All Is Not Fine

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

Colban staggered back to his room at the castle in the wee hours of morning. He stood at the window for a long time, watching the pinpricks of light in Turas Lan rise and fall, before dark gray spread from the east signifying the false dawn. When he looked away, he felt oddly sober despite all the ale he'd consumed that night. Objects in his room had a startling reality, a firmness to edges and lines that he had always seemed to take for granted until now.

He sat down in one of those chairs and slowly removed a boot. God knew what he had stepped in that evening, but every item on his person smelled like old ale. His boots were worse. He took a deliberate sniff and wheeled back in his seat. He'd leave the other boot for later, when he had the courage to lean down again. He rested against the back of his chair, which gave an odd cackle as weight forced the joints of the wood to their not often tested limits. Rosalind had given him these boots three years ago, just before Aldric's birth. She had been so proud of the leather. "Spanish," she had said, a particular light gleaming in her hazel eyes that he had not seen in a very long time.

He did not wish to think about her, but she was everywhere he looked. When he left the isle and went back to Lanark to settle the Campbell men who had returned to the new settlement, he saw her in the hallways. She was walking with a cane as she recovered from her broken leg. She was heavy with his child, her hands holding her belly, her lovely lips curved in a knowing smile. She was in the jail below ground, awaiting her fate, demanding his silence. Here, it was worse. She really was everywhere. She was with the Lamont men, carving out a future for their son. She was at Bess's side, weaving stories from the French novels. She was teaching those squires to dance, and giving their blossoming skills in French a touch of her Picardie accent. When he rode out alone, she was there in his spirit. When he took Aldric with him on his rounds of the city walls, her heart beat in that small chest. No, he did not wish to think about her. He had been trying not to think about her since he was nineteen years old, and carried her image with him to battle, even though her lawful husband slept soundly not five feet away.

He pried the other boot from his foot. There was no reason to the heart. He set the boot down on the floor and eased himself up from the chair. He lumbered across his cold and dark room and fell into bed, but for such a large man, he did not challenge the invisible line down the center. The other side was hers, no matter how he had tried to fill it over the passing months.

In the cool morning, he had cause to regret not only the night of drinking, but the words he remembered exchanging with bitter detail. No matter how much he drank, he never lost control of himself. He never failed to remember a moment, no matter how unflattering. There was only one solution. He must get dressed and face the day yet again, the jagged edges of his heart soothed by sobriety and logic.

He washed up and dressed carefully, belting the sword at his waist and ensuring he did not look as if he had been carousing the night before. That certainly would not go over well in Rosalind's perfect domain. The world she built anew in the ashes of the Lamont clansman was not infallible, but it was everything she desired in a home. Who was he to violate her rules?

He rapped lightly on the door and she admitted him. They sat down to break fast. She, of course, had been up for hours already. She smelled, in addition to the French herbs she used for strewing, slightly like incense from Mass. In her mourning garb, she seemed an impossibly dominating figure in the soft confines of her apartments, but her expression as she sat was entirely wry. She knew very well what image she presented, and her reasons were usually well beyond his ken.

The morning meal was a tradition, and had been for as long as Rosalind had lived at Lanark. It was even more important now that they had a child together. He held Aldric on his lap, which easily negated all the care he had taken in looking presentable, but such were the sacrifices fathers made. Aldric was covered nearly head to toe in porridge. For just a moment, he wondered if Aldric really was the genius they both believed him to be, but the boy's giggles were contagious. Who could fault the lad for the simple pleasure of smearing oats all over his face? Certainly not his doting parents.

Colban swept the boy off to get cleaned up, and when he returned, let Aldric play with the wooden horse collection scattered across the rug near the hearth. He set up the iron screen and warned the lad not to leave the rug, earning a solemn nod from Aldric. He then turned to see Rosalind with a curiously distant look on her face. For hazel eyes that were so often sharply focused on the present, it was disconcerting to see her daydreaming. What was she looking at beyond the window? Devil take it, he didn't want to know.

"Rosie, I'm due at the city walls for duty. Will ye be all right on yer own today?" She didn't seem to hear him at first, but he saw her blink and refocus. "Rosie?"

"Yes, Colban, I heard you. I will be fine."

Fine, she says. She is always fine. She was fine when she was in the dungeon at Lanark and she was fine as a prisoner in Lady Mary's entourage. She was fine when Domhnall went to Bannockburn and left her alone at Inveryne to adjust to a wartorn Scotland when France ran so freely in her blood and words. He wished he did not know her. He wished they had never met. The burden of her secrets filled him with useless rage. He felt like slamming his fist into someone, but all her enemies were now buried in the ground. Ghosts were too insubstantial, and for Rosalind at least, they always returned at night.

"Aldric and I will be catching toads today," she said in a chipper voice, moving away from the window and sorting out the items she needed to place in the rucksack. "It will be quite the production. I plan on being filthy dirty by the time I return. I imagine we'll be quite the sight, we the tanists of Lamont."

