like his, there was no reason for shame, but did he have no decency? The way he paraded his muscles around so shamelessly felt almost insulting to a woman of your standing. Men back home would never dream of behaving like this.

The thought settled deep in your bones—you were no longer in France. You were far from home, and the longing for it crept in like a familiar ache. It was strange in a way. You couldn’t deny the beauty of this land—the towering mountains, the shimmering lakes, the endless forests stretching beyond the horizon. It felt like something out of a storybook, the kind your mother used to read to you when you were just a babe.

Never in your wildest dreams had you imagined you’d gaze upon such a place with your own eyes.

You had been lucky enough to survive a tragedy, and now you had the chance to see the world beyond the walls of your home. Yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to appreciate it. Your so-called freedom had come at a price—one paid in blood and betrayal. You had never wanted to marry that man, had never wished to be bartered away like livestock to the highest bidder. But neither had you wanted this—this endless journey, this weight that felt far greater than yourself. It was all too much.

And now, with the Highlander’s presence, it all came crashing down. This wasn’t some distant nightmare—you were truly on the run, hunted by those who sought to erase not just you, but what you represented.

Unconsciously, your fingers found their way to the pendant around your neck—your mother’s cross. A silent comfort, a tether to the life you had lost. Your very faith was a spark to the flames of hatred in the English kingdom. Ser John had told you that, in the Highlands, some clans had fought back and held onto their Catholic beliefs.

You could only pray Johnny’s clan was one of them. You would find out soon enough. 

Johnny had rejoined Ser John, speaking of the journey ahead. Their voices blended into the background, muffled by the weight of your thoughts. You barely listened, too lost in your own melancholy to care about the details.

Still, you caught enough to understand that you were closer than you had realized. Just one more day of travel, and you would arrive. Which meant one more night spent under the open sky—with the Scot’s lounging presence lingering far too close for comfort.

Fatigue settled deep in your bones as you lowered yourself to the ground for the night. The day's journey had been long, your legs aching with every step. Your horse, however, seemed to have enjoyed the change of pace. With Johnny now accompanying you, the animal had been left unburdened, free to roam and graze as she pleased.

She had followed at her own lazy rhythm, stopping often to nibble at patches of grass, flicking her tail contentedly. No doubt, it had been a pleasant day for her—finally free from the weight of both you and Ser John, able to move at a leisurely pace without a care in the world.

She now lay not far from your modest camp, sighing contentedly as she settled in for the night. All day, she had been rubbing her muzzle against Johnny, an act of betrayal if you'd ever seen one. You should have sold her at the village where you'd stopped for lunch—ungrateful creature.

She had whinnied happily when the Scot fed her carrots he'd bought at the market, as if he were her savior. How easily she had been won over.

You had cared for her for the past few months, yet the mere presence of this man had changed her demeanor entirely. She barely acknowledged you or Ser John now, acting like a mare in heat.

Perhaps she was.

You knew it was childish, but you couldn't help feeling a twinge of resentment toward the animal.

Still, it was hard to blame her.

You would never admit it out loud, but Johnny was a striking man—unlike any you had ever seen before. Rugged, powerful, and utterly unapologetic in his presence. There was something raw about him, something untamed that set him apart from the men of your world. The shape of his body alone made your mind drift to places you hadn't even known existed. Thoughts you had never entertained before, thoughts that made heat creep up your neck. Never in your life had a man stirred something so unholy within you.

Currently, he was by the horse's side again, bribing her with his presence. She must have sensed something about him—something beyond human perception. Perhaps it was a sign that Espoir felt so at ease with the stranger. It had to mean something.

"Here." The words pulled you from your thoughts. Ser John now stood in front of you, blocking your view of the Scot. Maybe it was for the best.

Looking up, you took the bowl he handed you, filled with the simple stew he had been cooking over the fire. Nothing fancy—just a mix of vegetables you had picked up at the market. No meat, too expensive. Still, it smelled good, and your stomach was growling. You would have eaten anything at this point.

Ser John gave you a small, knowing smile before turning away to fill another bowl. Then, with measured steps, he made his way toward Johnny.

That was just how he was—an ever-lasting father at his core, always taking care of those around him. For so long, the only person he had to look after was you, but for this brief moment, that care extended to Johnny as well.

The two men had warmed up to each other during the day's journey. Well, mostly, Johnny had talked his way onto Ser John’s good side.

It was astonishing how much one man could talk without stopping. He never spoke of himself, only of the land—Scotland as a whole. Its history, its beauty, and, most of all, its constant battles with the English crown. But never his land. Never his people. As if he was keeping a secret. 

