Winter's Solstice Debi Moseley

DISCLAIMER:

Same stuff, different story. The characters you recognize don't belong to me. The ones you don't, do. No money changed hands and no characters were harmed in the writing of this fanfic. Many thanks go to Diana Gordic, beta-reader extraordinaire, for encouragement, information about Celtic legends and ego-boosting praise. She is also responsible for the curbing of the semi-colon population and remedying the dearth of commas. Any wrongs, faults, inconsistencies, mistakes and general screw ups are my fault alone. Any comments, rotten eggs, suggestions etc. should be sent to [email protected]. Comments are my only payment, therefore they are very welcome.

This is an attempt on my part to pay tribute to Our Hero on the day of his birth, which the general consensus holds to be December 21^st. I had an idea and ran with it. I hope that you enjoy it.

Debi

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The bitter wind shrieked relentlessly over the winter-barren hills and barreled headlong into the shelter of the glens, scouring everything in its path with demonic glee. The villagers kept inside as much as possible, necessity only driving them from the scant comfort of their hearths. Their needs were reduced to those most basic; food, water and heat. Days became shorter and shorter. Now the longest night was upon them.

Ian MacLeod gathered his furs and his boar spears. His child, the heir to the chieftain of the Clan MacLeod, was due to arrive at any time, and Ian was determined to welcome the child with a feast appropriate to his standing. He hoped for a boar this morning.

"Must ye go into the very teeth of the storm, Ian?" his wife, Mary, asked him. She was beautiful, her wide blue eyes watching him with concern, eyes that reminded him of a summer afternoon's sky. "It's madness."

"Aye, 'tis," he agreed amiably. "Perhaps I am mad. The women say that a bairn comin' can make a man that way."

Mary's blue eyes flashed with amusement and fire. "You'd do well to ignore half of what the old women say. They like to talk to hear the sound of their own voices." She made her way carefully to him, to clasp him close, her swollen belly pressed against him. The unborn child chose then to kick, eliciting a gasp from Mary and a chuckle from Ian.

"My son," he said proudly, kissing her turgid belly, then straightening to kiss her lips. "I think he wants to see his father."

"Aye; he does," Mary smiled. Her expression resumed its earlier worried expression. "D'ye have to go?" she pleaded softly. "Even the beasts will likely not be about in this weather."

"My son will have a feast to welcome him," Ian insisted. "The future chieftain of the MacLeods deserves no less."

"Aye, then," she acquiesced reluctantly. Mary pulled him close again and, putting her face near his, spoke very seriously. "Just make sure the current chief of the MacLeods comes back to welcome his son."

"That I will, love," he promised. "That I will." He pressed his lips into Mary's hair, savoring her scent. Even in the dead of winter, she somehow managed to smell of heather and summer grasses. Ian drew his cloak tightly about himself and Mary pinned it for him, before standing aside to let him go. She pushed the door shut tightly behind him, rubbing tiredly at the small of her back.

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That afternoon found Ian and his brother Malcolm deep in the forest. They had seen sign of wild hogs, but no fresh spoor. The storm had died down, the wind having ceased its howling, but now the snow began to fall in big, soft flakes. There was an air of hushed expectancy.

"Ian, this is a fool's errand," Malcolm told him, not for the first time that day.

Ian merely smiled and ignored his younger brother. Malcolm's son, Robert, was only a few months old, and Malcolm was loath to be away from his wife and child any longer than he had to be. He had agreed to accompany Ian because he loved the hunt, and his brother.

"We should go back to the village," he told his brother again, fearing the plea would fall on deaf ears once again.

Ian was almost ready to agree. He was tired and cold, and there seemed to be no creatures at all foolish enough to be about in the frozen forest, save themselves. The one blessing in the day seemed to be that the storm had blown itself out and the wind no longer plucked hungrily at them.

"Aye, perhaps we sh--" The words died on his lips.

There was a rustling ahead. Automatically, the two men fanned out to flank it. The rustling became a busy snuffling and grunting.

Ian glanced up to his brother, stopping Malcolm where he stood. Ian carefully stalked a few more yards, until the animal lay between the two men. Malcolm moved closer, closing the gap slightly, then paused, waiting for his brother's signal.

Ian carefully stood one broad-bladed spear beside him, against a tree. The spearhead tapped softly against the frozen trunk and Ian froze.

