6 comments/ 14521 views/ 22 favorites Aingeal in the Dark By: sacrificedangel 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!" Aingeal in the Dark "I am Isobel." Rory cursed, and released her, groaning when she struggled from beneath him and he fell face first onto the straw mattress. When her hands gently moved to turn him over he pushed her half heartedly back. He did not desire the help of another of the cursed devil's sisters. "Leave me be woman!" He growled softly, the pain of his body registering once more and leaving him breathless. He didn't have the energy to stop her when she moved him, and moaned in relief when she accomplished her goal and his weight was off of his chest. "You are bleeding again." Gods, her voice was so peaceful. So familiar. His weak pondering was cut off when a wet coolness was placed over his chest, her little hands smoothing over it with a tenderness he wished he could thank her for. But all that came was bile to his throat when he faced the truth of his situation. He was being healed so he could be tortured again. Alistair's final words to him as hot brands were applied to his skin had said as much. It was hard to be thankful for such sweet tenderness when hell was awaiting him afresh. It may be better to cut off the mercy now and allow his death. "I don't want tending. You're an evil one to be so cruel Isobel Cameron." Isobel's temper caught, anger such a new emotion; she caught even herself by surprise. "Tis true they call me evil McDubh, though only through superstition – flames fanned by my bloody brother and kin who fear my skills." "Skills?" "As a healer." She murmured, her anger ebbing when she saw more blood flow from his side. "You need a great deal of healing McDubh." "My apologies Madam for so putting you out." He grumbled beneath his breath in a manner which couldn't help but make her smile. She would almost believe him to be pouting. "Can you not light a candle in here, how is it you can see what you are doing?" "I can see well enough. Your eyelids are swollen shut; tis why you cannot see." Isobel lied. She was glad he was so weak; she could see the tensing in his arms as though he wished to touch. "I will apply a poultice to help with the swelling later on. Right now I must stop this bleeding." Isobel hated lying. There would be no poultice, all she had was water, cloth and her hands, and she prayed it would be enough. Settling her hands against his side, she allowed her power to trickle into him to stop the flow and she marvelled at the speed the wound beneath her hands closed. She had not expected that. Moving lower, to the thin gash over his hip, she channelled it into the space and found herself faltering. Glancing up, her warrior's breathing was even, her pose relaxed in healing sleep. Did her anger make her power more potent? Or was it simply the warrior in his waking moment? Isobel stood quietly and settled back on the cot to protect him from the chill of the wall and watched over him. She may manage this; she may have just enough time. Raising one hand over his missing eyes, Isobel rested her head on his shoulder and prayed. ~~~ "Isobel..." His voice sounded pitiful to his own ears, but he could stand it no longer. The darkness was eating into his soul, the silence even more so. Over the hours he had awoken, she had been there, one hand resting in his as though to remind him she was there, the sound of her breathing and the fan of it against his bare chest and told him with clarity that he was not alone. But now, he had awoken to silence, the sounds of the night were all around him, never ending bloody night. The warmth of her beside him was not there, and her chilled little hand not clasped tight in his own. His pride warred with his fear until he felt little more than a child afraid of the night. He tried to turn on the cot and moaned as fresh pain streaked through him, his ribs protested the turning of his body, his head pounded with the movement until he thought he might pass out. His hands searched the cot, padding along the rough surface in search of her, his Aingeal. Encountering nothing but threadbare sheets, Rory silently cursed himself. Of course she wouldn't be here; she would be in her own chambers, surrounded by the finery that came with being sister to a Laird. She would be dressed in a thick robe, much like those her sister Marion wore in the evenings curled in his brother's rooms, nestled amongst pillows and warm covers in a room with a fire. Hunger wouldn't be forming a burning pit in her belly, the chill of the night not making her tremble in the dark. Settling back against the cot with a groan, Rory was startled when a small hand crept into his own, and a scarcely warm body rolled against his side. "Isobel?" He asked softly, though needing no answer. Her heathery scent was enough to give her away, the soap she used clinging to her clothes and skin, and now his as well. He still needed to hear her. Her breath was