That had triggered your anxiety. Maybe he was leading you into a trap? Maybe his people didn’t exist at all? Why was he alone, a day’s walk from his supposed home? All those thoughts swirled in your mind, making your breathing grow unsteady. Your chest felt tighter, and your hands trembled slightly as you gripped your bowl.

Yet hearing your knight's chuckle at another snarky remark from the younger one calmed your nerves somewhat. 

Yes, you still had Ser John—he would protect you as he always had. He wouldn’t let anyone harm you, he had proven himself enough times for you to trust him with your life. Still, there was just something about Johnny that didn't feel right. 

The way his eyes lingered on you when your knight wasn’t paying attention—the ever-present smirk on his lips when he was. You doubted he truly found you attractive. You had done your best to maintain your usual hygiene habits, but it was difficult while on the run. Besides, the women here were nothing like you. They were strong-willed, with a unique beauty that captivated in ways you had never seen before. There was nothing special about you. Not anymore.

Back in your homeland, men looked at you for what you represented—the power your family held, the opportunity to rise above their station. It was constant, but never genuine. You would be lying if you said the look in Johnny's eyes didn’t seem real. Yet, at the same time, there was something playful about it, as if he enjoyed toying with you, testing your reactions just for his own amusement.

You had known him for less than twenty-four hours, yet he had already managed to get on your nerves more times than you could count. He had mocked your struggle to understand the women at the market, their thick accents making it difficult for you to follow their words. When he smugly offered to translate, you had snapped at him, insisting that you knew English well enough—you just needed time to adjust to the way they spoke. 

Later, he had laughed outright at the way you pouted when Espoir refused to walk beside you, instead quickening her pace to stay by his side. He had stroked her coat with infuriating gentleness, his eyes glinting with mischief as he glanced back at you. You must have looked like a spoiled child, sulking after being denied something for the first time.

Then there was the way he would show off—not that you had any proof, but you were certain he did it on purpose. Always flexing his arms just a little too much when he stood beside you and Ser John, guiding you through sacred places tied to his ancestors. Or the way he would casually sit on the ground during your breaks, absently running his fingers over his thighs, drawing your eyes to the taut muscles beneath his touch. It was infuriating how effortlessly he seemed to know where your gaze would land.

Of course, as a woman of your status, you never let yourself stare for too long. Just fleeting glances when you were certain he wouldn’t notice. And yet, to your own displeasure, you found yourself enjoying the view more than you cared to admit. There was something about him—about the way he carried himself—that commanded power and strength. It was almost unnatural.

Unbeknownst to you, Johnny was a soldier. A damn good one. Trained by the best of his people, sharpened by war and survival. Every time you stole a glance, thinking yourself discreet, he noticed. He always noticed. He didn’t need to look to know when eyes were on him—his instincts had been honed through years of battle, his body a finely tuned instrument of awareness.

But how sweet your gaze was. If he could bask in it for the rest of his days, he’d die a happy man.

That’s how, right now, as he settled by the horse for the night, he might have pulled his kilt just a little higher than usual. Just enough to ensure you’d notice. His thighs—thick, powerful, and dusted with coarse hair—were, in his opinion, one of his finest features. Forged by years of battle, relentless training, and the duty of defending his people, they were a testament to his strength.

And if your eyes lingered, even for a second, well… he certainly wouldn’t mind.

When he looked up, hoping to catch you in the act, he was met with disappointment—you had already turned your back, settling in for the night. Instead, his gaze landed on Ser John, who was staring at him with a deeply confused expression, his brows furrowed as he took in just how high Johnny's kilt had ridden up.

Without missing a beat, and with the ease of a man well-versed in masking his own embarrassment, Johnny smoothly adjusted the fabric, letting it fall back into place as if nothing had happened.

"Great heavens," he sighed under his breath, resting his head against the mare’s sturdy flank.

As he closed his eyes, he could feel the knight’s unease lingering in the air. A silent battle raged within Ser John—did he trust the Highlander enough to allow himself a moment of rest, or did he force his exhausted body to stay vigilant, standing guard over the princess?

A half-tired smile tugged at Johnny’s lips, a quiet respect settling in his chest for the man’s unwavering loyalty.

"Sleep, Knight. I promise I'll behave." Johnny murmured, his voice low and drowsy, thick with exhaustion. His eyes remained closed, too heavy to open, but the smirk on his lips was unmistakable.

How he couldn't wait to be home. There was something about the duo that felt like they belonged with him, with his people. As if fate—or perhaps even God Himself—had placed them in his path for a reason. And who was he to question the will of the divine?

"What if they don’t want to help us?" you asked your knight, your voice quieter than you intended as your eyes took in the sight before you.

Nestled atop the hill, the castle loomed over the village below, a fortress of weathered stone and whispered legends. There was still about two hours walk ahead, but already, the weight of its presence settled in your chest.

