Topic: Worth

Rosemary Anderson

Date: 2017-03-13 13:18 EST
7th February, 1617

Two weeks' travel on foot does not sound like much on paper. In practice, in an era where anyone wearing the wrong colors was a target for those men who believed themselves to hold the power in the land, it was a harrowing experience.

Despite the skill of Duncan and Rosemary Adair, there was no way to avoid a few scuffles on their trail east, though this, at least, gave Malcolm an opportunity to prove his worth with a bow when it came to something more than hunting. The last week, however, had been uneventful, occurring as it did beneath the boughs of the Forest of Wirth, a vast expanse of woodland in the far east of Coimbra, so dense and unmapped that no one willingly ventured too far within its borders. No one, that is, except those who were loyal to the house of Nairn and had been dispossessed because of it.

Duncan and Rosemary had lived their whole lives beneath these trees; they knew the path like an old friend, however many twists and turns it made. And once within the Forest, they had relaxed, drawing out of themselves to begin forging a friendship with Malcolm Anderson that was not wholly unexpected. They were not the distant nobles he had read of in books; they were flesh and blood and bone, and far more earthy than he might ever have expected.

The most important thing he had learned was that they were not only legends but living, breathing people who were just as human as he was. They were not perfect but full of faults and foibles, and while he had once admired them as the legends they'd become, he was coming to care for them as the people they were.

Around noon on the sixteenth day of their journey, their path suddenly opened up, and Malcolm was brought into one of the great secrets of the Forest of Wirth. Travel deep enough, trust the valleys, and you would be rewarded. A new valley opened up before him, speckled with clearings, and dotted with what were clearly houses built from the natural materials to be found all over the Forest. This was the rebel camp, and only those who knew the path had ever found it.

As they rested at the crest of the mountain path that led down, they were spotted by sentinels, and the sound of horns blowing announced their arrival long before they ever reached the valley floor. They were greeted with cheerful waves and shouts, the two siblings shouting back answers to the questions called and receiving answers of their own. Their father was already here, as were most of the men who had been engaged in battle at Imbre. It seemed as though they were the last to return, watched for with concern until the sight of them brought relief to those watchers.

As they passed further into the valley, between the houses and clearings and streams, it became more of a green city than a camp, people going about their everyday business with calm purpose, until suddenly a bearded man came hurtling out of the group ahead of them, slamming headlong into Duncan and knocking him to the ground in a yelling, fond display of roughhousing.

Rosemary stood back, a wry smile on her face. "Master Anderson," she said to Malcolm in amusement. "That would be the crown prince, losing to my brother in the time-honored display of wrestling he's not supposed to still engage in."

As a native of Coimbra, Malcolm had heard of the legendary Forest of Wirth, though little enough of it was left in his time. Most of it had been burned well before his time, the rebels who'd called it home killed or captured. It was all part of history to him, but it was a part of history that had not yet happened in the past, and he could not hide the look of awe and wonder on his face as they traveled deeper into those woods, revealing their secrets.

Out of instinct, Malcolm pulled Rosemary aside as the two men collided and were knocked to the ground, safely out of harm's way. It was obvious to him that the men were friends and that this was their way of greeting each other, but he did not realize that the bearded stranger was the crown prince until she told him as much. This, too, was a part of history he'd never known - these personal stories of the people who'd lived and died beneath these trees, and it struck him not for the first time that Rosemary and her brother were not supposed to be there, and yet, somehow they were because of him.

Apparently overhearing Rosemary's introduction, the prince coughed in feigned embarrassment, pushing himself up onto his feet to give Duncan a hand up as well. "Lady Rosemary," the prince inclined his head to her with a grin, laughing when the young woman threw her arms around him in a warm embrace. "Och, it's good to see you both," he declared. "We feared the worst."

"We had a miracle," Duncan told him. "Master Malcolm Anderson, may I present Prince Dugan of Clan Nairn. When he puts my sister down."

Laughing, Dugan lowered Rose back onto her feet, offering Malcolm a warm hand to clasp. "You're the miracle, aye?" he said, warm pleasure in his voice. "Then glad I am to meet you, Master Anderson. We'd be lost without our friends back home again."

"No miracle, Your Highness. Just a man hoping to right a few wrongs," Malcolm insisted, finding his voice at last as he clasped hands with the Crown Prince - a man whose fate Malcolm knew, but hoped to change, just as he'd changed that of Rosemary and her family.

"Aye, well, start by teaching this one not to go poking her nose in where she knows it'll be trouble," Dugan chuckled, nodding to Rosemary as he released Malcolm's hand. "Father'll want to meet you. Why don't you -"

"- let us wash and change before we embarrass the man by showing him off to more royalty?" Duncan suggested with a grin.

Dugan rolled his eyes. "Of course, I'm forgetting you've only just arrived," he admitted. "You're to wear a dress, Rose, I'm getting married tonight."

"Did you think I'd forgotten?" she replied with an arch of her brow.

"Just checking," Dugan chuckled. "Go on, all of you. I'll let Father know he's a guest to meet. You may be lucky and find him fully dressed for once."

