Chapter Text
They rode for what felt like centuries under a sky that refused to brighten. The rain, persistent and freezing, mingled with the wind that swept down from the ridges, but Eleanor no longer felt its direct impact on her skin. A while ago, Murtagh had wrapped her in his own heavy wool kilt, a coarse, dense fabric that smelled of smoke and the man's own essence. Under this improvised shelter, their combined warmth was preserved, creating a small bubble of human temperature in the midst of the frigid Scottish night.
Eleanor felt as though her head weighed tons. Her eyelids were closing from sheer exhaustion, but the terror of losing her balance made her jolt awake every time her chin dropped toward her chest. She tried with all her might to fix her eyes on the landscape, searching for some sign, a familiar path, anything to orient her as to where they were taking her away from the stones. But the darkness was absolute, broken only by the rhythmic movement of the horse's ears and the glint of the rain on the leather reins.
—Sleep now, lass —the man grunted. His voice, deep and harsh, vibrated against Eleanor’s back, muffled by the wool that covered them—. You won’t fall. I’ve got a hold of you.
She forced herself to straighten up, inhaling the cold air to clear her clouded mind. She couldn't simply abandon herself, not into the hands of a stranger who dressed as if he had stepped out of an ancient history book. She needed to know at least where they were being taken as prisoners -or protected, as the case might be-.
—Where are we going, mister? —she asked in a whisper. Her voice sounded small, almost swallowed by the wind.
The man did not answer immediately. He let out a grunt that could be described as “mmfmm”. He kept his eyes fixed on the trail, handling the reins with a skill that betrayed years of life in the saddle. The horse snorted, releasing steam.
—Murtagh... —she said, testing the sound, and she felt him tense his arms slightly around her upon hearing his name from her lips. She hoped that by using his name, which sounded as rugged as the landscape around them, she might get something more than a strange noise—. Mister, how much longer until we arrive?
Murtagh sighed heavily, as if the voice of a woman speaking to him were as annoying as a fly buzzing near his ear.
—It will take as long as it takes —he sentenced curtly—. The place isn’t going to move from where it is. Now, lean your head back and stop fighting sleep. If you faint from exhaustion, it will be harder to keep you in the saddle.
Eleanor, unable to resist the weight of her fatigue any longer, finally gave in. She settled against Murtagh’s chest, feeling the hardness of his body and the almost unbearable scent of sweat that surrounded her. With the warmth of the kilt protecting her from the outside world, the swaying of the horse eventually overcame her, and she sank into an uneasy sleep while the darkness of the Highlands devoured them completely.
Was all of this that was happening even real? Was it possible, then, that Mrs. Graham’s pagan stories and her words while reading their fortunes hadn't been just a standard script of travel and staying? Perhaps that horse carrying her at a trot through what was once her hometown was actually the seat of the broken-down train in the middle of nowhere. Eleanor dozed in a strange state between wakefulness and absolute exhaustion, until the man’s voice brought her back to reality.
—Wake up, lass. Get down. Get down! —he practically shouted into her ear.
Eleanor opened her eyes and didn't even have time to look around before Murtagh firmly grabbed her left leg, brusquely swinging it over to the other side of the horse and shoving her into the mud once again. The blonde landed almost on all fours, watching as their captors hurried their pace, while Claire was thrown beside her without the slightest bit of care.
—What...? What’s happening? —she asked, receiving no answer. Claire was quick to get to her feet and, without a word, grabbed her arm, suddenly hoisting her up and dragging her toward the woods while she was still trying to fully wake up.
—Come on, run. Run!
Eleanor snapped back to reality all at once. Turning around as she rushed into the forest, she saw their captors meters ahead, drawing swords and shouting gutturally in Gaelic. She let Claire guide her through the path unknown to both of them, while trying to quicken her pace, her shoes sinking into the Scottish mire. Neither of them said a word. There would be time enough to stop and talk about whatever was going on; for now, there was a tacit understanding of what they had to do: run. Run as far as their bodies would allow and thus, somehow, find the way back home…or at least get far enough away from those ragged bandits.
—Damn it! —Claire let out when a branch struck her face in the rush, but without stopping—. What are we going to do? What will we do?!
—Just run! —Eleanor urged her, now fully awake, taking the lead of the escape and pulling the brunette by the sleeve of her dress without looking back.
But their hopes of escaping did not last long. Not when the young red-haired man appeared in front of them. He was excessively stained with blood, and his sword was still held high. Eleanor skidded to a halt, causing Claire to crash into her back.
—Don't worry, it's only me —the highlander said with a half-smile on his face at the expressions of terror the women surely wore.