The snuffling paused, then a bristled and tusked head rose from the brush ahead. The two men gasped softly in surprise and wonder.

The boar was white, and glittered with frost and snow, though his breath steamed in the frozen air like any earthly creature. Ian prayed fervently that a stray breeze wouldn't betray him. A boar like this was a prize of a lifetime, and as much of a fuss as he'd made about this hunt, it would sting his pride to return home to Mary empty-handed. To bring home a white boar was a thing that legends were made of.

Good fortune continued to smile upon them. After a few moments, the boar dropped his head back down to root again in the buried leaves.

Ian slowly released the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding and readied his other spear. It was seven feet long, topped with a ten inch blade, honed to a razor's edge. He set the butt firmly into the frozen earth, angling it outward, toward the boar. Looking up at Malcolm, he nodded.

Malcolm raised his spear and began shouting, beating the surrounding brush.

Startled, the boar shot out of the brush, running from the commotion behind him. Ian waited, heart pounding, his hands sweating in anticipation, despite the cold.

As the creature bore down on him, squealing and bristling, it stumbled over a root buried in the snow. The spear, aimed for the boars' chest, missed and scraped along its ribs underneath the skin instead. It screamed, legs still pumping, trying to reach Ian with its tusks.

Malcolm saw his brother go down in a flurry of arms and legs, struggling mightily with the enraged creature, and he bolted toward them, drawing his belt knife.

Ian, struggling with the bloody spear, rolled, trying to keep some distance between himself and the maddened boar, and avoid the razored tusks that slashed, seeking to disembowel him. He reached for his belt knife; the boar twisted, screaming. Ian fell again into the bloody snow. The white boar turned, eyeing him balefully, and staggered toward him, the huge spear falling loose from its side. Ian gripped his knife in his sticky hand, still prone in the snow. The boar charged, closing the short distance almost instantly.

Malcolm winced as he witnessed the impact. He redoubled his efforts, hoping against hope to reach his brother in time. There was a scream, from which creature, Malcolm wasn't sure. He saw the boar shudder and sigh, collapsing down onto Ian. Malcolm nearly fell on them, trying to stop, and shoved the dead beast off Ian.

"Ian!! Are ye dead?!" Malcolm was nearly panicking, sure that Ian was badly maimed at the very least.

Ian's eyes opened in his bloody face and his face split in a huge grin.

"No brother. Though," he sat up and pulled himself free of the boar's deadweight, " 'twas a close thing." Looking down to a tear in his wrappings that threatened his manhood, he said softly, "A very close thing."

He pushed to his feet and endured his brother's quick examination. A gouging tusk has cut him high on the inner thigh.

"Mary would never forgive me if I were to lose that!" Ian laughed. Malcolm was more sober.

"It means you've been marked. Something is happening soon."

"Aye, 'tis!" Ian roared with good humor. "My son is coming to meet his Da!" He surveyed his kill with satisfaction. "My son will have a proper welcome."

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Ian had been gone scarcely an hour, and Mary's back ached miserably. It had started last night, long before sunrise, but she hadn't mentioned it to Ian. He would only worry, besides, her back had ached off and on during her entire pregnancy-- why should this time be any different? The pain had gone on too long and had become too continuos. This child was to be her first. She had seen many women give birth, but now that she was the expectant mother, she was worried.

The first sharp pain came and took her breath. She held onto the door frame until it passed, taking air in little gasps. After a time it eased, and Mary went back to her tasks. Another pain hit her again, and she waited patiently until it passed, then wrapped herself in her cloak to seek the midwife.

Mary was bustled back into the house and ensconced on the bed, stripped to her chemise, which was already soaked from the water's breaking. The midwife declared there was no time to fetch the birthing chair; the child was coming.

The pains gripped her more and more often, and she was nearly unable to keep from crying out. She was determined to be strong; she was a chieftain's wife, by God, and none would see her weakness.

But time and pain wore her down over the hours. Exhaustion threatened her tenuous hold on dignity. When the near-continuous pain slacked off for a moment, she took the folded piece of leather from between her teeth to pant. Before she had a chance to catch her breath, another contraction attacked, and she couldn't help herself this time. She screamed, loud and long, and kept screaming until the child was delivered.

