"Laird MacKenzie sent a messenger," Douglas revealed at last.
He kept a steady pace beside Arran, his breathing leveled and even – as if the stairs were no object to his might. Arran had trouble catching his breath. Even though Douglas was younger than him, he was taller and twice his size, and looked like three boys rolled and flattened into one.
Arran could not bring himself to respond until they were in his chamber. He unstrapped his bow, then undid the buttons of his shirt.
A large bowl of fruits sat in the center of his chamber, no doubt left there by Cook. It had become a small tradition for them. In the dim light of the chamber, a red apple caught the last of the fading sunlight and glowed red. Arran smiled as he thought about it andreached for the fruit; takinga big bite out of it. He then turned to face his brother. "From whom have ye learned this?"
Douglas shrugged. "That's nae the important bit, Arran. Faither will ask ye to fulfill that ghastly promise they made all those years ago. Now's our chance!" Douglas reached for the fruit bowl and bit into an apple of his own. Despite his brooding and permanent grave expression, even he could not resist such a fine-looking selection of treats.
"I hear ye," Arran said as he unbuttoned his shirt.
Douglas did not look convinced. "Remember? We made a promise o' to- “
"I don't need ye to remind me o' the things that keep me up at night, plague my dreams, and get me up in the morning." He hadn't meant to sound offish but he couldn’t help it.
Douglas leveled him a hard glance but Arran did not blink.
Finally, his brother's shoulders sagged in resignation. "Alright," he conceded. "Everyone's waiting for ye," he added, turning on his heels. Without warning, as if to test his older brother's fortitude, he picked up a fruit and threw it at Arran. Arran lifted his hand swiftly, catching the plum mid-air. He smirked at Douglas.
Bruce would be proud, he thought.
Both brothers grinned at each other.
"Happy birthday, ye old gaumy," said Douglas before pulling the door shut behind him.
Arran rolled his eyes, then stuffed himself with as many apples and strawberries as his belly would allow. He stripped off the rest of his clothes and took a long bath. He had every right to, he reasoned: he was tired, in spirit and in bones, from hunting and from his time in the stables, and from the collection of half-slumbers his nights had allowed him, plagued by nightmares since forever.
The previous night's sleep had been no exception.
Arran fell into a light sleep, his arms splayed widely over the edge of the tub, his body lathered with soap, his head leaning at a terrible angle.
In his dream, Bruce was nothing more than a blurry figure against the dark, standing so far away, Arran couldn’t make out his face. Still, he knew it was him. He could never forget the way his brother looked. He journeyed toward Bruce but the more steps he took, the further Bruce drifted away. He trudged through swampy forests, then skittered on ice but it was not enough to close the distance between them.
When he finally woke from his sleep, it was to the sound of knocking on his door. Beyond the rich burgundy drapes, night held a blanket of darkness over the MacLean keep. Arran shook his head. He had drifted off on the evening of his birthday, plagued by another nightmare, no less.
He was a man of unrest.
He would always be a man of unrest until he had avenged his brother.
"I'm coming!" he yelled to whoever was behind the door to his chamber. The knocking ceased. Arran washed his body in the cold water of his bath and dressed for the banquet.
He knew what had to be done.
The great dining hall was ablaze with lights as the guard announced Arran's entrance.
It was alive with conversation and good-natured laughter. The tables were piled high with fine food, and large glasses overflowing withwine.
He apologized to the noblemen and women for keeping them waiting, then sat down beside his brother and father.
"Ah, here we are! He graces us with his esteemed presence, at long last," came a voice. Arran turned on his heels and was not surprised to find that it was Esme who had spoken. She was the daughter of Sir Ian and had been an only child since her brother had passed in the same battle that had also claimed Bruce's life those twelve years ago.
The only thing Arran and Esme had in common was the loss of a sibling. She was a belligerentyoung lady with eagle-like eyes who always had something negative to say about anyone, at any time. She was only interested in the most expensive silk and the most subservient servants. Arran couldn't believe that before Bruce's death, they had all played in his mother's pleasure garden, wreaked havoc in the kitchen, and spent hours playing hide and seek in the cellar. She'd transformed from a thoughtful, lighthearted young girl to a beautiful but insufferable woman.
He knew he would not survive her conversation if it weren't offset by the company of others, and would have preferred to ignore her altogether but social gatherings called for manners.
He simply nodded in her direction. "Esme," he stated cooly. "Lovely indeed that ye could make it."
She leveled him a look that made it clear she did not believe him, and that she would not play his games, either.