Love Amid Ashes
The battle with the Keiths faded into memory as bruises yellowed and cuts closed, but its shadow lingered over the Craik camp. Men carried their scars with grim pride, and women spoke low of how close the flames had come to the pans. Yet amid the fear and the hard work, something new pulsed in the heart of the place—a quiet strength, born of the stranger who had bled with them.
And in Agnes Craik's heart, something more.
She was not a woman given to softness. The daughter of a farmer who had lost his land to a greedy laird, she had built her life on salt and kelp, on the strength of her arms and the sharpness of her mind. She had led her folk not with gentle words but with a ledger's clarity and a warrior's iron. Men respected her, aye, but they did not see her as woman—they saw her as leader, provider, protector.
Until him.
Seumas Gunn. Flint, as he had called himself when first he came. A man she had taken for a dying ghost, yet who had fought with the fury of ten and stood with her against Colin Keith. He was broken in body, scarred and coughing blood, but his presence filled the camp like a hearth fills a house.
And when she looked at him—when his eyes met hers across the fire, dark and burning despite the hollows of his face—Agnes Craik remembered she was not only leader. She was woman.
It began with small things.
A ribbon.
One evening, as she bent over his cot to rebind his bandaged side, a lock of hair fell across her cheek. He reached—slow, hesitant—and brushed it back with a trembling hand. His fingers lingered, calloused tips grazing her temple. The touch burned more than fire.
Without a word, she pulled a strip of red wool from her hair and pressed it into his hand. "Keep it," she said simply. "So you don't forget whose fire you lie beside."
He looked at it as though she had given him a crown. Slowly, reverently, he tied it around the hilt of his dirk. "A token," he murmured. "As the old ways said."
Gaelic custom was clear: a ribbon, a brooch, even a scrap of cloth tied to a man's weapon or worn at his heart was no small thing. It was not a promise yet, but it was the first step, a whisper that said: I see you. I claim you, if you'll have me.
Agnes knew what she had done. And so did he.
The next step was his.
One night, when the moon was thin and the camp lay quiet, Flint rose from his cot and limped into the salt wind. His wounds still pained him, but the broth and bitter draughts had given him strength he had not felt in years. He stood by the shore, staring at the white crash of waves.
Agnes found him there, cloak tight about her shoulders. "You should be resting," she chided.
"I've rested enough for three lifetimes," he said. His voice was raw, but there was a new steadiness beneath it. He turned, and in his hand was his dirk. The same dirk he had carried since Culloden, scarred and dark with age.
He held it out, hilt first.
She frowned. "What are you doing?"
"In the Gunn way," he said, "a man gives what is dearest to him when he would bind his heart. A dirk, a claymore, sometimes only a carved token. But it must be his. It must have blood or memory on it." His eyes did not leave hers. "This has both."
Agnes's throat tightened. She knew the weight of the gesture. To take a man's weapon was to take his life into her keeping. She hesitated, the wind tugging her hair loose.
"Seumas…"
He stepped closer, close enough that the heat of him fought the chill of the sea breeze. "You gave me your fire," he said softly. "Let me give you my steel."
Slowly, she reached out and closed her fingers around the dirk's hilt. The leather was worn smooth by his hand, the blade nicked with years of use. She held it, heavy with meaning, and nodded.
"Then I'll keep it," she whispered.
Their eyes locked. The sea roared. And in that moment, no oath spoken in kirk or law carried more weight than the exchange of ribbon and dirk.
Gaelic custom called it handfasting—a betrothal for a year and a day, a time to test the bond before priest or clan gave blessing. Often it was done at Beltaine, hands bound together with a cord of wool or silk. Sometimes it was secret, a meeting in the heather with only sky and sea as witness.
For Agnes and Flint, it began in the salt wind, with a dirk and a ribbon.
But soon, the bond grew.
They walked the shore together, speaking of things neither had told another soul. She told him of her brother lost in an Orkney pit, of the weight of leading when her heart longed for more. He told her of Culloden, of the men he had cut down, of the years spent as a ghost in Glasgow's smoke.
"You think yourself cursed," she said one evening. "But you're not. You're a man who's carried more than most could bear. And you're still here."
He looked at her then with an intensity that stole her breath. "I am," he said. "Because of you."
The first intimacy came not in heat but in quiet.
One night, the camp slept heavy after a long day of kelp cutting. Agnes and Flint sat by a low fire, close but not touching. The night was sharp with frost, stars hard as steel above.
Agnes shivered despite her cloak. Without a word, Flint shifted closer, his shoulder brushing hers. She stiffened for a moment—then leaned, letting his warmth seep into her. His arm moved, hesitant, then sure, wrapping around her.
She turned her face to him. Their foreheads touched, breath mingling. Slowly, her hand slid to his chest, feeling the steady thud beneath. His lips brushed hers, tentative, then firmer.
It was not a kiss of hunger but of recognition—two souls who had circled each other at last colliding. Salt was on their lips, and smoke, and the faint sweetness of kelp.
When they broke apart, she whispered in Gaelic, "Mo chridhe. My heart."
