Kat Bastion - Forged in Dreams and Magick

He stared at me, searching my eyes, hesitating. The wisdom he held in his expressions—in careful questions and the way he directed, led, and protected his people—explained a great deal about why his people followed him without question. I would follow Velloc across oceans upon command.

His voice fell to a whisper. “Did we win?”

I smiled. He’d weighed the consequences of knowing the course of events before they played out. His knowledge about whether they won or lost could impact the way they fought now. The information would either change the course of history, or resign him to their destiny.

How would I ever know the extent of my impact along the preordained timeline?

I grasped his hands in mine, squeezing them. “Velloc, no one knows. The arrogant Romans were the only ones who told the story. They claimed victory, but no evidence suggests they actually won. They never stayed.”

Velloc nodded. His seriousness bore the gravity of the situation, penetrating every crease on his furrowed face.

I kissed him, drawn to the quiet power of his discernment, palpable in the air around us—between us. Long, lazy nips of his lips, his tongue caressing alongside mine, and his arms traveling up my back, pulled me closer, combining us . . . defining us as one.

His gentle hands on my shoulders separated us, and he closed his eyes, touching his forehead to mine. “Isobel, why are you back? He let you go?”

The conversation had to happen. I’d been avoiding the difficulty I knew he’d have with the reality of the situation. So many qualities that Velloc possessed, Iain shared. Two men identical in core values and personalities existed over the span of twelve hundred years. It made me wonder at the oddity of being soul mate to them both. No wonder the box had paired me twice.

In silent prayer, I begged for it to end there. My sanity couldn’t deal with another surprise mate. Twice in a lifetime was more than most ever hoped to have. Some never found love. Two perfect matches—at the same time—filled my glass completely.

“I insisted I had to come back, Velloc. I love you. My heart belongs to you.”

He sighed loudly, but I kept talking, needing to get it all out in the open.

“It also belongs to him. He is my husband—the first man who has ever known my body; the only man before you to ever hold my heart. I love you both.” I pulled back enough to catch his gaze.

He listened, his solemn face . . . unreadable.

“He’s a man very much like you—a leader, strong, kind, fierce. He didn’t ask for this. We’d just been married and my heart was wrapped completely in him.

“When I met you, I thought I’d been trapped here. Your ferocity and protectiveness captured my love in a heartbeat’s time. I’d been imprisoned by your love long before I’d understood what had happened.” I paused, taking a breath, waiting for his reaction.

“You love us both .” He spoke slowly, digesting all he’d heard.

“I do. Iain had a hard time accepting that I love another man. I imagine you will too. None of us deserved to have this happen, and yet, what each of us share together is so rare, so precious.” I expressed every ounce of compassion that I felt in the gentle tone of my voice.

“How did you come back?” he asked.

“The box had been passed down through time. You have it now. I imagine your people continued handing it down through the generations until Iain’s people gained possession of it. His tribe is a clan called Brodie. Your people, the Picts, are his clan’s ancestors. I don’t really know if he descends from your tribe specifically.” I thought about the chain of events. “You said you obtained the box from another tribe?”

“Yes.” He arched a brow. “I stole it.” He smirked.

I laughed. Pirating between tribes had been suspected, but firsthand knowledge confirmed it. Historians had correctly theorized some of the mysteries of the early Picts.

The reminder surfaced a new idea. I settled back into his arms, watching muted watercolors paint the world of the loch, the short midsummer night bringing forth morning’s gloaming.

“If the box has already traveled between tribes, it’s possible that it might still change hands. His clan might not have even descended from yours.”

The realization swirled up unasked questions like a dust devil lifting grains of sand left undisturbed until the right conditions for liftoff. I snatched one from the whirlwind of my mind.

“How did you become leader of your people?”

“My brother was chieftain before me. I supported and advised him. Our people respected him. During a hunting party, a bear killed him. I had to put my shock and grief aside; it had been a hard winter and our people needed to be fed. We wrapped his body in skins and continued the hunt. Anger at his loss cleared my head, fueling my actions like nothing ever had. We brought more food back on that hunt than we’d killed in months. The men never wavered. They followed me when our brother died and officially made me their leader upon our return.”

I knew it. History had been wrong.

Bede, “The Father of English History,” far-reached his limited knowledge of the Picts all the way from England, using hand-me-down information and experiences more than six hundred years forward from where I stood. With inadequate information, he’d concluded a matriarchal society existed among Picts solely because the Irish claimed to have supplied the Picts their only women on the sole condition that Pict kings were to be chosen from the female royal line.

Velloc, however, made crystal clear the reasoning behind his rule. The decision had been made for experience and obvious leadership skills. They pledged allegiance to the one who immediately protected and guided them, giving their people the best chance to flourish.

Pride in the knowledge that I’d gained—and in the man that had provided it—filled me with renewed hope. My sense of purpose grew with even that small historical revelation.

I leaned back into the warmth of his chest, lacing my fingers into his and wrapping our arms around us. “I have to go back.”

“When?” he asked, pressing his lips to my temple.

“In a few days. Iain agreed to have part of my time with all my heart, rather than all of me with a piece missing.”

Velloc nodded but said nothing.

The air hung heavy with our love and his desperation about the situation. As alike as my two warriors were, it surprised me how differently they dealt with the same issue. I wondered if a storm simmered below Velloc’s calm surface. I turned in his arms, burying my face into his neck, holding him tighter.

Velloc lifted me up, untangling our arms. He led us to a secluded, elevated cave protected by surrounding boulders. The vista afforded us a breathtaking view just as a blinding sun broke the horizon. He pulled me to the ground, holding me in his arms as we witnessed dawn’s arrival.

Dark storm clouds edged into view from the north. The snow-capped mountains above us commanded their own weather, funneling a cold wind down through the valley. My focus, however, remained steadfast over the peaceful water as shimmering sunlight stole the show.

Highlands of Scotland—First Century AD, Five Days after My Return

Warriors, hundreds strong, moved across the field like a single large predator hunting its prey—all sleek muscle, stalking gait, and focused eyes—as their leader and his mate rode proudly at the front of the pack, guiding them to their common goal: the solace of home.