It looked ancient, steeped in history and myth—so unlike the pristine, ambitious structures of your homeland. The Palace of Versailles had been a marvel of perfection, a reflection of power and control. But this place… this castle, standing against time itself, felt like something out of the old stories your mother used to tell you. Something real. Something untamed.

It called to you, like a gentle mother’s voice beckoning her child home. There was a quiet promise in its towering presence—of shelter, of safety, of a warm bed untouched by the cold bite of the wind. The feeling was unfamiliar, yet not unwelcome.

It had been so long since a place had felt like home. And yet, something deep within you whispered that this would be it.

"Then we'll find another clan," Ser John calmly said, trying to ease your nerves.

"If they don't sell us to the Brits. Or kill us," you muttered under your breath, knowing well that John didn't like it when you had dark thoughts such as these.

The Scot was excited—so much of it was written plainly on his face. The usual smirk had been replaced with a genuine smile, like a child being offered sweets for the first time. His eyes gleamed with longing and enthusiasm, and his mouth never stopped moving, telling you all about the village. From the markets to the bakery, and of course, he didn't forget to mention the pub. 

He even made a crude joke about how they had the best brothel around, waggling his eyebrows at the knight, who responded with a deadpan stare.

Johnny was rewarded with yet another "Savage" from you, the French word close enough to its English counterpart for him to understand.

The rest of the way was anything but quiet, finding a moment of peace proved impossible. It seemed as though the Highlander might drop dead if he were forced to keep silent for more than a minute. He talked and talked, never particularly seeking a response or demanding attention—he simply spoke, delighted to share the history of his land.

Myths and legends flowed effortlessly from his lips, intertwined with tales of battles against the British. He blended imagination and reality, his thoughts tumbling out in no particular order. You had seen this kind of excitement before—in children.

Thinking about it, he seemed nothing like the mysterious and cocky savage who had appeared in the dead of night. Now, he reeked of joy and life, as if he had been holding his breath and could finally exhale. It must have been harder than he let on to keep up the appearance of a dark and brooding soul.

Johnny was a sun—radiant, unfaltering, his aura strong and illuminating. That’s how his people would describe him. His brothers-in-arms might have had a less poetic take, but that was irrelevant. Peace still held in the Highlands, there was no need to dwell on the past.

Still, something in the air whispered change. Johnny could feel it. 

Although you grew tired of Johnny’s endless chatter, it was hard to focus on his words when your mind was completely consumed by the sight before you.

The land was breathtaking—vast, untamed, and untouched by the heavy hand of man. Endless fields of green stretched as far as the eye could see, rolling gently toward the towering mountains that stood like ancient sentinels guarding the horizon. Unlike the paved streets and rigid structures of the cities, where every stone was placed with purpose, the Highlands thrived in their wild beauty.

Here, nature reigned supreme. Trees stood tall and proud, their roots gripping the earth as if claiming their right to exist. Flowers bloomed in reckless abundance, their colors vivid against the emerald sea of grass, as though the land itself had painted them into existence. Rivers carved their way through the valleys, their waters clear and cold.

The wind carried the scent of damp earth and blooming heather, whispering secrets only those who belonged here could hear. It was a land of myths and legends, of battles and blood, but also of life—unfiltered and free, just as nature had intended.

Gone was the longing for the city—how had you lived your entire life without seeing this? It was as if you had stepped into heaven itself. The air was thick with the scent of wildflowers, damp earth, and pine, carrying with it the soft hum of bees flitting from bloom to bloom. A few rabbits darted between the trees, their sleek forms vanishing into the underbrush, while a fox, its russet coat glowing in the sunlight, paused just long enough to watch you before slipping away. This was their land, not yours. You were merely a passing shadow in their world.

You hadn’t even noticed that you had stopped, too captivated by the vast beauty stretching before you. It only registered when you became aware of a warmth at your side. The scent of firewood, sweat, and something undeniably masculine invaded your senses, grounding you in the present. In your awestruck haze, you almost leaned into it—almost.

“Breathtaking, innit?” The Scot's voice was a low murmur near your ear, careful not to startle you. His gaze, however, wasn’t on the scenery. He knew this land by heart—every valley, every river, every whisper of wind against the mountains. Instead, his eyes were on you.

He still remembered the first time he had left the village to hunt with his father, the way he had been just as awestruck as you were now. This land—his land—was steeped in the stories of his ancestors, of banshees, kelpies, and witches. It had shaped him, and one day, it would shape you too.

His hands hovered near your hips, fingers twitching with restraint. How he wished he could grasp them, pull you flush against him, feel the shape of you pressed into his body. Your curves—soft and warm—spoke of a woman built for life, for carrying a babe, for keeping them safe against the gentle swell of your stomach. The thought sent a deep, primal ache through him, something raw and unshakable.