"Enjoy your day," Colban replied, and placed a kiss to Rosalind's forehead, and then squatting down as low as his knees could bear to plant a light kiss to Aldric's blond head. "Mind your maman," he told the child. He admittedly groaned as he straightened up again.

Rosalind looked puzzled rather than hurt by his abrupt departure, but said nothing, merely folding her hands before her stomach. "Colban?" she asked uncertainly, looking as if she was about to plant roots into the stone floor beneath her. Ah, but she was always so careful, so precise, not to give all of her heart away. Was he still drunk? No. He raked his fingers through his hair.

"I'm fine, Rosie. We're all fine."

He dropped his weight to his heel, turned, and left her apartments. She would not think about his words too much. Her life was full again. All was as it should be, except what he only admitted at night, when her side of the bed remained cold and empty. On his way to the wall, he met with one of the Campbells of Lochawe and instructed the man to make a small party ready for their temporary return to Lanark. He needed distance. For if there was one thing last night had taught him, it was that everything was not fine, and he was a coward for blaming Rosalind. He was not a coward for leaving. She had so many others to lean upon now, she no longer needed him, or so it seemed. Before he left, he would make sure that he had not been fooled by Rosie's mask. She was good, but he was better.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

Morning Will Come

The dark crept in, and sleep with it. Her dreams of late were terrifyingly real, memory providing far more fodder than she would like, but there was no delaying it. The visions were inevitable.

The bed was wide and vast, and in the dark, she heard too many strange noises. The stones of her room muffled the passage of servants beyond, but sometimes a gust of wind hit the wall of the castle. Sometimes the curtains shifted as tired eyes played tricks. Sometimes, her fears dominated a sense of logic rooted in years of careful cultivation, and she screamed into the gathered fabric of the duvet, so as not to awaken Aldric in the next room.

Often, she did not sleep at all, or slept so fitfully, it would have been better not to attempt it. She sat at Aldric's bedside and held her knees to her chest, watched him slumber and dream the innocent dreams of a child. His hair glowed in the moonlight. He stuck his thumb in his mouth. He made little nuffling noises and squirmed in his bedsheets, but for the most part, held still in the crumpled comma, bum up in the air, head twisted to face the door. When she watched him, she felt alive as the day she had given birth to him. She felt her heart swell with pride and joy, while fears for the future temporarily took residence outside his room, and waited for the widow to emerge.

She crept out before the dim hearth fire and fell asleep on the sofa, pulling the blankets over her and willing herself to sleep. She would get up and check the deadbolt. Check Aldric. Check the windows. Too awake now, she would read a bit, dozing off as the dawn light crept slowly, slowly across the floor and up the legs of the sofa. Then it was time for Mass, for courtly duties, for lessons with the squires, tea with friends, playtime with Aldric, an hour or two at market to investigate new fruits and vegetables.

For in the dark, Fearghus waited, and the ghost of her husband lingered in the window, heavily shadowed eyes frightening her to the marrow of her bones. God knew she had sent them both onward. She had solved all their mysteries and buried them in holy ground. God knew she deserved rest. Yet in the dark, they waited. Domhnall watching, as Fearghus twined his bare, hairy leg between hers, wrapped his arms around her narrow shoulders, and spread his hand between her breasts, thumb to one, little finger to the other, and groaned in contentment. He disgusted her, enough that even in nightmares, bile crept up her throat as eyes remained dry, emptied of tears and grief, too hollow for shame or anger. "Och, Gwennie," he'd whisper into the expanse of tender flesh between ear and shoulder, voice gruff in sleep. "How I miss ye."

She felt like burning her sheets again. She felt like burning them over the site of his grave. But what she did instead was lie awake and stare at the dark ceiling, cursed by memory, damning Domhnall for ever leaving her. For ever loving her. She checked the bolt on the door facing the corridor. She sat beside Aldric's bedside and smiled at his innocent sleep. She haunted her own rooms, in search for peace that would not come just yet.

But soon her mourning would end. Soon morning would come. Life would go on, and she would learn to dream of happy things again.

Soon.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

The injury sustained to his arm had bled fiercely enough that, by the time the guards who found him wandering his way toward the barracks, the large Scot was as white as a ghost, and about halfway there. They dragged him into the infirmary where he promptly passed out with Ealora's flask of whisky in his uninjured hand, and a not very amused healer stitched him up, bandaged the arm, and let Colban sleep his way back to health. He left well before dawn, made his way down to the docks to meet the Campbell men, and went about the business of finding a ship for hire. It wasn't as easy as he'd expected, with all boats commandeered into fighting for Skye, and he had just resigned himself to the idea of rowing himself back up the Firth of Lorn when the weather changed. Storm clouds rolled in, the air turned electric with the oncoming spring deluge, and out on the sea, the wind had stirred the usually placid crossing into frothy, man-sized waves.

