Archibald Douglas x Piroska AU

Chapter 1

Piroska's POV

I remember him, his heartfelt confession of affection to me, followed by a look of absolute terror and dread as his eyes rolled back and he just collapsed, as if I had stabbed him with four knives all at once, as if I had just shot him - it's fascinating, really, how gullible and stupid Homo Sapiens appear to be. Even now, after decades of doing this, this is the part of my 'job' I still find most intriguing. How can someone who had so little and who had been brought up to trust no one but himself be so gullible, so vulnerable, to a person they'd never previously met? But that was then. Now I'm here, on the run. As usual.

It's nice to be in the air again all night without anyone gazing down at me as if I were some Goddess, yet it's frustrating whenever I must return into the safety of the ship during the day: of course, I can transform into the sin that is a Homo Sapien, but, still, I will be trapped on the ground. But I can't really complain: the views are nice, and by views I mean the former inhabitants of the ship, now laying lifeless and distributed randomly all over the ship. While the sun may rid me of my freedom temporarily, it can't extinguish my curiosity, and so I skip around as if I were an immature Homo Sapien child, and find them all, one by one, as if it were some game of hide-and-seek - it's quite miraculous, really. I find the children, the men, the women, and even my dear Richard, laying at the centre of it all, and I just gaze at them for hours on end, as if I am having a staring contest, as if their shut eyes still keep a hint of life in them.

As soon as the ship arrives at the port, I'm off. The sky is bright and the yellowish-white ball of sin shines at me as if it knew of my wrongdoings, as if it is trying to punish me for something I never chose to become or endure. But it can't stop me, none of them can. Sneaking towards one side of the ship, I begin to take to the air and hope for the best: to be fair, I am beyond baffled (which says a lot - very few actions of the Homo Sapiens astonish me anymore) as to how I didn't hear a scream from a sailor, or even a squeal from a child, anything you'd expect when you'd see a monster such as myself flying clumsily through the air. They're stupider than I would ever wish a species to be, but I can hardly complain. Even now, I land on top of a roof (with some form of shelter of course) and observe them as they enter a ship that's contents will forever change their life, as they come sprinting back as if they are being chased and shout at their equally-brainless friends to come along too so that they, too, can be destroyed mentally forever. They deserve this. I can't help crack a smile, which eventually turns into a huge grin, as I inspect them with intent: besides the obvious, this is one of my favourite parts of my job too - the aftermath. This isn't proper at all of course, even someone like I was raised to know this isn't the most respectful nor acceptable form of entertainment, but who can stop me? I am only having a bit of fun is all.

I am no fool, I know what they'll try to do: they'll search the ship, collect the bodies and piece two and two together and assume the suspect. But it's fine! Half their bodies have been thrown into the depths of the ocean, somewhere I doubt they'll ever have the sense to look. I know this for a fact, as I have been doing this for long enough to know it only takes a strong character, mischief and a bit of charm to outsmart these Homo Sapiens - I find it hilarious, really, especially to watch. One by one they haul the bodies out and I count them all about a dozen times, though I know exactly the amount of passengers that have been victim to my mission - 115.

"A fair amount, but not enough," as someone would say.

"One left," I mutter quite horsley, so quietly and discreetly I wonder if I even said it out loud rather than in my mind, "Just one."

Archibald's POV

I remember her, her astonishing beauty, her countless promises that she believed me, that she trusted me, only for her to betray me and move on, as if I were a child's old toy, to her next victim. This isn't unusual by any means - all women are like this, which is the very reason they aren't fit to rule. Someone with such a strong character and envious demeanour is bound to destroy their own country, and she has tried, but I won't let her - I won't let any woman step over me as if she is superior to me, that's not how it's meant to work. I cannot understand why such a country as Scotland seems to agree with her absurd beliefs, as if I haven't gotten a pardon from the king of England himself, as if he didn't give me his word! It can't be about her power, after all, one day she's regent and the next she can't even keep her own son on the throne. Perhaps it is about her beauty, yet I find that hard to believe - her beauty has been leaving her ever since I met her, as if I cast a dark curse over her, as if God himself tried to tell me to stay away from that doaty dobber. But that was then. Now I'm here, on the run. As usual.

Ever since I escaped from Blackness, I've been running. Just running. Well, riding to be more precise. Riding towards the debatable lands, then through the North of England, and now I'm... somewhere. I have considered seeking refuge in the king of England again, but what power and courage would that show? All I have done for the past couple years is run to England and back, clearly it has not helped. So now I'm here, going.. somewhere. I avoid passing through any villages: a merchant-looking man dressed in rich furs and cloth isn't a sight you see every day in the middle of the debatable lands. Of course I have shed some of the furs and cloaks and glorious Italian armour - I'm not that much of a bampot - but I have to keep my dignity somehow, don't I?

I've left everything behind, my whole Clan, but I doubt I can even trust them at this point: who knows which one of them really stood by my side from the very beginning, who knows which one of them secretly became spies and messengers for the monster that is Margaret, as if they're some ordinary bunch of fearties. I miss nobody, for who is there to miss? I suppose there is still my daughter, the only person who has stood by my side from the very day she was born, the only person who didn't fear me behind her true, honest smile - at least she knows her place. I shall write to her when I can, and I know I can rely on her to provide me with news from Scotland, news of Margaret.

And so I ride and ride until I reach an oddly modern-looking town: it is by the coast - the smell of fresh fish and the mist from passing ships reveals that much - and the buildings seem to be more sophisticated than what commoners in Scotland ever had. The atmosphere is friendly enough, people smile and wave to me as if I were a friend passing by, their children running about without a care in the world instead of watching and gazing intently at their elders, their dogs wrestling for sticks instead of rabbits; who do these people think they are? This isn't anything like Scotland. I hate it.

When I finally get off my horse at what appears to be an inn, I look around for an appropriate place to tie up my horse, walking at the same time. While you do have to walk on a specific side of the path here, there is a specific allocated area marked in black for carriages and horses and a specific area for pedestrians on either side. I've never seen something like this, but I can't help but agree that it's much more organised than Scotland. My positive opinion doesn't last long, as I feel my vision blur and my body feels as if it has slammed against a wall. I look up: a woman, rather tall, green-eyed, a long cloak that clings to her thin frame and extends to the ground. She stares at me, as if she is expecting an apology, anything.

"Awa' n bile yer heid," I mutter, walking away.