Writing with Canon
Dec. 8th, 2021 10:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tgarnslI'm over 10k into this Flight of the Heron fic, with no end in sight. It hinges around a simple premise which is made clear in the first chapter, and as such, follows the last three meetings of Ewen Cameron and Keith Windham, whereafter it diverges. The challenge is this: I can either write with canon, borrowing lines and dialogue as I see fit to better weave the two stories together (I hope) or I try and write my own versions of the last three meetings, which is problematic in that there's a good chance they won't be as impactful as the originals. So far I have chosen the former, but I'm not convinced entirely of it. Anyways, in order to solve that problem, I decided to post the first chapter on here, if only so I can look at it in a format that isn't instantly editable. If anyone reads this, don't take what I have here as final — this is still very much a first draft, and most certainly do not take my Gaelic for anything other than hastily researched.
The stars burned bright in the night sky above the little shieling, as bright as ever Keith Windham could remember them, for all that it was nearly summer and in the northern latitudes besides. Standing in the doorway, he once more he gathered himself for what he knew he must say next to Ardroy, though the thought of it caused him no small amount of disquiet. He thought again of Lachlan, and that bitter hope that he might return in time to get his foster-brother away to safety, before he would fall into the hands of Major Guthrie. But it was cowardice to invent excuses for silence: Keith had no choice but to tell Ardroy of the nature of his discussion with Guthrie and the mention of Lochiel that had so caught the odious Lowlander’s attention. He came back very slowly to the pallet.
“I must tell you—” he began in a low voice, and then stopped. Ewen’s eyes were shut, his face pale and shining with sweat, and he was muttering something in his restless half-sleep that Keith could not quite catch. “Ardroy,” Keith murmured, removing the lamp from the stool and sitting down. “Ardroy!”
Ewen’s blue eyes were unfocused as he turned to look at Keith. “Alison,” he said softly, reaching for Keith, his fingers lingering where they brushed against the back of Keith’s hand. “Alison,” he said, his eye sliding shut, a desperate note in his voice, “Tha mo làmhan air leathadh leis an fhuachd.” His hands were ice, yet when Keith placed a hand to Ardroy’s forehead he found the young man burning with fever.
“Ardroy,” said Keith, near despairing. He could not leave Ewen now, not in this state, and so he rose from the stool, setting the lantern back on it, and hurried outside to the little burn where he wet his handkerchief. Wringing it out, he returned to sit on the narrow edge of the bed at Ardroy’s side, pressing the cool cloth to Ewen’s forehead and praying that the fever would break soon. Those frozen fingers brushed once more against his hand, and without thinking Keith took Ewen’s hand in his own, realising as he did so that it was the very hand he had scarred, all those months ago in Edinburgh: another life now, it seemed.
It was some time before Ardroy opened his eyes, still bright with fever, but no longer clouded as they had been. “Windham,” he said hoarsely, reaching up with his unhurt left hand to grasp at Keith’s shoulder, his fingers clutching tight at the stuff of Keith’s coat.
“How do you feel?” asked Keith, removing his hand from Ewen's.
Ewen shivered. “Would you be so kind as to help me sit up?” he asked, and Keith obeyed, putting both arms around Ardroy to drag him upright. “I thank you for the wine,” he said after Keith sat back, the shadow of a smile on his face. “It made me warm for the first time in — in weeks.”
“Are you cold now?”
Even as he asked the question, Keith could see that Ardroy was not. All the same, the Highlander shook his head. “Only a little,” he said, but Keith was not convinced by such brave words. Unbuttoning his coat, he slipped it from his shoulders and draped it around Ewen as best as he could, for the coat was too small to properly fit a man who stood a full five inches taller than the man for whom the coat had been made.
Ardroy accepted it with visible unease, and Keith realised all too late what he had done in giving Ardroy the coat of those who had only hours before attempted to shoot him, and who in the previous days and weeks had caused him nothing but pain and heartbreak.
“I should hate you so,” said Ewen with a troubled glance at Keith’s face, as if sensing the direction of Keith’s thoughts. “Ever since we met, you have only brought me strife. And yet… I cannot bring myself to it.” He pulled the coat tighter around his shoulders.
