Profile of Áine

it was a day of shame and despair, when clan carmichael, a name both ancient and noble, knelt before the Mainlander king.

‘your Majesty,’ Ealair Carmichael had said, head held low as he offered his sword. ‘we, Clan Carmichael of Culloden, pledge our allegiance to thee.’

oh, how the mighty have fallen, the common folk had bemoaned. what a pity, what a disgrace. once a paragon of Highland pride, now a tarnished traitor, blackened forever.

it was a day of success and celebration, when clan carmichael ensured its survival under the reign of the Mainlands. for the immunity granted to a vassal of the crown, Ealair Carmichael presented his sword with unwavering hands. as his vow flowed from his lips, he felt a sense of victory as he saw the look of satisfaction above the Mainland king’s face. his bloodline would continue, even if war broke between the lands. his clan would prevail, and that was all that mattered.

and prevail it did when spring came, but at a great cost.

perhaps it had been the work of the Faefolk whom did not take lightly the betrayal of Ealair and his sons, or perhaps luck had not been on their side that day.

when war came, the battles raged fierce and bloody, and Ealair raised his sword against his Highlander brethren whose army swarmed from the north. when that fateful moment arrived, it hadn’t been the broadsword of Highland forge that felled Lord Carmichael. an unseen act of betrayal, naively overlooked, had taken Ealair by surprise when the thin blade of a Mainland soldier found itself gutted in his abdomen. with a swing, metal met skin, and Ealair knelt once more for good.

the banner of Clan Carmichael would fall in 1707, and Ealair would leave behind no one.

except a daughter, borne of clan and crown, whose enraged tears dripped upon her father’s corpse. loathed him she did, but she grieved greater for the burden that found itself on her shoulders as she stood alone in the halls of her home.

who are you? i am Áine.
who are you? i am —
who are you? i am a Carmichael.

in the eyes of your father, you are a mistake, a result of too much mead and golden hair alluring. thank the Fae, he must have thought, when it was only you that your mother had carried.

you never quite knew who your mother was. you looked like her, this was certain— time and time again you were told that you bore no resemblance to your sire, that nothing about you was of Highlander ilk. her name, however, her blood, her whereabouts all seemed to hide themselves in the cryptic and sometimes cruel words of others.

( you asked about her often when you were young, and the answers were never the same.

sometimes she was a nameless ‘Mainlander wench’, a whore, sometimes you were called a changeling in return, and sometimes you heard a whisper of the name ‘Leta’.

perhaps they were all wrong, but you believed them all the same. )

you’re only alive, you’re sure, because of your eyes, sapphire-blue as they are.

in the traditions of your clan, blue was in the ink of its banner, blue was in the eyes of your father, and his father, and his father onwards. your brothers’ were gold, and there in the brightness of their near perfection, you stood above them. but you carried the filth of intruders’ blood, your countenance all too alike your mother, and suddenly you were nothing but a spare, coveted only for a singular feature on your face.

the pedestal on which you should have stood upon tormented and mocked you during every waking hour of your life. it was always there, and you would never be able to approach it.

you asked yourself innumerable times. why be given the pretense of nobility, be allowed to wear tailored dresses and extravagant jewels, when really, no one truly believed you to be a Carmichael of Highland blood.

a Carmichael must act as a Carmichael should.

‘no daughter of mine will show weakness,’ your father said one day after calling upon you.

it had been the first time he acknowledged your kinship, the first time he had truly looked at you. you were barely into your adolescence and not once had he ever recognised you as his in those years gone. to him, to your siblings, you were a transparent figure, seen through and never once addressed in a familiar manner. your brothers whispered to each other that you were a ghost— a faceless, nameless little girl.

but that day, in that room, in his office, you were in the palm of his hand, as áine, expendable but nonetheless his child. for once, you existed.

you remembered it all so clearly. the fear that consumed your heart, the awe that had you staring starstruck, the desperation to be wanted leaving you utterly in his grasp. diminutive in size you were and he towered over you, casting a great and terrible shadow that had you feeling utterly small. you think on it now, realising that there was no warmth where there should have been in his eyes. callous, uncut sapphires bore into your fragile, hopeful ones, and stupidly, you had even dared to smile.

‘a Carmichael does not entertain the inadequate, much less be them. do you understand?”

you worked hard, you worked until you collapsed.

you’re ruthless, you’re told. there’s no remorse on your face when you struck down your sparring opponent. you’re not sorry, you thought as you offered a hand to your fallen partner. you didn’t really want to hurt them, but you certainly intended to win.

you’re capable, reliable in a way that your brothers weren’t. efficiency became what you were known for— you’re the child that could. you found that enviable ease in your actions, you’re productive, and you held it above your siblings with a smugness that you clung to with glee. ‘ha!’ you laughed in their faces, an impish grin sliding across your lips. ‘see how i am better than you. i will make father proud.’

but oh, how naïve. how foolish.

it came to no surprise that a marriage would be arranged between you and some faceless fellow. the intention for you to pass down the Carmichael blue to your children was clear, and you bared your teeth for the first time at your father when he told you. he struck you across the face, a forceful palm sending you to the floor as he sneered, ‘be grateful that you have any use at all.’ and you felt something splinter within you, a bright sheen shining across your eyes in a moment of pure anguish. all that effort, all those months. how could have culminated into- into being sold?

you looked up at him, facial features tensing painfully in an attempt to stop yourself from crying. ‘do i really mean this little to you?’