Malcolm silently observed while the threesome, who were obviously close friends, chatted amicably among themselves. He was a stranger here, a newcomer, and yet, he had been welcomed as a friend and ally, but what was he going to say when he met the Crown Prince's father" To say Tralin Nairn was a legendary figure in Coimbra's history was a gross understatement. He was the hero of every child who'd ever hoped for a free Coimbra, even if he had been defeated in battle. He represented what Coimbra could have been, if she had not been torn apart from within and without. And yet, once again, Malcolm realized that there was still a chance to change history, if only he could somehow convince them to listen to him.

"Wait, did you say Anderson?" Dugan said suddenly, his eyes finding Malcolm with disconcerting interest. "Clan Anderson?"

Rosemary Anderson

Date: 2017-03-13 13:19 EST
"Aye, Anderson," Malcolm replied, looking just a little disconcerted about his connection to the Anderson Clan that had existed over a hundred years in the past. How was he going to explain his own existence or connection, except to lie, or at least stretch the truth"

Dugan's smile grew, and he suddenly clapped Malcolm's shoulder like he was an old friend. "Well met indeed," he declared cheerfully. "You can stand in for the bride's brother. I knew you looked familiar. Duncan, kit him out with something less muddy, would you? Morwen's going to faint, but it'll be worth it."

Duncan rolled his eyes. "You're a cruel man, Dugan Nairn," he warned, but the prince only shrugged.

"She loves me, she'll get over it," he chuckled, pointing a finger at Rosemary. "Remember, a dress."

She batted his finger away. "Remember your smalls," she countered, sticking her tongue out at him.

He only laughed as he moved away, leaving them to their own devices once more.

Malcolm had hardly said more than a mouthful of words during that entire encounter, a little confused regarding his own part in the upcoming nuptials. He knew from his study of history that Morwen Anderson had been wedded to Crown Prince Dugan, but that didn't explain the man's insistence that Malcolm be part of the wedding. Though he might be an Anderson, he was not the Anderson in question. "Lady, I can'nae take the place of the bride's brother. It would'na be right."

"You'll not be taking anyone's place," Rosemary assured him, gently taking his elbow to draw him out of the way of the people bustling around them. "Roderick Anderson died nigh on two years ago, cut down when he refused to join the heretic's army for their attack on Francia. You're the spit of him, you ken. Why shouldn't the prince want a miracle to hand his bride to him?"

Miracle. There was that word again - a word he was starting to despise. He scowled at the mention of it. "I'm no miracle. I'm just a man trying to right a few wrongs," he insisted, just as he had to the Crown Prince. It was a simplistic view, but it was easier than trying to explain the fact that he was actually from a time one hundred years in the future.

"You're a miracle to me," she said softly. "And to our father, it seems. The prince knew of you already." She shook her head, glancing away. "There's much to be done before the wedding, anyway. Go on with Duncan; he'll see you sorted well."

He arched a brow at her remark, wondering what exactly she meant by that. Did she mean he was a miracle because he was the answer to her prayer in that he'd saved them from their prison cell, or did she mean something else? He also wasn't sure how the prince could have known of him when he had not been born for nearly another hundred years.

"Rose ..." he started, trailing off. It was the first time he'd called her by her first name, though she was still referring to him in a formal way. "Aye, Duncan," he murmured with a sigh. It seemed he was not going to have much choice in the matter.

Two weeks traveling and sleeping in close quarters did not leave room for arguments and ego, and Malcolm had certainly gained the respect and friendship of Duncan Adair in that time. Duncan suspected that there was more than a little hero worship in his little sister for the mysterious arrival, but so long as Malcolm continued to behave respectfully toward her, there would be no problem there. He took the man's shoulder in his hand, jerking his head to draw him away from the young woman.

"Come away, Master Mal," he teased cheerfully. "We've to get you dressed fit for a royal wedding."

A royal wedding he really had no business being part of, though he was an Anderson, sure enough. Then again, he was once again struck with the thought that this was an opportunity to witness history and meet the people who had made that history, the same people who were legends in his own time, no matter how the heretic council may have tried to repress it. Malcolm's gaze lingered on Rosemary a moment longer before he turned to accompany Duncan to ready themselves for a wedding. Would he ever get used to being here and being part of his country's history"

Duncan drew them both through the bustle of the rebel camp, into a set of buildings over which hung a rough banner bearing the sigil of Clan Adair. "I should probably take you to the Anderson house, but we're close to the same size," he told Malcolm. "Easier to get you kitted from my clothes than try to fit some of those hulking things on you."

As they entered the largest of the houses, Rose let out a gasp, laughing as a woman twice her size swept her up over one shoulder and carried her into the furthest room on that first level.

Duncan chuckled. "That'd be Marie," he told Malcolm. "Father's mistress. She treats Rose like she's still six most of the time."

"She's just a wee thing, with the spirit of a lioness," Malcolm remarked as he swung his gaze toward the sight of Rose being carted off by the woman who was her father's mistress. He knew a little of Clan Adair's history and knew her mother had died birthing her. Raised by her father and brothers, was it any wonder she was possessed of a warrior's spirit'

"She's a harpy when she's got the bit between her teeth," Duncan chuckled, drawing Malcolm up the stairs and pushing in through the first door on the right. This noisy entrance startled the occupant of the room, who managed to simultaneously blot what he was writing with a glob of ink and spray ink from the same quill into his own face while trying to stand up hurriedly. "Still scribbling, Brodie?"