Johnny exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if to rid himself of such notions. He barely knew you, yet something about you called to him, pulling him in like the tide to the shore. It was more than desire, more than fleeting attraction. It was a feeling he couldn’t name, something buried deep in his bones. Something that told him—whether you knew it or not—you were meant to be here. Meant to be his.

"Yes," you answered simply, your voice barely above a whisper once the haze in your mind had lifted.

You had wanted to step away, to tell him off for standing so close, for invading a space no man had dared to breach before. Yet, your own body betrayed you, lingering in the warmth he provided. It was a foreign yet not entirely unwelcome sensation—his presence at your back, the solid weight of him grounding you.

As an unmarried princess, you had never known a man’s touch. No one would dare disgrace you, but you had imagined what it would feel like. You had listened to your maids speak in hushed giggles about their nights with their husbands, of soft whispers in the dark and the heat of love. Their stories had been so different from the cold, duty-bound marriages of noblewomen. Unlike you, they had wed men they had chosen, men they loved.

The tales noblewomen shared were void of tenderness, filled instead with duty and expectation. A husband was not a lover, only a means to secure alliances, wealth, or power. You had never questioned it before. That was simply the way of the world.

A world you were meant to return to—you couldn't let your mind wander to impossible fairytales. Life wasn’t a storybook. Princesses didn’t survive bloody betrayals in tales, they lived happily ever after. And right now, your life felt further from that ending than ever. 

And so, you stepped away, quickening your pace to catch up with your knight, leaving the Scot behind. It was strange that Ser John hadn’t stopped to look for you—he was far ahead, likely lost in his own thoughts. Normally, he wouldn’t have allowed you to linger so close to a stranger without his watchful eye.

The rest of the way was uneventful, but as you began passing the farms of the village, people started recognizing Johnny. They greeted him warmly, speaking in a language you couldn't understand—Gaelic, as you'd been told. Their words were accompanied by bright smiles and affectionate touches, hands brushing his arms, clapping his back, or squeezing his shoulder in welcome.

He must have been well-loved for the people to long to speak with him this way.

Although you couldn't understand a single word, their joy at his return was unmistakable. They looked at him as though he had been gone for years, a warrior returning from distant lands. And yet, for all his talking, Johnny had been oddly reserved when it came to himself and his clan. He could weave endless tales about the Highlands, the history, the myths, but when it came to his own life? Nothing. A man who spoke so much and said so little.

You supposed you couldn’t blame him. You would have done the same, you were still strangers. 

The further you traveled, the more was added to Espoir’s back. The villagers gifted Johnny with offerings—fresh vegetables, ripe fruits, bundles of cloth, and even… furs? 

Standing beside your knight, watching the exchanges in silence, you couldn't help but comment.

"They still use furs?" you asked, disdain lacing your voice. "They really are heathens."

Ser John chuckled at your words, shaking his head. Of course, you would think that way. A princess who had never seen a battlefield with her own eyes, who had spent her life wrapped in the luxury of the court. You had never known true hunger or the bite of an unforgiving winter. If you had, you might have understood why furs were a necessity, not a sign of savagery.

"It gets cold here in the winters, Your Highness, colder than home," John said, his tone almost scolding as he cast you a sideways glance. "Give yourself another month on the road, and you’d have been praying for furs." He paused, letting his words sink in before adding, "And as for these ‘heathens’—they may very well be our only way back. So be polite. Open your mind."

His sharp gaze met yours, one brow raised—a silent order. To which you just scoffed. 

After more warm welcomes and unexpected gifts, you finally reached the castle gates. You were surprised to find them so unguarded. Of course, the land itself was a natural fortress, difficult to reach for any outsider—but still, the trust these people had in one another was astonishing.

Back in Paris, you were certain there were some who would kill their own king for a mere scrap of bread. 

But then again, the man in this castle was no king.

Leaving the horse to the stable boy, your mind wandered back to the night you had stolen it. Flashes of blood and murder crept into your thoughts, unbidden and unwelcome. The chaos, the screams, the smell of iron thick in the air—it all threatened to pull you under again.

You shook your head, exhaling sharply as if the force of your breath could dispel the memories. Not now. You couldn't afford to fall apart now.

With a final glance at Espoir, you straightened your posture and followed behind the two men, their broad backs leading you deeper into the unknown.

You passed through many rooms before reaching the main hall. As grand as the castle was, it held none of the luxury France prided itself on. There were no golden chandeliers, no intricate tapestries, no marble floors polished to perfection. Instead, it was built for strength, not for beauty—thick stone walls, heavy wooden doors, and a sturdy structure meant to withstand both time and war. It felt ancient, carrying the souls of those who passed. 