— events shrouded in mist and uncertainty:

you tried to run away one night, with nothing but a cloak and a pouch of money, hand in hand with a servant boy. ‘let’s get away from here. let us be happy. together.’

pain and heartbreak seared through you as you both dashed through the servant corridors in the dark of the night. you turned to look back at the wings where your father and brothers slept, tears sliding down your cheeks, thinking that you were going to leave your family behind forever. that you won’t have a family after this night.

it turned out to be a futile escape when you are spotted, and the ensuing chaos that followed after broke you.

you don’t remember the terror, the utter devastation when the boy’s hand was torn out of yours and you were dragged back to the castle. you don’t remember screaming loudly in distress and you don’t remember fainting.

when you come to, you forgot the entire event, and you forgot the boy too.

his name was Cedric from the House Martell and he had a polite smile for a Mainlander.

he was your future husband, so you tried to offer a smile back but you don’t think it worked when his dropped. it made you flustered, made you fiddle with your hands. you worried, wondering what he had seen. had it been… ugly? smiling never came easily to you, but surely you weren't that terrible at it. where kindness was due, you should be able to return it. surely you were capable of at least that.

you could tell that Cedric would be a good husband. he treated you with respect and held your hand gently, he listened to you and he offered discussion. it did not help your cause that he was good-looking as well, armed with a smile charming enough to draw a blush onto your cheeks. you recalled a particular embarrassing afternoon where you tripped into the tearoom, all too prepared to face-plant into the pastries on the table, only to meet a solid chest and hands gripping your waist. you remembered being momentarily taken by the carefree laugh that burst from him as you regained your balance, heart jackhammering in your chest.

perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, you thought to yourself one evening as you watched him depart. he might be a Mainlander, but he seemed to be a good one. you might have grown to love him in time.

you heard the news of the rebels when you were in Yorkshire, having relocated there for your upcoming wedding. why you couldn’t have been married at Tir na Nog was still a sour topic, and one Ealair had smothered with a single growl. it was your milestone, your marriage, and yet you were still commanded and forced to comply. a union at the Standing Rocks would have been blessed by the Fae, even if your husband was not of Highlander ilk.

however, your wedding day never arrived. the ivory gown so painstakingly sown for you was never worn, you did not get to experience what should have been something joyous. your marriage is a signature on a piece of paper and a single kiss as you tried to be happy.

you tried not to admit the disappointment that overcame you for the loss of your special day. despite the arranged nature of your engagement, some part of you had been looking forward to it.

war gripped Rionnach with an iron fist when Queen Aileen rebelled, her Northern armies sweeping down the continent to take King Adamh’s crown from his head. it was a terrifying occurrence, but it was a final stance that the Highlands posed against the usurpers. allied clans were all called to arms and yours was no different. you expected the clan to answer the Queen’s call, but Ealair had other plans. you stood there in shock when you were told that Clan Carmichael would wave its banner for the Mainlander king, face pale at the blatant betrayal. how could he? how could he betray their people and fight for the enemy? your marriage might have been an obvious alliance, but to pledge allegiance to Adamh?

for once, you looked to your brothers hoping that they might hold differing opinions, but pathetically loyal, they chose to stand by your father. Ealair raised the banner of your clan and you watched with horror as your family marched for the Mainlander king. you thought faintly with a sinking heart that that would be the last time you would ever see them again.

and you were right.

you didn’t know what to think when Ealair’s corpse was brought back to the chateau, along with the bodies of your brothers. tears did not spring to your eyes at the sight of blood caking their armour, the stench of death filling the great hall. when prompted to prepare for their funeral, your lips curled up into a smile and you huffed a scoff. stupid, stupid, how stupid was all that you could think, anger bubbling at the karmic end that your family had met. they brought this upon themselves.

“what happened.”

you were told that Ealair had died to a Mainlander’s sword, and the dam bursts, uncontrollable laughter spilling from you. you must have cackled like a mad witch, judging from the vassal’s stricken face, hands uncovering your eyes as you tried to regain your composure. the smile on your face hurt and you’re not sure what everyone else saw through the blurred vision. fuck, fuck, fuck. this was what he got from trusting the Mainlands, your foolish father, believing that they would be fair even when their parliament had erroneously exiled the rightful ruler.

now he was gone, and you were left to pick up the pieces.

who are you?

you are your father's daughter, clan chieftain. you are the bane of your enemies, you are Áine Carmichael.