"My son," Ian thought, hearing the shriek echoing as he entered the quiet and darkened village. He waited, dropping the boar to the snow, expecting to hear the lusty bawl of a newborn. No cries came. A strange foreboding filled him suddenly. Abandoning Malcolm to the task of cleaning the kill, he raced to his home, ignoring his own wound, and nearly tearing the door off the hinges in his haste to get inside.

"Ian!" Mary gasped from the bed. He hurried to her side, seeing blood-- too much, and a tiny wrapped bundle laid gently to one side. Taking her hand, he looked over to the midwife, who shook her head sadly. Looking down to his wife, he was glad to see that she had closed her eyes in exhaustion. Mary was spent, almost unaware of her surroundings. The longer he could spare Mary from the agony of knowing their child hadn't survived, the better. He squeezed her hand reassuringly and stood to pull the midwife aside.

"What happened?" he demanded, the realization that his son was dead finally starting to sink in. There was a deep wrenching in his gut, and he trembled slightly. Angrily, he got a handle on his emotions. He would not show his pain, not here, in front of an outsider to his family. That could come later, when he and Mary were alone.

The midwife shrugged. "The bairn was dead before he came out. He could have strangled on the cord."

Ian nearly staggered as the understanding struck him anew. He pushed the old woman aside and gently gathered the lifeless bundle into his arms. He told the midwife to stay with Mary and closed the door behind him.

No one was about. Malcolm glanced up briefly as his brother passed, but when Ian said nothing, he didn't pursue the matter. Malcolm never noticed the tiny bundle in his brother's arms.

Ian wasn't sure where he was going until he found himself on the path to the burial ground. He kissed his only child on the head and then laid him on the frozen ground, beside Ian's own father. Ian stacked large stones around the tiny body, laying a large flat one across the top in a makeshift tomb, then carefully piled stones around it, building a small cairn. He knelt by the stones and grieved silently for a time. He almost didn't hear the shuffle of a step behind him, but his reflexes were operational, even if his mind was elsewhere. Whirling, brandishing the stick he'd pried the stones up with, he relented suddenly when he identified the intruder.

It was Mad Mab. She was a woman who lived alone with her dog in the forest. No one knew for sure, but rumor held that something tragic had happened to her family that had driven her insane. More dire speculation was that she had done the deed herself, but Ian had encountered her from time to time in his hunts and she seemed a gentle, if flighty creature. She was wrapped tightly against the cold, only her green eyes and a wisp of dark red hair visible. In her arms she bore a tiny burden that shifted and began to wail as she flinched back from the chieftain's initial threatening gesture. The hound at her side looked up and cocked its head curiously at the noise.

"What have ye there, Mab?" he asked gently, dropping the stick, too exhausted to speculate.

"A baby," she whispered, too afraid to come closer. When he raised an eyebrow at her, she blurted, "He's no' mine, though I wish he could be-" She gazed adoringly at the tiny creature that waved a fist defiantly in the air. "I found him near my house, with the muck and blood of birth still on him, not an hour gone. No sign of his mother." Tucking the minuscule hand back into the protective warmth of the wrappings, she looked up to Ian again.

"I canna take care of a child properly." She then noticed the tiny, new cairn at Ian's feet. "Ooohhh," she breathed in sorrow, "and you've just lost one, I'll wager. Poor little bairn." Holding the baby close, she rocked and soothed him.

Ian smiled despite his sorrow to see this supposed madwoman so gentle and tender. She looked up at Ian and smiled suddenly, the expression making her strangely beautiful.

"God has sent him for you!" A beaming smile shone out from her and she hesitated only a moment before closing the distance between herself and the chieftain of the MacLeod's. Pressing the baby carefully into his arms, she paused, kissing the infant gently on his dark thatch of hair before stepping back to a safe distance again. Ian held the child, too startled by the turn of events to do anything else. He stared at the baby in his arms for a moment, then looked up to Mab. There were tears shining in her eyes.

"Take care of my little one," she whispered, then turned and fled.

Ian stared back down at the child in his arms and smiled wonderingly. The agony of losing their child was slowly easing into a new emotion: joy.

"Aye," he promised to the drifting snow and silent stars. "He will be my son."

The baby gazed up at him indignantly, all dark eyes and hair. Then he squirmed again and wrapped his tiny hand around Ian's thumb. Ian lifted him higher, tucking his precious bundle into the protective warmth of his furs, still bloody from the boar he'd killed. He pressed his lips into the downy thatch on the baby's head and whispered again, "My son. Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

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