“Let us hope that my actions here today redress that balance,” said Keith, gently. “If not to your benefit, then to that of your fiancée’s.”
Ardroy’s face creased in misery. “Miss Grant and I… we are no longer engaged to be married,” he said. “We met again in Inverness after the invasion… her father was dying in France. And I would not make her a widow before her time. I put her on a ship to France. I do not know if I will ever see her again.”
“I am sincerely sorry,” said Keith, meaning every word, “To hear of your separation from Miss Grant. She is a remarkable woman.” But Ardroy did not seem to hear him; shaking from the cold he felt so acutely, he huddled beneath Keith’s coat, his gaze fixed on some unknown point. Keith knew he should do something to comfort Ewen, but he was a man who knew little of comforting others, having received little comfort in his own life. Warmth, though — that much he could offer.
“I can warm you,” he said. “That is — if you permit me.”
Ardroy nodded, his expression blank and closed-off, and before he could allow himself to doubt the wisdom of his actions, Keith Windham took Ewen Cameron in his arms, holding him as tenderly as ever he had held another before. He knew now that it was no mere philanthropy that had brought him to ride through the night to Ewen’s side, but that somehow, despite his best intentions otherwise, his debt of honour to this young man had become entangled with personal sentiment. Keith wondered at his folly; it was laughable to think that he had ever believed it would be possible to know Ewen and not come to hold some measure of respect for a man as brave and honourable as he.
The minutes stretched by like hours as Keith sat with Ewen gathered to him in his arms, and in time he found himself stroking Ewen’s flank much in the same way that he would stroke a frightened horse, until at last the shivering stopped and the body in his arms was no longer stiff with cold and exhaustion. For a moment he wondered if Ewen was asleep, but Ewen roused himself and pulled back from the embrace, his face pale but with a slight flush that made Keith’s heart glad to see.
“You ought to sleep,” said Keith gently, touching Ewen’s uninjured arm. He would tell Ewen now about Guthrie, warn him if he could—
Ewen’s mouth pressed against his, a clumsy, heartfelt attempt at a kiss that stopped Keith’s heart in his chest. He could not move, he could not think, overwhelmed as he was by the sensation of Ewen’s lips against his own, the rough chin chafing his own. The truth he had for so long pretended he did not see was revealed to him at last, and in the worst possible way; it had not been philanthropy that had brought him to Ewen this night, but something far more gross and base, something that would cost him his life and his dignity if ever it became known. God! Someone would see them… Mackay… someone from Guthrie’s camp… there was a rope around his neck, yet it was his hands that held the bitter end. For all that some unspeakable part of himself yearned for this, he could not respond to Ewen’s touch, nor give any sign that such a trespass was welcome; he could only sit there, no more animate than a corpse, and wait for it to be over.
Ewen, sensing his companion’s distress, withdrew, his face the picture of fear. “Major Windham,” he began, a rising panic in his voice, “Major Windham, you must believe me when I say I meant nothing by it, nothing at all. You will forgive me—”
But there was nothing to be forgiven; another urge, more powerful than fear, gripped Keith now, and with his heart in his throat he took Ewen’s face between his hands and kissed him. He had no notion of what he was doing beyond the fact that Ewen’s kiss coursed through his body like fire, and Keith, ever the heretic, yearned for the flames to swallow him whole.
It was not to last. Keith could feel Ewen’s body growing limp in his arms, his kiss more distracted, and so it was scarcely unexpected when he pulled away from Ewen and saw that the wounded man’s eyes were half shut. Yet the smile on Ewen’s lips, weak though it was, was proof that the kiss had not been entirely unwelcome, and Keith’s heart twisted oddly to see it. For four years he had prided himself on being a man unencumbered with friends or lovers, yet somehow Ewen Cameron had slipped through every defense that Keith had so carefully constructed, much the way that a knife slips through a man’s ribs to pierce his heart. It was impossible, it was absurd: Ewen Cameron was an enemy, a rebel, who owed Keith his life twice over. But even as Keith considered this, he was likewise aware that no thought of obligation had drawn him to dash in front of those muskets yesterday, nor had any thought of debt brought him to Ewen’s side now.
