Chapter Text
1686 - Rannoch Moor, Scotland
The sun was receding behind the majestic triple peaks of Bidean nam Bian as day faded into evening in the Scottish highlands. Summer was bleeding into the harvest season of Lughnasadh and as the days grew shorter, summer's warmth gave way to more temperate days that hinted at the coming chill of autumn. The scrub of purple moorgrass waved delicately in the highland breeze, and the sweet smell of heather mixed with the damp of peat and sphagnum moss.
It was every bit as beautiful as everyone had said it was, the moor. The mountains piercing the sky with their rough, jagged peaks, the still glassy surface of the nearby lochans, and the high trilling call of the greenshanks that waded in their waters combined to create a truly magical feeling.
Yes, this place was practically miraculous, Aziraphale thought as he stood facing the tallest peak and taking it all in. He hadn’t been this far north on the island before, and he was glad he had decided to take this time to enjoy it, as he currently found himself without any heavenly assignments. It was a proper holiday when he considered it, and rather long overdue. As he stood here now, he could quite understand why people wrote sweeping lyric poetry that was turbulent and sad, like the landscape that surrounded him. Indeed he thought he might try his own hand at a few lines of verse himself, should inspiration take him.
He had no comprehension of the time he stood there watching the sun sinking below the ridge when he felt something push against the small of his back, startling him from his reverie. He whirled around to find himself face to face with the dark eyes of a shaggy haired cow that nibbled at the hem of his filleadh mòr. “Good lord!” he exclaimed as he yanked the material from the cow’s mouth and took a step back. “That’s terribly forward of you, my bovine companion.”
“Y’aright there?” a voice called from a distance and as Aziraphale glanced past the cow he saw he was now somehow surrounded by highland cattle and beyond them was a young man dressed in a muted blue-green belted plaid with a black and white bearded collie traipsing at his heels. He had a creel draped over his shoulder and what appeared to be a claymore strapped to his back. He gestured down to the dog, which took off like a shot and began to weave among the cattle, driving them forward towards the setting sun.
Aziraphale wasn’t sure how the man had been able to catch him unawares, but in truth he had been so preoccupied with the scene before him that it wasn’t so implausible for an entire fold to surround him unnoticed. “Oh. Yes, I’m quite all right thank you,” he responded as he took a moment to reach out and pat the nearest cow atop its black curly head.
“You’re English,” the young man observed as he crossed to where Aziraphale stood and the angel was able to make out his features. He had hair that was very much the colour of a farthing with a clean shaven face, and was short with a sturdy build. His face lacked the creases that came with age and yet he carried himself as one who had seen the rise and fall of many years. What struck Aziraphale the most was his deep-set grey eyes - they were thoughtful, kind but also sad.
“Yes, I suppose I am,” Aziraphale responded with a smile. “After a fashion, as it were. You could say I’m on holiday.”
The man raised a skeptical eyebrow, looking Aziraphale over as if what he’d just spoken was completely absurd. “Holiday, eh? In the Highlands? In the middle of the moor?”His tone was every bit as incredulous as his face.
There was a moment’s pause as Aziraphale considered what a respectable response might amount to, from a human perspective. What he decided on was, “It is rather beautiful, isn’t it?” and he gestured broadly towards the mountains that surrounded them on every side.
“Aye, it's beautiful…and vast. How’d you make it this far without a guide?”
“A guide?”
“Naught but those of us from Glencoe know their way across Rannoch.”
“Ah. A guide.” Aziraphale considered this and was weighing his options between telling a half-shade of truth, weaving a good tale or using a minor miracle to distract his newfound companion. He decided on the first option. After all, the man was kind, and seemed genuinely concerned with his welfare despite not knowing him. And if there was something about humans that always delighted the angel, it was when they surprised him with their capacity for goodness. “Well, I reckon its just my luck.”
The man laughed, a light reedy sound from the back of his throat as he rested his hand on one of the cattle and patted its back gently. “Your luck was me finding you before nightfall,” he joked as he dropped his hand and gestured behind Aziraphale in the direction of the setting sun. “C’mon, follow me. There is a shieling up ahead where we can stay the night.”
Aziraphale blinked and glanced over his shoulder where the other pointed. “Oh. That’s very thoughtful of you.” He returned his gaze to the man as he pondered the offer. “Quite thoughtful for a stranger.”
At that, the man offered the angel his hand in greeting. “The name’s Sandy. Sandy MacDonald,” he introduced, and Aziraphale shook his hand.
“You may call me…Fell,” he answered in introduction, which brought a smile to Sandy’s face.
“Fael,” he repeated the word with his own intonation and seemed genuinely amused by this. “Is that English? Sounds Welsh to me.”