Colban took just a moment to curse his luck before stomping back to the barracks. The men he left behind. He had little use for them now. Perhaps he would have better luck tomorrow, but today, he was stuck on the isle with only one person to worry about.

Rosalind. Two people. Rosalind and Peregrine. The pirate had told Colban to take Rosalind away from here. Wouldn't that make him happy? Indeed, if he ever stood a chance of making Rosalind happy, which he did not. He could love her, but he could not make her happy. Rosalind and Peregrine. What a twisted sense of humor his Lord had!

He went out to do exercises with the Campbell men, walked the city walls, kept his mind well away from the back streets of Turas Lan, and did not make direct eye contact with Griffin Castle. He kept himself busy, and did a fine job of keeping himself out of trouble, only to return to the barracks and find Rosalind standing before his bed, hands neatly folded behind her back, hair immaculately bound in a navy wimple, face as serene as a marble Madonna, and beneath her skirts, a foot in a silk shoe betrayed her immense rage.

In fact, she removed the shoe almost immediately upon seeing him, and whacked him hard on the back of the head. She was tall, but he was far taller, and the feat was still very impressive. "Yeowch, dammit, woman!" he barked, ducking her next attack. She stood there seething, the shoe in her left hand, the right still tucked behind her back. "Rosalind, what the devil has gotten into you?!"

He didn't realize how loudly his voice rang in the empty barracks until she flinched at his shouts. She turned away and stuck the shoe back on its appropriate foot, her statuesque posture slightly crumpled at the shoulders. He felt his heart drop from his throat to the pit of his stomach, sure it had nothing to do with the strange "beef" he had at the pub last night, and everything to do with how damned vulnerable she was. But she straightened up, smoothed out invisible wrinkles in her gown, and was once more his charming, flawless Lady Inveryne.

Except.... She wasn't flawless. He leaned closer and studied her face. God above, when was the last time she'd slept? Really slept? "You're wearing powder," he observed. She held still as he slowly rounded her. He lifted the fabric of her wimple, exposing the delicate flesh along her neck. He felt his blood boil. His arm gave a few over-excited throbs of pain through the fancy stitchery. He let the linen fall, but leaned even closer, gave a sniff, and promptly sneezed, barely able to angle the outburst away from her immovable figure.

"God bless you," she said.

"Thank you," he replied. He paused. "No, God damn you, Rosalind, what the devil are you playing at?" She flinched again and he felt like kicking himself. He smacked his palm to his forehead and backed away before he discovered any more about the woman's nightlife than he had heart to observe. His stomach churned as violently as the seas surrounding Skye. He felt very much like planting his feet, throwing his head back, and shrieking like Aldric when some poor fool rearranged the boy's collection of wooden horses. He could bunch his fists together, grab his hair, and go red as apples in the cheeks. Fortunately, he was a grown man, or so everyone kept telling him.

"Well, there is an interesting sentiment," she said softly. "I did not come for your approval. I came to wrap my hands around your thick, stubborn neck and squeeze until your head popped off."

"Mmphm," Colban responded, finishing his slow circle, sticking his hands behind his back so that he was not tempted to carry through with her proposed threat. "Yer shoe did a fine job, though I de admit, does no' have th' same romance as the head poppin' bit."

"I am not finished with you." She turned suddenly, light on her feet as a cat despite the twisted leg, her eyes blazing with fury. "He makes me laugh, Colban. I want to laugh. I will not justify him to you. And you will stop picking fights with him!"

"I am not finished with you," he returned, grabbing both of her shoulders firmly in both hands. He would not leave bruises. He would never harm her. He would never scare her. He was constant. He was her Colban. Why could she not remember that? He had held her through storms. He had whispered plans for the future in her ear as she dozed off to sleep. He had nearly paced a hole in the stone floor when she was in labor with Aldric! "I am no' finished with ye, lass. I love ye. I'll always love ye."

She shook her head slowly. "I do not want to be loved right now, Colban. I do not want to love." She inexplicably shook herself free of his grip and took a measured step back, canting her head ever so slightly as she studied him, nearly birdlike now in her stance, her lovely eyes wide and searching. "I loved you once. Perhaps, in your soul, you know that I have loved you. May you know another love so great, Colban, for mine has been unkind. I want to laugh."

"You want someone to keep your bed warm," he snapped. He opened his mouth to say more, and was promptly silenced by a stinging slap. He deserved it, of course, but what he was not prepared for was the low, keening sound of grief that emerged from her. The sound of abject horror as she stared at her hand, then back to him. It had nothing to do with the healing burns. It was a wound that went much deeper. "What the devil has gotten into you?" he repeated softly, reaching out to take her wrist, to reassure her that he was not Fearghus.