Malcolm chuckled a little at Duncan's description of his younger sister. "I'll try nae to anger the lass," he said, hoping he never caused her to show him that side of her nature. And there in front of him was the younger Adair son - the one whose life had not ended at Imbre Castle, as far as Malcolm's history was concerned. He spied the pen and ink, curious what the young man was writing, but too polite to ask.

Brodie Adair seemed embarrassed to have been caught "scribbling", as his brother put it, hastily blotting the ink dry and thrusting his pile of papers into a box to keep Duncan from getting his hands on them. "See you're still alive," he greeted his brother, caught up in a rough embrace that he returned willingly. His eyes turned curiously to Malcolm. "New friend?"

"Aye, this is Malcolm Anderson," Duncan told his brother, throwing open a heavy chest to root through the contents. "Dugan wants him standing up with Morwen."

Brodie chuckled, offering Malcolm his hand. "Pleasure," he said, a little gentler than his brother, it seemed. "He told you why you're standing up tonight, or is he saving that for a bad joke?"

Rosemary Anderson

Date: 2017-03-13 13:20 EST
Malcolm's gaze drifted briefly to the pile of papers the younger Adair was hastily blotting and stowing away. It was quite possible Malcolm had studied those papers at some point in time, but this was not the time to ask about them. "Nae, but it seems I bear a resemblance to the bride's late brother," he replied, having discerned that much from the conversation between the prince and the Adair siblings. He took Brodie's hand in a strong grip, a small worried frown on his face. "I am nae sure this is a good idea, Duncan," he pointed out for a second time, as he turned to face the other man.

"Good idea or not, it's an order now," Duncan pointed out, but it was clear that neither he nor Brodie thought Dugan's idea of a fine joke was appropriate for the prince's wedding. "I'm standing up with Dugan," Duncan added. "You'll not be standing up there alone with strangers."

"Morwen'll have Rosie at her side, too," Brodie said, clearing the table he had been working at to set a bowl and a jug filled with water on it, towels set to the side. "Wash yourselves up before you try dressing, or Marie'll have my head."

"Would it no better to meet her before the wedding" Seems a cruel joke at best," Malcolm remarked, knowing he was straddling a dangerous line where the prince was concerned, but he thought that a meeting prior to the wedding would save the bride shock and embarrassment. Malcolm glanced at the jug of water, wishing for a bath or a river to bathe in, but it was still winter and too cold for that. "'Tis nae a good idea," he murmured again.

"Rosie'll see she's prepared," Brodie assured him, edging out of the way as Duncan splashed water on his hands and face - just enough to clear the grime off the visible parts of himself - and grabbed a towel to dry off. "Father went straight to the king when he arrived," he added, catching the pair up on what they had missed. "Don't know what was said, exactly, but there's orders all through the camp that Malcolm Anderson is a hero and to be treated as such. You saved my family," he said to Malcolm. "I cannot thank you enough for that."

Malcolm opened his mouth, about to object and point out that it was Rose he should be thanking, as it was her prayer that had brought him here, but then he remembered Duncan's warning and thought better of it. "I only showed them a safer way out of the castle," he said, taking little credit for their escape, though he knew if he hadn't arrived when he did, it was likely they may not have survived.

"Sometimes the smallest thing has the greatest impact," Brodie shrugged, gesturing for Malcolm to wash up as Duncan went back to the chest to dig out clothing suitable for them both. "Och, no, that won't fit him," the younger brother objected to a jerkin that was laid out. "Doesn't fit you, won't fit him."

"You do the digging then," Duncan retorted in amusement, stepping aside to let Brodie rummage through the clothing chest instead. He caught Malcolm's eye with a grin. "Should've been born a woman."

A smirk touched Malcolm's face at the good-natured teasing between the brothers, though he found his heart aching with the knowledge that he was truly alone here, though he'd been welcomed as a hero and a member of the Anderson Clan. He stepped over to the bowl to wipe up as much of the sweat and grime from the journey as he could before drying off. He was a tall man, taller than either of the Adair brothers, but hopefully, they'd find something halfway suitable.

At least he would not be expected to turn himself out to perfection here in the Forest. Everyone was a little grubby, nobles rubbing shoulders with peasants, all working toward the same goal. No one was immediately recognizable just from their garb. And yes, while Malcolm was taller than both Adair brothers, they were able to find him clothes that fitted his frame. The trews were misappropriated from their father's room, since Caerell Adair was taller than Malcolm, but the shirt and jerkin fitted surprisingly well once the belt was added to cinch in the waist.

"There now, we'll not be dishonoring you, Mother?" Duncan asked Brodie, earning himself a thump in the shoulder for the tease.

"Keep your mouth shut, and we might be able to convince folks you're a gentleman," Brodie countered, laughing.

Malcolm smiled again at the comfortable camaraderie between the two brothers, envying them a little. He'd never had a brother, though he'd had a sister, now lost to fate and time. He did not yet know these brothers well enough to call himself one of them, but with time, he might at least, they might come to think of him as a friend. "What is it you're writing, Master Brodie, if you dunnae mind my curiosity?"

"His memories," Duncan immediately interjected, but Brodie ignored him, looking a little embarrassed to have been asked at all.