It was not a palace, but a fortress, a haven strong enough to shelter its people should danger ever come knocking.

Entering the grand hall, you were met with a burly man clad in the same tartan pattern as Johnny. His expression was serious, brows furrowed as he studied a map spread across the table before him. But the moment his eyes landed on the Scot, his entire demeanor shifted.

His face softened, the weight of whatever troubles had occupied his mind melting away. His lips curved into a genuine smile, and his eyes—once filled with focus—now brimmed with warmth and adoration.

Johnny wore the same expression. Who was he to these people?

"My son!" the man exclaimed, striding toward Johnny with open arms.

Johnny didn’t hesitate. He stepped into the embrace, his head resting briefly on the man’s broad shoulder. There was nothing forced, nothing restrained—just the quiet, unspoken relief of a boy returning home.

The burly man held him tightly, as if ensuring he was truly there. His rough hands patted Johnny's back before gripping his shoulders to look him over. His eyes, so stern a moment ago, now brimmed with pride.

If you had thought Johnny was tall and strong, he was nothing compared to the man before you. He stood even taller, broader, and undoubtedly more powerful. Yet, despite his imposing stature, there was an undeniable resemblance between them—the same sharp eyes, the same strong nose, the same air of quiet authority.

"We were expecting you sooner. I feared you might have been ambushed," the man said, his voice rich with concern. "The Sassenach are back—something to do with the king fleeing and another one being crowned."

He spoke with his hands as much as with his voice, gesturing animatedly, just like Johnny. You could tell the matter was urgent, but the meaning of his words remained lost on you.

"I was held back a little," Johnny admitted, scratching the back of his head. His gesture was casual, but the way he tilted his chin toward you and Ser John made it clear who had caused the delay.

The burly man’s sharp gaze flickered to you and your knight, assessing, measuring. His expression didn’t betray much, but there was a quiet curiosity in his eyes as they lingered on you for a beat longer than necessary.

Under the scrupulous evaluation, Ser John bowed.

You frowned at him, looking at him as if he had lost his mind. Johnny had said it himself—they served no king. So why was he bowing? The man before you might have been imposing, but you were not about to lower yourself to anyone.

Loud, hearty laughter erupted in the hall, echoing off the stone walls. The burly man threw his head back, clutching his stomach as his amusement filled the space.

"Aye, nae we dinnae dae that here!" he finally said, switching effortlessly to proper English with the same strong accent Johnny had. Of course, it wasn’t difficult to figure out you were foreigners now—especially with your knight bowing like that.

"They are survivors o' the Blood Weddin'," Johnny explained, something grave and significant in his tone. "And she is the princess."

He emphasized the word princess as if it carried a weight far beyond its title, a deeper meaning only he and the man before him seemed to understand.

Something flickered in the man's eyes—recognition, expectation, perhaps even something closer to fate. It was as if he had been waiting for you.

You glanced at Ser John, and he had noticed it too. His hand instinctively tightened around the hilt of his sword, his face hardening. Trusting Johnny had been a risk, and now the knight could only pray it hadn’t been a mistake.

"You found them," was all the man said.

"Wasn't hard," Johnny replied, his tone casual, but his gaze remained fixed on you and Ser John. "They've been asking around about the Highlands in the villages below. Lucky I found them first—they were starting to gain a bit of a reputation on their own. Not hard to spot two lost French trying to hide in the uplands."

They had switched back to Gaelic, and that made you uneasy. The shift in language felt deliberate, like a wall being built between you and whatever was truly being said. Your grasp on the conversation slipped away, leaving you stranded in silence, forced to rely on the subtle shifts in their expressions.

You hated feeling out of control. You caught your knight’s hand tightening around his sword once more, his body coiled like a spring, ready to pounce at the first sign of danger. You prayed there would be none. Stealing a glance at the two men before you, you knew this was not a fight Ser John could win.

Something deep inside you was telling you that was not the way you would die, and you chose to trust it. And in a way, to trust Johnny Mactavish.

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ⭑ next chapter.

2. 

The Scotsman shook his head.  "How the hell did ye survive this long, not knowing about the Quickening?" 

Look, Hob did not go out of his way seeking out these weird, head-hunting, lunatic immortals, all right?  Nor did he expect to later wake up knowing some bits and pieces of things that he would swear up and down that he hadn't known before.  Like that song that was, maybe, kind of, possibly Greek?  Or that neat trick with the daggers?  Or being able to fight barehanded with fists and feet in this odd, almost dance-like style?  

He certainly had a few odd tales to regale his Stranger with during their centennial meetings.  But the Stranger had only told him, "You are not the same as they are, as my Sister withheld her gift from you for her own reasons." 

