GREY and formless clouds hung like billowing shadows from the heavens. Bright bluebells, creamy snowdrops, and golden gorse dotted the verdant moorlands outside Caerdun Castle. The air blew cold about the towering stone walls, but not bitterly so, bringing with it a sweetened hint of the coming spring.

Fiona McCurragh stepped quickly through the arched entrance of Caerdun, ignoring the black murder holes and the sharpened tips of the portcullis above her, grim reminders of the castle's defences. But they did not frighten her like the ones she had been accustomed to at Caerloch.

These were meant for her protection, not her destruction.

Rolling her tense shoulders, Fiona sighed, glad that practice was finally over; the peace and quiet of her room, as simple as it was, had never seemed more inviting. She shifted her bow from one hand to the next as she passed the guardhouse, loosening the quiver strap. Her arm was sore from the bowstring snapping against it a few times during the archery drills, which everyone who was able had attended.

The treaty with Lord Erland and Lady Nuith signed two years ago had not made for an easy peace. The Lowlanders had heard reports of the Danes searching every village and castle for the High Chieftains and their princess last spring and into the autumn, but they had not yet come here. Fiona prayed they never would—there were so few hiding places left.

She stepped into the main courtyard, which, as usual in a place of this much importance and size, bustled with activity.

Men in chainmail and leather armour entered through the archway, and stable hands rushed to take their steeds. Fiona noted the mud streaking the mounts' flanks from the practice fields, where the men had ridden through obstacles such as fire and the clashing of swords while wielding their own weapons. For should the Scots ever go to war again, they would need every fighter they could get.

Upon the stone battlements, men-at-arms leaned on their spears as they watched the horizon for any coming stranger or host, whether it be the Danes or perhaps the Scottish embassy returning from Cymru, for whom they had waited a year with no news. Annag McCladden had sent a courier soon after they had arrived in An Dùn to let her husband know of their safety, and that the High Chieftain Jamie McBride's young widow was staying with them, but they never received a reply, even if not expected. Though the distance was too great to waste another messenger, Fiona often wondered whether the request for an alliance had been accepted. The Lowland Scots had too few men left after the last war to carry on the fight for freedom alone, and the Danes were merciless in their pursuit of total control over Scotland.

Fiona wove her way between the many people walking about the courtyard, returning greetings and waving in particular to Elspeth McBride, who gave a shy smile in return. To anyone else, it may have appeared like a mirror, two young women of similar likeness waving at their reflections. But Elspeth was the High Chieftain Jamie's widow with two young children, and the griefs of the past year made her appear far older than her one and twenty years.

A sudden gust of wind rushed through the place, ruffling the horses' manes and tossing about Fiona's flaming curls. She pulled the folds of her worn, pine-green cloak against the chill that lingered at the beginning of spring, and entered the keep inside the castle walls.

Fiona passed the Feast Hall, whose doors were open, a wave of warmth blowing into the corridor from the large hearth fire. The heat warmed her numb fingers for a moment before the draughty air took its place again as she passed on.

Though only a High Chieftain's residency and not the capital of Scotland, Caerdun was in many ways far grander than Caerloch in the Highlands, and she did not miss her old prison. What few good memories she had in that place had been lost with her brother's death in the first war against the Danes. She would be happy enough to never set foot within its walls again, even if she someday did indeed reclaim her throne. A bitter taste filled her mouth; any other place would feel strange to call home, but Caerloch had far too many painful memories.

Fiona thrust the thought away and continued down the hall, her footsteps ringing on cold stone. Turning a corner, she reached the southwest tower and opened the door, ascending the spiralling stairs to her own chambers on the second floor.

Closing the door behind her, she put away her bow and quiver and hung up her cloak. Then she collapsed onto her bed, her hands locked together over her eyes as she took steady breaths. At last, she could rest in peace.

But then the memories came rushing back.

