I stepped from the warmth of the fortress keep and into the freezing night, pulling my raven braid over my shoulder and the goat-skin cloak closer about my frame. I missed the sharp cornered wooden scribes’ book which usually dangled from my neck, but Kiltie had suggested it would be unnecessary. So I had left it.

No stars were apparent in the sky, and yet, through a slivered gap in the cloud, I could glimpse moonlight.

And then it was gone.

I shivered, hurrying on my way to the watchtower where Kiltie was, having asked to be assigned for the second watch, so we could–he could–talk. What of? I knew not, though I attest to being as afraid as I was hopeful. An eerie sense of calm pervaded over my figure and stretched on into the night. I could almost feel his lingering gaze and rough smile at the sunrise of the previous day. Perhaps something was finally going to bloom between us. Something permanent? I hardly dared whisper my prayer to that effect.

My breathing was short and fast, the resulting steam curling about my throat, tingling the scar just beneath my collar. After climbing two flights of stairs, shadowy hills began to rise from the thin smog over the peaks of the battlements.

I found myself on the cat-walk between two familiar towers–we had oft chosen this place to meet–in the left tower a cheery flame danced against the sky, reaching brazen arms to embrace the thick air. I could see his tall frame leaning over the far side and gazing off into the countryside, his hair painted a dusty brown in the firelight. While untrue to its usual tone, it was not unbecoming.

I approached cautiously trying not to frighten him. I had no interest in being gutted by my gentle giant. Though, by now, I was certain he knew I was here.

And so he proved as I clopped up the last five steps to him.

“Hullo lassie,” he said, without looking.

I was on the verge of smiling, but the raw exhaustion in the threads of his voice caught me midway to pleasure and gave pause to my steps. He half turned towards me, his shoulders were pinched inwards, still broader than most men’s, and the muscles in his arms were taut, despite the sag apparent in his frame. It was enough.

Once upon a time I could have comforted him with my words, but those days were far gone. Instead I chose the only clear path I knew, approaching and wrapping my arms about him.

As staggered breaths eased from his lungs, I was reminded that stability came at the cost of silence. Somewhere within, crags lay that could tear a heart to shreds and destroy it in a moment. He was strong and powerful and unshakable, and yet… his gaze, and his blade’s idle turn against the frozen flagstones told me just how much of himself threatened to destroy what he lived for. Who he meant to be.

He smiled gently, craning his neck to look at me. “Bloody terrible of you to get so quiet. I wish you had your tongue back. Maybe ye could convince me I was a bloody idiot. The devil to ya if ye ever go back ta tryin to leave us lass.” A pause. “Shall we sit?”

He motioned to a bench perched before the fire, and, taking his hand, I settled myself beside him, laying my head into the crook of his arm. Noticing he had not sheathed his sword, still fingering the leather braid at the handle absently.

However, once seated, he visibly relaxed, every fiber of his being set back to rights. Again he tensed, then a hesitant touch, sliding back my cowl, fingering my raven braid, and touching my chin.

I was sure he would kiss me. I hoped he would, the air was electric, like it had once been when Johnny was alive and with me. However feeling was no longer bitter and raw, it had transformed into something addictive and alive. I was hungry for it, I craved this feeling of closeness. I closed my eyes and waited…

But alas, he did not move towards me.

Surely he too could feel the pull. The one that gave us power together… Surely he knew I would give him my life if he only asked. Why hold back?

The fire crackled and popped, like the cheery, disillusioned laughter of a drunkard who had not begun to feel the violent touches of his inebriation yet.

Kiltie grunted, and put away his sword into its scabbard, careful not to disturb my position, before leaning sideways into my embrace. Warm, gentle and stiff. It was unnerving.

He spoke before I could recover my thoughts “I suppose I may as well speak my mind. You will not wield it against me, I know.” He paused, gazing upwards, into the expanse of the heavens, finding a fold or texture in the clouds to trace as he continued, voice cracking. “Whatever woman follows me, lassie. Will live through bloody hell and drown in it till she be dead.”

I squeezed his side, hoping he would understand. Hell was something I was accustomed to. Surely my scars spoke for me. I could continue steady on.

“Lass. I want you to bear that with me-”

The pulse in my wrist skittered. My mouth went dry and my lips grew moist with anticipation. Could it be tonight? Could it? Would we share the goblet of love we both so desired? I delved into my heart’s fantasies–for I too wanted to share it– until his voice continued on into the night far enough for me to shatter those thoughts.

“But I cannae let you.”

I stopped. My heartbeat was gone. My soul, separate from my body, the entire world stuck on his pulse.

Everything stopped. The fire, his life, and mine paused for an instant as I measured him. He was in so much pain.

I moaned and scratched out whatever sound I could from my barren throat, pulling my head and hands away from him to motion like some raving madwoman, desperate to communicate that my hands were healer’s hands and I would take his wounds and bind them. Hell was where I lived–and loved–best, in a battle. I loved best in deaths’ face. Surely he had seen! He must have–

“I saw how it was when you were in pain. You drew into yourself. Your focus was not on us, not on Yahwah. It was skewed so that you sought worth from comforting others, and then ran yourself ragged believing they would turn and reject you like wolves on a lamb… Drove yourself mad enough that you wanted to die... and I cannae see you broken like that again. I cannae!” He half-yelled, then his voice calmed “Exposure to evil things does not increase the love of man, it forces it to intensify and break beyond what is natural. It can be beautiful, but, most often, it be more destructive than not.”