Still, Hob had been rather enchanted by the stars that danced in his Stranger's eyes when he sung that maybe-Greek song for him, the way his lips curved in that tiny almost secret smile.  He resolved then and there to make sure he'd coax that look out of his Stranger again.  

But there Hob was, woolgathering again, when there was this friendly immortal Scotsman who was, for once, actually willing to sit down and just have a nice peaceful friendly talk.  No headhunting today, no sir.  Just happy to answer a few questions for one confused immortal "Sassenach who wasn't too bad to share a pint with."  

The Scotsman's name was Connor Macleod of the Clan Macleod.  

3.  

Look, Hob got on with Connor a lot better than he did with his cousin Duncan.  

At least Connor had the sense to figure out that Hob was not flirting with some other fellow's boyfriend.  Hob was quite happy with his darling anthropomorphic personification of the collective unconscious, thanks very much. 

4.  

There was blood in his mouth and Hob Gadling was hurting and aching right down to his very bones.   

A thousand odd souls were lightning and fire in his blood, lending him strength and power to stay on his feet, sword in hand, against the onslaught of the Kindly Ones.  

A thousand and odd living souls were dreaming for the Lord of Dreams, Hob's beloved husband, dreaming for him a different end to his tale, rewriting what was meant to be in Destiny's book.  The children they had taught together, the little ones who knew Dream by name, the friends that they had made together, every single one dreaming, wishing, hoping.  

And Hob was here to help them all see it through.  

Step aside, Man.  We bring our torment and pain to the Lord of Dreams, not you.  

Hob spat out the blood in his mouth and grinned ferally.  "Not today, m'ladies.  Not today."   

Dream of the Endless would not meet his end today.  

-end-

“I assume we won?” Carnistir asks. He tries to yank his legs free from the - obstacle. He tries to forget the sensation the moment he’s successful.

Tyelkormo is there in a moment before he can even attempt to get up. “We did,” he assures him. “Don’t move just yet, let me check - “

“We can’t stay,” he says, half out of logic, half just to be contrary. He’s fine, he’s sure of it. 

Or he will be. He’d just - greatly prefer to be gone.

And it’s sensible, anyway. More of the Teleri will come soon.

“We’re loading the ships up now, and I will help you to one in a minute, but not before I check your head.”

Tyelkormo looks almost ill, and Carnistir wonders if his brother is hurt or if his own injury is truly that alarming.

But Tyelkromo looks fine, and Carnistir is sure he is too. His head doesn’t even hurt anymore.

He insists upon this point for much longer than he feels should be strictly necessary.

Tyelkormo looks doubtful, but he eventually concedes that if Carnistir is capable of insulting him that creatively, he is probably not too brain damaged and can possibly be trusted to stand.

. . .

This is the story as the Noldor tell it, though they do not realize they are doing so:

Sometimes their warriors burn with the power of a storm when they fall.

(They say Feanor burned when he died. Why shouldn’t the rest of them?)

Sometimes a warrior gets up when the healers had lost all hope.

(Manwe’s eagles have proven the Valar have not completely abandoned them. Why shouldn’t other blessings fall as well?)

Sometimes eternal youth is a bit more youthful than others.

(But really, who’s to say?)

. . .

He doesn’t think of it much. Why should he? With all the losses, all the horrors - a blow to the head that was a minor inconvenience at worst is nothing.

He does, admittedly, occasionally hear a buzzing noise with no visible source now. That . . . alright, that had never happened before Alqualonde. Possibly he should have let an actual healer look him over at some point after the ships set sail.

He can try one now, he supposes, but the buzzing isn’t that annoying, and it’s probably been too long to do anything. He can live with it. The Doom has promised far worse than this..

(And if an orc’s arrow hits him during a patrol, and he yanks it out before he can remember just why that’s such a bad idea, and the wound seals over before the skirmish ends - well, elves heal quickly. Everyone knows that. And it must have barely touched him, really, caught more in his armor than in his actual skin.)

(That must have been what happened.)

(And if he thinks, just for a moment that he saw something that looked remarkably like lightning flicker over his skin, then it’s nothing, nothing at all.)

. . .

This is the story as Men tell it before they know more of elves than the whispers of the Avari in the trees:

There are whispers in the forest, and the fey beings that make them are not always kind. 

There are whispers in the forest, and sometimes there are wails. If you follow the sound, you might not come back.

If you do, you will come back with a child.

Or at least something that looks like one.

. . .

He feels the buzzing even before the village of Men he has come to rescue comes into view. He thinks nothing of it until he sees the woman who is leading the Men’s charge go down with a spear in her chest.

This does not change the fact that when the fight is over, she is the one to approach him as their chief. 

He might think he saw a different woman - a sister or daughter, perhaps - but the blood is still thick on her tunic, and a hole is ripped through it where someone tore the spear out. 