Memories of this same spring breeze last year when she had bidden farewell to Angus and Malcolm—the only friends she had left; of the tense, humid summer in which the Danes almost found her; a message from Lady Nuith threatening war if they did not surrender the Lowlander chieftains and provide proof of the Scottish princess' death...proof that was given in the form of a much-worn McCurragh tartan. Whether the Danes believed her truly dead or not, war had not yet happened and Fiona was still safe. All the same, the danger remained, lurking in the hidden shadows, creeping in when the sun went down; and there were few friends to calm her fears. Those that had comforted her before were long gone, far beyond the mountains.

She exhaled sharply, her chest throbbing with bitter homesickness. Except she did not long for home; she longed for those that made any place so. She had not minded their presence being gone in the first few months because she knew their going was necessary, and besides—the sooner they left, the sooner they would return. But when months had gone by with no news, she began to worry if anything had happened to them, or whether she would see them again.

The window shutters banged against the wall, driving Fiona's unresolved thoughts back into the recesses of her mind.

She sat up, groaning. "Ye donnae seem to want me to rest either, do ye?" she complained to the wind as she rose, intending to shut the window. Yet she hesitated, gazing into the distance at the mist-enshrouded and desolate moorlands, where she saw a horseman riding at full speed. He came from the southwest road that wound towards the village outside the castle walls. Rarely did Caerdun have a visitor—let alone from that direction—and her pulse raced faster for a moment in spite of herself.

A sense of fate weighed down upon her as she watched the rider draw closer. Even from this distance, she easily recognised the kilt and plaid that marked him as a Scot and not a Dane; none of them would have dared to dress so. Besides, the Danes would not come from the south.
The desire that she had kept inside her all this time surged upwards, and she left her room in great haste.

Messengers came so seldom. Perhaps they brought news of the Scottish embassy. And oh, what if it was Chieftain McCladden himself! Or Angus—

Her breath caught in her throat. Yet her mind said otherwise. The chieftain would be leading his men, not travelling alone. It could be Angus, perhaps, or even Malcolm, but the chances of that were very small. She tried to quench the joyful flame inside her with bitter desperation. It could not be them. After so long of silent waiting, it was impossible. It would be a mere messenger, perhaps from one of the other Lowland clans, not those that had gone south, not those she missed so dearly.

But oh, what if it was!

Fiona raced down the tower steps, returning the way she had come some minutes before, pausing now and then to look for Annag McCladden, who governed her husband's province in his absence. Though quiet in her own way, much like her son Angus, she was a great source of encouragement to Fiona. She greatly appreciated having her earnest and honest council since, in many ways, she had taken Rhiada's place when the harper had died and the Scots had departed for Cymru.

If a messenger had indeed come, Annag would know of it, as well as any news he might bring.

Fiona sighed in frustration as she passed several rooms and found no sign of the one she was searching for. She paused and then smacked her forehead. If a messenger had arrived, Annag would be in the Council Chamber to speak with him. Why did I no' check there first?

Gathering her skirts in her hands, she ran up the steps and turned left, entering the Hall while a man clothed in mud-bespattered garments passed her as he exited and headed, presumably, for the kitchens.

She did not recognise the man, and he gave her no greeting. It was none of the ones she had wished to see, after all. The lightness within Fiona's chest dissipated like a winter sunset.

Annag was the only one left in the Hall, standing with her back to the doorway. Light spilled in through the thin windows near the ceiling, any remaining shadows thrust into the corners by the peat fire on the hearth.

It was peacefully quiet, unlike the slowing hammering of Fiona's heartbeat. She stepped softly across the room, but her footsteps still echoed, far too loud in her own ears.

Annag turned around as Fiona drew near, a dimpled smile brightening her ageing face, light sparkling in her hazel eyes. "Princess, who do ye suppose tha' man was?"

"I hae nae idea," Fiona answered, attempting to sound light-hearted despite the bitter disappointment weighing down on her shoulders. She clenched and unclenched her fingers, waiting for Annag to continue, fear and longing racing through her veins.

Annag's eyes flashed with exuberant joy, the likes of which Fiona had rarely seen before. "He is one of the men who went wi' the escort a year ago."