To Eleanor’s surprise, who was only thinking of escaping from there as soon as possible and nothing else, Claire seemed to continue putting her medical principles above survival. The brunette moved from behind her friend, stepping right up to the redhead without hesitation.
—You're hurt! Damn it, I hope you didn't use that arm during your fight, it will make it worse! —she snapped authoritatively. Eleanor glanced at her sideways, incredulous that the woman was thinking about the shoulder of a lad who had surely just killed people instead of thinking about their own escape—. Sit down and I’ll examine it.
—For God's sake, Claire —she murmured, so low she swore neither of them had heard her. She looked down the path behind Jamie and there was no sign of the other men there. Well, maybe if Claire convinced him to lower his guard to be treated, they could hit him over the head with something and keep fleeing.
—No, don't distress yourself. It’s no' my blood…at least, not most of it —the boy replied. Then he looked away from Claire to stare at them both—. Dougal and the others are waiting for us near the road.
They didn't have much time to think. Jamie grabbed them both firmly by the arms—not to hurt them, but with enough force to compel them to follow him through the woods.
—We won't go! —Claire shouted, finally seeming to remember that they were being abducted.
Eleanor stopped, halting the walk Jamie wanted to impose on the three of them. She looked up at the man who stood a bit more than a head taller than her and, though a little intimidated by his size, decided to try civility in order to leave. If they weren't going to be able to knock him out, perhaps they could convince him with a bit more courtesy than Claire possessed.
—Mister, we truly appreciate your…rescuing us from the Englishman and your intention to take us to a safe place. But we don't need it, not at all. We don't want to cause you any more trouble or delays —she spoke, holding his gaze. He looked at her intently, perhaps a bit amused, tilting his head with attention, but still holding them both—. My friend has tended to your arm, and I am sure you will recover soon. Now, we must go, continue our journey…we don't want to worry our family with unnecessary delays.
—Mistress, I couldna live with my conscience if I left two women alone in the middle of the night with the Redcoats about —Jamie seemed to be fighting internally not to laugh at her request, as if it were something absurd—. We'll take ye with us. Dougal wants it so.
—And if we refuse? Will you…will you chop off our heads?! —Claire shouted, drawing his attention once more.
Jamie moved his head from side to side, looking them both up and down. He narrowed his eyes as if thoughtful, loosening his grip on them slightly.
—Well, then I'll just have to carry ye. Both of ye. You dinna look heavy, I'll take one on each shoulder…oh, how I'll regret hurting my arm again. Oh well, ye can mend me again when we arrive.
Eleanor tried to take a step back, but Jamie yanking her back to his side, pressing her against his body covered in viscous blood.
—Are we going to waste more time? Dougal isna a patient man, truly…
Claire and Eleanor exchanged a look before beginning the walk back to their captors.
They rode for a much longer time. This time, Eleanor refused to fall asleep again; in truth, she couldn't. Her body remained erect and firm against Murtagh's saddle. She couldn't relax. She felt the leather of the saddle chafing her thighs, and her growing ill-temper from hunger and bewilderment made the man’s scent increasingly difficult to endure. Everyone remained silent, concentrated on the road and surely just as tired as she was. Internally, she admired the discipline of those individuals to keep moving no matter what. If it were up to her, they would have taken at least three rests in the last few hours. But it wasn't up to her; not the pace of the journey, nor the destination, nor her very life at that moment.
Murtagh’s hand released one of the reins and rummaged for something in his cloak; soon it appeared before her face again. Now he held a leather flask filled with something that was surely not water.
—Drink a bit. It’ll help ye with the cold and the hunger.
Eleanor stared at it. It didn't take her long to take it between her slender hands and remove the cap. The strong smell of whisky rushed over her. She didn't want to do it, she had no desire to—surely everyone drank from it, surely the liquid was a disgusting concoction of whisky and saliva—but she would faint without a bit of fuel to fill her stomach before they reached wherever it was they were going, and, after all, alcohol killed everything. With the fabric of her own dress, she frantically wiped the spout of the flask, low enough so as not to offend the man. She brought it to her lips and took a swig. She grimaced at how strong it was, struggling not to drop it. She stretched her arm back to return it to Murtagh when Claire’s voice distracted her from the thought of the spit that was beginning to fester in her mind.
—Stop! Help me!
The horse’s trot stopped abruptly after Murtagh pulled on the reins, causing Eleanor’s back to slam against his firm chest once more.
It was Jamie, lying in the mud after falling from his horse. She saw Claire hesitate before practically throwing herself awkwardly to the firm ground to go attend to her now habitual patient. Murtagh also descended from the beast to rush over to the boy, causing the blonde to tense up as she found herself alone on the saddle, imagining that the horse might simply decide to bolt with her on top. She gripped the reins so hard her knuckles turned white, and the animal let out a short neigh that was drowned out by the conversation between Claire and the men surrounding Jamie. How on earth was she supposed to get down from there?