It was senseless to think any more on the matter. Ewen was almost asleep now, his head gently lolling to one side, and so Keith slipped his coat from around Ewen’s shoulders and lowered him to the pitiful bed. It was plain that he had fallen into one of those exhausted little slumbers: once more the words that Keith knew he must say to Ewen concerning Lochiel rose to his lips, but once more Ewen could not hear them. Slipping his coat back on, Keith took the lantern off the stool and sat down, waiting for Ewen to wake naturally as he had previously. Soon Ewen’s sleep became full of disjointed scraps of talk, mostly incoherent, and else Keith could discern was spoken in Gaelic, sometimes mingled with English. At one time he seemed to think that he was out after the deer on the hills with Lachlan; then he half woke up and muttered, “But it’s we that are the deer now,” and immediately fell into another slumber. Once he murmured the name of Alison, and Keith wondered at Miss Grant, across the sea in France, and felt a sharp and sudden guilt at the memory of the kiss he had exchanged with Ewen. But the kiss had meant nothing, a moment’s madness: Ewen was sick and injured, incapable of reason. It was better to forget that it had ever taken place, as Ewen likely would. If Keith were fortunate, Ewen would dismiss it as the workings of a fevered mind and nothing more. If Keith were fortunate, Ewen would never remember it at all.
Gradually, Ewen’s slumber became more sound; he ceased to mutter and make little restless movements, and in about five minutes he was in the deep sleep of real repose, which he had not known, perhaps, for many nights — sleep to make a watcher thankful. But for Keith Windham, sat watching with his chin on his hand and a frown on his face, there could be no gratitude for this deep sleep; already it was light outside, and almost light inside the dusty shieling, and glancing at his watch, he understood with dreadful certainty he could not delay his departure any more. He took up and blew out the lantern, went outside and roused Mackay, washed the bowl and, filling it with water, placed it and the rest of the food and wine within reach.
Such was the sleep Ewen had fallen into, however, that he did not stir at this, nor when Keith slipped a hand around his wrist to feel for the pulse that beat undoubtedly more stronger than when he had first felt it all those hours ago. He could not wake Ewen now — for a moment he toyed with the notion of scribbling a note and leaving it on Ewen’s breast, but it was likely the first person to read such a document would be Guthrie himself. No, it would be better to leave him as he was, and trust to his innate sense: Keith rearranged the plaid carefully and stood for a moment longer, looking down at Ewen as he lay sleeping, much as he had last summer in Kinlocheil when Keith had likewise stood over him and watched. Ewen had seemed half a boy then, his heart aglow with the fire of rebellion: now he was a man grown, the fire doused, though no doubt a bright ember would still burn in his heart for some time. It was a bitter truth of the world that in time all things must bend to forces greater than they, for if they did not they would break. Keith could only hope that it was a truth Ewen had learned, before the likes of Guthrie and others saw fit to break him for it.
For a moment longer Keith lingered, watching this man — his sometime enemy, sometime ally — as he slept, aware that this could well be the last time he ever set eyes on Ewen Cameron. Laying a hand on Ewen’s forehead, smoothing back the damp and dirty hair, he satisfied himself with the knowledge that Ewen was no longer burning of fever, that Ewen would not die in the night. But what did it matter if Keith did? Whatever debt he may have once owed Ewen Cameron had been repaid twice over, and moreover, no matter his personal feelings on the matter, the man was a rebel and a traitor besides, and like all rebels and traitors should meet his just deserts at the hands of a lawful authority. Yet as Keith got into the saddle and rode away, the stars growing ever more pale above his head, he thought once more on the fate of his enemy, left to rescue or capture in the little shieling, and wondered at himself that he should so greatly hope that come the morning Major Guthrie would find an empty bed.
The stars burned bright in the night sky above the little shieling, as bright as ever Keith Windham could remember them, for all that it was nearly summer and in the northern latitudes besides. Standing in the doorway, he once more he gathered himself for what he knew he must say next to Ardroy, though the thought of it caused him no small amount of disquiet. He thought again of Lachlan, and that bitter hope that he might return in time to get his foster-brother away to safety, before he would fall into the hands of Major Guthrie. But it was cowardice to invent excuses for silence: Keith had no choice but to tell Ardroy of the nature of his discussion with Guthrie and the mention of Lochiel that had so caught the odious Lowlander’s attention. He came back very slowly to the pallet.
