Chapter Five #2
“It seems I am no’ the only one,” came his father’s familiar rough voice from the doorway.
Thom stepped into the room, firelight deepening the lines on his weathered face. He was a tall man still thick with the strength of his youth, though grey threaded fully through his long hair and beard. His eyes, sharp and steady, took in Liam’s position and the tautness of his jaw.
He carried a bottle and two wooden cups.
“Wasn’t sure if ye’d want company,” Thom said as he poured, “but ye’re getting it anyway.”
He handed Liam a cup before settling into the chair opposite him.
“Are ye hurting, son?”
Liam took a sip of mead, the sweetness warming his throat. “The pain is nae unbearable. I’m growing accustomed to the dull ache.”
Thom’s gaze flickered, lingering on his son’s leg. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken thoughts.
“Ye are braver than ye ken,” Thom said finally. “Ye’ve served our laird with honor. Few can say they’ve done the same.”
Liam stared into the fire. Praise did little to soothe the hollowness inside him.
His father shifted, elbows resting on his knees. “There comes a time in every warrior’s life when fate steps in, sometimes gently, sometimes with a damned hammer, and tells him the battles he’s meant for are changing.”
The words hit like crushing hooves all over again. Liam’s grip tightened on the cup. “So ye do think I should give up hope.”
“No.” Thom’s voice softened, firm yet warm. “Hope is the one thing a man should never put down. Especially a son of mine.”
Liam swallowed hard. Bitterness and fear mixed like bile. “Da, I dinnae ken who I am without the guard. Without the fight. Since I was a lad, I trained for one purpose, and now I walk like an old man. How am I to be of worth? How do I contribute?”
Thom leaned back, eyes reflecting the flames.
“Worth is nae found in the swing of an arm or the speed of a stride. Warriors believe it is, aye, but that is a young man’s truth.
” He paused before continuing, voice lower, “A man’s worth is in how he rises when circumstance knocks him flat on his backside. ”
Liam exhaled shakily.
“Ye think ye cannae serve yer people again?” Thom asked gently. “Then ye’re not looking broad enough. The clan needs courage, loyalty, and a steady mind as much as it needs an arrow loosed or a blade swung.”
Liam frowned. “But the mill…”
“Is my work,” Thom interrupted. “Not necessarily yers. Ye’re not meant to be a copy of me, lad. Ye’re meant to be yerself, even if that self must change.”
He studied Liam for a long moment. “But I will tell ye this, yer mother would box my ears if I told ye to give up. She believes ye’ll rise higher than before. And I am inclined to believe her.”
Liam’s chest tightened. “I never wanted to disappoint ye.”
Thom’s face softened like warmed wax. “Ye? Disappoint me? Never. Even injured, ye’re still the finest man I ken. And whatever ye choose next, ye will face it with the same stubborn pride ye inherited from me, and the same compassion ye learned from yer mother.”
Ambrose gave a soft thump of his tail, as if agreeing.
They sat in the quiet glow of the fire, warmth settling over the room like a blanket. After some time, Thom yawned and rose, stretching the stiffness from his shoulders.
“Seems I might get some sleep after all,” he rumbled.
He paused beside Liam, resting a heavy, reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I am so very proud of ye, son. Not for what ye were, nor what ye did, though those things matter. But for who ye are. And who ye are becoming.”
He squeezed once, firmly, then left Liam with the fire, the wolfhound, and the lingering welcome echo of his father’s unwavering belief.
Murmurs of conversations seeped into his subconscious. His family was awake.
The grey dawn seeped into the room long before Liam opened his eyes.
A soft, pale light edged around the shutters, casting muted patterns across the wooden walls.
Ambrose snored at his feet like a thundercloud with fur, the steady rumble oddly comforting.
He’d fallen asleep in the chair, and yet he felt rested.
Liam blinked up at the ceiling, feeling the stiffness in his leg before he even tried to move. The ache was familiar now, no longer sharp, but ever present, like a shadow that refused to let go.
His father’s words drifted back to him, echoing through the quiet.
Worth is nae found in the swing of an arm or the speed of a stride. Yer battles may be changing. I am so very proud of ye.
He had heard praise before, from men in the guard, from the laird himself. Yet nothing weighed as heavily or settled as deeply as hearing pride in Thom McRay’s gravelly voice.
He wasn’t sure if it comforted him or frightened him.
Liam pushed himself upright, wincing as his leg protested. The movement tugged at the memory of his father’s hand on his shoulder, a steady weight, grounding him in a way few things could now.