She let out a sob and took another measured step back. She inhaled deeply, forced her lungs to function as usual, and bit the insides of her cheeks until she had regained control of her rebellious body. "Is that what you think of me?" she said at last, her chin rising a fraction of an inch, her shoulders squaring ever so slightly. "That I am his whore? When I could be yours?"

"That is not fair, Rosie. I offered to marry ye. You said no. What is he offering?" To his credit, he remained right where he was, his cheek burning, but his temper cooling. He worked his hands into fists and forced them to relax. Again, fingers curling in, then out, until he could hold them against his thighs without struggling for control.

"Nothing," she said softly. "He offers me nothing but himself."

"And this is preferable to me?" he asked, something within him teetering on the edge that he could not allow to fall. She could protest. She could walk away. She could struggle and hit him and tear herself to pieces for doing so, but he would not, he would never, let her go without a fight. He wanted to grab her again, to hold her against him, to breathe in the pure and clean scent of her, and pretend that she returned his affections in even the tiniest fraction. She was the mother of his child. She was his best friend. She should have been his wife, save the fateful intervention of Domhnall and Fearghus Lamont. But she did not, and though that something was now free falling from the shelf toward the cold and inhospitable floor, he felt no desire for her now. Just a grief for what was, and for what might have been. Whatever that something was, it crashed utterly, and to his surprise, it did not break. He held perfectly still, exhaled, and nodded once, slowly.

"Yes," she said, just firmly enough that he would not follow, gently enough to save his pride. She said nothing else. She turned slowly and walked out of the barracks, her uneven stride creating a strange music in the echoing spaces, until she broke out into the dissolute gray day, and went back to her life in Griffin Castle.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

Peregrine: Why was it so cold? He shivered inside the castle's hall, even though the weather had warmed he felt he could simply not shake this sickness. No, he had not fallen ill, but perhaps it was his nerves. How long would he be welcome here? It would not be long before he found himself buried by his own doings. Swimming alone down the river of his guilt. the pirate found himself above water..for now. Pulling his cloak around him further, he realized why he could never live in the castle; he felt as if he were in a tomb, and this only furthered his longing to free Rosalind from it.

Rosalind: Her previous homes certainly had been airier. No such need for blanketing tapestries or constant fires in the hearths, the wood walls and stone floors had kept out the drafts and the cold, and kept the warmth where it was meant to be. Yet Rosalind had lived long enough in fortresses to make her apartments a home. She was rather proud of what she had done to her rooms since ... well, she did not speak of that. Not out of fear, but of practicality. There was a Before Fearghus and an After, and the After did not include his name. The After made her sleep easier, but there were still restless nights, such as this one, in which she liked to do nothing better than don a blanket and take a walk, one hand holding the edges to her throat, the other holding out a candle into the semi-dark. She turned to shut the door to her room, content to know Aldric was sound asleep along with most of the castle, and nothing would haunt her steps.

Peregrine: "It is late.." His voice a hiss rolling down the stone, but ever present was his smile. "You are not sleeping..what a surprise." From the darkness he moved, holding no candle, but alive in the light of her own. Sun darkened skin would forever hold the glow, but it was as always the strands of blond that removed him from the rest. "Why do you not rest now, Princess?" Closing the distance between them he came to cup her cheek with his hand, and that would be his first sign of how cold it truly was. "I do hope you are not going to look for me..but.." He would only smirk further releasing her, and turning to continue down the hall, "It would please me to know you were."

Rosalind: When he appeared out of the darkness, demons flickered in her hazel eyes. But never one to reveal all her cards, she never wavered, instead holding the breath she felt like letting explode from her lungs until she knew it was Perry speaking to her from the dark. Ah, and there was his face -- the recognition stilled the rapid beating of her heart. "Your hand is so cold, Peregrine. Perhaps you should hold the candle." She held the taper anyway, perhaps not trusting him with fire? Perhaps unsure, too, if she trusted herself to invite him in, and warm up at her hearth. "I was reading something dreadfully boring to put my mind at ease. It has been a long day, you know," she said in her usual self-assured tone, the French accent lending a slight drawl to otherwise flawless diction. "I fell asleep. I dreamed."

Peregrine: Turning then to face her he would reach out his hand, for her own and he spoke in a low gentle voice, "If you held it, Mon cher, then I am sure it would warm." His invitation clear, but kind--never would he demand anything of her. For too long did he captain a ship where all life depended upon his own, making his desire in a partner to perhaps challenge him at times. "Tell me what you dreamed, it was good? Perhaps then it would make your book better when you dream of it?" Or so they said, and a man who held onto dreams like visions he longed to hear of her own.