"It's just notes," the younger Adair shrugged lightly. "Figure there's men making up history for the council; we should have our say, too. It's just the facts; what happened and how we got here. Might get it published when we win, might not."

Malcolm clapped Brodie on the back, sensing the younger Adair might need a little encouragement. "'Tis a honorable endeavor," he told the younger man, without mentioning the fact that he'd read the history he was writing, despite the council's attempt to eradicate all copies of the manuscript. "There will be those in the future who will want to know what really happened here."

"Aye, well, there's nothing but the council's version of how they came to power in the first place," Brodie shrugged again, but he flushed, pleased to be encouraged. "Seems only right both sides should be told."

"And it keeps you out of trouble," Duncan added cheerfully.

Malcolm frowned, knowing what history had in store for that younger brother, but history as he knew it had already changed, and there was no reason not to think it could do so again. "You may as well know, I'm something of a historian myself," Malcolm pointed out as he changed out of his clothes and into those that the Adair brothers had provided him.

"Och, hell," Duncan groaned comically. "Two pen scratchers." He grunted as Brodie hit him hard in the stomach with a heavy bolster, knocked back onto his bed with a chuckle.

The younger Adair then proceeded to ignore his brother. "D'you study or write?" he asked Malcolm curiously. "Or both?"

"A wee bit of both, but mostly I teach," Malcolm admitted, chuckling a little again at the brother camaraderie. As much as Duncan seemed to like to tease his younger brother, the affection between them was obvious, and Malcolm felt a sudden surge of pride that he was able to save the younger Adair the grief of mourning his older brother.

"Oh, aye' Not the heretics' version, I'm hoping?" Brodie asked in interest, giving him a hand with various laces. He tapped Duncan's boot with his foot. "Fetch out those boots I never grew into," he told his brother. "They might fit him, too."

Rosemary Anderson

Date: 2017-03-13 13:21 EST
"Ack, no!" Malcolm replied with a scowl at the very thought of that. "I teach them only the truth," he said, though he could not explain much further than that without revealing his own secrets. He allowed Brodie to help him get dressed, taking an almost instant liking to the younger man, with whom he felt a certain kinship.

"The truth's hard to come by in some places," Brodie mused, stepping back to look Malcolm over. "Aye, a sword and those boots should set you off fine." As he spoke, said boots were produced from under his bed. "Try them on," he suggested.

Bored, Duncan rose to his feet with a sigh. "I'll go and report to Father," he said reluctantly. "Don't forget to pick up Rosie when you head out."

"Like she'd let us forget her," Brodie chuckled.

Malcolm tossed Duncan a nod of acknowledgement and thanks as the man took his leave, before turning back to Brodie with a thoughtful frown. "Tell me, is Rosemary betrothed?" he asked, feigning innocent curiosity, despite the very pointed question.

Brodie eyed him in amusement. "You think there's a man alive can convince her to wed him?" he countered with a wry smile. "Nay, she's not met the man she wants for her own yet. Duncan's sure she never will."

"Dalgleish wants her. We can'nae let that happen," Malcolm remarked, the tone of his voice inferring that he might actually care for her a little more than he was letting on.

"Dalgleish is a pedigree arse," Brodie stated baldly. "D'you know, the man's grandfather killed ours" Was proud of it, too. Folk say Glen Adair's skull is still somewhere in Imbre Castle." Despite his milder nature, he was fuming as he said this. "And he thinks he can wed our sister" The Goddess would birth a turnip before that happens!"

Malcolm had to bite his tongue to stop himself from blurting what he knew of the past and the future. "Aye, it's there, sure enough. I've seen it," he said after a moment's consideration. He also realized that if Rosemary were already married, that might discourage Dalgleish's interest, though it might just put a target on the back of whoever became her spouse.

Brodie frowned curiously, tilting his head as he considered this man before him. "Why the interest?" he asked mildly. "Taken a shine to the wee hellion, have you? Might change your mind once you see how good she is with those daggers of hers."

"A shine" Nae, I ..." Malcolm broke off, frowning again. "She's nae like anyone I've e'er met," he pointed out, turning away to try on the boots and hide the flush that was creeping into his face.

Brodie's smile deepened as he watched the man bluster and flush under scrutiny. "I've no objections to you trying your hand," he offered. "You're an Anderson, your clan's in good standing. You saved her life. My father's told the king you're a miracle sent by the Goddess at just the right time. If she takes to you, you've a good chance at having her to wed, if you play your cards right. Of course," he added, "if you hurt her, we'll rip you to pieces, but I think you know that."

Malcolm swung his head toward the younger man at something he'd said. "I'm no miracle, Brodie," he pointed out, not for the first or likely the last time. "It was Rose who prayed to the Goddess for a miracle. I only led the way out of the castle in a panic. We nearly froze to death because of my foolishness." He said nothing about the possibility of wedding her. That seemed almost as unlikely as him staying. He kept waiting for the moment when the Goddess would snatch him away and return him to his true place in time.

"You can deny it all you like, but you came when you were most needed, and from what I hear, you did not use a door," Brodie pointed out. "Get used to hearing it said, Malcolm, no matter what you believe. We've been fighting this war for over a hundred years. We need something to believe in, and you'd be it right now. You being here, proves that the Goddess is listening to us. With Her on our side, how can we lose?"