The skin visible behind the rip is perfectly smooth.

The buzzing gets louder the closer he gets to her.

He offers her lands partly because he thinks it right and partly because he thinks it mutually beneficial. It is not one’s business but his just what one of those benefits would be.

But she turns him down, so he grits his teeth and at least convinces her to accept aid from their healers because he cannot, will not, leave without at least trying to figure out why there is lightning crackling under both of their skins.

She doesn’t object when he sits beside her outside of the tent the healers have erected to help the wounded. She is sitting in nothing but her undershirt and grimly scrubbing off as much of the blood off her tunic as she can, but the tear still gapes open.

“I can mend it, if you like,” he offers. He does not have nearly as many tools with him as he would at home, but a needle and thread are small enough and practical enough that he never travels without them.

She eyes him a little warily. “I didn’t think your folk’s princes did work like that.”

His cheeks redden a little, but he refuses to acknowledge the implication of insult in her tone. “Everyone has a craft,” he says, and the needle he pulls from his belt must be proof enough for her because she hands the tunic over easily enough.

Sewing is easy. Broaching the subject is harder, but he’s fortunate.

She does it for him.

“I didn’t think your people had any like us.”

“Like what?” he asks, unable to believe it could be this easy.

“Undying,” she says impatiently, as if this is obvious, and he doesn’t want to believe that it can be as all encompassing as she says.

She speaks into his silence. “The first time I died, I was eighteen,” she says. “I came back before the sun rose a degree higher in the sky. I didn’t want to believe my brother when he told me. But then he grew, and I - “ She gestures at herself.

He has seen her brother among the dead. He is not good at guessing Men’s ages, but her brother had looked old enough that he had mistaken him for her father.

“I guess your people don’t notice as much,” she adds thoughtfully, and she’s right. That much, at least, is a relief.

He is almost done mending the tear. He slows his work in case she leaves when he is done. “Are there others?”

She shrugs. “I’ve met one or two before you. I felt a third, but I couldn’t find them.” 

He thinks of the buzzing, like a warning before a storm, and knows exactly what she’s talking about.

He’s not sure whether it’s better or worse than a brain injury. 

He looks down and realizes that the tear is entirely gone. He hands the tunic back to her, his stitches nearly invisible.

She blinks at it.

She wanted it mended. He mended it. Why is she so surprised?

She doesn’t leave yet though. 

“You should know,” she says, “one of the one’s I met died. Head cut off by an orc. I don’t know if it was the weapon or the beheading or what, but you should know. Don’t get careless.”

He has no intention of doing so.

She stands to go, but she still lingers just a little. “There are stories that it’s something to do with your people, you know,” she says, almost too casually. “Since you don’t age, and there are rumors that if you die you’ll come back. Some people think you steal human children and switch them with your own, and that’s why we’re like this.”

The absurdity of this finally shocks him out of his silence. “Why in Arda would we do that?” he demands. He can’t imagine what he would want with a human child, or what would possess him to abandon his own should he be blessed with one.

Her lips twitch. “I have no idea. And it doesn’t make much sense if you’re like this too, and it’s not normal for your people. Still. Someone’s got to be leaving babies in the forest, and it isn’t us.”

For one horrible, horrible moment, he thinks that somehow Men have managed to get this far without figuring out where babies come from.

But her look is pitying, not naive. “You didn’t know?”

“Know what?” he demands.

“Our kind never have children,” she says. “And we’re never born properly either. Not where anyone can see us. We’re always just . . . found. Haldad found me at the edge of the forest as we travelled, and he couldn’t just leave a baby there, of course, so he took me in.” She shrugs. “All the others I’ve talked to have said the same.”

That’s not possible.

It’s a story her father had told her as a child, it must be, a story to cover some more terrible or awkward truth. These others she’s found must have been playing along or -

He doesn’t know. All he knows is that his father certainly didn’t find him at the edge of any woods.

“Who are these others?” he demands.

He is certain of the answers he will find, but still -

Still. He needs to ask.

. . .

This is the story as the Haladin tell it, as the legend of the woman who led them grows:

Their chief’s spear is as strong in her hand now as it was the day she first took it up and led us on to victory. She is just as swift, just as fierce, and just as beautiful because -

Because she is beloved of an elf, so he kissed her and preserved her youth forever -

Because she is blessed by the Valar, so they endued her with their light to show their favor -

Because the spirits of our honored dead dwell in her to give her strength -

Because she fought death and won -

Because -

Because.

. . .

What convinces him, in the end, are the dwarves. Dwarves are not in the habit of lying to spare children’s feelings. Words are sacred to them, and though they will lie, they do so only in great need, never for small politeness’s sake.

He has been trading with Vili for decades, considers him a friend and is considered one in return, and Vili still swears him to secrecy three times before he lowers his voice and whispers of a dwarvish smith who is blessed by their Maker. 