Rosalind: "They were not good dreams. I do not think you would like to hear them." She shivered beneath the blanket, though not due to cold. Like an insolent child, she was so tired of winter, she refused to be cold any longer. She would accept whatever warmth the change of the season offered, and be grateful for it. She released the edges of the blanket and clasped his hand. "I have not had other dreams in a long time. But perhaps soon I will. Perhaps I will have new ideas and new adventures, happiness to shape where my mind will wander at night. For now, dreams are -- " she gestured with the hand holding the candle, a hand still lightly dressed as burned skin healed. The light jumped and shadows flickered. "Difficult. Why are you inside the castle, Perry? There are no clouds tonight. The stars are shining down. It is a good night to be outside."

Peregrine: "Is that were you would think me to be?" He mused giving her a side glance as he laced his fingers within her own. "Is that where you were going? To find me?" He loved the thought she was perhaps thinking of him, but deep down loved that she associated him with the stars. "I will see what I can do about those dreams, but until then..perhaps I will simply keep you up all night. Besides..you always read things that are boring, very little imagination. How is your mind to escape when you trap it in books, hmm?" Boy he was full of himself tonight, and knew it with his grin--little laughter. "I saw your banner in the hall..Aldric must have been very pleased."

Rosalind: She breathed deeply and let it out with a warm smile. "I liked the idea of finding you out there. Dreaming big dreams under big skies. Maybe I am more romantic than I give myself credit for. Come, I do not wish to stand here." She opened her door and let him inside. He could follow if he wished. She was not searching for a gentleman, merely company. She set the candle down on a nearby table and pulled two chairs to the window. Yes, it was chilly with the breeze coming through, but she had blankets to spare. "I did not wish to trap it, merely beat it into submission," she offered wryly. She poured out two large glasses of wine. If he did not wish one, she would drink them both. "Aldric would not know what the banner represents, but he did like the tree. It should bloom soon, I think."

Peregrine: "Mmmhmm, in a few weeks, but only for a short time." He squeezed her fingers to still her from going any further. "Will Aldric be ok alone?" He asked passing upon the wine, and remaining within the door frame. "If you could see how beautiful the night is." He confessed quietly, "You would not dream of ugly things anymore. Moving into the room he would be quick to take on the windows, opening them with ease, "He will dream better if his thoughts had an escape." Taking the candle from where she placed it he would let it rest in the pane, the light of the flame seeming so small now against the moon, but it was as always the stars that stole the show. The wind was a rush, but gently warming with each passing day. "I will bring you, your tree. Ask the duchess to clear a place for it?" He asked then turning back to face her after searching the gardens for any sign of a clearing.

Rosalind: "He is fast asleep. It is not like when he was a baby -- he sometimes stayed up all night, I think just to see the dawn. But now, when he is put to bed, he will sleep through nearly anything." She rested her hands lightly on the backs of the chairs at the window, eyes focusing on the flame of the candle before looking outward toward the lovely night beyond. "His dreams are full of color and heroes, adventures that make me dizzy with his re-tellings. He is so smart, Perry." Every mother thought her child a genius, but Aldric truly was brilliant. She shook her head slightly. "I hope she does, though it is her gift to use. Crab apples are really lovely in bloom. The sentiment among the Lamonts was amusing, but not wrong. I would not mind seeing it in the garden."

Peregrine: "So tell me of it's sentiments, and perhaps I will see if the old oaks will mind if they can share their ground, but I would not count my blessings." Turning to face her he pressed his back against the stone of the wall, letting the cool air rush his shoulders and brush the curls of his hair over his face. "Your son will grow into a great man..simply keep him clear of the dark. Let him play only in your sight, and let his father remain a heavy hand in his life." In other words..keep him very clear of this man. "Hell, he should never even know my name." He mused looking into the apartment, where he thought he heard the son sleeping.

Rosalind: "But he does know your name." She canted her head in amusement, and following his searching gaze, gestured to a closed door. It used to be a servant's room, but had since been modified for the little boy. It was just the right size for him. "What of you, then? Will you try to stay clear of the dark?" She was not naive. She knew he walked among those shadows. She also believed he was still good enough to be scathed by those shadows, though she was not willing to admit that to him. If there was some goodness in him, she saw it. If he was capable of kindness, she had known it. "It was brought into his life once, and thank whatever powers you believe in, that he already forgets. Maybe, even if you cannot free yourself from the dark, this is not a bad thing. Use what tools you have to your advantage. Make what you can of the materials available. To each means an end, for every end a justification. I am too indebted to you to feign innocence in what you did, for my freedom." Oddly, such an admission did not deserve a chaser of wine. The two cups remained there on the table, the liquid within black even in the candlelight.