He closed his eyes, pressing his brow to hers. "Mo anam. My soul."
And in that moment, they were bound deeper than any priest could make them.
After, they lay side by side on the turf, cloaks wrapped tight, the fire's glow flickering low. Their hands remained clasped, fingers intertwined. There was no need for more. The Gaels said a handfasted pair need not share a bed until they chose, but the bond of hand and soul was already made.
Agnes traced the scars on his arm with her finger, each one a story she had yet to hear. "You've lived like ash," she murmured. "But I see flame in you still."
He kissed her hair, rough lips against fiery strands. "And you've kindled it."
The sea crashed, the wind sighed, the camp breathed around them. And for the first time since Culloden, Seumas Gunn felt not the weight of death, but the promise of life.
The Oath of Souls
The days that followed were strangely bright, as though the smoke of battle had burned something clean. The Keiths had retreated to lick their wounds, and though every Craik knew they would come again, there was space now for breath, for rebuilding, for a different kind of work.
And for Agnes and Seumas, there was a space for something else.
Word had already spread among the Craiks. Folk were not blind; they saw how Agnes's eyes found him in every crowd, how he leaned on her when the cough stole his breath, how her hand lingered at his shoulder longer than a leader's should. They whispered, aye, but not with scorn—with a kind of cautious hope.
For in Highland life, love was never just between two souls. It was a matter of clan, of hearth, of survival.
And so it was Màiri—the old woman who had tied the kelp charm to his targe—who came to Agnes one morning and said, "Child, the fire has chosen him. Will you make him yours before the people, or will you keep skulking like foxes in the heather?"
Agnes flushed, though she did not bow her head. "We've made no oath yet."
Màiri's sharp eyes softened. "Not in words, perhaps. But in deed, you have. I've seen the way he carries your ribbon, and the way you hold his dirk when you think none watch."
Agnes swallowed hard. "Then perhaps it is time."
That night, when the pans hissed low and the folk gathered to eat bread and fish around the long fire, Agnes stood. She wore no finery, only her salt-stained gown and a cloak against the wind, but her presence drew every eye. Flint sat a little apart, his claymore across his knees, the red ribbon still tied at his belt.
"Craiks," Agnes began, her voice clear. "We have stood together against fire and blade. We have lost much, but we are unbroken. Tonight, I would bind our strength stronger still."
She turned, meeting Flint's eyes. "Seumas Gunn."
He rose, slow, steady despite the pain of his wounds. The name hung heavy in the air, for even those who had guessed had not heard it aloud. The Gunns were old foes of the Keiths; to speak that name in Craik ground was no small thing.
But Agnes's face was fierce, unyielding. "You fought beside us when you had no cause to. You bled with us when you might have turned away. You gave me your steel, and I gave you my fire. Tonight, before my people, I ask—will you stand as one of us? Will you be bound by salt and ash, by oath and by love?"
A hush fell, broken only by the hiss of the pans and the crash of the sea. Flint's eyes moved over the gathered faces—men, women, children—all looking to him not as stranger but as shield. Then he looked back at Agnes, flame in her hair, fire in her eyes.
He dropped to one knee, planting the claymore upright before him. His voice was rough but strong. "By my blade, by my blood, by the name I have hidden and the name I bear, I swear it. Airson na beò. For the living. I will fight for you, I will bleed for you, I will die for you if need be. And while I draw breath, I will love you, Agnes Craik, with all that I am."
A murmur rippled through the crowd—shock, awe, the weight of the words sinking deep.
Agnes stepped forward, heart hammering. She took his hands, rough and scarred, and raised him to his feet. Then she lifted a small bowl of kelp ash mixed with salt, prepared by Màiri. She dipped her fingers and drew a line across his brow.
"Lasair agus luath," she said. "Flame and ash. From flame we are born, to ash we return. But between, we live, and we endure."
She pressed the bowl into his hands. He did the same to her, his touch lingering as he marked her brow with ash and salt.
The people watched in silence, then one by one, they raised their cups and echoed: "Lasair agus luath."
In that moment, it was done. No kirk bell, no priestly blessing, but stronger than either. They were bound by the old ways, by salt and fire, by the eyes of their people and the weight of their own souls.
Later, when the fire had burned low and the folk had gone to their beds, Agnes and Flint walked alone along the cliff path. The moon silvered the sea, and the air smelled of salt and smoke.
"You've given yourself to me before them all," she said softly.
"Aye." He caught her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. "And gladly."
She stopped, turning to face him. "Then hear me now. You are mine, Seumas Gunn—not just your blade, not just your strength, but your heart. And I am yours. Whatever comes—Keith, law, even death—we face it together."
He drew her into his arms then, fierce despite his wounds, and kissed her with a hunger that burned hotter than fire. She clung to him, tasting salt and smoke and the promise of something more than survival—something worth living for.
When they broke apart, breathless, she laid her forehead to his. "Mo ghràdh. My love."
His voice was rough, reverent. "Mo bhean. My wife."
And though no priest had spoken it, both knew it to be true.