Chapter 1 #2
By the time Fletcher called a halt for lunch, Dawson’s entire body was shaking with fatigue. He’d never felt better.
They ate in the main hall—a thick stew, dark bread still warm from the oven, and water so cold it hurt his teeth.
The other participants were a mixed group.
There was a solicitor from Edinburgh looking for stress relief, two brothers who owned a distillery and wanted to understand their heritage, and a woman from Norway who’d been practicing historical European martial arts for years and could probably take Fletcher in a fair fight.
“So what brings you here?” the solicitor asked Dawson over lunch. “Besides the obvious existential crisis. We’ve all got those.”
He laughed, surprised by the directness. “Is it that obvious?”
“Mate, you’ve got the look. Had it myself six months ago. Spent three weeks walking the Camino, came home, realized I was still miserable, and decided to learn to hit things with swords instead. Much more satisfying.”
“To hitting things,” one of the brothers raised his water glass, and they all drank to that.
After lunch, Fletcher taught them the basics of stance and footwork. Dawson had always been a quick study, good at breaking complex tasks into manageable components. But this wasn’t about analysis—it was about muscle memory, about training his body to react before his mind could interfere.
“Stop anticipating,” Fletcher corrected him for the dozenth time. “You’re so busy planning your next move that you’re missing the opening right in front of you.”
Dawson reset his stance, rolled his shoulders, and tried again.
By the time the light began to fail—which happened absurdly early this far north in December—his hands were blistered, his legs felt like jelly, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this satisfied with a day’s work.
“Not bad for a beginner,” Fletcher said as they put away the training equipment. “You’ve got good instincts. Just need to get out of your own way.”
“Story of my life,” Dawson muttered.
Fletcher shot him a knowing look. “Aye. Well. Plenty of time to work on that.”
The next day, Dawson woke before dawn, every muscle in his body screaming.
He lay in his narrow bed in the rustic bunkhouse, listening to the wind howl around the stone walls, and grinned at the ceiling.
His body hurt in the best possible way—the kind of pain that came from honest work instead of pointless gym sessions designed to maintain an image.
Breakfast was porridge with honey and cream, strong tea that tasted like peat, sausage, and eggs from the chickens scratching around in the courtyard. Dawson ate like he’d been starving, surprised by his own appetite.
“Good,” Fletcher said, watching him. “You’ll need it. Today we’re adding archery and beginning mounted combat. Hope you’re not afraid of horses.”
“I can ride.”
“We’ll see about that.”
The morning session was archery, which Dawson discovered required an entirely different kind of strength than sword work. His arms trembled as he drew the bowstring back, and his first three arrows went wide of the target.
“You’re muscling it,” the Norwegian woman—Astrid—said from beside him. Her arrows hit the target with satisfying thuds, clustering near the center. “Let the bow do the work. It’s about alignment, not force.”
“Everything here is about alignment apparently,” Dawson said, lowering the bow to rest his arms.
“That’s because modern people have forgotten how to be in their bodies.
” She said it matter-of-factly, without judgment.
“You live in your head. Up here—” she tapped her temple, “—planning, worrying, achieving. Meanwhile, your body is just transportation for your brain. No wonder you’re all miserable. ”
Dawson stared at her, then burst out laughing. “That’s... surprisingly accurate.”
“I know. I was the same before I started this work. Spent ten years as a corporate lawyer in Oslo, very successful, very unhappy. Then I picked up a sword and remembered I had a body.”
She nocked another arrow and let it fly. Bull’s eye. “Best decision I ever made.”
He watched her for a moment, noting the ease in her posture, the quiet satisfaction in her expression. “Do you still practice law?”
“Part time. Enough to pay for my training and travel to tournaments.” She glanced at him. “You don’t have to choose between the life you built and the life that makes you happy, you know. You can have both. It just requires being honest about what you actually want.”
Before he could respond, Fletcher called them to the horse paddock.
The horses were sturdy Highland ponies, smaller than the thoroughbreds Dawson was used to but solid and sure-footed on the rocky terrain. Fletcher assigned him a gray mare named Bridie.
“She’s gentle, but she’s got sense,” Fletcher said, handing him the reins. “Won’t let you do anything stupid, which is what you need at this stage.”