Peregrine: "Then help him forget it." He spoke darkly, turning to face her once again. "Rosalind..no amount of debt will keep you bound to me. I did what I did because you deserved it. Another will come along, I'll do it again. I take comfort in knowing that for every hundred lives I've taken, one is saved--two this time. Though, I caught a glimpse of that man as his soul left his body, almost heard each plea to keep him alive so he could see your world fall down--Skye and all the King's horsemen could not have put you back together again." Lifting to perch in the window he crossed his ankles, but it would be his hand to touch her face again, as already his flesh had warmed. "You'll live another day, to see your son grown, as now I know you to never do anything to jeopardize his or your own life..right?" Was he baiting her? Perhaps, but this was Rosalind, she would not be so foolish to mingle herself in the wrong crowd..right? Though she was in fact three feet from her worst enemy..did that count; an enemy that did well to skirt questions he wished not to answer.

Rosalind: She leaned just a bit into the touch. "I know. You cannot stop me from being grateful." She smiled slightly. "Of course I would not. He is safe. He is always safe, because of you." She pulled back. She would not let herself fall into this. Perry was not a simple solution. He was a complexity that required a clear mind to solve, or at least, attempt a solution. He was right. She was in no way in a place to make that decision. "Do not talk about him. I am glad knowing he is dead, not what he planned to do. That is what I dream of, Perry. Oceans of blood and bodies hanging from trees, witch fires and...." She turned away, her gaze locked firmly on Aldric's door. "Would you deign to sleep indoors tonight?" she asked softly. "Non, not like that. Just, at my side. I would like it if ... you would stay, and not fade off into the night." She was afraid of vast spaces, of oceans, of endless stars. But not of him, who was arguably even more of an unknown. Though her voice sounded vulnerable, it was only in admitting she wanted him nearby.

Peregrine: Inside every man evil or just there was a heart that sang songs for moments like this--finding it's voice, and he felt his break at her words. Was this all the desire she had? A woman who could ask anything of him, and this would be what she wanted? Bring me the moon, and the heavens would be pulled down. Hold me..Keep her safe..from her dreams? Or what was to happen? She had kept him secret for so long, afraid of her husband finding out, but now it was his turn. With every moment he remained, illusions won him his right, and an entire army of thieves to work under him. Money became very little of an object, but reputation was everything. His respect was won with the blood of their enemy winding through the streets over the cobblestone. One little man who seemed as always the lover never the fighter had won his place as 'King', now carried a secret of his own. Keep her safe, from him would be a better solution but the decision was made, she simply would have to accept this about him; it was fate. "I will not fade into the night, but the morning..The chamber maid would surely have you stoned if she found me here." He couldn't help but smirk as he let her go to find his feet on the floor. "You will not dream of anything but flowers, unicorns and fae; this is my promise." He would wait then for her to make the next move. Was she ready to sleep? Every line in her face was proof, that perhaps she was.

Rosalind: "I believe she would," Rosalind replied neutrally. She very rarely displayed anything near anger, never revealed any sign of darkness. She had her suspicions, but she also had patience. The maid posed no threat, but that is not to say she hadn't been one in the past. "But she will not be here tomorrow. I am spending the day with Aldric. I have decided, he must have a day of playing in the mud and catching frogs with his bare hands, and I will require the rest of the day to clean him up." She was not distracted, merely searching for something of which she could speak with confidence. Asking him to stay was not one of those things. "I would be content just to sleep. But I think it has been too long since I have dreamed of these things." Rosalind threw the bolt on the door as she spoke, and then opened the door to her bedroom. "Please, stay with me. Until I sleep. Maybe longer."

Peregrine: If Rosalind only knew how many women had asked the very same thing, only for him to refuse, or take advantage of the situation-- she would perhaps recoil her question. "I will let you change into your night dress..let me know when you are finished." He whispered lightly as he rose a hand to unclasp the oak leaves of his cloak's hook. Curling the heavy fabric over the back of the chair he turned away from the door, giving her privacy where it was due. Perhaps many would check him of sickness, as it was clear he desired very dearly of her, but to respect her wishes of only slumber? Must not be Pere.

Rosalind: Rosalind knew what she was asking, and her heart skipped a beat when he did not flee. She would be lying if she claimed not to want him in return, but it was too soon, and her heart still too tender. She had told him she trusted him, and though such a line had brought her into grave danger, she did trust him still. Why was not a question she wished to ask. Not yet. She stepped behind a screen and changed into her night clothes, removing the wimple and unpinning her hair, though she left the length of it in a thick braid. There was nothing sexual in her reappearance, just a softer version of Rosalind not in mourning, with the linen garment down to her ankles and the neck tied loosely. She pulled back the covers and slid beneath, making just enough noise to let him know she was ready, before she pulled a pillow into her chest with both arms. "Pere?" she called quietly. Suddenly, sounds seemed much louder. She curled a hand to her chest as if it would quiet her heart.