“I must tell you—” he began in a low voice, and then stopped. Ewen’s eyes were shut, his face pale and shining with sweat, and he was muttering something in his restless half-sleep that Keith could not quite catch. “Ardroy,” Keith murmured, removing the lamp from the stool and sitting down. “Ardroy!”
Ewen’s blue eyes were unfocused as he turned to look at Keith. “Alison,” he said softly, reaching for Keith, his fingers lingering where they brushed against the back of Keith’s hand. “Alison,” he said, his eye sliding shut, a desperate note in his voice, “Tha mo làmhan air leathadh leis an fhuachd.” His hands were ice, yet when Keith placed a hand to Ardroy’s forehead he found the young man burning with fever.
“Ardroy,” said Keith, near despairing. He could not leave Ewen now, not in this state, and so he rose from the stool, setting the lantern back on it, and hurried outside to the little burn where he wet his handkerchief. Wringing it out, he returned to sit on the narrow edge of the bed at Ardroy’s side, pressing the cool cloth to Ewen’s forehead and praying that the fever would break soon. Those frozen fingers brushed once more against his hand, and without thinking Keith took Ewen’s hand in his own, realising as he did so that it was the very hand he had scarred, all those months ago in Edinburgh: another life now, it seemed.
It was some time before Ardroy opened his eyes, still bright with fever, but no longer clouded as they had been. “Windham,” he said hoarsely, reaching up with his unhurt left hand to grasp at Keith’s shoulder, his fingers clutching tight at the stuff of Keith’s coat.
“How do you feel?” asked Keith, removing his hand from Ewen's.
Ewen shivered. “Would you be so kind as to help me sit up?” he asked, and Keith obeyed, putting both arms around Ardroy to drag him upright. “I thank you for the wine,” he said after Keith sat back, the shadow of a smile on his face. “It made me warm for the first time in — in weeks.”
“Are you cold now?”
Even as he asked the question, Keith could see that Ardroy was not. All the same, the Highlander shook his head. “Only a little,” he said, but Keith was not convinced by such brave words. Unbuttoning his coat, he slipped it from his shoulders and draped it around Ewen as best as he could, for the coat was too small to properly fit a man who stood a full five inches taller than the man for whom the coat had been made.
Ardroy accepted it with visible unease, and Keith realised all too late what he had done in giving Ardroy the coat of those who had only hours before attempted to shoot him, and who in the previous days and weeks had caused him nothing but pain and heartbreak.
“I should hate you so,” said Ewen with a troubled glance at Keith’s face, as if sensing the direction of Keith’s thoughts. “Ever since we met, you have only brought me strife. And yet… I cannot bring myself to it.” He pulled the coat tighter around his shoulders.
“Let us hope that my actions here today redress that balance,” said Keith, gently. “If not to your benefit, then to that of your fiancée’s.”
Ardroy’s face creased in misery. “Miss Grant and I… we are no longer engaged to be married,” he said. “We met again in Inverness after the invasion… her father was dying in France. And I would not make her a widow before her time. I put her on a ship to France. I do not know if I will ever see her again.”
“I am sincerely sorry,” said Keith, meaning every word, “To hear of your separation from Miss Grant. She is a remarkable woman.” But Ardroy did not seem to hear him; shaking from the cold he felt so acutely, he huddled beneath Keith’s coat, his gaze fixed on some unknown point. Keith knew he should do something to comfort Ewen, but he was a man who knew little of comforting others, having received little comfort in his own life. Warmth, though — that much he could offer.
“I can warm you,” he said. “That is — if you permit me.”
Ardroy nodded, his expression blank and closed-off, and before he could allow himself to doubt the wisdom of his actions, Keith Windham took Ewen Cameron in his arms, holding him as tenderly as ever he had held another before. He knew now that it was no mere philanthropy that had brought him to ride through the night to Ewen’s side, but that somehow, despite his best intentions otherwise, his debt of honour to this young man had become entangled with personal sentiment. Keith wondered at his folly; it was laughable to think that he had ever believed it would be possible to know Ewen and not come to hold some measure of respect for a man as brave and honourable as he.
