3. The Burden of Departure #2
The temperature has taken a steady decline in the last hour.
Unfortunate, considering the trip is already taking longer than expected.
The rain has been relentless this time, and Callan refuses to let us stay in the cities—cities like Inverness, where we could have rested for the night.
Could have had proper beds. Instead, he insists we avoid them dragging us through longer routes just to keep our heads low.
Tonight, that means sleeping in tanned leather tents, on the cold ground, near the small village of Golspie. A four-day journey has stretched into five, and patience is wearing thin.
My tent collapses in a heap at my feet as I fumble with the fastenings, my fingers stiff from the cold. One might think being near the woods would shield us from the wind, but luck has never been on our side.
“I wish we were already there,” I mutter, not speaking to either of my brothers in particular. Casey and Callan glance at one another.
“Aye, we ken how you feel about bein’ in the dark. It’s just two more nights.” Casey says.
“It’s not the dark so much as the woods.” I shift uncomfortably, glancing around. “That, and the air has an unusual chill. It feels… unsettling.”
Casey moves closer, slinging an arm over my shoulders. I immediately wrinkle my nose. “Gods, Casey, you stink.”
He snorts, unfazed. “What d’ye expect? We’ve been travellin’ for days.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I say primly. “Women keep themselves clean .”
Casey barks out a laugh, squeezing me against him. “Please… ye’re no woman. A fearsome creature dwells within you.”
“Oh,” I say, eyebrows raised. “Please enlighten me. What matter of creature am I?”
“Ye’re a hatchling we found in the forest one day. Probably why ye’re so uncomfortable out here. Yer people are callin’ to you,” Casey teases, squeezing me tighter against him.
I roll my eyes, letting him have his fun. “Well, I’m sure the forest folk are keen to have me back. Shame, I’m stuck here with you instead of my kind.”
Casey smirks, draping himself over me dramatically. “ Honestly, I dunno how we ended up saddled with you. Imagine how much quieter things would be if we’d left ye in the woods where we found you.”
I snort, shoving him off. “Aye, and imagine how much smarter we’d all be if you hadn’t spent your entire childhood breathing up all the common sense in the room. I swear, we all had promise once—then you started talking.”
Callan exhales, shaking his head. “She’s not wrong. I do recall havin’ a few good thoughts before ye learned how to string a sentence together.”
Casey gasps, clutching his chest. “ Et tu , Callan? ”
I sigh, nodding solemnly. “Tragic, really. We had such potential. But no, Ma had to keep him.”
Casey throws his hands up. “Ach, this is an ambush! I see how it is. A coordinated attack! I thought I was the heart and soul of this family.”
Callan scoffs, shaking his head. “Ye just need to learn when to shut yer geggie. Then we wouldnae have to keep twistin’ the knife to get a moment of peace.”
I gasp dramatically, pressing a hand to my chest. “Oh, but we need Casey’s voice, Callan! Without his endless prattling, how else would we know the important things? Like how much he hates running, or how many times he’s nearly died from hunger, or—”
Casey groans. “Aye, all right, I get it! D’ye ever tire of bein’ a misfit?”
I blink. “A what ?”
He smirks, nudging me with his elbow. “An outcast , Tri. A wild thing. Always pickin’ fights, always speakin’ yer mind as if ye’ve no fear of consequence. Most lasses learn when to hold their tongue—but you? You just never stop.”
Something in my chest tightens, my humour fading.
“Maybe I’m happy not being like most lasses .” My voice is sharper than I mean it to be, but I don’t soften it. “Maybe that’s the point.”
Casey snorts. “Aye, well, that’s certainly one way to put it—”
“That’s enough.” Callan steps in before he can finish, his voice firm.
Casey blinks, his grin faltering. “Ach, Callan, I was only—”
Callan’s expression darkens. “Aye, ye always are. Just a jest—a bit of fun. Until it’s not.”
The air shifts.
Casey glances at me, then back at Callan, finally noticing the way the mood has changed.
Callan’s voice stays even, but there’s steel in it. “If ye had half the sense ye claim to, ye’d ken she’s had enough.”
Casey exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. He nudges me lightly. “Sorry, Tri. Took it too far.”
I shake my head and give him a small smile. “I know you’re only teasing.”
Callan lets out a huff. “Come on Casey. Let’s get Tri’s tent set up. We need rest,” he says, his voice carrying that familiar tone that leaves no room for argument.
Casey doesn’t argue. He gives my shoulder a light squeeze before joining Callan.
I look into the shadows cast by the fire, feeling an inexplicable unease creeping in, like the darkness itself is watching.
It was just a jest.
But the words still echo in my head.
“A misfit. An outcast.”
Triona Monday 21 April 1823 Somewhere in the Scottish Highlands
Perched atop a weathered, stony cliff, I take in the breathtaking expanse stretching endlessly before me.