so shallow, her skin barely warm next to his. Panic settled in his chest and he reached out his free hand slowly and shook her. Her grumbling moan soothed him more than he thought possible. He would not be alone; she would not leave him for long in the dark. His Aingeal. Yet that thought froze his blood. His Aingeal, his anchor in the dark, was the Devil's own sister set to heal him so the very fires of hell to take him once more. It was a long time before sleep found Rory McDubh and took him away from the black pit into a welcome realm of dreams. ~~~ Chapter Five "You're going to get petals in the jam, my Lord." "I care not sweet witch." He smiled, his clear blue gaze drinking in the beauty of her amongst the tall grass, daisies and sorrel petals dressing her hair and bare skin. Smooth, creamy limbs moved with sweet abandon as he trailed a blade of grass up her thigh towards the pale curls at their apex and teased her in the place that had taken him to such pleasurable heights he had forgotten all before his little Aingeal. When she arched he body in his arms, his body readied to take her once more. Their meal forgotten, the sun warm over head, she took him into her body, and Rory knew heaven. ~~~ Rory knew he had awoken this time. The sweetness of his dream, of the pale Aingeal who looked upon him with such trust gave him no peace now. It was a useless dream that could not save him from his reality. Instead, he lay in endless darkness with his only source of solace from the pain being the potential enabler of more. Worse still, her slender body was seeking his warmth, her chilled hands leaving gooseflesh on his skin while thoughts of her naked amongst flowers made his body ache, his manhood perilously straining against the softness of her arm. Cruel dreams to match the cruel reality. By the time he was healed fully, even healed enough to survive another round with Alistair's men, it would mean weeks under her tender care, weeks to be enflamed by dreams brought by his exhausted mind's attempt at freedom. Would his brother find him before then? Flexing his arms, he winced at the movement and yet found it pained him less than the last time he woke. Raising his hand, he sought to see if the swelling of his face had lessened. Encountering a thick wad of cloth, Rory groaned trying to slip his fingers around it to lift it from his face. "Leave it be McDubh," soft hands took hold of his and drew it away from his face, clasped tight in her own. "...it is helping you heal. Give it time." "You shouldn't be here Isobel." Rory whispered, not wishing to alert any guards to the fact he was not alone. "Do they know you are in here?" "You should eat. I do not have broth, which would be best; however I have some chicken and other things." Her soft form rose, and he felt bereft as she climbed over him and settled on the side of the mattress. He allowed her the change of subject, for now. He would not risk her being harmed if she were to be found lying in his arms. He took what she offered from her fingers, the fare plain, and bread stale, he grimaced before he washed it down with a little water. Rory bit his tongue. He did not want to lose his temper with her, but he would not heal well with such fare – unless they intended to starve answers he didn't have out of him. He heard her settle the clay bowl down on the floor before she turned to touch him once again. His stomach had at least stopped grumbling painfully, though it wouldn't be long before it roared back to life. He seemed to be healing faster than he had thought. He had no fever, lest he slept through and missed it, he had not lost much of his mass or so he felt. And now as her fingers gently smoothed, probed and tended, he allowed his own to move across the side she was not working on and found it suspiciously smooth though the deep ache remained. Grabbing her hands, Rory hauled his nursemaid up against him and held her fast. "What manner of healer are you Isobel Cameron that my wounds be so few now a mere day after I was thrown down here?" Rory growled, almost sorry he held her captive as her hands trembled in his, her panicked breaths fanning his face. "What is it you meant by superstitions?" Rory had of course heard Marion regale his brothers with tales of her skilled sister, but he had thought she had meant as a normal healer, a woman skilled in the uses of herbs and potions the earth could provide for her. Superstitions spoke of witchcraft. "They call me a witch." His Aingeal, his sweet witch...he knew. He had this knowledge...why now did it make sense to him out of his dream, why did it add to the cruelty of her healing. "I will be fully healed soon will I not?" He barely heard her soft 'aye'. "Not enough time for my brother to get here...Alistair will come back for me...he..." Rory felt blinding pain engulf him as he sat suddenly, Isobel in his lap. Releasing her hands to grip his head, she didn't run from his fury. She sat astride his form, her