He hesitated for a painstakingly long moment to quell his emotion– “I cannae drag you through that hell again and expect you to return to the woman who I know to be loyal and caring and impossibly beautiful and lovely in every way. Not one shot in Hell you go back there. Not one.”

I was crying now. No. Sobbing. And I wasn’t sure whether my tears sounded pleading or if they had a sound at all.

Yahwah knew I had tried. He knew. And yet somehow, even with myself driving fingernails into my skin and stretching myself in sackcloth and ashes upon the floor of my bedchambers to weep, I knew it was true. I had fallen away from Yahwah and the people around me in a horrid way, like flesh rotting off a body.

I shriveled into the warmth of my own cloak and clutched my sides madly. Once again pulling deeper into my own hurt and greedy neediness when someone else was so empty, he, broken, right before my eyes.

I was shaking uncontrollably, unsure whether I should move forwards. Or stay shriveled into my own posture as I was. I began choking on my own breath. After a few moments, Kiltie felt he had to stand and force air back into my lungs, with a firm pat in between my shoulders. Force me to breathe.

Through my tears I saw everything he had said come to fruition in the simplest exchange. He, the honorable warrior, I, the maiden who was not ready for the furnace that was our world. Thus my tears ran dry, my breathing rattled silent and I sat there, hunched and squeaking sighs, his massive palm rubbing in a circle in between my shoulders.

He didn’t smile again in my presence that night. In fact, he had turned white as linen and was facing me with round eyes. Weary eyes.

For an instant, I wanted to fight it, but observing him again, I found myself incapable. As he had said, it was impossible. I knew the life he was convicted to lead, a wandering warrior, seeking no master, only turning his services to the weak and overrun. I was willing to embrace it. He needed only to ask and I would have gone… but it was not fair to him, to have to carry us both through what Yahwah had given him to do. Besides, if he held on now, what would happen when I was torn away? Perhaps slain.

I took a deep breath and chanced another glance at him, our eyes locking, and I knew. He would break. And I would not be the one who did that to him. I would not allow him to fall apart and lose his glory in fulfilling the tasks Yahwah had set his paths to. That crown awaited him, and, perhaps, this wound would count for the lives and safekeeping of dozens.

I wrung the tears from my eyes and lifted my eyes to meet his gaze. Pressing my palm into his knuckles, perched on my shoulder and turning my face into his chest.

He exhaled. Exhaustion painted his eyes again. “Ye need someone to pour your soul into, something to care for, you will be the best of mothers girlie. Ya will, just give yourself another chance at this. You are still young, plenty pretty ta catch the right man for ye…” His voice broke and he half-sobbed the rest out of his mouth, “–I cannae have you. For our sakes… I cannae protect you and our children as I ought. A man who sleeps with his sword at his side in the open air of the highlands ought not deceive himself to think he can–”

I put a finger to his lips and nodded twice.

His face was haunted as he finished his soliloquy “I hope ye understand, I tried.”

I nodded again, the fires crackling becoming less enthused as evening wore on.

We kept each other’s company, intimate, unwavering, and close until the fire died and the banshee crooned its last cry of the eve.

As dawn touched the sky and the clouds shrank away, I pulled myself from his arms, drew my cowl back about my ears and thanked him. Pressing a kiss of comradery, to his grizzled cheek.

Then, he straightened his weary body and departed.

His last words upon running down the stairs and onto the catwalk were those of thanks, farewell and remorse. He apologized to me once more. I wished I could rebuke him, but there was no voice to place those words into the air between us. So, I merely pursed my lips as he disappeared into the courtyard and out the gates. He was gone.

For once, Yahwah enabled me to see this as it was. Not betrayal. But a refining. It was a beautiful thing to behold. Kiltie had been a path to healing. And now, it was clear, I had a road to walk beyond that.

After that night, I stopped seeking him out. Conversations were had at intervals whenever he returned from his travels, when we met in the halls or streets, he spoke and I listened as per usual. I offered him a word or phrase now and again from my tablet.

Nothing really changed between us. Still trust and a deep feeling of companionship… But everything was different. And one day, when he chose to rise and leave, to pursue his duty. I bade farewell knowing we had chosen right. Knowing no matter who we wanted to be, some things were not ordained. Also knowing that some day, and in a time not my own, Yahwah would reveal his own paths for my heart.

Healing was already present. Old scars had become new trophies. I had weathered, survived, and defeated my own hearts’ expectations and been taught to embrace those which were truly in my best path towards Yahwah

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Gil Kissling(The Rambling Rover) Writer, Hillbilly and Hopeless Romantic on a journey to write Historical Speculative Fiction that touches on the meaningful questions about life(or what he thinks are). His First book, "Suppression: Chronicle of the Domini" is not yet completed. Pester him on Substack here. He will rant and make excuses unless you yell loud enough. XD Click ​HERE​ to read more about Gil!

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