Mal could find no reason to argue with that, but perhaps it was a good thing as there wasn't much time to argue. He finished fastening his boots and moved to his feet, stomping to make sure they were securely on. Not a perfect fit, but close enough for comfort and warmth, given the cold winter day. "Shall we fetch your bonny sister, then, Master Brodie?"

"Aye, I daresay we should," Brodie chuckled, looking him over briefly before nodding in approval. "And, ah ....don't come the master with me," he suggested. "I'm not the heir. Just Brodie will do." Pulling open the door, he stepped into the hall, gesturing for Malcolm to walk with him.

"Malcolm, then," the older man insisted. In his own mind, he was no hero, no heir to anything, no one special. Why the Goddess had chosen him, he did not know, but who was he to argue with Her wisdom' He paused a moment to straighten his jerkin, wishing he'd had more time to make himself presentable, but it would have to do.

Though he might feel he looked shabby, in truth, Malcolm did not stand out in the company he kept. Brodie's clothing might fit him better, but it was of the same hard-wearing fabric, the same cut. There were no airs in this camp, it seemed.

"Aye, then, Malcolm it is," the younger Adair son said cheerfully, reaching the bottom of the stairs. He paused, and opened his lungs. "Rosie!"

A moment later, the door at the far end of the corridor opened, and Rosemary came hurtling out, no doubt eager to get away from the caring hands of their father's mistress. She had been dressed in a simple gown, her hair combed and left loose down her back, and despite the simplicity of the costume, she somehow managed to look the part of the lady she was so poor at playing. She didn't slow down in her run, either. Malcolm was treated to the sight and sound of Brodie groaning and bracing himself before he got an armful of his little sister to embrace fondly.

As simply dressed as she was, Malcolm thought her a vision, and though he was not bold enough to say so, his gaze tracked her movement with a little more than casual interest. He stepped out of her way as she launched herself at her brother, a faint smile on his face as he thought of his own sister.

"Your manners still haven't got any better," Brodie was laughing as he set his little sister down, chucking her chin even as he leaned close to touch a kiss to her temple. "And very pretty, too."

Rosemary scoffed at the compliment, laughing herself as she looked down at the long skirt she was definitely unused to. Her gaze tracked from her own boots to Malcolm's, and then upward, tracing the line of legs, torso, and finally face. Her smile fell from her face, replaced with something that might almost be described as lustful awe.

"Good day to you, Lady Rosemary," Malcolm greeted her politely, unable to take his eyes from hers once she looked his way. "You are a bonny sight," he told her, unable to hold his tongue.

Rosemary Anderson

Date: 2017-03-13 13:22 EST
A flicker of mischief touched her eyes at his compliment, a soft flush turning her cheeks rosy for a moment. "Good afternoon, Master Anderson," she countered the polite greeting. "You look good enough to eat, yourself." She glanced up at her brother's sudden choking fit, not understanding what was so funny about her comment.

Malcolm's brows rose at her remark, but instead of coughing, he matched her flush and cleared his throat uncomfortably, as he elbowed her brother in the ribs. "May I?" he asked, offering her an arm, even if it was a little presumptuous of him.

The elbow did nothing to curb Brodie's laughter, but he did make an effort to calm himself as he watched this interaction. He'd never seen his sister blush at a man's compliment before, and the look on her face when she'd looked Malcolm over ....It was worth thinking over.

Ignoring her brother, Rosemary smiled at Malcolm, curling her arm through his. "Aye, you may," she told him warmly. "And I'll expect a dance or two when the music starts."

It was a good thing he knew how to dance, he thought, and as an historian, he knew well the customs and traditions of the time he'd found himself in. "T'would be an honor, m'lady," he replied as he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. It was the first time they'd touched each other in a way that hinted at any mutual attraction or affection.

"Aye, a real honor," Brodie teased the pair of them as he lead the way from the house and into the bustle of the forest camp once again. There seemed to be more purpose to the bustle now, though; a sort of Brownian movement toward what looked like a small, wood-built temple, where people were beginning to gather. "You'll have to warn the bride, Rosie," her brother reminded her.

Rosemary tore her eyes from Malcolm, blinking as she looked at her brother. "Och, I know," she said eventually. "Morwen's not such a goose as you all think. She'll be fine. She'll want to dance with you too, though."

Malcolm didn't want to have to elbow Brodie again, especially since he was not feeling that secure in his position here yet, but the look he gave him begged him hold his tongue. "Morwen, aye," Malcolm echoed with a frown. "I ken I look like her brother Roderick," he said, letting her know he understood at least that much.

"Aye, you do, I suppose," Rosemary conceded, looking him over thoughtfully. "I can't see it much myself, but I suppose there's a fair likeness."

Behind them, Brodie bit his lips to keep from laughing again. Of course Rosemary couldn't see the similarities; she'd despised Roderick, and it seemed as though that was about as far from what she felt about Malcolm as she could get.

Well, he was an Anderson; there was no denying that, anyway. There were definitely differences between the two men, but enough of a similarity for Roderick's sister to notice and need some warning. "You should warn her then," Malcolm said, patting her hand with something akin to affection.