small hands resting gently on both temples, and spoke soft words against his lips. Warmth like he had never known fought away the pain, fought his demons and drowned his fears in the sweetness of her kiss. Untutored lips brushed against his as she whispered to him, and Rory crushed her body to his as he gave in and returned her caress. Your brother is coming for you my warrior, trust in me. So small, too small...her body painfully thin that he could span her waist with his fingers. Only the lush breasts crushed against his chest gave her some soft bounty. Swift rage flooded him at the thought that Alistair were keeping his sister so thin, how terrible to watch his horde eat their fill and only be allowed so much oneself. A soft sigh escaping Isobel brought him back to the present. Her lips had broken from his and her head rested against his bare shoulder, her breaths soft and steady. Rory brought one hand to her neck, tracing gently upwards, over her cheek and felt her lashes flush against her cheek. She was sleeping – and Rory didn't know whether to be pleased or frustrated. His body ached for a release it had no right to be wanting, his body healing with unnatural speed thanks to the Aingeal in his arms. An Aingeal he wanted lain out in the sun warmed grass, watching her face as she took him into her body. Were they dreams? Or were they something more? After feeling the miracle of her healing, he knew he could no longer be sure. Rory now prayed he could heed her whispered words and trust that his brother would be here in time to save him. ~~~ Chapter Six "Very well, favourite food?" Isobel rolled her eyes heavenward though she knew he couldn't see her. This was what had to be the fiftieth question in a line of thousands. The man was relentless. "My maid Meg used to make the most wonderful jam. Sweet strawberries and just the right sweetness, it was heaven. Only had it on my birthday though, the dear woman worried I had a sweet tooth and would end up like a toothless hag." He laughed quietly, the rich sound warming her. Isobel stood to go to him and stumbled, knocking the stool over and cursing when she stubbed her toe. "Isobel?" "I am well. Just clumsy." Isobel answered softly, tears threatening when she reached to set the stool to rights and found her vision blurring at the edges. Straightening, she took a calming breath and wiped at the moisture adorning her cheeks. It would only get worse. The more energy she used healing him, the more food she gave up for him and his appetite, the quicker she would fade. There was no sense getting upset, not really. Already she had greeted a dark sleep more than once, surprised to find that Rory simply thought she had left for her own chambers on those occasions. She saw no need to tell him of her situation. There were some things that would just not help him to know. Holding out her hand to judge the wall, she made it to the cot and smiled at the sight of him reaching for her. Taking his hand she thought of a question to ask him. Since the night before, his body was healing incredibly fast, his cuts and burns almost gone, the scarring would be with him as a reminder, but at least she knew now he would not die. With life, came energy and his constant chatter to fill his darkness warmed her. "What happened at Ardie loch?" Isobel felt him startle before a low groan came from deep in his chest. "What did Marion tell you?" "Ach, no, that counts as one of your questions McDubh!" Isobel laughed when he groaned again. "It was about twelve years ago, when I was still but a lad who thought himself a man like his brothers. Och lass, I do not wish to tell you this...it is embarrassing!" "Continue McDubh." "I had taken a fancy to the shepherd's daughter. She was a little older than me, more ages with Angus fair to say, but I was enchanted. She had danced with me the night before at the wedding of two of our clansmen to sisters from the MacLeods in the north, and I had thought she found me passing fair. I had heard my brothers talk of the lasses who swim in the loch with the new brides the morning after the celebrations, and thought I would chance upon them. I caught them as many were leaving, unseen I slipped up to the water's edge and saw the object of my affections rise from the water like a red headed siren. She was glorious, and in a monumental lapse of judgement, I slipped and gave away my position. In front of my hiding brothers and several other clansmen sneaking a look at beautiful naked women, the shepherd's daughter gave me a sound kicking and chased me off into the woods." Isobel couldn't help it, and gave into her laughter. She could see it all in her head as he described it to her, a young lad being taught his first lesson in life. "I would thank you fair maiden to cease your laughter." Rory smiled, finding her mouth with his hand and ceasing her sounds of mirth. "Lest my pride wither into nothingness." "I am sorry. I promise, no more laughing." Isobel