Dawson stroked Bridie’s neck, feeling the warmth of her through his gloves, smelling the sweet hay-and-horse scent of her. She turned her head and regarded him with one dark, intelligent eye, as if assessing whether he was worth her time.
“I’ll try not to disappoint you,” he told her quietly.
The mounted combat training was less about actual fighting and more about learning to control the horse with your legs and body while leaving your hands free for your weapons. Dawson had ridden before—polo matches in Argentina, trail rides in Montana—but never like this.
“The Highlanders were extraordinary horsemen,” Fletcher explained as they practiced basic maneuvers in the paddock. “They had to be. The terrain here doesn’t forgive mistakes, and in battle, your horse was often the difference between life and death. You had to trust each other completely.”
Dawson felt Bridie respond to the shift of his weight, the gentle pressure of his legs. There was something profound about the connection—the way she read his intentions, the way he learned to read her moods. No words, just awareness and trust.
By mid-afternoon, Fletcher deemed them ready for a supervised ride through the countryside.
“Stay together, watch your footing, and for God’s sake don’t do anything heroic,” he instructed. “The goal is to come back with the same number of people and horses we leave with. Any questions?”
They rode out in a loose line, following a path that wound along the coast. The wind was fierce, carrying the scent of sea spray and heather. Above them, the sky was the color of pewter, heavy with the promise of rain.
Dawson had been cold since arriving in Scotland, but it was different from the controlled climate of hotel rooms and executive offices.
This cold was real—it bit at his exposed cheeks, crept through the layers of his clothing, made his fingers ache even inside his gloves.
And somehow, he’d never felt more alive.
The landscape unfolded around them like something from a dream—black cliffs dropping sheer to the churning sea, hills rising steep and wild with brown heather, distant mountains dusted with snow. Everything was vast and ancient and completely indifferent to his existence.
It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“Overwhelming, isn’t it?” the solicitor—James—pulled his horse alongside Dawson’s. “First time I rode out here, I actually cried. Proper sobbing. Fletcher pretended not to notice.”
“I can see why,” Dawson said, and meant it.
They rode for two hours, stopping once to rest the horses and drink from a burn that cut through the rocks, the water so cold and pure it tasted like the mountains themselves.
Dawson knelt beside it, feeling the spray mist his face, and thought about all the places he’d been, all the things he’d done.
None of it compared to this moment—kneeling beside a Highland stream with cold water on his lips and the wind in his hair and absolutely nowhere else he needed to be.
That night after dinner, Fletcher brought out a wooden chest and opened it with a kind of reverence. Inside were kilts—actual Highland plaids, not the tourist shop variety.
“If you’re going to learn to fight like Highlanders, you should dress like them,” Fletcher said. “At least for tomorrow’s training. Fair warning—it takes some getting used to.”
He held up the different tartans, explaining the significance of each pattern, the history of the clans, the way these pieces of cloth had meant identity, loyalty, belonging. When he came to a particular pattern—green and blue with fine lines of black and yellow—he paused.
“Campbell,” he said quietly. “One of the most powerful clans in the Highlands. Complicated history, like most of them—both noble and notorious depending on who’s telling the story. But the tartan itself is bonny.”
Dawson ran his fingers over the wool, feeling the weight of it, the texture. It was thicker than he’d expected, tightly woven, clearly made to withstand the elements. “Can I try it?”
Fletcher’s grin was answer enough.
Getting into a kilt turned out to be more complicated than Dawson had anticipated. Fletcher showed him how to wrap and pleat the fabric, how to secure it with a belt, how to drape the extra length over his shoulder and pin it in place. The wool was rough against his skin but surprisingly warm.
“How does it feel?” Fletcher asked.
Dawson took a few experimental steps, expecting to feel ridiculous. Instead, he felt... powerful. Connected. The kilt moved with him, giving him freedom of movement his jeans had never allowed. The weight of the fabric was grounding, substantial.
“It feels right,” he said, surprised by his own honesty.
“Aye,” Fletcher said, satisfied. “It should. The Highlands get in your blood fast, if you’re the sort to let them. Some people fight it, spending their whole visit trying to stay tourists. Others...” He gestured at Dawson in his kilt. “Others come home.”