Ashes to Ashes

Alastair stood at the outskirts of the village, despair in his heart as he took in what was left of it. His late comrade, Ramsey, had told him that the English were heading this way, and with his dying breath had asked Alastair to protect the village that was his hometown before he was too late.

All that was left of Soay was blackened wood and charred bodies, scattered amongst piles of ash and faintly glowing embers. A deep sorrow settled in his chest for all the lives that had been lost, all the voices that would never be heard again. Sliding off his horse, he crossed his heart and bowed his head in silent prayer for the dead, hoping that they made it safely to the afterlife, and asking Ramsey forgiveness for not making it on time. He had ridden like hell from the lowlands to get here, but it had not been enough. The bastard English had gotten here first.

He began to walk through the village, looking to see if there were any survivors. His throat constricted as he paused by the skeleton of a small hut to see a family of four, huddled close together, their blackened bodies curled tightly in death. Stepping closer, he saw two children huddled between the parents, one of which could barely have been in his fourth summer. Rage rose up to grip his throat, and his fists shook at his sides. Someone had barred the door shut and set this home on fire, leaving these innocent people to a fate they hadn't deserved.

Knowing there was nothing he could do for them, he moved on. The town was filled with much of the same, though a few of the bodies were unburned, instead sporting multiple stab wounds. They must have been the defenders, and he was saddened by how few there had been—the village obviously hadn't stood a chance, with most of its men having gone off to war.

A tiny sound caught his attention, and he spun around, claymore drawn, ready to do battle. Seeing no one behind him, he became very still, listening for the sound. He heard it again—a whimper, he realized. Hope blossomed unexpectedly—had someone survived?

Peeking his head around the corner, he found a girl, her body pressed against a wall of one of the few buildings still standing, curled into a fetal position. She clutched a tattered garment to her battered and bloody form, which was shaking like a leaf. It was obvious that she'd been brutalized, though somehow she'd managed to survive.

Crouching down, he reached out to touch her bruised face. Sapphire-blue eyes jerked open at the contact, wide and fearful, and she shrunk into herself, curling her body tighter, obviously trying to get away but too hurt to move.

"P-please… l-l-leave me alone!" she whispered. "H-haven't you done enough? E-e-everyone is d-dead…" Her eyes filled with tears, and she shut them tightly.

"Shh, it's alright." He kept his voice low and soothing, speaking to her as he might a frightened animal. "I'm here to help you. Wait here, I'll be right back."

He stood up and walked away, then returned quickly with a water skin he had grabbed from his saddle. "Here, drink this," he lifted it to her lips, and she opened her eyes to stare at him fearfully again. "Come now," he said, slightly impatient. "It will help. I haven't poisoned it."

Hesitantly, she parted her lips and allowed the liquid to flow onto her parched tongue. It tasted like Heaven, cool and invigorating. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that he wore a red and black plaid, and she relaxed marginally as she realized he was not English—not one of the men who had brutalized and murdered her people.

Finished, she drew her lips away from the water skin and watched him tuck it away into his sporran. His dark eyes were kind when they returned to her face, but she wouldn't allow herself to trust so easily. He was not one of her clansmen, and though the majority of Scotland was fighting against King Edward right now, there were still a few in the pockets of the English. If he was one of them, she was no better off. Still, it was hard to imagine him as the enemy—his face was that of a warrior angel, with strong cheekbones, narrow nose, firm jaw with a cleft in the chin, and sensually full lips.

But mother always told her that evil had a beautiful face, the better which to lure young maidens into its clutches.

"Have you a name, lass?" he asked in a deep, rough voice.

"Mairead," she answered after a moment's hesitation.

His expression softened. "You are indeed a pearl," he said, referring to her namesake, "a treasure of life in this god-forsaken village. I had despaired of finding anyone still alive here. By rescuing you, I will have paid my debt to Ramsey."

"R-Ramsey?" she asked. "My brother? Did… did he send you here?" she tried to push herself up, but a sharp pain lanced through her chest and she cried out, collapsing in the dirt.

"Careful, lass." Alastair moved quickly, rolling her onto her back and brushing aside the tattered remains of her clothes. Her pale skin was dotted with bruises, from her collarbone down to her thighs. There was a particularly nasty one right below her left breast that was swelling badly. "You've a broken rib," he told her, his voice thick with suppressed rage. "We'll have to tend it."

He went back to his horse to retrieve bandages and ointment, questions swimming in his mind. Ramsey had never told him that he'd left a sister behind—he'd never made mention of any living family members at all. He'd come here with the expectation of defending the villagers and running his blade through a few Englishmen, but now he was faced with telling a lass who'd just lost her entire village that her brother was dead, too—and worse, that Alastair was responsible for his death. How could he face her? But he couldn't leave her alone, either. In her condition, she would likely die, if not of her injuries than of starvation, as she didn't look capable of taking care of herself as she was. And if she didn't, another swarm of English or a group of bandits would be sure to get her.

When he returned to her she had pulled the cloth back over to cover her chest, and the show of modesty had his lips twitching. The smile disappeared when her hands tightened over the cloth as he reached out to push it aside again.

"P-please… don't…" she managed, voice trembling.

He laid his hand gently over hers. "I'm verra sorry, lass, but I have no choice. We must set and bind the rib if it is to heal. I promise, I won't hurt you." He squeezed her hand, hoping to convey comfort, and then held a flask to her lips.

"Drink this," he urged. "It will help dull the pain."

Mairead did as he bade, but it still hurt when he set and bound her ribs. She was ashamed of her cries, but he didn't condemn her for it, simply murmuring words of encouragement while he worked. By the time he was done she was panting in pain, her vision wavering. She was helpless as a kitten, and he could do anything to her now.

"Please… don't… hurt…"

Alastair swallowed back his rage as he removed his cloak, then wrapped her small body in it. "I won't rape you, lass," he promised, voicing her terror aloud. "I can see that the English did their best to humiliate and defile your body, but I promise you that as long as I have breath in my body you will be safe."

The conviction in his voice was so strong, it cut through her fear. Sighing, Mairead drifted into sleep, content to leave her fate in his hands. Her brother had sent a warrior angel to protect her. Everything would be alright.

Alastair gathered Mairead into his arms, cradling her gently as he walked back to his horse. Her face was peaceful in sleep, long eyelashes sweeping against her pale skin, which was still beautiful despite the fact that a bruise marred her left cheek. Her lower lip was split, but its softness beckoned to him. Shaking his head, he moved on. Such thoughts were inappropriate, especially at a time like this.

He mounted his horse and settled the unconscious woman between his legs, holding her against his chest with one arm while he took up the reins with the other. He started the horse into a trot, wanting to get away from this place, to safety where Mairead could heal.

With the village to his back and his eyes facing north, he headed for the one place he had never brought a women to before—-his home.