smirked against his hand and he released her with a sigh. "Can you sing?" "Badly! Though Angus has the voice of our mother's family, a true story teller through music." She watched Rory's smile falter and hoped to distract him from talk of family, but he pulled himself from it before she could open her mouth. "Can you ride?" "Aye, I can. I love the escape, the freedom I feel when I ride out through the valleys, or give the horses their head to dart through the trees. There is something peaceful to be found in such simple pursuits." Isobel saw the smile return with her answer, and was glad of it. "Do you enjoy riding?" "I do. Though I get little time to do it for pleasure, I should make more time. We have some very fine horses which Donald purchased from Skye, hardy things each and every one of them, and incredible to ride." She watched Rory think for a long moment and waited. "Are you betrothed?" "What?" Isobel's head snapped up from her mending, and stammered. "No, not betrothed, or married." "Why not?" "That again is another question out of turn McDubh." Isobel laughed her surprise fading. "I have never met another person I had wanted to spend my life with. Marion found happiness, and I wanted that for myself. Now, you owe me another answer." "Well?" He asked when he heard nothing more from her. "And no, that does not count as another question." "What is your favourite colour?" Isobel asked absently, her vision blurring once more, no longer just around the edges. "I don't have just one." He murmured, his hands gripping her suddenly as she pitched to the side, catching her around her waist and pulling her into his lap. "Lass, are you unwell?" "I am just tired McDubh." "Rory." "Pardon?" Isobel asked, her head beginning to ache fiercely as darkness, black and foreboding lingered in her vision. "Call me Rory." She tested the name on her lips softly. "Isobel, sleep now lass." Isobel obeyed, curled in his lap she gave into the exhaustion with a final look at his beautiful face. His eyes were still covered with her cloth, though she knew now her healing was finally taking effect there. When she had looked upon him during his rest, his lids had not looked as sunken; the red welts from the slip of the blade had healed to almost naught. But this was more than she had ever attempted, and she feared she now knew the consequences. "Rory..." Isobel murmured against his neck, and smiled in her sleep when he answered her unspoken question. "Green and gold lass, just like my Aingeal. Green and gold." The flicker of the candle beside the cot drew his attention. No longer simply because he could hear its subtle dance with the wick... Because he could see it. ~~~ Chapter Seven Isobel ran her fingers over the cloth around his head and allowed the weak tendrils of her power to seep into her warrior. If she was to die when Alistair returned as he promised, she wanted to give all to this man that she could give. You cannot take it with you when you die. Those were her father's words concerning riches, but she still felt the adage apt. It was senseless for her to die without him being whole. Though it hurt to admit the truth to herself, she was ever realistic. Her dreams tormented her with scenes that could never be, warmth and security in his arms in a future that didn't exist. Here and now, his warmth and his arms held her protected her. Here and now was what counted. Feeling the last of her energy wane, Isobel felt Rory stir beneath her, his big body settling more comfortably against the thinly stuffed mattress with hers cushioned atop his and smiled. It seemed they were ever doomed to wake as the other needed a healing sleep. Isobel savoured the last sight of him, drinking in his form and committing it to memory before her sight would desert her completely. Everything that made him a warrior was stark against the white of the sheets, every muscle, ridge and scar that labelled him a protector. Everything that made him a man was obvious beneath the cradle of her hips where his manhood rubbed against her, thickening in his ebbing sleep, and Isobel gave into the temptation to move against the hardness. A startled moan drifted from her lips at the sensation, the granite of him brushing her through her thin dress, set her heart to racing. Resting her head against his chest once more, Isobel whimpered when his own hips suddenly mimicked her movement. Strong hands which had rested on her lower back now pressed her closer as his body shifted beneath her, turned until the mattress was against her back and her warrior's eye covering came away. Isobel gasped when she gazed into the pure blue of her berserker, and her vision dimmed away a little bit more. "Am I hideous to you dear Aingeal?" Rory whispered, it pained him to open his eyes but he had to see her. Glorious even through the unfocused haze, she lay beneath him in his arms, his body cradled against hers. Isobel's hair was white gold, spread in all its smooth beauty