Aingeal in the Dar

Chapter One

August, 1214

There were too many...

Rory McDubh thought, his heart turning to stone in his chest as out of the corner of his eye one after another of his clan men fell beneath the swords of the bloody Camerons. The skirmish was one of many in escalating warfare between his clansmen and their neighbours, though this was the first that the McDubh were sure to lose.

He blocked his attacker with his sword, kicking him square in the gut to keep the Cameron warrior from slicing his sword arm again and with a final blow, took the man's life. Through the roar of the wind and blinding rain, he heard the McDubh call for retreat, and knew his older brother Donald had given the signal. Too many had been lost today over this foolishness. His brother's wife Marion had been a Cameron – daughter to their old Laird, sister to the new – all this had been a temper tantrum when the newly seated Laird had realised his father had given this rich land with his daughter's hand Land he felt had been promised to him by right of succession.

Land each and every Cameron and McDubh had grown up hearing tales of, land which held the hidden treasure of the Campbell Laird. Rory had long since grown past believing the old story tellers or the glint in their eye when they described the riches the old Laird had stashed beneath the thick cover of trees.

Evidently the new Cameron laird had not.

Rising slowly, Rory tested his weight on his sliced leg before he caught his brother's eye and nodded his agreement. They would come back for the dead, but for this moment, they would save themselves. They would put an end to Alistair Cameron soon enough.

It was the view of his brother's fiery red hair disappearing through the trees that was Rory McDubh's last that day, before a blinding heat engulfed his head, and the blood tinted forest floor came up to greet him.

~~~

Flashes, some bright and some dim roared through Rory McDubh's head as the fires of hell licked at his feet. The gleeful congregation of demons stood all around him, though he could not see through the darkness that seemed to swallow him whole; he could smell them. Unwashed and burning in the heat, the crackle of flames close enough he swore they were upon him. Dreadful screams from a once deep voice, now screamed hoarse, beside him...Nay, upon him. From him.

The world – though still in velvet darkness – came back with a cruel clarity when his exhausted mind realised he resided not with the Devil himself, but in Cameron's lair. Flames licked over his skin in slow intervals, a torch dripped its hot ash as they continued their torture, continued demanding their answers. Answers to a question his mind rallied against, their assumptions were ridiculous, and Rory barely contained the disbelieving laughter that bubbled in his throat. They were chasing a damn children's story.

The flames stopped, and cool water was poured over him in a soothing rush. His mind worked quicker, flashes of memories, of nightmares overwhelmed him. These cretins with their tools, blades and restraints; his own gaze watching detachedly as rivers of blood flowed over his naked skin, dripping like macabre raindrops to the dirt floor. And then his world became nothingness. Their beatings had become a haze, their questions forgotten as they pushed him past the point of rational thought until he finally succumbed to the void.

He could feel the tight fold of fabric around his head and eyes now, the blood from his head wound matting his black hair to his temple and he could feel the pain each laboured breath he took created, every rib that was broken. When tight hands took hold of his hair and pulled up his head, he stayed still, refused to do more than breathe as they assessed their damage. He may not survive if they went at him again, and at the moment, playing the unconscious prisoner was not so far from the truth. They lifted him fully from whatever surface he had been on and he forced himself to be a dead weight, when they threw him into the cell, he hadn't the strength to change his stance.

He felt the hard ground hit his shoulder first before it reverberated throughout his body along with the chill of the stone. He finally rolled to rest on his front, his face flat against the slight scent of decay that lingered there. The door above him slammed shut with a finality that almost made him wish they had taken his life with their fire and blades, instead of leaving him in the dark; defenceless against the vermin he could hear scurrying.

The cool hand that traced his cheek had him vaulting away, his limbs roaring in white hot agony that threatened to send him back into nothingness. He held out his hand and moved his aching body away until a damp wall came up against his back. Rory almost laughed, as though he could stop his unwanted companion with a gesture. He groped at his blindfold with the other, tearing hair from his scalp when he finally pulled it away and found himself in a pit of darkness, nary a window to let in light, and felt a choking sob fill his throat as fresh pain burned in his swollen eyes.

"Shh." A voice – soft and barely there, as though it were long since it had been used – soothed him, pulling him from the brink of panic with small, chilled hands which hesitantly reached for him. His arms went forward of their own accord, wrapping tightly around the frail bundle and pulling her softness towards him until he could feel her heart flutter, her soft breaths ruffle his hair. She did not scream, or pull away. Instead, as his head rested in her lap, one fist curled in the thin material of her gown, she allowed him to crush her and steal what little warmth she had. Her gentle hands calmed his pain, and Rory McDubh thanked God for the aingeal sent to take him.