—It seems he has only fainted. Bring water and put his feet up on the saddlebags —Claire ordered, and, strangely, they obeyed her commands.
One of the men, the one of shorter stature and a particularly large skull, went over to his own horse to rummage through his baggage. Then he turned his gaze to her and opened his eyes wide in slight surprise, as if he had forgotten the blonde was there too.
—Mister, can you…help me down? —she asked cautiously, not knowing if he would ignore her or grunt in response, which was how everyone seemed to communicate. To her surprise, the man nodded. He reached her side and extended his arms toward her. Eleanor warily swung one leg over the saddle and practically threw herself into his arms, which caught her firmly and set her on the ground—. Thank you.
The fellow grunted in response and headed back toward the center of the circle surrounding Jamie once more. Eleanor followed him.
—I'm fine —a battered Jamie murmured, trying to sit up without much success—. A bit dizzy, nothing more.
—Stay still! —Claire yelled at him, pushing him back down as she knelt by his side to examine him—. This idiot has gone and let himself get stabbed. It's not serious, but he lost blood. I need to bandage it and he needs to rest…we can camp and…
—No. The patrols are still close —Dougal determined, arms crossed as he observed the scene—. We'll stay just long enough for you to stop the bleeding and bandage him again, then we move. We have about five hours ahead of us, maybe seven. Do it now.
The rest of the men wasted no time dispersing, leaving only Claire, Dougal, and Murtagh by his side. Eleanor approached her friend, kneeling beside her to help however she could. She was no nurse, far from it, but she was certain she had more medical knowledge than all those guys put together. Jamie's wound wasn't deep, but it bled ceaselessly.
—We need clean bandages…or something as close to clean as we can find —Claire said, and, even though Dougal and Murtagh were listening to her, she was addressing Eleanor.
—I don't think there's anything very clean here —Eleanor replied in a low voice, while she brought her hands to the hem of her dress—the one she already considered lost—and yanked hard to tear off strips of fabric. Jamie amagó con incorporarse otra vez y, con un humor de perros y contagida por la actitud autoritaria de Claire, Eleanor también comenzó a gritarle—: She told you to stay still! Damn it…at what point did we end up…Good God…I can't believe this is happening…
—Bring iodine!
Eleanor looked at her friend sideways again, sighing as she reached out to grab the flask Murtagh was still holding in his hand.
—Do you really expect these people to have iodine? I doubt they even have soap…
Murtagh watched them, trying to figure out how he could help the boy, but his presence seemed to be quite useless to them there, so much so that Claire sent him a second time to fetch water.
—This will do.
She handed Claire the uncapped flask, making a great effort not to fall over as her tired legs trembled due to the squatting position she maintained next to the redhead, while she held his chest down and stabilized his head so Claire could work.
It wasn't long that they spent bandaging Jamie, struggling with the slippery fabrics and under the scrutiny of the group. Truly, they should have put more effort into his recovery, but Dougal was not a man with any patience at all and kept reminding them of the long road ahead. And so it was. Hours. Long and tedious hours of riding, hungry, tired, covered in so much mud and blood that Eleanor thought peeling off her skin would be the only way to get the filth and the stench off her. But then, finally, she saw it.
Under the light of the dawn, a dark mass of stone rose before her eyes. A castle: Castle Leoch. Eleanor had visited it before. Several times. Or at least what was left of it in the twentieth century. She remembered going there as a child with her sister and her uncle, when it was nothing more than a skeleton of walls, a corner forgotten by time where wild ivy climbed the stones and the wind whistled through frameless windows. She had also explored it in her adolescence with a group of girls from her school, having picnics on the tall, uneven grass that covered what used to be the bailey, a silent place where the only life was the birds nesting in the crevices.
But now everything was different. Very different. The imposing keep, which in her time was reduced to half its height and crowned with rubble, stood complete, solid, and defiant against the leaden sky. There was no brush climbing the walls nor that sepulchral silence of an abandoned ruin; instead, the ramparts were guarded by armed men, and a thick air rose from the interior, heavy with a pungent smell of manure, burning wood, and cooking fat. Around the fortification, where in the future only a vacant and lonely field extended, lay a bustling and chaotic village, full of people coming and going in their daily chores, dressed in rudimentary clothes of coarse wool. Seeing the intact wooden beams, the smoking thatched roofs, and the heavy doors of solid oak where before there was only air and memories colonized by time, finally shattered the last barrier of her sanity. There were no longer any doubts, nor comforting theories about broken-down trains or exhaustion-induced delusions. They were there. Centuries ago.