Faodail

I

Flora should have been in Paris.

She should have been sipping on wine, lounging beside her husband and content to never leave their bed. She should have been walking arm in arm with him through the Louvre and taking cheesy photos together in front of the Eiffel Tower. She should have been having the time of her life honeymooning in the most romantic city in the world; instead, she was running for her life from who had to be the most dedicated actors she had ever come into contact with. She wasn't aware Inverness did historical reenactments, but whoever was in charge would be getting an earful from her as soon as---

A yelp ripped itself from Flora's throat as a misstep sent her tumbling down a small hill. Panic seized her at first, urging her body to become rigid and attempt to grab onto something to stop her fall, but then the memory of her stunt instructor screeching at her to "Get loose, MacPherson!" flashed before her eyes. She had spent entirely too much money getting yelled at and injuring herself to be taken out by a little incline. With some effort, she relaxed her body and attempted to keep her knees and arms bent, and though her back ached by the time her body finally stopped rolling, the lack of any sprained limbs was well worth it.

Flora laid there at the bottom of the hill for a moment, twigs nestled in her hair, and Englishmen forgotten. This weekend was shaping up to be one hell of a story. Aye, kids, your grandma left her fiance at the altar to be manhandled and chased and thrown down hills.

"Are ye okay, lass?"

Flora shot up, twisting around to spot a man who must have been one of the actors -- why else would he be wearing a kilt and look as though he hadn't ever stepped foot in a shower? Otherwise, he was a handsome enough man with a forest of a beard and a brow that seemed permanently shaped into a scowl. "I'm fine. Maybe a little bruised," Flora assured, pushing herself up to stand.

"What're ye doin' out here?"

"I was---"

Shouts overhead cut her short. Her new acquaintance spat a curse and closed the distance between them in no time at all, grasping her arm and proceeding to drag her in the direction of... Well, Flora didn't care. She just wanted him to let go. But he had strong hands, and Flora couldn't do much more than drag her feet and jerk her arm around.

"Let go of me!"

He stopped without warning and whipped around, the scowl more prominent then. "Keep yer voice down! Do ye want the Redcoats to find us?" Flora met his grimace with a glare of her own. She didn't know him from Adam, but she really would like to avoid the "Redcoats." Grabby bastards.

"No."

"Then pick up yer feet."

They ran for some time until they came upon a stream, which they then followed at a pace still hasty but at the very least more relaxed. The man didn't attempt to speak to her again, perhaps uninterested or thinking it too much trouble. Flora herself could feel awkwardness rearing its damned, slimy head -- should she ask him to point her in the direction of the road? He seemed just as dedicated to his performance as his peers, and while Flora wasn't one to be easily daunted, she wasn't sure how to handle someone so determined to remain in-character.

The man tugged on her arm as a silent command to keep up. A frown formed on her lips. Damned method actors.

It should have been apparent from the beginning that there was something amiss with the situation, that spectators would have been present were a historical reenactment taking place and that Craigh na Dun was an odd place even to stage such a thing. The fact that the terrain looked familiar yet very much different from how she remembered should have been another clue; she hadn't even noticed that the road she had driven down was now nonexistent. No, it took walking into a camp of distrustful Scots for the cogs in Flora's mind to begin turning.