~~~

Chapter Two

"What have they done to you?" Isobel Cameron whispered as she cradled the bloodied warrior in her arms. The single candle she was allowed flickered on the floor beside her cot as the wind grew in ferocity outside the walls, the air already was cool in the pit, but the weather outside had made it almost unbearable. Isobel was used to the cold, this warrior may well be too if this were any normal night but wounded, tortured as he was, she would be lucky if the damp alone did not kill him by morning. She was under no illusions as to why the man had been put in her chamber rather than a cell of his own.

This man was forbidden to die.

The guards were loose with their tongues as they wandered the stone hallways, sometimes forgetting that she was behind the heavy oak door. She was to heal him before his brethren came to retrieve him in three or so days. Her brother Alistair would get more coin in ransom for him if he lived and breathed, rather than a tortured corpse. Since no information had been taken from him concerning the fortune Alistair sought, her brother's men had deemed him ignorant, and sought to make use of him to fill their new laird's empty coffers the only way they could.

Give him over to the care of his sister. Cursed by the devil himself with powers no child of God should have, and no sense to use them to help him, Alistair had despised her since they were children. Isobel could heal the other children of their ills, something their father had been secretly proud of, but she could never heal Alistair. His ills had always come of his cruel will, they were his punishment. But it was when it was noticed she had a propensity for locating lost things, knowing where they were, that her brother's hatred twisted into an interest she wished she had not drawn.

Many times he had demanded she find the Campbell treasure, take him to it, or tell him where it was hidden; but she couldn't. There was no amount of beating she took from her brother that could change that. Once Isobel's father had died in his sleep three months past, there was no more protection. Her brother had dragged her from her chambers in the night after their father's funeral and this cell had become her shelter.

The clansmen had been furious she was held captive but her brother was smart with his tongue. Superstitions were easily roused amongst those who had once been in awe and need of her talents. Harvests gone bad were laid at her feet, the skirmishes between the Camerons and McDubhs were her fault; the deaths of men by their own foolishness were not healable by her hands.

There was only a deaf man who would tend her, so she couldn't turn his ear to her plight as her brother had put it. Once a day, a small portion of the castle's evening meal were delivered to her, while she got to watch from her small barred window behind the tapestry as they tossed the majority of it to the pigs, right where she could see. She could smell it through the opening enough to torment her empty belly. This would have been her life until she finally gave Alistair what he desired. But during her last beating the previous morn, she had finally broken her silence under the weakness of their blood letting. She had told him the whereabouts of a parchment which held the clues to mad old Campbell's treasure. Now her fate was sealed. When Alistair returned, he would have no more use for the witch. Just as he had no more use for the warrior.

It seemed so very unfair. This man's torment had been unnecessary, and yet it had continued long after she had told them of the parchment. Alistair's cruelty knew no bounds. She had seen the sick enjoyment of his screams when he came to bid her good day.

She was weary. Ready for the end he so fervently promised her. But she could do one more act of kindness before she went to her grave. Closing her mismatched eyes of green and gold, Isobel felt the cool rush of her power flow through her limbs, and into her companion. Warmth spread through his chilled skin as his life giving blood was renewed, bones began to quicken their mending, and burns began to heal. The power within her began to flicker out as exhaustion overtook her. There was so much to do, so much to heal before this warrior became whole once more. It would take all her strength over the next few days in which to do it.