in a halo about her head, mismatched eyes he knew to be green and gold watched him with silent intensity, and soft petal pink lips softened on a gasp he could not resist. Aingeal in the Dark Lowering his lips to hers was a slow torture that he enjoyed. He would not scare her, he would give her time to escape him, but he knew she would not run from him. The first touch was butterfly soft, a mere brush to declare his intentions which she returned with a delightful hesitancy not born of indifference or lack of desire, but of an untouched innocence he ached to take solace in. He cradled her head as he took her lips, ignoring his pain as he sought to ease the need that had taken root in his heart. In his dreams his Aingeal had taken his hunger with a smile, in reality he ached to know if she was the same. And she was; her hands pulled him closer, her little tongue duelled with his when he coaxed their kiss deeper, and her legs sawed restlessly against his calves with a desire he echoed. Releasing her lips, Rory trailed kisses over the bare curve of her neck, flicking his tongue at the hollow of her throat while his fingers unlaced the thin grey gown that kept her hidden from view. He rose long enough to push apart the sides of the bodice and take it to her waist before he took possession of her lips once more, drinking from her sweetness. The edges of his thumbs brushed the tips of her lush breasts, pale pink nipples begged for his lips and Rory gave into the impulse to suckle there. Isobel's soft moan was enflaming. Teasing her taut peak with his tongue, he loved her gently, the ache in his loins growing with each innocent entreaty passing from her lips. His hands spanned her waist all too easily, and he vowed to himself he would take her from this place, from Alistair's cruelty. She lifted her hips in silent invitation and Rory drew her dress down her long legs and bared her in all her creamy glory. She was just as she had been in his dreams. A beauty meant to be his, meant to be loved in summer air with the sun worshiping her skin. Not in a prison cell... Isobel felt him withdraw and shuddered at the cold look in his eyes. Was she unappealing to him? Her hands came up of their own accord and covered her body, holding firm even when she caught the softening of his features through the haze darkening her vision. She remembered his question to her and thought to ask the same, but when his hands descended gently on hers and moved them above her head, she no longer needed his answer. "You should be surrounded by beautiful things my Aingeal Isobel, not the rot and decay of imprisoned stone." He took her lips, and Isobel moaned as his bare flesh met her own, his body hard and unyielding where it rested against her, her hands swallowed in his. She should feel caged, trapped, and yet she felt his protection, felt the sanctuary he offered her, and had to take it. She wanted him to take her, feed her passions and set her free. She needed sweet memories. Pain, swift and fleeting burned between her legs when he joined with her, his flesh buried deep within her body as his hot breath left him in a rush across her cheek. He was still above her, still when she needed him to move, needed him to mark her and make her his own. When finally his hips shifted, Isobel braced herself for a repetition of the pain of his swift entry, and cried out in joy when there was nothing save for a delicious fullness and the feel of his hard body taking pleasure from her own. Wrapping her legs around his waist, Isobel moaned with each thrust as her warrior gave free reign to his desire. He was fierce in his love, devastatingly powerful; he crashed against her like a wave and the shore in the midst of a storm. She could feel a sweet pleasure build inside her, his heated kiss propelling her forward towards it, closer and closer until finally her body could take no more. With a sharp cry, Isobel was thrown to the stars by her berserker, and he joined her in the heavens with a roar. As she settled back to earth, back to the warmth of his embrace, Isobel gave into her tears and filled him with the last of her energy. She watched her hands glow with golden light; his eyes widen when his vision cleared entirely, then his beautiful face faded with shadows. Isobel knew nothing but the darkness, and the sound of her warrior's heartbeat. ~~~ Chapter Eight Hours later Rory cradled his Aingeal against his chest and rocked her while her tears fell. The beautifully sharp green and gold had lost their life, and he had literally watched it slip away as pain raced through her small body. He could see perfectly now, mayhap even better than he had before he had fallen into Alistair Cameron's clutches, and it all had been a sacrifice by the woman he now held in his arms. He had put her down for a moment to fetch some water and a cloth to clean them, and turned back to find her curled in on herself, quietly sobbing as some of the wounds he had suffered