It had quite a lovely sound really, when pronounced like that. So Aziraphale decided that, at least for now, Fael would be his name. "Yes, perhaps you're right. Though…truth be told, I've lived so many places over the years."
It was true after all.
“Right,” Sandy continued with finality. “Now we’re no longer strangers.” He then started to walk ahead as the dog that Aziraphale had quite forgotten about suddenly emerged from the fold with a bark and dashed between them. “Don’t mind Bran, he’ll drive the fold along. C’mon. Are you hungry? I caught some hares for supper, and can offer you a dram of whisky if you’re so inclined.”
Oh, Aziraphale liked this Sandy very much already. He smiled as he fell into step beside the human. “I should rather like that, thank you Sandy.”
“Call it Highland Hospitality,” Sandy acknowledged as he lead the way through the moor.
The walk together was a pleasant one; Aziraphale asked Sandy about himself and his life, doing his best to engage with him in as much of a human manner as he could muster, and Sandy had plenty to contribute. He spoke of his upbringing in the nearby village of Glencoe, and the loss of his parents at a young age. The majority of his account focused on creaturely companions - cattle, dogs and cats - and very little with other humans. And while Aziraphale could only speculate on the reason behind this, it did make Sandy endear himself to the angel.
When they reached their destination, dusk was beginning to settle and the half-light was broken only by swarms of midges that rose from the lochans and marshy boglands. A small wave from his hand had them keeping a healthy distance from Aziraphale and his new companion, though Sandy seemed quite ignorant of that fact.
The shieling was a comfortable, cozy structure bordered by a stone pasture. Sandy drove the cattle into the enclosure with the help of his collie Bran and once the fold was safely within, he led Aziraphale inside. No sooner had they crossed the threshold than Sandy quickly set to lighting a fire to cook the rabbit for dinner. Aziraphale did his best to resist the urge to help his human companion, though he did give the fire a little bit of a boost to keep their dinner moving swiftly. Before long, Sandy had gotten a nice pottage going and the shieling was filled with a pleasant smell. By all accounts it was a simple dish, but it was comfortable and familiar in a homey way, something that humans would say reminded them of their mother's kitchen from their childhood. And while Aziraphale enjoyed his extravagant dalliances from time to time, there was something very congenial about a simple home cooked meal.
Sandy served them and Aziraphale accepted his bowl gladly.
“It smells simply divine,” he offered, lifting it towards his companion in a wordless gesture of thanks.
“Does it now?” Sandy joked in response and it was clear by his tone that he didn’t believe it for a moment. “Must have been a long time since you had a decent meal.”
“I’ll have you know,” Aziraphale countered indignantly, “that in spite of what you think, it does smell quite lovely.” He tasted his first spoonful and studied the flavour profile like one whose profession was to dismantle a dish to its base ingredients. He savoured the flavour for some moments which brought a chuckle from his companion, and when he finally spoke, it was with some level of authority. “Rabbit, though I must confess I already knew that as you already told me." He paused, then continued. "Barley. I believe some ale. And…I can’t decide if it's rosemary or sage.”
“Close,” Sandy offered as he looked up at the other, impressed by his pallet. “Don’t have access to anything so fancy as rosemary or sage up here.”
“What is it?”
Sandy’s smile grew. “Bog myrtle.”
Aziraphale was astonished. “Bog myrtle?” he echoed as he turned his attention back to his dish. “Incredible.”
“It’s a far cry more accessible. I picked it this morning while the bòiltean were grazing.” He then helped himself to his first taste and settled back comfortably. The shieling boasted no furniture, so they sat opposite each other on the grassy floor but the ground was soft and not at all uncomfortable. Before long they had finished their meal and Sandy wasted no time to produce two wooden quaichs from his creel as well as a dusty old bottle which could only be the whisky he had hinted about earlier, and poured them each a generous measure.
"Do you always come prepared with extra for a guest?" Aziraphale queried as he accepted his cup and took a deep whiff of the pungent odor.
"What's for you won't go by you," Sandy replied and raised his cup towards the angel in preparation for a toast. "To new friends!"
It was a nice proper toast and Aziraphale ceremonially clinked their cups, though being made of wood the resulting sound was a dull tap. "New friends."
The pair made quick work of Sandy's whisky and it had the easily predictable effect of loosening their tongues. Though Aziraphale made an effort to keep his words acceptable for the company, he found that he was rather comfortable, and it seemed for his own part that Sandy felt the same. They laughed together and shared stories and before long they were acting like very old friends. Freed by the uisge beatha, Sandy had lost much of the sadness that Aziraphale read on his face when they first met, and for that the angel was glad. Sandy was a kind soul and deserved to be happy.