"Och, I'll tell her," she promised. "She won't believe me, but I'll tell her all the same. Now you don't know which Andersons are here, do you?" Her other hand curled over his arm at his elbow as she spoke, letting Brodie slip into the lead to guide their steps. "'Tis just Morwen's father and her wee sister," Rosemary assured Malcolm. "They're not a known house, or a large one, and he's not the laird. There's no danger of your being denounced."

"I've nae idea how I will explain myself," Malcolm admitted with a worried frown. He was going to have to explain his presence, as well as his background and his place in the family. He'd been contemplating various explanations over the last few weeks of travel, but was unsure which one might prove best.

"You're an historian, aye?" Brodie interjected. "Tell folk you've been traveling, that you've been to a few other countries since you were a wee lad, and only recently returned to join the fight. They'll take anything so long as it makes sense."

That wouldn't be so great a lie, really. In recent days, Mal had been considering leaving Coimbra for Pomerania, but he couldn't bear the thought of leaving the land and the people he so loved. "Aye," he replied, having considering that explanation himself. He was starting to get nervous, but that nervousness stemmed more from meeting the living legend that was Tralin Nairn than in meeting his own ancestors.

As they approached the temple, Rosemary had to take her leave, to join the bridal party herself and prepare the bride for the sight of a man who was a close match to the brother she had lost two years before. Malcolm was escorted into the temple by Brodie, joined by Duncan, and both Adair brothers walked him around the apse toward the gaggle of men beside the altar. There was the crown prince, trying to pretend he wasn't nervous; and Laid Adair, tall and smiling; and with them, a stocky man who might have seemed utterly ordinary, were it not for the simple circlet of gold at his brow. The living legend himself, it seemed, flesh and blood, and entirely too relaxed in the company of family.

Malcolm followed Brodie to join the men near the altar, with a respectful nod of his head to Laird Adair and a glance toward the man whose life he had studied and admired in his own time. He did his best to look like he belonged there, to look like a respectable member of the Anderson Clan, which he was, though not in this place in time, anxiously waiting the arrival of the bride and her escorts.

He wasn't allowed the time to absorb just who he was with, though. Caerell caught his sons' eye, gesturing for them to bring Malcolm closer as he turned to the king at his side. "Your grace," he said quietly, "allow me to present to you the man who saved our lives, and allowed us to withdraw from Imbre without catastrophe. Malcolm Anderson ....his grace, King Tralin Nairn."

Behind Malcolm, Brodie muttered for him to lower onto one knee and wait to be asked to stand, even as the king's eyes turned to appraise the unexpected stranger in his party.

But Malcolm needed no such reminder from Brodie. A student of history, he knew what was expected of him in the presence of royalty, and he moved to one knee before the king - his king - dropping his head to his chest with downcast eyes, until he was given leave to stand. "Your Grace," he offered quietly.

"I would tell you to rise, but you're a tall fellow," were the first words he heard from the king he had only ever read about, accompanied by a full-throated chuckle. "Och, no. Rise, lad, rise. You've no call to go bowing to a man you couldn't recognize on a battlefield."

"Yet," Caerell commented, much to the monarch's amusement.

"True enough, I'll be seen in battle eventually," Tralin conceded, turning his smile back to Malcolm. "Well now. You've done me a great service, Master Anderson, and I've been told how you came to do it. I'd do you a good turn in answer, if you give me your oath now that you'll answer truthfully any question I ask you."

Malcolm rose to his full stature over a little over six feet in height, brows arching upwards at the king's request. "Aye, sire," he replied without hesitation. Whether the man was shorter in stature to him or not, he was a formidable presence and one that Malcolm clearly revered and respected. "I will answer as truthfully as I may."

Rosemary Anderson

Date: 2017-03-13 13:23 EST
Tralin held his eye for a long moment, judging the man standing before him as he was in that moment, with only what Caerell had told him to form a basis for that judgment. "Well then, back down you go," he said, gesturing for Malcolm to take a knee again. "We'll talk tomorrow, but if I don't do this now, I'll forget."

Behind Malcolm, Duncan murmured to Brodie, "Like he's ever forgotten anything in his life."

Brodie's muttered reply was embarrassingly audible for Malcolm. "He's match-making, that's what his kingship is up to."

Malcolm's eyes widened momentarily as he realized what was about to happen. Never in his life would he have imagined himself in this position, but then he had never expected to become part of the history he'd spent his life studying. He didn't much need to go back onto one knee, since he had hardly had a chance to rise to his feet. He bowed his head again, his face flushing hotly as all eyes turned to himself and the king.

Tralin Nairn drew his sword, a heavy claymore that really wasn't suitable for this but would just have to do. With curious eyes turned toward them, he touched the blade to Malcolm's shoulders twice. "I, Tralin of Clan Nairn, dub thee, Malcolm Anderson, a knight of the Order of Wirth, with all the honors such rank entails. Up you get, shake hands like a good knight."

The prince rolled his eyes at his father's lack of ceremony, but said nothing, simply removing the pin from his own chest. There would be others made, but for now, Malcolm needed something to show he had been knighted.

Tralin took the pin from his son, settling it securely on Malcolm's chest. "There now, you've rank of your own," he said, clapping the taller man's shoulder firmly. "We'll talk tomorrow. Might have noticed, there's a wedding happening tonight."