appeared on her pale skin. Slices, bruises and brands, it marred her flesh so suddenly he had been helpless to help her. It was then that he realised what she had done. With gentle hands he had cleaned her skin and wounds of the blood, wiping the evidence of their lovemaking from between her legs, desperately trying to soothe the ache he had caused. He dressed her, talked to her of the things they would do when they left this place, of her being with Marion again, meeting his brothers. But with each word, she retreated more and more into herself, until in the end, he had stopped talking and just held her while she cried and her body slowly began to heal. Her hands held him tightly, fear evident on her soft features, and he wondered if that was how he looked three short days ago when he had been thrown into this pit and sought solace in the arms of an Aingeal in the darkness. His Isobel was exhausted. And now he knew why. Painfully thin, he had believed Alistair to be limiting her food, but this morning he had seen a small bowl of scraps sent clattering through the door. You must be swifter than the rats. She had whispered against his throat, and when he placed her in the cot and raced for the food, his fury had returned tenfold. This was her food, this was her ration. And for three whole days he had been eating the majority of it. God only knew how long she had been down here. Marion had been married to his brother for a year. Her father had been dead for these past three months. Rory would believe the latter a good estimate for how long the poor lass had been trapped in the damp cell. Was that how long she had been forced to race the rats for her food? He had made her eat the entire bowl and drink of the water with a sternness that reminded him of his dear mother. He wished she were here. Isobel needed coddling, hugged in his mother's arms, and protected in his. Rory felt Isobel take a deep shuddering breath, her eyes long since dry, she turned her head from his neck and kissed his jaw. Rory took her lips softly once and held her tightly though she refused to look at him and it hurt. He wanted them to be free, so he could see joy light her eyes, wanted to see he beauty of her climax in those jewels of green and gold. "What am I to do with you Isobel Cameron?" He didn't admonish her further. He was not cruel. Her wounds had ceased bleeding, the edges beginning to scab, and as long as she did not move too much, they should heal fairly swiftly. They were nowhere near as deep as his had been, but Rory realised just how much she had done for him. The sound of men approaching drew his attention, and Rory settled Isobel against the cot. Her hands grabbed for his, but Rory quietened her and pulled the remnants of her cloak around his nude body. He may face the guards without a weapon, but he would be damned if he stood before them nude. Isobel's soft entreaty pained him, but he knew they would hurt her if they had to drag him from her arms, so he begged her silence with a kiss, and stepped away. The door swung open and crashed against the wall revealing his captors. The Laird Cameron and his henchman. "I see the little witch did her blasphemous work on you McDubh well enough." Alistair Cameron smirked, and Rory ached to take his head for his slight on Isobel. "She ever did have a generous heart. Take him up, his brother awaits proof his heart still beats." "Wait Cameron. Allow me to take her with me and I will ensure you get the lands promised to Marion." Rory took a step forward and felt Isobel's hand slip from his arm. He couldn't look back, he had to press this and gain an answer. He wouldn't leave her here to suffer like this. The look on Alistair's face sent a chill of foreboding, a sense of déjà vu washing over him. "I no longer have need of her, I suppose. But there is the matter of her being a witch. I have the proof in you after all, you live. She healed you." Rory felt sick, his dreams coming back to haunt him. "She is no witch. I heal swiftly. The slices were mostly bluster." "Aye, true enough the cuts and burns can be explained away. But what my already superstitious clansmen are not likely to believe, is how it came to be that you grew back your eyes." Horror filled Rory as memories of flame rekindled in his blood and mind, the smiling face of Alistair as his first eye was plucked from his skull and burnt in the fires before him before the loss of the second rendered him unto darkness. Isobel had healed him, not just from simple wounds. She had given him back his sight, and then wouldn't look at him. Couldn't look at him. He turned swiftly to his Aingeal, her tear stained face sightless as his name rested on her lips. "My Isobel." Alistair moved swiftly to his back and Rory barely felt the blow to his head, forever burning in his eyes was Isobel restrained by her brother's henchman, his name a scream in his own personal hell. ~~~ Chapter Nine "We will retaliate." "When?" "When Angus