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He stepped away from the window. He was not strong enough, nor fast enough – he was useless and helpless. He hadn’t even been able to find a damned pouch of stones.
He slammed his chamber door behind him andbarged past the guards as they straightened their spears and reclaimed their standing positions in the corridor. He stormed past worried servants and Pa's counselor, Ian, who called after him and shouted his name.
Arran ran until he was out in the open field, where the sun-scorched earth burned against the soles of his feet.
He dashed to his father’s side, past the MacKenzie soldiers, his steps charged with wild frenzy as he drew closer to his brother's dead body.
Arran wished it all away.
He wanted so badly to reach Bruce's side and find that his eyes were wide open. He had never wanted anything more but as he reached his brother’s body, a scream burst from his throat and he fell to his feet.
Pa's voice bellowed beside him. "Arran! Get away from here!" He knew that his father was mere feet from him but in the hailstorm of his grief, they may as well have been countries apart.
But he refused to step away from his brother. He could not abandon Bruce in death despite his his head spinning around in his skull. Warm tears blurred his vision and he couldn't even make out his brother's face as men took back up their fight around him; yelling at one another, chanting war cries as their swords met.
He tried to blink away the tears blinding his eyes but couldn't. Arran knew he would never forget the sight of Bruce's body as it grew cold and pale, dried blood lining his torn, purple lips, the sun-drenched beneath them both.
"Arran!"
He then felt a strong hand on his elbow; yanking him up. When he looked back, it had been Sir Ian. Droplets of spit flew in Arran's face as the old man shouted furiously, trying to draw the boy away. He struggled against Sir Ian's grasp but it was no use. The man was older, taller and bigger than him.
"Bruce!" he cried as Sir Ian dragged him away; choking on his brother's name — his dead brother's name.
Arran felt a chill run down his spine, too cold for words, that only subsided once they reached the inside of the keep. Finally, Sir Ian released him from his hold and shut the door of the boy’s chambers behind them.
"What do ye think yer doing, lad?" Sir Ian roared; his voice shaking with fury. His long, gray beard shaking too.
“He's dead!” Arran cried. "They killed him...”
"Oh lad," came Sir Ian's voice. He planted a series of hesitant yet gentle pats on Arran’s back, though it did not make him feel better. If anything, it only made him angry, as if he might burst out of his body. He clenched his fists, enraged at the MacKenzies, the clan responsible for his brother's death.
"They killed him," he repeated desperately; shrugging off Sir Ian’s hand. "I could have stopped them, Sir Ian. I could have stopped them!"
Sir Ian shook his head. "Ye couldn't have, Arran. This is nae on you."
"I could have!" Arran cried. "I was too slow. I looked for my stones, I did, but I couldn't find them."
Sir Jan drew in a deep sigh. "Arran, lad. Tis not yer fault. A mere lad ye are. Now remain here, aye? I must return. I must..." The old man took pause. "I must find yer maither."
Arran turned away from Sir Ian and did not look back as his Pa's counselor shut the door.
Sir Ian was wrong. It was his fault. He wasn't a mere lad. He was a boy, and he would soon grow into a man, and he could have found those stones but did not.
He had failed his brother and it had cost him his life.
Arran returned to the windowsill. He wiped his eyes and watched as Pa raised his sword arm high, swinging through a fleet of charging MacKenzie soldiers. Arran bunched his fists tight. Aye, that's right, he thought. Make them pay for their crime. Kill them all! Avenge my brother's death!
However, almost as quickly as Pa had thrust his sword forth, he lowered it in a show of weakness.He flung the blade awayand Arran exclaimed. Its hilt glinted in the sun, then rolled and clattered away until it finally came to a stop against the dirt.
Arran couldn't believe what was unfoldingbelow. His father cried aloud at the top of his lungs as he turned his face to the sun, tears glinting in his eyes, "The MacKenzies have triumphed! Surrender!" He repeated: "The MacKenzies have won! We surrender! Surrender!"
"Nae, nae, nae!" Arran shook his head, mad in his disbelief.
His father fell to his knees, tearing off his helmet and his hauberk, devastated by grief. Arran watched him hunch over his brother's cold body, cradling Bruce's head as he continued to shout his surrender, urging his clan to do the same.
One by one MacLean soldiers yanked off their helmets and flung their swords to the ground.
It was then that Laird MacKenzie rose from the smoke and dust of the battleground, his helmet tucked in his underarm. He was a large man with a large head, and the ground seemed to thunder beneath his feet as he approached Arran’s father. Arran thought his Pa looked so small in comparison, whittled away by grief next to his brother's killer.
