VOICES rose and fell like the rolling waves of the ocean. But this surging boasted no sparkling waters beneath the sun. No, this sea was murky and grey, its depths dark and foreboding beneath a stormy sky.

Douglas McCurragh straightened in his hard-backed chair and blinked hard, resisting the urge to let his thoughts wander once again as a distraction from the dismal reports. As the heir to the Scottish throne, it was his rightful duty to be here and pay heed to what the High Chieftains had to say. One day, he might judge such matters himself. But it was none too thrilling to listen to gloomy reports of Danish attacks on the northern coasts.

For what youth liked to hear that his world was burning down around his ears?

The voices fell silent. The chieftains had finished their report, grim as it was, and now waited to hear what King Daibhidh had to say.

But the words never came.

The doors to the Great Hall of Caerloch Castle flew open, and in rushed a young lass with crimson curls that bounced with every step.

Douglas bit back a smile at seeing his little sister enter with no regard for the council. But his mirth quickly faded when he saw the grimace on his father's face, a shadow of pain and something far blacker.

Anger and bitterness was ever a stain marring what tenderness Daibhidh should have had towards his daughter. Even if she looked much like what his late wife, Fionnuala, might have as a wee lass, Douglas did not think it an excuse to show the coldness his father did. But he was not his father. And no one, not even the High Chieftains, dared to go against King Daibhidh, nor speak of his dead bride in his presence.

Not anymore.

"Father! Douglas! Ye should see—" Fiona McCurragh pulled up short, her freckled face blushing bright red upon realising she had interrupted an important council. The burning wave faded, leaving her creamy pale as she met her father's withering gaze.

Douglas winced as the light died in her green-gold eyes, her youthful spirit crushed once again.

The chieftains had greeted her with warm expressions, many of them having had young children of their own once upon a time, but at the king's stiff reaction, such amused looks dissolved into an uncomfortable silence.

"I am sorry, Father, I didnae realise—" the princess began, her voice painfully taut.

"Nae, ye never do," Daibhidh cut her off. Then he turned to Douglas. "Please take yer sister out and amuse her. I can finish this alone."

Douglas rose to his feet, swallowing the hurt and anger that stormed within him. He bowed his head towards the assembly before taking his sister's hand. Without a word, he led her gently out of the hall, down the corridors, and into the open courtyard.

The sweet spring air met their faces, warm and gusting, enlivening after the oppressive staleness of the Great Hall. Douglas inhaled deeply as he took his sister up to the battlements, where they could look out towards the moors from the confines of the castle. It was almost as good as being able to ride out towards freedom. But he dared not risk riding out today, not when his father might call him back at any time.

"I didnae ken Father was having a council," Fiona murmured, the first words spoken since she had attempted an apology to the king.

"'Tis all right. Ye werenae to ken. Father doesnae announce those things; the servants wouldnae hae kent, and if they had, they wouldnae hae told ye. Ye're too young to listen to them yet."

They came to a halt at the top of the wall. Fiona tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her unruly curls staying put only a moment before the breeze tugged on it again.

"I donnae think Father would let me listen to the councils, even if I were old enough," she answered with a sigh.

Douglas had no reply to that. Finally, for lack of saying anything else, he said, "Well, ye are only eight. Perhaps when ye are my age, he might."

Fiona rolled her eyes, a smile spreading on her face. "Tha's seven years more!"

Douglas grinned.

"Wha' were they discussing anyway?" She flicked the hair out of her face, even though it kept blowing back, and looked at him intently.

"Danes hae been landing on our shores. Nae jist sightings this time." He hesitated to go further. She was young yet. She did not need to know the ugliness of the world. Her innocence did not need to be destroyed before its time.

"Wha' does that mean? Are they trying to invade us then, like in the songs tha' harpers tell of other people? Will there be a war?"

Douglas blinked. "I donnae ken."

"How else will the Danes gae away? I donnae think they'll gae if we jist ask nicely, no' if they're anything like Guern." She shuddered involuntarily.