"I'm glad I found you," Sandy admitted after some of their rollicking conversation quieted and he leaned back against the wall of the shieling with a sigh.
Aziraphale smiled at the statement and rocked back and forth where he was seated. "I must say I feel very much the same. You, Sandy, are a delight."
Sandy shook his head and reached for the empty bottle, only to be supremely disappointed at its lack of contents. "Don't be daft," he grumbled with feigned embarrassment and let the bottle lay on its side on the floor. "You'd be the firs' to think so, Fael. I can't say anyone has ever considered me a delight."
"That's truly a shame," Aziraphale replied and though he was addled with the whisky, he could think plainly enough. "For you are."
The repetition of the sentiment seemed to hit Sandy differently and he grew quiet for a moment as the amusement melted away on his face and he was focused on the floor between them, the familiar sadness that Aziraphale had noticed on their introduction now shadowing his features once again. The tonal shift was striking and had the miraculous ability to sober the angel, who felt much of Sandy's sadness settle over his corporation like a shroud. Aziraphale didn't speak as he allowed the painful silence to remain.
When Sandy finally spoke, his voice was low and hollow. "May I speak plainly?"
"Please," Aziraphale encouraged, matching the other's tone.
Sandy took in a shaking breath and then glanced up to look at Aziraphale directly. "Am I right in assuming you're not just a typical English?"
"Perhaps you are," Aziraphale offered, not wanting to betray much but wondering where the other was going with his inferences.
"I see why you're hesitant to say as much," Sandy went on. "Its not the sort of thing people can talk about openly."
Ah, thought Aziraphale. It was not anything to do with his ethereal nature. It was much more to do with human nature. He was very familiar with the unkindness of humanity when it came to things they didn't fully comprehend.
"I believe I understand your meaning," Aziraphale admitted, his voice soft but full of kindness.
"The truth is," Sandy admitted and he dropped his gaze to the floor once more. "When people look at me, they see Sandy MacDonald the cattle-herd, a man from Glencoe. But I've never felt much like a man. Not even since I was a child."
It was quite the admission from someone whom he'd only just met, but Aziraphale was glad of it all the same. Knowing that this human had grown comfortable enough with him in this time to admit to him something so deeply personal touched the angel.
"Not that it makes any difference," Sandy went on dismally. "But you'll see why I enjoy the solitary life, with Bran and the bòiltean. Never could quite fit in." His companion's voice trailed off and silence settled over the pair of them for quite some time. Aziraphale resisted the urge to speak up, trying to allow Sandy the space to speak or not speak as necessary.
It was Bran who eventually broke the silence, baying suddenly from outside the shieling and startling both companions to their feet. "What is it?" Aziraphale spoke as he miracled them both safely sober enough to confront whatever waited outside their shelter. "Wolves?"
"No wolves. Haven't had those in the highlands for years now," Sandy was quickly back to his important role as caretaker of the cattle and the claymore that Aziraphale had quite forgotten was unsheathed in a fluid movement. "That'll be caterans. Stay inside."
"Caterans?" Aziraphale echoed, shocked, but Sandy held a hand up to silence him and slipped out of the shieling swiftly and silently. The angel was not thrilled with being left behind, and though he respected Sandy's decision he couldn't keep himself from peeking through the gaps in the door. The thought of anything happening to his new friend didn't sit well with him, and despite the fact that he had already been quite liberal with his miracles since he first met Sandy, he wouldn't hesitate to use one if it was needed.
After Sandy had left, it was strangely quiet outside. No sounds from Bran, no lowing from the cattle, not even the nocturnal sounds of the moor could be heard. Time stood on its own as he waited, and after what seemed like an eternity, the door opened once more and Sandy returned, claymore safely back in its sheath. He was remarkably calm for one who had only a short time before appeared ready to go into battle. As he settled back and acknowledged the concerned look on Aziraphale's face he offered a meek shrug. "They've gone. Must have heard Bran." He was disappointed based on his crestfallen expression and he settled back down on the shieling floor. "I shouldn't have let my guard down."
Aziraphale wasn't sure what to say, but returned to his seat opposite Sandy and pondered for a moment before contributing, "I suppose the distraction didn't help."
"Naw," Sandy answered and started to unwrap his long belted plaid to repurpose it for bedding. Aziraphale followed suit and when they were both comfortably settled on the shieling floor, Sandy sighed deeply. "T'was kind of you to listen, Fael."
"Certainly," Aziraphale spoke fervently. "What are friends for?"
"Aye," Sandy acknowledged with a dispirited smile. "What indeed." Then, a gently uttered "Goodnight."