The minutes stretched by like hours as Keith sat with Ewen gathered to him in his arms, and in time he found himself stroking Ewen’s flank much in the same way that he would stroke a frightened horse, until at last the shivering stopped and the body in his arms was no longer stiff with cold and exhaustion. For a moment he wondered if Ewen was asleep, but Ewen roused himself and pulled back from the embrace, his face pale but with a slight flush that made Keith’s heart glad to see.
“You ought to sleep,” said Keith gently, touching Ewen’s uninjured arm. He would tell Ewen now about Guthrie, warn him if he could—
Ewen’s mouth pressed against his, a clumsy, heartfelt attempt at a kiss that stopped Keith’s heart in his chest. He could not move, he could not think, overwhelmed as he was by the sensation of Ewen’s lips against his own, the rough chin chafing his own. The truth he had for so long pretended he did not see was revealed to him at last, and in the worst possible way; it had not been philanthropy that had brought him to Ewen this night, but something far more gross and base, something that would cost him his life and his dignity if ever it became known. God! Someone would see them… Mackay… someone from Guthrie’s camp… there was a rope around his neck, yet it was his hands that held the bitter end. For all that some unspeakable part of himself yearned for this, he could not respond to Ewen’s touch, nor give any sign that such a trespass was welcome; he could only sit there, no more animate than a corpse, and wait for it to be over.
Ewen, sensing his companion’s distress, withdrew, his face the picture of fear. “Major Windham,” he began, a rising panic in his voice, “Major Windham, you must believe me when I say I meant nothing by it, nothing at all. You will forgive me—”
But there was nothing to be forgiven; another urge, more powerful than fear, gripped Keith now, and with his heart in his throat he took Ewen’s face between his hands and kissed him. He had no notion of what he was doing beyond the fact that Ewen’s kiss coursed through his body like fire, and Keith, ever the heretic, yearned for the flames to swallow him whole.
It was not to last. Keith could feel Ewen’s body growing limp in his arms, his kiss more distracted, and so it was scarcely unexpected when he pulled away from Ewen and saw that the wounded man’s eyes were half shut. Yet the smile on Ewen’s lips, weak though it was, was proof that the kiss had not been entirely unwelcome, and Keith’s heart twisted oddly to see it. For four years he had prided himself on being a man unencumbered with friends or lovers, yet somehow Ewen Cameron had slipped through every defense that Keith had so carefully constructed, much the way that a knife slips through a man’s ribs to pierce his heart. It was impossible, it was absurd: Ewen Cameron was an enemy, a rebel, who owed Keith his life twice over. But even as Keith considered this, he was likewise aware that no thought of obligation had drawn him to dash in front of those muskets yesterday, nor had any thought of debt brought him to Ewen’s side now.
It was senseless to think any more on the matter. Ewen was almost asleep now, his head gently lolling to one side, and so Keith slipped his coat from around Ewen’s shoulders and lowered him to the pitiful bed. It was plain that he had fallen into one of those exhausted little slumbers: once more the words that Keith knew he must say to Ewen concerning Lochiel rose to his lips, but once more Ewen could not hear them. Slipping his coat back on, Keith took the lantern off the stool and sat down, waiting for Ewen to wake naturally as he had previously. Soon Ewen’s sleep became full of disjointed scraps of talk, mostly incoherent, and else Keith could discern was spoken in Gaelic, sometimes mingled with English. At one time he seemed to think that he was out after the deer on the hills with Lachlan; then he half woke up and muttered, “But it’s we that are the deer now,” and immediately fell into another slumber. Once he murmured the name of Alison, and Keith wondered at Miss Grant, across the sea in France, and felt a sharp and sudden guilt at the memory of the kiss he had exchanged with Ewen. But the kiss had meant nothing, a moment’s madness: Ewen was sick and injured, incapable of reason. It was better to forget that it had ever taken place, as Ewen likely would. If Keith were fortunate, Ewen would dismiss it as the workings of a fevered mind and nothing more. If Keith were fortunate, Ewen would never remember it at all.
