The Song in the Silver by Faberge Nostromo

Chapter One
    He sat on the side of the hill, beneath the wind-stunted oak, and looked down on the thin stream of smoke drifting from the croft into the star-littered sky. A faint wisp of the Northern Lights swept like a wraith across the inky black. The wind flicked his raven-black hair from his face and stung his eyes.
    She was in there. The time was coming. The conflict in his heart hoped that it might not be tonight, but that if it was, it would be before the dawn broke over the hills opposite.
    The howl of a wolf echoed across the valley. He recognized Aatu’s cry. She had been here always, before him. She’d been here all the time he’d been far away, far from the pain. She would still be here after he left.
    A bird splashed in the dark reeds along the side of the beck at the cry, protecting her young from the night, just as he’d protected the woman in the croft when he could. And when his presence had threatened her, he’d left to take the threat far away.
    He wrapped his cloak tight around him, though he didn’t need it against the cold. He felt neither cold nor warmth—only loss.
    He touched the deerskin pouch that hung from the leather thong around his neck. The soft vibrations of the uisge, the life force, from the silver cross inside were fainter now. One pattern of vibrations, one of the harmonies within the song, was fading. The pattern had lived with him for nearly a century. It was what had brought him back, the realization that one part of the song was coming to an end.
    The journey had been long and hard. The dark highways of his existence had made it so, but he had come. And he would leave again. After he had had one last moment with her, to tell her. So that she would, at the end, know. Just as he had with her mother.
    ***
    “Come, Mary, my love. The burn is sweet and cool. Drink with me and let’s make the most of the summer evening while we may.” He swept the clear water up in his cupped hands and drank deeply. His blue eyes sparkled like the water.
    “Oh, come on, will you, William. The sheep need moving to the lower field. You’ll be sleeping in the bothy if we don’t hurry along,” she said, trying not to laugh at him.
    He was always getting them into trouble with her father, and although the sun was still in the sky, there was an ominous leaden cloud drifting over the hill to the north. She looked at him, young William Reed, his mess of black hair as wild as the glen itself, his smile as wide as the loch sparkling in the late summer sun. He stood up from the burn and picked up the staff he’d used to drive the sheep down the hillside. Such a handsome but wayward young man, tall and strong, firm of jaw, and broad of shoulder. His kilt waved about his long legs in the breeze. He wrapped his plaid around his shoulders. The wind was picking up as the cloud loomed over the hill and the temperature dropped.
    He slipped his arm around her shoulders, and they strolled down the hillside, driving the sheep before them. She liked his touch, the warmth of him against her, the weight of his arm, the firmness of the muscles of his forearm against her neck, the way he teased her long, red hair. He was special, and she loved him so.
    But her father would not approve of her taking up with a Reed boy from across the glen. Yes, he’d taken William on as a shepherd, but he’d not be happy letting his daughter get tangled up in a romance with William. She let her hand fall onto his and smiled as a tingle that she’d rather not know about made itself felt where a lass should not be feeling such a thing. With her other hand, she felt for the silver necklace she wore, the one with the small Celtic cross on it. It had been hung above her cradle by her grandmother and she had often thought of how she might pass it on to her own daughter, should she have one. Perhaps young William Reed might make an honest woman of her and they’d have bairns aplenty for her to care for.
    The small stone bothy came into view