He had always imagined himself returning to the guard, bow in hand, strength renewed, purpose restored. A warrior didnae stop being a warrior simply because fate struck a blow. But the truth whispered otherwise. The path he had walked his entire life might never look the same again.
And perhaps, just perhaps, that didnae mean he had no path left.
Still, uncertainty bit at him like the morning cold. What did a man do when the world he’d built around himself shifted under his feet? What did he become?
As he reached for his cane, his thoughts drifted, unbidden, but welcome, to Beitris.
To the feel of her lips, soft and surprised. To the way she had stood impossibly still, as though rooted by something beyond her control. To the flicker of magic he’d felt in the air that night, subtle as a heartbeat.
He wasn’t fool enough to believe the kiss had changed anything between them. Or maybe, just maybe, it had changed everything.
Beitris saw his weakness but never his defeat. She tended his wounds but never stripped him of his dignity. When she looked at him, she saw the man he had been and perhaps the man he could become.
Ambrose lifted his head and gave a low woof, nudging Liam’s knee as if urging him onward.
“Aye, I ken,” Liam muttered, rubbing the dog’s scruffy ear. “Time to face the day.”
He stood slowly, testing his weight. The pain flared, then settled. Manageable. Familiar. He could live with familiar.
As he opened the shutters, pale gold light spilled into the room. The sky was washed in soft colors of peach, lavender, and the faintest brush of rose. A morning that whispered possibility.
His father’s words lingered. Beitris’s memory warmed him. And somewhere deep in his chest, a spark kindled. Small and stubborn, but unmistakably alive.
Perhaps the stone wasn’t the only magic stirring on the isle.
By the time Liam made his way to the kitchen, leaning only lightly on his cane, the morning bustle had begun in earnest. His mother moved swiftly between table and hearth, slicing bread, stirring porridge, humming a tune that was older than the keep itself.
The scent of oats and honey mingled with woodsmoke. Home, in all its comforting simplicity.
Effie was already seated, legs tucked beneath her, happily devouring a piece of fresh Bannock bread as if it were the finest feast ever served. Her eyes sparkled with mirth the moment she saw him.
“Well, well,” she drawled, leaning back in her chair. “Look who survived a night in the haunted woods and lived to see the sun rise.”
Liam lifted a brow. “They’re nae haunted.”
Effie pointed her spoon at him. “Aye, says the man who caught up to me so fast, as if being chased by a wee beast.”
He sat with a careful exhale, ignoring her smirk. “I walked normally.”
Effie’s grin widened. “Of course. Ye always flee from enchanted stones at that speed?”
He gave her a flat look. “We didnae see anything.”
“No,” she agreed, lifting her chin with dramatic solemness. “But something saw us. I felt it.”
His stomach tightened, not with fear, but with the memory of that strange flash of light he’d seen.
Effie leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Did ye not sense it? That moment when the forest went quiet. When the lantern flame bent, though there was no wind?”
Liam hesitated. He had noticed the flame bowing.
But Effie didn’t wait for an answer. She tapped the table with triumph.
“I knew it. The miracle stone is listening.”
“Effie,” he muttered, rubbing his brow. “Stones dinnae listen.”
“Magical ones do,” she countered sweetly.
Before he could reply, she fixed him with a look so sly it nearly slid off her face. The lass was teasing him mercilessly, and he’d fallen for it. And yet, he was sure to have seen the flash of light. Something like lightning from the sky but contained.
After finishing his meal, Liam returned to the stretch of woods where Effie had dragged him the night before.
He told himself it was practical to learn the terrain, should his relentless, stone-obsessed sister badger him into another nighttime search.
But a quieter truth tugged at him: curiosity.
Something about this place had felt different.
The morning was washed in silver light. A crisp breeze swept through the trees, carrying the scent of damp leaves and earth.
Sunbeams pierced through drifting clouds, catching on the dew-laden grass until the clearing glittered like someone had scattered handfuls of tiny jewels across the ground.
Birds trilled loudly, the cheerful chorus bouncing through the trees as if celebrating the new day.
After ensuring he was alone, Liam leaned his cane against a sturdy birch and rolled his shoulders. He stretched his leg, then after hesitating only a moment, he broke into a slow jog toward a tree several paces away. Not fast, but fast enough to test his injured side.
His leg stiffened instantly, protesting each stride. But the sharp, searing pain he feared didnae come. Only the familiar dull ache, stubborn but bearable.