Gradually, Ewen’s slumber became more sound; he ceased to mutter and make little restless movements, and in about five minutes he was in the deep sleep of real repose, which he had not known, perhaps, for many nights — sleep to make a watcher thankful. But for Keith Windham, sat watching with his chin on his hand and a frown on his face, there could be no gratitude for this deep sleep; already it was light outside, and almost light inside the dusty shieling, and glancing at his watch, he understood with dreadful certainty he could not delay his departure any more. He took up and blew out the lantern, went outside and roused Mackay, washed the bowl and, filling it with water, placed it and the rest of the food and wine within reach.
Such was the sleep Ewen had fallen into, however, that he did not stir at this, nor when Keith slipped a hand around his wrist to feel for the pulse that beat undoubtedly more stronger than when he had first felt it all those hours ago. He could not wake Ewen now — for a moment he toyed with the notion of scribbling a note and leaving it on Ewen’s breast, but it was likely the first person to read such a document would be Guthrie himself. No, it would be better to leave him as he was, and trust to his innate sense: Keith rearranged the plaid carefully and stood for a moment longer, looking down at Ewen as he lay sleeping, much as he had last summer in Kinlocheil when Keith had likewise stood over him and watched. Ewen had seemed half a boy then, his heart aglow with the fire of rebellion: now he was a man grown, the fire doused, though no doubt a bright ember would still burn in his heart for some time. It was a bitter truth of the world that in time all things must bend to forces greater than they, for if they did not they would break. Keith could only hope that it was a truth Ewen had learned, before the likes of Guthrie and others saw fit to break him for it.
For a moment longer Keith lingered, watching this man — his sometime enemy, sometime ally — as he slept, aware that this could well be the last time he ever set eyes on Ewen Cameron. Laying a hand on Ewen’s forehead, smoothing back the damp and dirty hair, he satisfied himself with the knowledge that Ewen was no longer burning of fever, that Ewen would not die in the night. But what did it matter if Keith did? Whatever debt he may have once owed Ewen Cameron had been repaid twice over, and moreover, no matter his personal feelings on the matter, the man was a rebel and a traitor besides, and like all rebels and traitors should meet his just deserts at the hands of a lawful authority. Yet as Keith got into the saddle and rode away, the stars growing ever more pale above his head, he thought once more on the fate of his enemy, left to rescue or capture in the little shieling, and wondered at himself that he should so greatly hope that come the morning Major Guthrie would find an empty bed.
no subject
Date: 2021-12-09 06:28 am (UTC)I've seen it in pieces as you wrote it, but I nevertheless inhaled that. This is going to be so good, and I am so very eager to read the whole thing.
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Date: 2021-12-12 06:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2021-12-09 07:42 pm (UTC)I wish you luck in resolving the 'writing with canon' question, and I look forward to reading the rest :D
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Date: 2021-12-12 06:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2021-12-11 09:52 pm (UTC)The challenge is this: I can either write with canon, borrowing lines and dialogue as I see fit to better weave the two stories together (I hope) or I try and write my own versions of the last three meetings, which is problematic in that there's a good chance they won't be as impactful as the originals. So far I have chosen the former, but I'm not convinced entirely of it.
I had a similar problem in my recent alternate version of Gleam in the North! I had one scene from the book that I included in detail, but I switched POV so that the reader wouldn't feel it was too similar (plus there were differences which made me want to include it). Also where events were the same, I skipped scenes that were already described in detail, and expanded on events/characters elsewhere that weren't dwelt on in the book. Of course you want to include the Keith/Ewen meetings, so that's probably not an option. But the POV change might be a helpful idea? I mean, not that Broster uses tight third person, but her omniscient POV usually dwells more on one person than others.
no subject
Date: 2021-12-13 10:16 pm (UTC)it had not been philanthropy that had brought him to Ewen this night, but something far more gross and base, something that would cost him his life and his dignity if ever it became known
Oh Keith. ♥
no subject
Date: 2021-12-24 09:08 pm (UTC)And yes, Keith is very bad with identifying his feelings, even here. He's so close, but he just veers away from being honest with himself. It's not going to get better any time soon either.