Fiona's heart stopped for a moment. "Hae they returned, then?" she asked breathlessly, the blood rushing to her face in excitement.

"Aye, they are on their way." Annag's smile lit up her entire face, as if she too could scarcely believe the good news.

"When will they be here?" Fiona asked before another moment passed. Her throat tightened with intense emotion, and she struggled against the tears of joy that sprang to her eyes. They were coming home! At long last, they were coming home!

"My husband and sons will be here by tomorrow's dawn. The rest will arrive close behind them if the weather holds."

Fiona was about to answer when she remembered something, and her smile faded, cold dread taking the place of the warm elation that had filled her only seconds before. "Did he say how the treaties went?"

The light in Annag's eyes darkened. "Nae, he didnae. I suppose Donald wants to tell us himself tomorrow." Her tone was grave now. Grave and sad, as if she shared Fiona's fear that the worst had happened. If the alliance had failed, then there was little hope for freedom left. The Scots were not strong enough alone, and this had been their last chance.

Och, Rhiada, at least we tried....

Fiona glanced down at the floor beneath her feet, its stone thinly covered in herb-strewn rushes. She was afraid to lift her eyes and see her own fear reflected in Annag's gaze. Such a small flame of courage, and yet it had seen them through the loneliness of the last year. But for what? Had it all been for nothing?

Annag reached forward and gently lifted Fiona's chin with her hand, determination etched in her set mouth. "Donnae worry, princess, about things we donnae ken. Jist think about Angus and Malcolm and how soon ye'll see them," she added with a twinkle in her eyes.

Fiona's cheeks burned, but she could not stop the happiness that spread across her face. Nodding in agreement, she turned away and left the hall, a smile still playing on her lips as she ascended the stairs to the tower and walked onto the battlements.

The wind tousled her hair playfully, kissing her cheeks in warm welcome. She gazed south, looking out towards the hills, misty in the distance, and the road that wound between them, the road that they would soon be travelling on.

Tomorrow's dawn...and then they will be here. At long last, they will be here.

She could hardly believe it. After waiting for so long, it seemed so sudden now. Would Angus and Malcolm have changed much in the last year? Though surely they had grown in the year since she had last seen them, she could not picture them other than the two boys they had been. She knew she had changed, and that beyond simply growing taller. Would they remember her? Or had they made new friendships and brotherhoods, and left her far behind?

She thought of their parting last spring, of Malcolm's teasing kiss and Angus' reluctance to let her go. Surely bonds so strong would last a parting of this length, would they not?

She closed her eyes tightly for a moment against the emotions warring in her heart: the excitement of seeing them again and yet trepidation of how they might receive her. Annag was right. Thinking about such things would not change them, nor would it bring tomorrow any closer. She would have to wait to learn of what had become of them, as well as whether her dear, departed mentor Rhiada's last wishes had come true.

But she did not like to think of that, to think that such sacrifice might end in failure. So instead, she thrust aside the thoughts of fear and added to the songlike words singing in her mind, Angus and Malcolm will come home.