Malcolm remained on one knee while the king touched his sword to each shoulder, feeling the weight of not only the sword but the responsibility of what such an honor implied, and a fullness in his chest that was mingled pride and awe. He moved to his full height once again, forcing himself to speak in the presence of such an imposing and important man as this. "Thank you, Your Grace," he told him, meeting the other man's gaze as he was pinned and officially made a knight. "Aye, I've noticed," he admitted also, a little bemused as he stepped back with a short bow. He did not bother to make any oaths or offer any further words of thanks, as there was a wedding about to begin, and he had been promised an audience tomorrow.

Tralin nodded to him, turning back to his conversation with Caerell as though nothing untoward had happened at all. Dugan chuckled, inclining his head to Malcolm as well. "Congratulations, Sir Malcolm."

An elbow nudged Malcolm in the ribs, drawing his attention to Duncan, who was grinning widely. "Crafty," he complimented his friend. "You outrank me now."

Malcolm took a moment to glance at the pin he now wore on his chest, in awe and disbelief, before his attention was drawn toward Duncan, a smile lighting his face. "Thanks to your father, I ken," he replied, lowering his voice for Duncan's eyes only. He had hardly done anything worthy of such an elevation in his status, but who was he to argue with the king"

"There's more method than madness in it," Brodie offered, clapping his back gently. "Congratulations. You're one of the king's most trusted with that knighting. Father's obviously been talking about you a fair deal."

"And with reason," Duncan nodded to his brother. He hadn't forgotten the almost argument he had shared with Malcolm, but he felt less confrontational about it now he'd had a chance to absorb the whole idea. "Still, we found you; you'll be attached to us while we're here."

Malcolm nodded. There was no mistake there. The Adairs were the closest thing he had to friends in this place and time. "I shall try to bear it," he replied, a rare grin finding its way to his face. The longer he stayed in this place and time, the more he became attached to it and its people and the less he wanted to return home. And why would he when he seemed to be making a difference here" When he had a chance to change the future for the better of all Coimbra.

"You think my snoring's bad, wait until you hear his," Duncan muttered, smirking at his brother's indignant expression.

But there was no chance for further teasing - the bride had arrived, with her ladies and her father. It was time to get the crown prince married. Despite the informality of the king and his closest advisors, the wedding was a solemn affair. Indeed, in this time, it was an illegal affair, for it was celebrated in the faith that gave worship to the Goddess. Every man and woman there knew their lives would be forfeit if the heretic council's armies knew of it, and still they gave their faith willingly, sharing their beliefs in joy beneath the sunset as Prince Dugan took Lady Morwen as his wife. The hymn that rose from every throat was more enthusiastic than tuneful, but there was no mistaking the fondness these people carried for their king and his family.

Nor was there any mistaking the shock and joy on the newly made Princess Morwen's face when she finally turned to meet Sir Malcolm Anderson. Yet she did not faint, nor did she make a great scene with her surprise. She simply rose on her toes to kiss his cheek, welcoming him to her clan even as she became a member of another, promising with a squeeze of her hand that they would talk sometime of the brother he so resembled.

What Malcolm hadn't noticed was the striking resemblance between the new bride and his late sister, until she stood right there before him, promising to get to know him better with only a kiss to his cheek and a squeeze of his hand. Stunned and almost in a state of shock, he found himself riveted to the spot, his face blanching to be looking into the face of a woman who could easily pass for his sister. It was like seeing a ghost, though he knew the uncanny resemblance was only because of a shared bloodline.

The shock on his face was not missed by those standing nearest him. He found his elbows gripped by Duncan and Brodie, anxious to avoid him passing out right then and there, and even Dugan gave him a concerned look as he drew his bride away. Rosemary was the one who caught Malcolm's gaze, worry in her eyes for the state of him, and once her curtsy to the king was done, she moved to join him and her brothers.

"What ails you, sir?" she asked him softly, taking Duncan's place as their father passed them by.

"Mairi," he murmured quietly, hardly aware that he only remained standing because he was being held up by those on either side of him. "She looks like Mairi," he said, his gaze following the departing princess. "My sister."

Brodie met his sister's eyes, but Rosemary shook her head, frowning at her brother. She took charge of the clearly shocked knight, waving her brothers away. "We'll join you later," she told them, her tone brooking no argument as she turned to seat Malcolm in one of the pews that now stood empty.

Duncan and Brodie exchanged a look, but obligingly left the chapel to join the celebration, trusting not only Malcolm but their sister to handle this situation gently.

With her brothers gone, Rosemary sat beside Malcolm, enveloping one of his hands between her own. "Rest easy, Mal," she murmured to him. "The Goddess works Her ways mysteriously. Could be you're not just here in answer to my prayers, but in answer to your own, and to Morwen's, too."

Rosemary Anderson

Date: 2017-03-13 13:24 EST
His hands had gone cold, his face pale, not out of fear but shock at the sight of so familiar a face in such an unexpected place. He turned his head to face her, his eyes shining suspiciously with unshed tears. It was one thing to resemble the princess' brother, but he had not expected her to so closely resemble his sister. "Do you think so?" he asked, his voice edged with grief.