Her broken warrior mumbled in his unnatural sleep and drew her closer, seeking her comfort, and as the candle flickered out, she gave it.

~~~

Chapter Three

Morning brought the sounds of life, relative drudgery under her brother's command, but life none the less. The lands outside her cell continued to exist, the day's labours to be done, the food to be hunted, clothes to mend, and babes and livestock tended. Life continued within her confinement too, with each blessed breath her mending warrior drew into his lungs. He was a large man, broad of back and strong of arm, well used to the rigors of life in the highlands. Not like her brother. Thin, reedy almost, Alistair preferred the company of their cousins in the lowlands, friends of the English King, and the English way of life. Comfortable in wealthy arrogance while their kin and clan lived impoverished around them.

Isobel stroked his tanned skin, and wished she had something to near at hand to wrap around him. During the long hours of the night, as the storm had died, the chill had lingered, leaving her companion to seek the heat her body could offer. His arms wrapped firm around her middle, his knees drawn up tight against her side as though he could envelope her entirely, hadn't left much room for reaching her cot for the thin sheet to wrap around him. Now, as the light flooded the floor beneath the tapestry, she could see him more fully, it seemed almost cruel to admire him even in his nakedness.

As gently as she could, Isobel untangled his hands and shifted backwards, the numbness in her bottom and legs lessening, giving way to pins and needles that almost made her gasp.

"Please," the deep voice croaked, "...don't leave me in this darkness."

Isobel's heart stopped beating beneath her breast when she gazed upon his achingly beautiful face, and the defilement her brother's men had wreaked on it in their brutal questioning. Swollen and cut, the wounds were already a little healed thanks to her aid last eve, but nothing could have prepared her for the worst of it. Her warrior was fighting darkness even in the light of the day, and no eyes stared back at her from his handsome face. They had been the colour of a wintery blue, she was sure of it, colours of his McDubh blood, the colours of his Viking heritage like those of the berserker in the stories told around the hearth. And his captors had taken them as Cameron trophies.

Bile rose in her throat and Isobel had to fight to keep it at bay. She settled for a soft curse before she reached for him, his hands closing tight around her own in desperation.

"I'll not leave you McDubh, I promise you that."

"Aingeal." He murmured, as he fought against the healing sleep he needed.

"Nay my warrior. I'm not an angel." Isobel brushed back his long black hair from his face and winced at his wounds as he did. "I am here to help you."

"I'm nay dead?" His voice was somewhere between a fervent hope and a distant dread. She could well understand. For if he was not dead, he knew he was still a prisoner.

"Nay, you are healing." Isobel kissed his temple as he drifted back to sleep, and began to hum a lullaby from her childhood. It wasn't so much for him, as for herself that she allowed the gentle sounds her mother had made soothe her own soul as she wept for the man in her arms. A warrior was not a warrior if he could not see to fight, to defend. Her brother had delivered a punishment, a show of his cruelty far worse than she had ever thought him capable.

A clatter by the door alerted her to her daily ration arriving and her stomach grumbled painfully at the thought of it. She needed to get to it before the rats. Easing out of his embrace, she stood on shaking limbs and ran for her food. Placing it beside her cot above the floor, she went back for her patient and wondered over the moving of him. Hard as stone and just as heavy, she could never manage it on her own. Nor could she rely upon the guards.

"I need you to waken," she whispered beside his ear, praying that he would see the wisdom in moving. "Please warrior, I cannot move you alone, I know you are weary, but I must move you from the floor."

"Cannot see...to move..." He groaned, and her heart hurt for him.

"I know my way in the dark, trust in me." Isobel promised and pleaded in the same breath, until she felt the tensing of his muscles and she swiftly moved to help him. He lurched to his feet with a groan of pain that reverberated through his entire being and into her as she wrapped his arm about her shoulders and guided him forward towards her low cot.

"Almost there, hold on a little longer and then you can rest." Easing him down, his strength left him, and she lost him to his sleep.