Peregrine: For the longest moment eternity slipped into darkness as the candle had been blown out, all light fades. A figure would remain unseen as it had slipped in silently, and before she would have time to adjust to the darkness; his hand reached out for her own, "Right here." His voice a gentle sound of reassurance, that all mighty men held, but what a sound for the unstable! Without a sound he would slip in beside her, still fully clothed save for the shed of his boots and weapons--the belt hung over the same chair. Lacing her fingers with his he would press her back pulling her against him, and suddenly he felt just the brute as he would imagine all great men of this Isle felt. She was so much smaller without the heavy fabrics of her dresses, or the many layers they held, and she seemed in dire need of this. Thankfully..so was he. "Think of your happy thought, Angel and we'll fly together hmm?" He whispered against her hair as his own eyes closed to as always dream of Never Neverland.

Rosalind: She was terrified he would leave, but even more frightened of him staying. When she called out for his name and he responded in measured tones, her heart ceased racing and pulsed slowly behind her breast. She did not know she held her breath until he dropped in behind her, folding his comforting weight around her, as both blanket and anchor. She squeezed his hands firmly and shut her eyes. The demons that plagued her sleep were violent, and no better fuel for the imagination than personal memory. But memories were past, and tonight she slept in the arms of a most unlikely hero, unsure why she ever depended on him, but glad that she did. It began with a few firm words spoken in a little used hallway. I would miss you. She felt that same longing to connect with the stranger who had held such daunting information over her head, and chose instead to help her find her sewing basket. This feeling conquered the fires that had swallowed his ship and had nearly stolen her greatest treasure from her. It slayed the image of Fearghus and was balm to the bruises and torments of the body. She could not communicate that to him. When she called his name, he always came running. When she asked him to stay, he slept the sleep of the innocents, and disappeared well before she must explain the inexplicable. She turned her head slightly, so that it fit easily next to his, and finally slept.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

He rested his hand on her door. She was inside, resting with her feet propped up, Aldric playing on the rug by the hearth, just beginning to remove her wimple and all of the pins that secured her hair in place. He could no longer sense her, as he once was able to, but he had known her for the better part of his life. Beyond that door, she was carefully crafting a home free of the terrors she had barely kept at bay for the better part of a year. The air smelled like lavender and mint and she flung open the windows when she felt the walls close in. She smiled more often, but with the crashing of armor around her feet, she was exposed as she never had been before.

Who held her then, and ran his fingers through her hair, and thought of a future beyond stone walls?

He pushed open the door and entered, greeting her with a smile and swinging Aldric up into his arms before crashing onto the sofa and tickling the boy until he was nothing but wild blond hair and shrieking giggles. She did not touch him as she sometimes did -- did not sweep the hair out of his eyes or touch the permanently etched line on his forehead that she put there. She did not squeeze his shoulder or lean her head upon him. She did not need his strength. He was surprised, then, to find that he did not need her, either. Whatever had existed between them was no more. His heart beat in sympathy, but it did not beat for her.

Rosie.

Rosalind set her wimple aside and ran her fingers through her hair, loosening the thick plait. "Tomorrow, it is a month." She mentioned the anniversary of her second husband's death as if mentioning gray clouds had rolled in off the sea. Her fingers went to the dark fabric and a small smile lit her face. When she attended Mass in the morning, she would do so in a tasteful shade of light blue, and wear her hair free like a maiden, not a pin to be found, no mesh or caul to confine or restrict. She had not worn her hair down since she was very young, and the idea of it was at once appealing and a little foolish. With Aldric now on the floor rambling about his new Trojan horse, it was very clear Rosalind was no maiden.

"It's clear amang those who count ye had no real love for the man. They'll hardly mind if ye buck convention in this." She tilted her head and studied Colban. He was much changed from the day she had encountered him in the barracks. He had not lost weight. He certainly had not lost height. He was not pale -- a lifetime in the sun had left him with a permanent golden color, even if his hair no longer bleached as it once did to the shade of his son's crop of wheat-colored locks. But he seemed different. She supposed she did, too. She was well-rested lately, save the occasional nightmare that left her gasping. But after a cup of tea and a few deep breaths, sleep came once again. The men in her life were so blasted attuned to any change she made, from wearing excess powder to conceal the circles beneath her eyes to a slightly abstracted gaze out the window, Colban could be certain the relaxed posture and warm smile were genuine, and not mere products of courtly life.

"I will not dress in dark clothes for a year. We were only married six months. One is sufficient." She sighed, but said nothing more on the grieving process. She grieved, indeed, but not for Fearghus Lamont. At a long, blue-eyed look from Colban, Rosalind chuckled. "Oh, Colban, you don't seriously imagine I would marry so soon? I must learn to live independently. I know, this is a strange idea -- " she put a hand up to still what she was sure was building on his tongue, "to some. But it is right for me. Also, the men of Lamont have accepted a great deal of my strange and unreasonable ideas, but I do not imagine they would accept another for their tanist's husband so soon."

