Act 3: Recovery
A week after the truth, Hugh finds me at the woodpile.
Not the way he found me before. Not checking in, not leader-to-resident. He just walks up and sits on the stump next to me like he's got nothing better to do.
"You eat yet?"
"Not hungry."
"You're always not hungry." He says it without judgment. Just observation.
I set the axe down. My hands are stiff from the cold. The woodpile is almost done for the day. Tom would tell me to keep going. Hugh doesn't seem to care either way.
"Walk with me," he says.
It's not a question.
We walk the walls. Hugh points out things as we go. The guard rotation schedule. Which sections are weakest. Where the snow builds up and needs clearing before it blocks sight lines. He talks about it the way a teacher explains something to a student who's actually paying attention for once.
He doesn't ask me anything. Doesn't probe. Just talks.
When we reach the north tower, he stops. Leans against the stone. Looks out at the hills.
"My wife's name was Moira."
I don't say anything. He's not looking at me. He's looking at the grey sky.
"We met at a ceilidh in Drumchapel. I was twenty-three. She was twenty. Thought I was too serious. Thought she was too loud." A sound that might be a laugh. "Thirty-one years. Raised two daughters in the same house I grew up in. Different street, same area. Drumchapel people don't go far."
I stand next to him. The wind is sharp up here. The view stretches for kilometres. Hills, forest, the distant shimmer of frozen water.
"She died in the first week. The cold came so fast. She went to bed with a cough and didn't wake up." He says it the way you say something you've said inside your head so many times the words have worn smooth. "I was at the school. Trying to organise shelter for the families. By the time I got home she was cold. Not cold like the weather. Cold like she'd been gone for hours."
I don't offer condolences. Don't tell him I'm sorry. He doesn't need those words. Nobody needs those words.
"My daughters." He pauses. "Fiona's the eldest. She'd be forty-two now. She and her husband lived in Bearsden. Two kids. A girl and a boy." Another pause. Longer. "My granddaughter would be seven. Maybe eight by now. I don't know. Communications went down before I could find out anything."
"What about the other one?"
"Kirsty. She was in Aberdeen. Working in oil and gas. Big money, big hours. She and I didn't talk as much as we should have." He rubs his face with both hands. The gesture of a man who's been carrying something too long. "I don't know if either of them made it. Aberdeen's a coast city. If the infrastructure failed the way it did here..."
He doesn't finish. He doesn't need to.
We stand there for a while. The wind moves through the gaps in the stone. Below us, the courtyard is busy. People carrying wood, checking stores, talking in small groups. Life going on.
"Drumchapel," I say.
"What about it?"
"You grew up there. You taught there."
"Taught English at the secondary school for nearly thirty years. Became head of department. Then the council cuts came. The school struggled. The community struggled. When the frost hit, I tried to do what I'd always done. Hold things together."
He turns from the wall. Starts walking again. I follow.
"I got about two hundred people out of Drumchapel. Walked north. We thought the castle would hold. It did, for a while. Then MacLeod's people found us."
"Raiders."
"Raiders. A warlord with more ambition than sense. He hit our supply lines first. Then our outer buildings. Then the walls themselves. We had teachers and shopkeepers and pensioners. He had men with guns and nothing to lose." Hugh's voice is steady. No self-pity. Just fact. "We lost eleven people in the attack. Eleven people I was supposed to protect. Then we moved. Here."
"How many made it?"
"From Drumchapel to here? About a hundred and sixty. We picked up more on the way. People who heard we had a plan. A direction. Something to walk toward."
We reach the south tower. Hugh stops again.
"The point is, I've been doing this since the start. Making decisions. Losing people. Carrying the weight of every wrong call. It doesn't get lighter." He looks at me. "You think you're the only one carrying something you can't put down?"
I don't answer. I don't need to.
"Your friend," he says. "The one you told me about. The soldier."
"Liam." The word sits in my mouth like a stone.
"Liam. The one who followed orders. Who couldn't live with it after." Hugh's eyes are steady. "You think you're becoming him. You told me that. I heard you."
"I am becoming him."
"You're not. You know why?" He leans against the stone. "Because he was alone. He had a vicar who'd never fired a rifle telling him it wasn't his fault. You've got three hundred people in this castle. You've got a woman who walked through the door and talked you down from the edge. You've got me, whether you want me or not."
Whether you want me or not.It's not an offer of friendship. It's not therapy. It's a statement. The same way he says everything. Just fact.
"I've never told anyone," I say. "About Liam. What happened. What he did."
"I know." He pushes off the wall. Starts walking again. "Some things are easier to carry when you stop pretending they don't weigh anything."
We walk the rest of the wall in silence. Not uncomfortable. Just quiet. Two men who've seen things they can't unsee, walking in circles around a castle full of people who need them to keep going.
When we reach the gate, he claps me on the shoulder. The same gesture as always. Simple. Direct.
"You should eat something," he says. "You look like shite."
"Thanks."
"Welcome."
He walks off toward the main hall. I stand there for a moment. The wind has died down. The sky is grey and flat and endless.
My daughters. Maybe eight by now. She was cold. Not cold like the weather. Eleven people I was supposed to protect.He carries it the way I carry it. One foot in front of the other. No magic. No cure. Just the refusal to stop.
I go find something to eat.