His skin was filthy and mottled black and blue, deep gashes of red encrusted with dirt adorned his flesh of his front, and Isobel knew she had to remove it before she could continue her healing. Not doing so, would only cost her precious energy, and the McDubh warrior time. She was already weak. Reaching out onto the ledge, she pulled in one of her wooden buckets, full to the brim with the rainwater from last night and set it beside her cot. She had the rags of end of her cloak to wash with, and a small slab of soap she had with her when she was taken from her chambers.

Slowly, she cleaned his wounds, allowing her powers to follow her work and begin the healing. She had never had to tend to someone so badly wounded, in so many places, though she knew if she hadn't spent the last three months being beaten herself and near starved, she would have managed this a great deal more swiftly. As it was, she could only start the healing of his tissues off before her energy was stolen away and left her fighting the pull to close her eyes and sleep. Exchanging her bucket for the second from the ledge, Isobel thoroughly cleansed him, though including those parts of him she had no desire to intrude upon. Staring at the ceiling throughout those moments, Isobel felt like her skin would burst into flame before she finished.

Dropping the cloth back into the water, Isobel covered her charge with the sheet and set about her own cleaning. Shivering as she removed her gown, she made quick use of the dirtied water and soap before dressing once more and rinsing the corner of her cell designed for more personal ablutions, the water leaving the small tunnel in a loud whoosh.

Exhaustion settled heavily over her she ate her meagre meal in silence on the edge of her cot, watching the laboured breaths of the warrior until long after she finished. Her older sister Marion had married into the McDubhs, as per her dear father's wishes, to one of the Laird's sons. Marion had said he had hair of fire, it blazed in the sun and she thought it was most beautiful. Isobel had laughed at her romantic sister's letter, loved her for her happiness. Donald – that was his name. The elder McDubh sons, of which there were three. Angus was the middle brother and Isobel remembered from Marion's letters that he was away visiting his mother's family in the north. The north – Isobel smiled – was Marion's confirmation that the McDubh brother's heritage indeed lay with the Vikings, and always written in a happy, agreeable tone. She could almost imagine Marion rolling her eyes as her proud husband told her again of his bloodline.

Angus was fair of hair, the barest hint of the red of his father. Which left the man before her. Rory McDubh, dark as sin, and all the more beautiful for it, his contrast to her pale colouring left her fascinated. She could see his blue eyes; envision them peering out from where they should, all seeing, all knowing.

Warrior's eyes, with a warrior's heart.

Startled by the insight, Isobel opened her eyes and wondered where the thoughts had stemmed from. A new facet of her power as yet unknown to her, or an overactive imagination, she was not certain. Of what she was certain, was that if she was to restore this fine man to his health, she needed to rest.

Curled between the cold wall and his heat, Isobel settled her head against his arm and allowed the sweet relief of sleep and dreams to take her.

~~~

Chapter Four

Dreams of blood, of screams and fire raged through his mind. His skin grew slick with sweat, his breaths laboured as his legs pumped faster and faster to run towards the sounds. The woodlands parted as he passed, the bark scraping his body, tearing his flesh as he raced towards the glow in the distance. He had to get there; he had to reach her...

The screams grew louder the closer he neared, until the clearing loomed, and his heart thudded to a stop within his chest.

She burned, her long pale white hair caught reddened flame and blackened, her virginal gown torn and bloodied, eaten greedily by the pyre beneath her burning feet. Her screams of pain made him wish for her swift death, as there was no saving his sweet witch now.

His vision faded around the edges as the acrid smoke surrounded him, shrouding him in black. Her screams became faint as she succumbed, and he almost felt her at his side, whispering softly to sooth him. She was his Aingeal, she was his light, and he hadn't been in time to save her from the darkness. Yet she soothed his soul with her soft words until he finally rose from the smothering smoke and into the cool night.

He started, springing upright from the stuffed straw mattress at his back, his hands grabbing the soft weight beside him and pinning it to the cot.

"Who are you?" He demanded, his shout echoing in the nothingness. He shook the small form so hard their foreheads connected, and his captive let out a startled curse. "Tell me!"