Colban just laughed and shook his head. "They may be the most unlikely and unusually forward-thinking men in all of Scotland, but aye, lass. I understand they might have reservations." To say nothing if she might bear another child. Aldric was not technically of Lamont blood, though Highland custom made Rosalind a Lamont the day she said her "I do" to Domhnall so many years ago, and therefore included her son as one of the clan. It took no little imagination to consider what might happen if Rosalind had another child, or what it might mean for Aldric's smooth inheritance as chieftain. The world was not as Rosalind dictated. For many things, the world was willing to compromise, but in the tricky world of clan politics, her place was as enduring as winter ice. As long as the cold wind of war and desolation blew, Lamont would rely on what leader remained to them. Even if that leader was a woman.

They talked of other matters. Colban mentioned his day patrolling and helping with reconstruction. Rosalind said something about a meeting she'd had with a young woman from a Skye clan a few days before. Colban talked about his trip back to Lanark and how it had been unusually quiet in the little town without all the Campbell men gathered in preparation of battle. "This is a good thing," he asserted at Rosalind's amused look. "I'd rather ha' Lanark quiet all the days of my life."

Life went on just the same as it always had for Rosalind and Colban, but with a different set of rules that they had only talked about, and never implemented. Having him over was pleasant, if slightly awkward, but Rosalind had great faith they could make this work. Aldric needed his father. It was safe to come to an understanding that Rosalind did not know what she needed, but dragging Colban's heart across the ruins of her life was more than unkind. It was needlessly cruel. She had been trying to tell Colban this for years, and it was not pleasing that the lesson had come at such a heavy cost to the man's pride. It was in her nature to soothe wounds to men's egos, to sweep away all the pain with a courtly smile and some active diversion, but now Rosalind understood how this desire to make all things right again would be greatly misinterpreted. Love was more than attaining equilibrium.

Finally, it was bedtime for Aldric. Colban carried the boy to his room while Rosalind found a nightdress. Aldric's tunic and breeches were folded and set aside and Rosalind tugged the fresh garment over Aldric's extended arms and head, then pulled the covers back as he wiggled into place. A story from Colban and a kiss on the forehead from Rosalind, and Rosalind snuffed out the candles and closed the door on the sleeping child. She recovered the two cups of tea she had set to steep earlier and forgotten about and joined Colban back on the sofa, handing the cup over to him and pretending not to notice as he poured the contents of a metal flask into the tea.

We both drink too much, maybe, aye? Rosie and her wine, me and my whisky. God see fit to mend us soon, for being broken is a cost to my liver.

"There is something I wished to tell ye about Lady Mary, Rosie," Colban said at last.

"It is about time." It flattered a woman to think she was entirely the cause of a man's broken heart. She was not the only woman who had acted contrary to his wishes this year, and if she had not the reason why to Colban's temper since his arrival in Skye, the name of her former benefactor was certainly worthy of wrath. She held out her cup for Colban's flask. Colban shook his head at first, holding the flask out of her reach as if she would tackle him for it, and then seemed to consider what he was about to tell her. He tipped a small amount of the contents into her cup and leaned forward in his seat, elbows on knees, hands raked through his hair, his beard glinting as red as copper in the firelight.

"She betrayed ye to Fearghus. Lamont's restoration was Campbell's destruction. She destroyed the old honor guard for the Bruce's campaign against Skye by creating chaos in Argyll. When she came to Skye and the MacRuari Keep, I expect it was to wage war against her brother, not hearin' th' news of alliance. She must have had a change of heart at the last minute, for ye ken how tha' battle ended." He did, having been there when Lady Mary and the Highland clans came riding to the rescue as if heaven-sent. A more confusing battle he had never before encountered, nor hoped to ever again, though he had a few good memories that he hoped to tell his grandchildren some day.

Rather than drink the tea, Rosalind's fingers loosened around the cup, which went tumbling to the rug below, and spilled its contents around her feet. She put a hand to her mouth and rocked back slowly, reeling under the blow as if he had physically hurt her. Though, as a survivor, she rather wished she had been hit. Lady Mary was dead. She could not hit back. The breath left her lungs as her mind went back to the many years she had served the Bruce's sister and all the laughter and tears they had shared. She had idolized the older woman, and knew Mary had loved her in return. She gasped for air and found her lungs were quite able to function normally.

"I am sorry," Colban said softly. He took the cup from where he had put it to rest on the nearby table and swallowed its contents whole, then regained his feet. He was a cad for leaving her there on the sofa without a single comfort save the roaring fire before them, but he did not like to think of what he would be if he stayed longer, and tried to comfort her betrayal. "I will take Aldric with me tomorrow after Mass."

"That is fine," Rosalind said tonelessly, gave him a half-hearted smile, and turned her gaze back to the fire as he left her apartments, and shut the door softly behind him. She picked up the dark fabric of her wimple, stepped over the wet spot on the rug as she rose to her feet, and threw the linen into the fire. She was finished mourning. Lady Mary would have understood the practicalities of moving on.