returns, we will have an army enough to defeat that bloody devil finally. We have cut off his hired heathens from Ireland; he shall not be able to pull such a stunt again." Through the thick fog that surrounded his brain, Rory idly listened to his brother and uncle's discussion. The sounds of the forest morning were muted, as though he were listening to it all from beneath the waves. Drudging through the jumble, Rory cursed the hangover he seemed to be suffering; the nausea a desperate churning in his gut while tears lingered in his eyes. He was in pain. He ran his hands over his clothes in search of injury. No, this was not of body, though he ached too. But of his soul, a deep agony that was burning in his blood, something missing from his life, his arms. Burning... Smoke, crackle and screams. Terrified screams of a witch with lips sweeter than honey, and a halo of white gold around her head. Rory sat up straight in his brother's hold and fought against their calming hands. His Aingeal, his Isobel...his sweet witch whose brother no longer had use for her. "Release me Donald!" He roared, his fury echoing through the fog shrouded morning with enough force to startle their battle hardened mounts. Landing on his back, his elder brother a suitable cushion, Rory sprang to his feet only to be met with his mountain of an uncle. "I don't have time for this Seamus." Rounding a punch, he landed it square on his uncle's jaw and darted around him. Taking his brother's horse, Rory pulled himself onto its bare back and muttered apologies to his kin. The hooves pounded the ground in beat with his heart. For them to be this far, too long for his comfort had to have passed since he left Isobel... He would not be too late. He couldn't. He would never survive it. Closing his eyes, he fought the nausea the images evoked and concentrated on the vision of his dream, the landscape, the tree line of the clearing, the mountain in the distance, and changed his direction. He knew where that place was, his rational mind shuddered at the thought of following a dream, and yet his Aingeal had shown him miracles he would never have believed in a sennight ago. He heard the screams long before he reached the clearing. His stomach tightened, his heart stuttering to a stop when another scream echoed around the glen. He heard the hoof beats close behind and knew some peace at least that his family would be here to help him. His horse broke from the trees as Alistair lit the macabre pyre. His Aingeal stood terrified, her sightless eyes searching for all that she could not see, a long white gown flowing around her small frame as flames began to take and the smoke started to rise. With a roar torn deep from his soul, Rory flew from the mount and took the Cameron bastard to the dirt. He barely heard his brother and uncle's shouts as he took his fists to Alistair, each blow taking blood for the pain caused to Isobel. The weakling was on the edge of oblivion within seconds, and it was with great pleasure that Rory ended the bastard's life with a twist of his hands. He ran for her with a desperate stride, the Cameron's henchman occupied, Rory climbed the burning pyre, the smoke of his nightmare filling his nose and lungs, the screams of his love echoing in his ear and cut her free. Her body was warm; her sobs a relief for it meant she lived still. The flames had licked along her feet, her legs and their redness pained him to see, but she would live, and that was what his heart cared for most. Donald appeared beside them, a skin in his hands. "Tis water, fear not." Rory held Isobel as they doused her legs in cool water from the burn, her body wracking sobs easing when she found a deep exhausted sleep. He watched her quietly as he carried her to his uncle's horse and allowed her to be passed up to him once he was seated. Wrapped in his plaid and safe in his arms, Rory felt the terror of the last few days leave his soul, replaced by the knowledge that Isobel was there to fill the void. As they set off at a swift pace for home and the warmth of his chambers to ward off the chill in his beautiful Aingeal, Rory smiled and the sleeping face of his love hoped for a day they would manage to stay conscious in each other's company for more than a few hours. Despite his joy over her alive in his arms, sorrow tinged his relief. She had given him a most precious gift, and condemned herself to a life without sight. He prayed he was worth the sacrifice. ~~~ Chapter Ten Darkness. Deep and endless stretched out before her though she knew her eyes were open. Softness cradled her back and head, feather light and crisply clean, Isobel wondered if she had succumbed to a deathly sleep and left Rory behind in the smoke scented fog. "Ah, she awakens!" The voice startled Isobel from her ponderings and she turned her head in the direction of the woman. Where was Rory? "Now lass, stop squinting. If you're ever to see again, twill be something God gives back to you, not