She held his gaze with sympathetic eyes, unable to comfort him the way he seemed to need. "I know it," she said softly, offering him the only consolation she could imagine, one born of her own devotion to the faith that sustained her. "Morwen has prayed so many times for just one more day with her brother. You said yourself that you were praying for your sister's soul when you were brought here. I ....well, my prayers were answered too. Morwen may not be your sister, but there's comfort for her, in seeing her brother's face and knowing the man who bears it is alive and well. Perhaps you can find a similar comfort in knowing she is the same."

He realized she had only just called him by name, shortening it even to the more familiar form - that which Mairi once called him - but he did not want to compare her with his sister. Not her. Morwen, perhaps, but never Rose. "Perhaps," he admitted, though he was not yet sure. Up until now, he had managed to handle the events of the last few weeks without showing any weakness, fear, or confusion, but this day had proved too much for him to let pass without cracking his resolve just a little. "I was praying for my Mairi. Praying she is at peace, praying I could ..." He broke off before sharing the rest of that thought, though it was easy enough to infer what it was he might have said. That he was praying he might see her again someday.

"You wished to see her face again," Rosemary said in her soft way, her smile gentle but sad for him. "I'm sorry for your loss, Malcolm, I truly am. And for whatever else you may have lost in being brought here. But there is good here, too, even in the middle of war. You just witnessed a wedding, a royal wedding, in the eyes of the Goddess, in a land that doesn't even acknowledge Her any longer. There's hope here, hope for more than what we have, or what we've lost. Hope you may come to share."

"Aye," he admitted quietly, sniffing back the tears he did not want her to see and brushing away what tears may have already wetted his face. "I am glad to be here, Rose. Truly, I am. You can'nae know how much," he told her, taking both her hands in his, despite the fear that she might reject him. He did not think himself worthy of her, and yet, the king had only just elevated him to a place where he was no longer beneath her notice.

"I think I can guess a little of how glad you may be," she said with a faint tease in her tone, squeezing his hands as she held his gaze. "Life isn't easy, but it's worth living. And you owe me at least one dance, Sir Malcolm."

He doubted she could truly fathom how glad he was, knowing how she had died and how he would fight to save her from that fate, now that he was here. Despite rescuing her and her family from Imbre Castle, the danger was not over. Dalgleish was still a threat to their lives, so long as he lived, and now that Malcolm was a knight, he was well suited to help aid in dispensing of that threat. But he didn't want to talk of that now, not on such a happy occasion as this. He smiled instead and gave her hands a gentle squeeze. "I would dance with only you all night, if I could."

She blushed, shy pleasure in her smile as she ducked her head for a moment, raising her eyes when she was ready to tease him once again. "Aye, well, you can't do that," she told him. "You'll have ladies falling over themselves to dance with you. Even the new princess will want a dance with the new knight. I'll just have to make do with the prince and the king, and my father and brothers, when you're busy."

He would not deny the desire to speak with the new princess, but not because she was a princess or because he found her desirable - only because she was of his bloodline and an almost exact lookalike of his late sister. "Then perhaps we should steal away before the night is too old," he told her, a hint of mischief flashing in his own eyes, almost to match hers. He did not care to dance with a bevy of women who only wished to impress him because of his newfound status as a knight. There was only one woman he truly wished to know, and she was sitting right there beside him.

"And get yourself a matching set of black eyes from my brothers, aye?" she laughed, rising to her feet. "You're a brave fool if you think they won't protect my reputation. The only reason they left us here is because it's the temple."

"T'would be well worth it," he said with a rare chuckle of his own. "A brave fool. Aye, that would be me," he teased at his own expense as he, too, moved to his feet. The shock of his encounter with the princess seemed to have passed for now, replaced with a feeling of hope and growing affection for the lady beside him. "I can assure you, my intentions are only honorable where you are concerned."

"Mine aren't when it comes to you," she countered cheekily. "But I am a good girl, and my intentions will stay unspoken and unacted upon." She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. "Come away out of here, Mal. We're missing the food."

He might have taken that opportunity to kiss her, but he thought that might be too forward just yet. No, he'd court her as she deserved to be courted and with any luck, her father would grant him the permission he so desired. "Where you lead, I shall follow," he told her, with an almost boyish grin, despite being nearly ten years her senior.

"The last time someone followed my lead, we all ended up in a gaol cell," she pointed out in amusement, ducking her head to avoid the low-hanging branch that almost covered the entrance to the temple. The forest camp was alive with music and chatter, enjoying the opportunity to celebrate before their lives returned to the hardship of simply living.

It was a happy day in the forest camp, a day worth celebrating, not only for them but for the man and woman who were just starting to realize their mutual attraction and affection for each other. Malcolm realized that though he had been brought to this time and place through no will of his own, he hoped to make it his home. He drew comfort from the woman at his side, who made his heart soar with the kind of hope and joy he had not felt in very long time, and it warmed his heart to hear these people - his people, kin and comrades alike - laughing and reveling in celebration. Perhaps the Goddess had answered more than one prayer in bringing him here. For the first time in a long time, Malcolm felt hopeful.

Here he was, in an pivotal period of his own country's history, and he was the only man who might be able to set his own land on a new path. Knowing what he knew, being where he was, he could shape the future ahead of them, turning a dismal defeat to better purpose. He had already changed the history he knew once, and who knew what victories Clan Adair would spearhead in the unknown future to come? There really was only one way to find out, and that would be to embrace this time as his own. And with the woman by his side ....that might well be easy to accomplish.