Fiona could not stop smiling.

~~~

The sun set over a land blooming to life. Scarlet and saffron melded in the skies, touching the clouds with pink and casting long shadows over the verdant moors. The evening breeze soughed softly among the grasses, a peaceful sound soon disturbed by the shouts and laughter of men and the neighing and stamping of many horses.

"I hae missed our sunsets," Malcolm McCladden announced grandly, watching the light fade behind the distant hills, his hands spread wide as if he had summoned the beautiful display all on his own.

"Aye, well, ye could watch it better if ye finished setting the picket lines first," his friend Merwyn retorted in broken Gàidhlig with a laugh. He muttered something else in his native Cymraeg tongue under his breath.

"My brother never works when he can enjoy himself and hae others do the work fer him," Angus McCladden added, driving home the last stake into the ground and tying the leather cord around it securely.

"Aye, I learned tha' much in the past year." Merwyn snorted and shook his head.

Malcolm turned around to face them, the sun behind him striking his copper hair into flames, his hands resting on his hips in defiance. "Donnae deny it, Angus, I ken ye're glad to be back home too."

Angus met his gaze, thinking of the past thirteen months' enduring loneliness despite new friends, and a wave of longing swept over him. "Aye, I am. But we're no' home jist yet." He walked back to the main encampment where fires were being kindled and food prepared for the evening meal.

"We will be tomorrow," Malcolm replied, Merwyn following them slowly. "And then we can see Mother and Fiona. I wonder if she's grown at all."

"Ye mean like ye hae?" Merwyn interjected.

Malcolm laughed loudly, causing a few heads to turn their way. "Och, she was taller than me then! If she still is, I'm gang to eat all the oatcakes and at least be fatter than her. She cannae outdo me in everything."

"Who said it was a competition?" his friend replied, confused.

Angus hitched a shoulder in a shrug. "Malcolm can make anything into a competition."

"Including the princess?" Merwyn continued.

Angus' face burned in something akin to embarrassment and he looked out over the growing twilight, seeing the beacons of firelight glowing brightly. "She is above mere competition," was all he said.

The three of them were handed some barley bannock from one of the men preparing the evening meal, and Malcolm ate half of it in one bite, making a face as he did so.

"I think I'm most looking forward to eating Mother's oatcakes," he said. "This stuff is awful."

"Her food had better be as good as ye say it is," Merwyn commented, "else I might hae to fight ye on this. I donnae think this sort is half as bad as ye claim."

Angus did not hear whatever Malcolm said in reply. His mind was elsewhere. Malcolm may have missed their mother's food more than anything, but Angus had missed Fiona McCurragh far more.

The princess was indeed above trivial things like competition. She was the hope they had for fighting this whole war, and the one thing that had kept him going when he thought all was lost.

Angus stepped away from the firelight. Thirteen months, twelve days since he had last seen her. He wondered whether she even remembered him, or whether in the time that had passed she had moved on, made new friends, perhaps even fallen in love with a lad—someone at Caerdun or another of the clansmen.

He clenched his jaw at the thought. But of course, that was the natural way of things. People did not remain as one left them. They too moved on, grew up, experienced life. No one ever stayed the same.

Then again, she was the princess and heir to her stolen throne. She could not just marry whomever she pleased. She had obligations to fulfil, and she was young yet. When she married, the choice would have to be approved by all the clans. Surely his father would have received some sort of news had such a thing occurred.

But they had been in Cymru for so long. Such news might not have been sent to them because of the distance. Did Scotland think of them as a lost cause?

Angus shook his head like a horse beset by flies, trying to dive away the entangled thoughts. They would find out on the morrow. Then he would see her.

His chest tightened, and he drew in a sharp breath.

Over a year, and he remembered their parting as easily as if it had been that morning. For certain, some things had faded, such as the faces and the sound of their voices. But he remembered well how tightly the princess had embraced him and how it had stung to know it would be a long time before he saw her again. She who knew his deepest fears and yet had never mocked him nor turned him away. She who had seen him at his worst and still offered her friendship.

And he had given her his heart.

He did not know whether she felt the same, whether their friendship was sweetened by an affection much deeper. He had never had the chance to ask her—he had been too afraid, too uncertain of his own feelings. But he knew now, and while he trembled at the thought of seeing her again and seeing her changed from how he remembered her, his heart beat faster at knowing he would soon be with her.

Should she reject him for another, he would always care for her, even if at a distance.

Angus knelt and plucked a sprig of heather that would not bloom for some months yet, holding it gently in his hand as the evening stars pierced the twilight with their wan, glistening light. Behind him, the cooking fires were built and most were eating the evening meal. He would have to join them soon or else risk his friends searching for him once their tasks were done.

He fingered the sprig, so young, so fragile, and kissed it softly before tucking it into his dead brother's clan pin beneath his plaid.

Tomorrow. Only a morn away.

He smiled in spite of himself. Even as just friends, he had missed her dearly. It would be good indeed to see her again.

He turned away from the remnants of the dying daylight and returned to camp.

The next time he saw the sun, they would be home.