something you can get by straining to see me." Isobel's mouth gaped at the forthright manner of the woman until she finally heard a sound that made her heart soar. The rumble of deep laughter from beside her. "Rory?" She quested with her hands, her body lurching in the direction of his laugh as she sought to hold him. "Here sweet Aingeal, here." He took her hands in his and squeezed her tightly against his chest, the sound of his heart soothing her like nothing else could. She was alive; she had not died and left him behind. "Get her sitting now my lad; we need to get this broth into her. Thin as a bit of kindling..." The woman continued to murmur in the background as Isobel sat with Rory's aid, plump pillows cushioning her aching body as well as a gentle arm around her waist. The woman, who could only be Rory's mother with her commanding tone, and soft words so similar to his, fed her the most wonderful broth, the warmth filling her belly and soothing her hurts. Like the mother she had never known. Tears threatened her eyes, and Isobel turned into Rory's embrace. The door closed quietly as his mother left them in peace, and she settled against his chest and in his arms. "I am sorry my Isobel." "Whatever for?" She whispered, placing a kiss at the hollow of his throat against the pulse that fluttered near to her lips. "You should not have sacrificed your sight my love." "I knew my life was coming to an end Rory." Isobel shhed him when he sought to speak. "It was and I would have given anything to save you. My sight means naught to me, not with you safe, breathing and in my life." "As I will always be." He whispered against her temple as he listened to her fears be given a voice. "I knew Alistair was coming to take you away from me; I had done what he had suspected I would. He had told me even before you were thrown into my cell that I was to die upon his return. In telling him where the parchment of old Campbell's treasure clues was, I had lost my usefulness." "You knew where the treasure was?" Rory asked, his eyes closed as he listened to her voice. "Nay, only the parchment. There is no treasure. Simply the ramblings of an unfortunate madman." Isobel laughed softly. "Alistair was a desperate man. He had squandered a great deal of the clan's wealth while my father was ill and the rest of it when he passed on. Fighting for that treasure was the only thing fuelling him. I am simply sorry you were caught up in his madness." "Nay Isobel. Never be sorry for that. Despite the horror of it, it brought me you sweet Aingeal, and for that treasure I would walk through hell fire for eternity." With his sweet witch curled against him in his bed, Rory McDubh slept a peaceful and dreamless sleep. ~~~ Epilogue Two years later "For the love of God Rory will you desist!" Isobel's temper flared when he felt her husband's hand hover closer still to her arm as though ready to steady her at a moments notice. She was being unreasonable, and she knew it, but she would be damned if she gave her infuriating warrior the satisfaction of being correct. In the two years she had been with the McDubh's it had been the happiest of her life. It was at the same time also the most stressful. The first few months had been harrowing, living her life in darkness whilst everything continued to bustle about her. She had slowly learnt the layout of her new home until every nook and cranny, every corner and step committed to memory until she could move with ease and without aid. Rory had carved her a long cane keep with her, and sweep out ahead of her to check for objects in her way. That in itself had been a trial. Walking servants and clansmen had been unwilling victims and sent stumbling on numerous occasions. In the last several months however, a miracle had happened. First it had just been slivers of light, barely there and then swiftly gone; Isobel had convinced herself it was merely her imagination playing tricks on her. But when it would happen again and again, a red haze of the summer sun, the flicker of the candle Rory lit beside their bed, Isobel had begun to hope. Now, beautiful shadows of life played in the darkness of her vision, and she could kiss each and every one of them. She did not want to hope it would ever be right, though silently she prayed for a little more. She wanted to see her son's face when she finally pushed him into the world. Rory's hands were gentle as he settled her back against the pillows after another agonising contraction ripped through her swollen body and this time she welcomed his touch and let it soothe the ache. He rubbed her back beneath her, and swept away the damp tendrils of her hair. Isobel silently thanked God for the few seconds she had free, for sending him to her. "A pox on you men and your bed play!!" Isobel cursed suddenly before she bent forward and bore down, Meg, and Rory's mother Helen' s encouragement rang in her ears as with a final push, her son was welcomed into the world.