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It's all a bit of a haze, honestly, after she finds out. She doesn't really remember checking to make sure her memory of the Queen's execution site is correct. Doesn't really remember figuring out the best way to get there. Doesn't really remember packing her small backpack or buying the ticket or getting on the train.

All she remembers is standing in the ruins of Fotheringay Castle before the plaque dedicated to the death of Mary, Queen of Scots for the first time and feeling like the world was about to give out under her feet. It was only the small handful of other tourists that kept her from falling to her knees from the emotion that overwhelmed her.

She shouldn't have gone back, after that. It wasn't exactly like it helped. But something pulled her to the site in the same way she'd been pulled to France, so she'd kept coming.

She hadn't expected to be followed here. Hadn't expected that anyone would know to come here when she'd barely known what she was doing herself.

Still, she recognizes the young man who comes to stand beside her as she gazes, a little glassily, at the plaque. As the familiar figure settles beside her, she cuts off anything he might say with the quiet murmur that escapes her lips, "I died here."

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She wasn't supposed to find out. No one else was supposed to find out, yes, but more than anyone, she wasn't supposed to find out.

Moira Scott is one of the strongest people he knows, but she didn't need this.

But he couldn't keep her safe from it. The entire way to Fotheringay (of course that's where she went; she'd have been stopped trying to get out of the country) it's all he can think of--he hadn't kept her safe from it.

He doesn't know what number of cigarette is tossed aside as he finds himself, finally, standing beside her. His jaw stays tight for a moment before he can form a response.

"/No. You didn't. You can't start thinking that./"

There's a bottle held tight in her hand. It's not open-- not yet-- but it's there, and she's gripping it so hard it might just shatter in her grip.

"/Then what the hell am I supposed to think,/ Nicol?" comes the reply, surprisingly sharp considering the fact that she looks so incredibly pale, "/Because I'm really not sure exactly what I'm supposed to be making of all this./"

"/Don't make anything of it./"

It's a desperate sort of gambit, maybe, but it's one he has to make. His fingers twitch but manage not to reach out for her hand.

"/You're still you. This doesn't change who we are./"

"Doesn't change--?"

She cuts off with a sharp, angry laugh as she shakes her head.

"--it changes everything."

Surely he sees that.

Edited 2014-06-17 05:44 (UTC)

His breath comes sharp. The jerk of his body as he turns to her properly. He doesn't remember the last time his features had been so completely honest.

He doesn't know when he's ever been so scared of losing something. Someone.

"/Does it change us?/"

"I don't know, bráithre," she answers honestly.

But surely it's a good sign she can refer to him by the old nickname, still.

"I don't really know much of anything at the moment, honestly.

Edited 2014-06-17 14:29 (UTC)

It is a good sign. It's got to be. He can't allow it to be anything else.

"/The first I got punched in the face, my pulse./" It's difficult, dragging up memories of a place he pretends doesn't exist. For her, for this, it's impossible not to. "/The first time I got punched in the face, my nose wouldn't stop bleeding. That happened. And you were there. You kept getting me tissues until it stopped. That was you. That happened."

He's got to cling to it. He wants her to cling to it with him.

It's helping, to hear him talk about their childhood. It helps the world feel a little less like it's spinning.

Just a little.

"Yes-- yes, that happened. I did that, but... Who-- who am I?"

Who was that girl who had helped take care of him then, in the light of all this?

"/You're Moira Scott./"

And that fact still means the world to him. It's obvious from his entirely easy, entirely open body, voice; eyes.

"/You're-- the girl who saved me. You're the girl who got out. You're the girl who stills know how to laugh. My pulse, you're-- you're the only person in the world I trust./"

There's an angry, pained sob at that. Her grip on the bottle tightens just slightly before she finally turns to look at him properly.

"--You should have been the one to tell me, bráithre."

Because she might have believed what he was saying better, if he had been right there to remind her of it as soon as she found out.

"/You shouldn't have had to know./" And there's briefly a crack of anger in his voice for the fact life hadn't gone according to that plan. "/You shouldn't have had to-- worry about this. And I'm-- I'm sorry./"

He used to be able to protect her so much better.

"/Don't let it win now, my pulse./"

It's the crack in his own voice that gets her arms flinging around him. Gets her face buried against his chest with another angry sob.

"/It's not your fault,/" she says, "/It's theirs. It's... Damn them./"

It should never have been like this.

It's better when he can hold her. She feels like herself again, warm and actually pliant against him.

"/Breathe with me now, mm?/"

To get through the rage. The hurt.

"/A-all right./"

She can do her best to, at any rate.

"/Give me the bottle, okay?/"

It's easy to make it sound, just slightly, like it's for the way it's pressed against his spine.

She hesitates at the request. She can't help it. Yes, she hadn't drunk out of it, nor did she really have plans to. It's just.

It's so likely it's the last bottle she'll ever hold, and she's reluctant to let it go, even for him.

But she knows she should. And so, after nodding against his shoulder carefully, she'll shift to offer him the bottle.

"/Here./"

He presses a firm kiss to her cheek as he takes it. The arm not holding it curls all the tighter around her to keep her close.

"/Thank you./" There's genuine relief for a moment before the weight of things settles over him again. "/It's going to be okay, my pulse. It really is./"

"/You promise?/"

Because she can still trust promises from him, even after all of this.

"/I absolutely promise./" His head shifts, nose nudging affectionately against her temple. "/We're going to-- pay our respects here, mm, and then we're going to go back home. And we're going to-- find a way to be okay./"

There's a heavy sigh as she rests her head against his shoulder wearily.

"/I don't want to go back, brother. Not now that I know./"

But she has to. She also knows that.

"/What, then? We stay here?/"

For anyone else, it wouldn't be a 'we.' For anyone else, though, he also probably wouldn't be here at all.

"/I doubt they'd let us,/" she says bitterly, expression turning dark and dour even though the 'we' is comforting, "/Jus'-- let's take the long way back,/ mm?"

Take their time in coming back to the place they want them to be.

At least she's willing to go, even if grudgingly. At least she's still willing to be part of a 'we.'

"/We'll take our time. I promise./"

She'll always be willing to be part of a 'we,' at least. She may have lost sense of who she was-- of everything that made her herself-- but at least she's not lost that.

"/Thank you./"

"/I still know you,/ Moira Scott." It's important to murmur against her shoulder now, arm tight and certain around her. "/I still love you more than life itself. And we're going to be all right again./"

"/I love you, too, big brother,/" she murmurs softly, burrowing in properly into his hold, "/'nd I know we will./"

He's promising her, after all.

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