He stifled a chuckle at the thought of the kitchen boy who teased his sister unmercifully. Douglas naturally defended Fiona, but sometimes Guern's pranks really were quite funny. "Nae, they might try to make treaties first. I donnae ken if it will come to war." Except he did, considering the chieftains' words. If his father kept one thing from the days before Fionnuala's death, it was his passion for Scotland and her defence.

"If there is a war," Fiona continued, looking at the moorland beneath the fitful spring sun, "would ye gae to fight in it?"

"Aye, I would. 'Twould be an honour to defend my country." The words rolled easily off his tongue—it was the expected answer after all—but he did not feel them as strongly in his heart. What was Scotland anyway? A broken kingdom whose clans were drifting further and further apart? Was there anything left worth saving? And then he glanced down at his beloved sister and his doubt faded. She was worth saving, even if there was no Scotland left.

Fiona frowned, and not just from squinting against the sunlight that shone blindingly for a moment. "I donnae like war."

"Ye hae ne'er even lived through one! How would ye ken?" he sputtered, trying to make light of a matter that was not light at all.

"The harpers sing of them, like tha' harper last night, the one all the way from Cymru. Rhiada was his name, right?" At her brother's nod, she continued, "I think wars are awful things. They kill people."

Douglas bit his lip, thinking hard. "Wars donnae kill people. People kill people. War is jist another excuse fer them to do it."

"Aye, well, if ye went to war, ye might die." Her mournful expression destroyed any conviction he had to brush aside the sobriety of the situation with an easy laugh.

"No' everyone dies in war."

"Nae, but no' everyone lives either." The sun passed behind a silver cloud, and the castle was thrown into gloom. "If I were to lose ye, I wouldnae hae any friends left," she finished.

Douglas was silent. There was nothing to say to that. Both of them knew it to be true. For certain, there were a few servants who doted on her, but beyond that, most of them did not speak to her. And their father—oh, their father—he did not love her. Everyone could see that. No, if Douglas went away to war and did not come back, she would be left utterly alone.

But to choose between Scotland and his sister? Was it even a fair comparison? And yet, by defending Scotland, he was defending his sister. Perhaps the choice was not so vastly different, after all.

"We might no' e'en gae to war," he finally said. "Father might command it, but the chieftains might disagree."

"Why? Do they no' want to remain free?"

Douglas sighed heavily. Why did life have to be so complicated? Was nothing ever simple? "I donnae ken. I jist ken some of them disagree wi' how Father has become since Mother died. And other things tha' even I donnae understand. Scotland was once united, but wi' the way Father has become..." His voice trailed off.

"Are ye afraid we might hae civil war?" she prompted after a moment.

Douglas was silent. She surprised him, sometimes, with her swiftness in thought.

The wind sighed between them as he struggled for an answer to a question he feared to understand.

"I donnae ken. Scotland was once strong and thriving, but now? I fear tha' the dream fer such a brotherhood has faded, lost to our distant past. Even if we unite against the Danes, it may nae be enough. Wi' Mother's death and the way the clans hae become so distant and distrusting of Father's decrees, we may be beyond reconciliation. At least, as long as Father remains the way he is..." He forced a grin to his lips. His sister did not need to have the fears he did. "Then again, perhaps I am becoming too cautious. We may be all right in the end. We may reunite and be as we once were before. Father may yet change; no one is beyond tha'." Except in death, said a voice in his mind, but he ignored it.

Fiona smiled back. "I hope so," she replied, her voice soft. But it was not the softness of the spring breeze. This softness was full of pain and fear, the likes of which she should not suffer so young. This softness was how she often spoke of their father, and the thought chilled him.

"Come," he said, offering her his hand. "Let's gae see the horses."

She grinned, the sparkle returning to her eyes, and followed him down to the stables with a lightness in her step that had not been there before.

Douglas buried his fears in the joy of her happiness. Perhaps hope yet lived.