He has to swear a further three times not to tell Telchar where he got his information before he tracks him down.

In the end, Telchar demands no explanations. The buzzing is enough.  

His story is no more reassuring than Haleth’s.

Even if it is true for the dwarves - even if it is true for Men - it doesn’t mean it works that way for elves. It doesn’t.

No matter how many times he tells himself that, he can’t help wishing Amil or Atar were here to tell him just how ridiculous he is being for even entertaining this notion.

It’s nothing. It has to be. It -

. . .

This is the story as the dwarves tell it, though they tell it only to their own people, trusting no others:

Long ago, Mahal made our fathers from stone.

When he is pleased with us, or when he knows our need is great, sometimes he takes up his old tools again. He leaves his work in mineshaft and mountain passes for a blessed family to find.

The children he makes are strong and long-lived, and they unleash their wrath upon their enemies when they die. 

. . .

Dear Maedhros,

Don’t you dare laugh at me for this, and don’t ask questions. 

Were you there when I was -

Do you remember -

You would have told me if -

I look like Atar, don’t I?

He crumples the letter up in his hand and tosses it into the fire.

It’s nonsense, and he won’t spend any more time on it.

. . .

He hears Haleth is dead. In battle, he hears.

He doesn’t ask if she was beheaded.

(She is decades older than Beor was when she dies.)

. . .

He wakes up in a pool of blood at Doriath.

Celegorm is lying across his legs. 

Celegorm does not wake up.

Neither does Curufin.

Dior does not wake up either. Caranthir cuts his head off anyway because he woke up in a pool of his brothers’ blood, and it was Dior’s sword buried in Celegorm’s stomach.

Celegorm had been standing in front of him. Celegorm had been protecting him. If he had just told him, told them - 

There is a buzzing in his head.

It is not anyone he hoped it would be.

It’s just a guard, one in Doriath’s uniform, and it is almost painfully easy to remove his head.

For just a moment the whole world is fire.

It’s only his imagination that the lightning brings forth a surge of power in his veins. It’s only - 

It’s nothing.

He staggers to his feet and goes to search for Dior’s children and tells himself that the sensations flickering at the edge of his mind have nothing to do with this decision at all.

He finds Maedhros.

Neither of them find the children.

(At Sirion, he is very careful not to make the same mistake again. He saves the children and tells himself it is entirely his own idea, or, if not, that the only other originator is Maglor.)

(He still loses two more brothers.)

. . .

This is the story as the Valar tell it: They don’t. Whether this is because they know too much or too little is anyone’s guess.

. . .

“We could still steal them,” he says without enthusiasm when the Silmarils fall into the hands of the victorious army from Valinor. The Oath is a burning goad within him, when he pays attention to it, but mostly it’s hidden behind the burn of the lightning in his veins.

(There had been another two, at Sirion. Another two that had buzzed with lightning till the very end.)

He can ignore the Oath. He wants to ignore the Oath although he tries to tell himself he doesn’t.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to see it fulfilled, he does.

It’s just -

He wonders, if he takes up a gem, if his brothers’ Oaths will recognize him as kin.

He doesn’t want to find out the answer.

“We would do more ill in the keeping than the breaking,” Maglor says, and he looks impossibly weary as he says it.

He tells himself that’s why he’s making this argument.

That, and no other reason.

But Maedhros will not surrender, will not flee, and Maglor will not argue with him, so he trails after them and lets them be the first to pick up the SIlmarils. 

Maedhros burns without a hint of lightning of his own will, and Caranthir wishes he had fought harder to forget the gems, forget the Valar, and just drag them all somewhere impossibly far away.

Maglor throws his into the ocean, and Caranthir’s Oath burns, but he is so, so relieved that Maglor never pressed his refusal to touch it.

(“Do you remember the day I was born?” he asks when the night is dark, and the only Silmaril within even the illusion of reach is the one shining high overhead.

If Maglor is curious about the sudden topic, his voice gives no hint. “I remember getting the letter,” he says thoughtfully. “I wasn’t there at the time, of course, I was already training in Alqualonde. Why?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says.

It doesn’t. It can’t. It won’t.

He’ll make sure of it.)

. . .

Notes: So yes, this is a Highlander crossover. I elected to keep the Game out of it since knowledge of it doesn’t seem to be instinctual to new immortals which implies to me that it’s something imposed upon them/created by them, not something that necessarily has to be implicit, so in this AU, the Game has not yet begun. Caranthir will not be impressed by it when it is.

He will, on the other hand, be privately amused by Methos. When anyone asks, he will assure them that other immortal is, indeed, the oldest Man alive. No one ever quite catches the particular emphasis he puts on that word.