Rolling green hills, vibrant and alive, undulate far beyond what my eyes can trace, bathed in the soft golden light of the late afternoon sun.
The Glen—our Glen—rests just below, cradled by the surrounding hills, its beauty untouched by time or toil.
It’s my family’s hidden piece of paradise, sacred and unspoiled, a sanctuary we’ve always known.
As I gaze upon this great wonder, the land shifts. Ancient power stirs beneath the surface, awakening from its slumber to drain the land of its vitality.
Darkness falls.
I watch in horror as the once-green hills and valleys wither under a bleak sky. The river threading through our peaceful Glen—normally clear as glass—runs sickly black, poisoning all it touches.
The crops vanish, skeletal cattle lie where they fell, starved and forgotten. And the people… they are little more than shadows, hollowed by despair, their eyes empty, lost.
I try to reach them, try to call out to someone— anyone—but the wind swallows my voice. Silence presses in, heavy and suffocating, and with it, the creeping dread that everything we know is crumbling beneath us.
Paradise unravels before my eyes, and I am powerless to stop it.
Then, I feel it. A presence—vast, ancient, and cruel—watching.
A sudden clopping of hooves behind me sends ice down my spine. Unwelcome, unnatural. I turn slowly, dread coiling in my stomach.
A rider looms atop a shadowy beast, unmoving.
The horse’s eyes glimmer like dying embers, its breath curling into the cold air.
Under the rider’s arm rests a horrific sight—his own severed head, its decayed visage twisted into a baleful grin.
Its eyes, glowing with malevolent light, pierce through the despair, locking onto me.
“ériu,” it speaks, the name rolling from its lips with a chilling resonance. The voice is an echo, a wail carried from the depths of a forgotten cave.
My heart races. Terror and fascination grip me, holding me fast in the web of his gaze.
The horse rears, neighing loud enough to shake the earth. I flinch, covering my ears.
“You have been chosen,” the voice continues, ancient and inevitable. Though the words belong to no tongue I know, they settle into my mind as if they have always been there. “The darkness comes for you, and with it, the end of all you hold dear.”
He draws nearer, and the chill seeps into my bones. The despair suffocating the land now coils around me. I want to run—to flee from the certainty of doom radiating from this wretched being—but my feet refuse to move. The weight of his presence roots me in place.
“Ready yourself, for I am the harbinger of what is yet to be—of a fate that cannot be stayed.”
The Glen is lost.
The unravelling has only just begun.
It has waited centuries to resurface, and now, nothing and no one will stop it.
Not this time.
I wake with a gasping scream, my body jolting upright as if wrenched from drowning.
Cold sweat slicks my skin, the air thick, suffocating.
My chest heaves, my ribs straining against the frantic rhythm of my breath.
The nightmare isn’t gone—not fully. The phantom chill of it clings to me, curling like unseen chains tightening around my throat.
Before I can wrench myself free from its grip, heavy footfalls thunder outside my tent, followed by the frantic rustling of fabric. A heartbeat later, Casey and Callan burst inside, weapons drawn.
“Triona!” Casey barks, his voice sharp, cutting through the haze. His eyes—wild, frantic—sweep the dimly lit space, searching for a threat.
Callan, slightly more composed but no less tense, steps forward, his gaze locking onto mine with unnerving precision. “Nightmare?” His tone is calm, but his posture is rigid, his muscles coiled.
I try to speak, but the words lodge in my throat, trapped beneath the lingering weight of terror. My fingers clutch at the fabric over my chest as if I can physically hold myself together.
Tears blur my vision, hot and unwelcome. I hate this—hate the way my body betrays me, the way my breath shudders as I whisper, “It felt so real.”
My voice is hoarse, raw, the tremor in it betraying the depths of my fear.
Casey exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face before lowering his blade. “A nightmare?” he echoes, but there’s no relief in his voice. “Sounded more like you were bein’ flayed alive.”
His words send another shiver racing down my spine. Because he isn’t wrong.
Casey hesitates, his expression shifting, softening—not enough to dull the worry etched into his brow, but enough that his voice drops a notch. “I can stay. Just until you fall back asleep. ”
I want to refuse. The words are on the tip of my tongue, bitter and stubborn, but the silence waiting beyond them feels too vast, too dark, and too heavy.
I exhale slowly, hating the way my body craves the comfort I don’t want to need. Hating how the thought of being alone makes my skin crawl. The remnants of the nightmare coil around me still, cold and merciless.
I clench my jaw, forcing myself to speak past the shame curling in my gut. “Fine,” I mutter, reluctant, resigned. “Just until I fall asleep.”
Callan, watching me carefully, crosses his arms. His gaze sharpens, pinning me in place. “This isn’t the first time, is it?”
My stomach twists, and I hesitate. Then say, barely above a whisper, “No. But they’ve never been like this.”
I swallow hard, avoiding Callan’s piercing gaze. Because it isn’t the first time.
And deep down, I know—it won’t be the last.