They walked the grounds together, their boots crunching in unison against the gravel.
Fergus had not realized, until he was walking them with someone who had known him his entire life, how well he knew the castle now. He knew it the way he had once known Alasdair's keep. Not through maps or instructions, but through bone-deep memory, the feel of the timber, and the specific spots that needed constant watching versus those that had finally stopped giving him trouble.
He knew which stone on the lower east wall had been repointed twice and would need a third pass before the first winter frost arrived. He knew the precise angle of the granary roof where water pooled during heavy rain. He knew the names of the men who had dug the post-holes for the pasture fences, and he knew the names of their fathers.
He had never told himself he was learning the land. He had just stopped being a stranger to it, amid the autumn storm, the fierce council hearing, and the forty fence posts he had driven into the ground with his own hands. Now, he was standing on the soil, and it felt like his own.
Alasdair walked beside him, his hands tucked into his belt, listening intently like a commander. He asked questions that made Fergus realize he had already evaluated most of the defenses himself; he sought to understand the reasoning behind the decisions rather than just the decisions themselves.
"The north barn," Alasdair noted, stopping at the far end of the east pasture where the smell of fresh pine was thick in the air. "That's new timber."
"Six weeks ago," Fergus said, leaning his forearms against the fence rail. "The original was rottin' from the core. Looked perfectly sound on the outside, but the crossbeams had been compromised by damp for years. Another heavy winter snow, and the whole roof would have come down on the livestock."
"Who spotted it?"
"Margaret." Fergus paused, his throat tightening slightly at the mention of her name. "She was walkin' the east wall with Mrs. O'Halloran in her first week here. She came straight to the study and told me to look at the grain on the uprights before I scheduled anythin' else."
Alasdair remained silent for a long moment. He gazed over the green pasture, then turned back to the sturdy new barn. Then: "Aye."
It was a very small word for the immense amount of weight it carried. Fergus kept his jaw shut and did not respond.
"The clan," Alasdair said, after they had walked another fifty paces. "How do they sit with ye now?"
"Better than the first month. The council hearin' helped. They saw I wouldnae let the Lowland traders bleed them dry." Fergus thought of the tenant farmer with the sick son, the man who had given him that too-quick, respectful nod in the hall. "Though I made some enemies among the older guard."
"Good."
"I made some friends, too."
"Better." Alasdair glanced at him sideways, his dark eyebrows lifting. "And the keep itself? The daily runnin' of it? The stores?"
"Runs itself, mostly." Fergus kept his eyes fixed firmly on the distant pasture fence line, where the cattle grazed peacefully. "Or it feels that way. Which means someone is runnin' it with immense care, and it isnae me."
Alasdair remained quiet, letting the admission hang in the crisp air.
"She kens the place better than I did after three months," Fergus said. "She kens the people. Their names, their histories, which of them need watchin' and which of them just need someone to sit and listen to them once in a while. She spent two hours in the weavin' hall yesterday, and by the time she came out, the older women had practically adopted her." He paused, his fingers tracing the rough bark of a fence post. "I daenae ken how she does it, Alasdair."
"I do," Alasdair said simply.
"Daenae."
"I'm nae goin' to give ye a speech, Fergus."
"Ye have the face of a man about to give a damned, bloody speech," he growled. His tone did not faze Alasdair.
"I have the face of a man wonderin' when his most stubborn friend is goin' to stop treatin' his own life like a problem to be managed," Alasdair said it the way he said most things he meant seriously. "That's all I was goin' to say."
"It's enough," Fergus said, his voice rough.
Alasdair pivoted on his heel, his heavy boots crushing a dry thistle into the dark dirt as he turned back toward the towering gray silhouette of the keep. Fergus fell into step beside him, matching his long, measured stride.
Neither man spoke.
The wind howled off the northern ridge, whistling through the empty gaps in the timber fence line, but in the quiet spaces between, calm settled thick and easy.
Fergus let his arms relax at his sides, the defensive tension finally leaving his shoulders. Alasdair simply watched the high road, his thumb hooked comfortably into his leather belt.
There was no shifting, no uneasy throat clearing, and no scanning the horizon for a distraction. They just walked, their synchronized footsteps flat and steady against the ground, completely content to let the wind do the talking.
