Chapter Text
Portree, Isle of Sky, 1712
“Enjoy your final rest, thief! Tomorrow you’ll swing.”
“Don’t be late.” Crowley retorted with a snarl. “I know you won’t miss a chance to watch a fellow suffer.”
He staggered back just in time to avoid being spat on in retaliation by Allenby, the notorious guard at Ironstock Prison in Portree. It was just a three bay holding cell, more than big enough for the kind of small-time criminals that usually made up its population. Most infractions were dealt with at a parish level, and your fate depended largely on luck and how much the judge got a thrill from having another person’s fate in his hands.
Unfortunately for Crowley his usual devilishly good luck had run out right when he’d needed it most.
It was only five sheep. Wrong to steal them, obviously, but he’d been desperate. Illness had ravaged his own flock, and he had his mum, and other people in their tiny farming community of Elan, to take care of.
The shame of stealing burned in his chest, but the shame of knowing his death would leave his mum and friends to fend for themselves burned harder.
Crowley sank to the floor in the corner of his cell, with his back to the cold, damp stone wall. This was it then. A few sleepless hours left, probably spent pleading silently with a God he wasn’t sure he believed in, for a miracle that would never come. And he’d never see his friends' beloved faces or feel his mum hugging him tight again. Three bloody months he’d been in this cell. Long enough to have lost weight, strength, and the fire that had once burned in him.
Crowley had just closed his eyes for a moment, wondering if it would be worse to sleep, or worse not to, when the door to his cell creaked open.
“Crowley Beithir?”
Crowley opened his eyes and was shocked to find himself staring at a man dressed in the finest clothes, with thick, neat black hair, and the sort of handsome features Crowley associated with mythical kings and heroes. He looked like a beautiful flame shining in the grime of the cell.
“Who’s asking?” He growled.
“Someone who’s come to get you out of this wretched place, if that’s quite all right with you.”
Crowley looked up at the man in utter bafflement.
“Why? And what do you want as payment? Because I’m telling you now, I don’t have anything worth selling.”
“Because no one should be left to languish like this, much less a man who was just trying to help his family. I’ve recently acquired a residence on Waternish, so I’ve been making it my business to get acquainted with local officials and law enforcement.”
“Smart. Get to know who to cosy up to and who would stab you in the back and blame you for it.”
“More or less, yes. The prisoner governor told me of your case.”
Crowley hauled himself to his feet, trying to hide the effort it took as his lungs cramped and head spun. Looking the other man square in the face, he noticed the fellow had the most unusual deep grey eyes, like storm clouds on the horizon.
“And what? He’s letting you take me out of here?”
“I can be very persuasive when I wish.” The stranger said, his voice low, rich and cultured, with a pleasing foreign accent, that Crowley, never having left Skye, couldn’t place. .
“Come on then, what do you want as payment?”
“There’s no need -”
“I don’t like owing people things.”
The strange man raised an eyebrow at that, looking Crowley up and down as if taking his measure. But there was no judgement at Crowey’s dirty and emaciated state, only curiosity and a little pity. Which Crowley absolutely did not want.
“We could have been out of here ten minutes since.”
“I’d rather die an honest thief than be beholden to a stranger who won’t even tell me what he wants.”
“God, you're argumentative. I just don’t want to see a decent man die for no reason.”
“I might not be a decent man.”
“Come out of here with me, and let me decide that for myself.”
“All right then. If you’re not going to demand weird sexual favours or ask me to poison someone on your behalf.”
“What an imagination you have. Come on, before the governor changes his mind.”
Crowley followed the man out of the cell, forcing himself not to puff and wheeze as his tired out frame ambled along.
When they got outside, there was a fine carriage waiting. The man offered his hand to help Crowley into it and Crowley, unsure what else to do, took it. His grasp was warm, and strong.
“You didn’t tell me your name.” Crowley said, as the stranger got into the carriage with him.
“Gabriel Northgate.” He replied, then rapped the wall to let the driver know it was time to leave.
Dusk was already falling by the time they reached Dunvegan.
“We’ll stop here for tonight and head to Waternish tomorrow.” Gabriel told him. On the way they hadn’t talked much, but Crowley had told Gabriel that his home was on the Waternish peninsula. It so happened that Gabriel’s recently purchased residence was not a mile from the village of Elan.
Crowley felt a tad self conscious as they got out of the carriage. The Heather and Grouse Inn looked like a very respectable establishment, and Crowley did not look like a very respectable person. But he had his pride, and so he grit his teeth and acted perfectly nonchalant, ignoring the curious stares as Gabriel procured the key to his room, and ordered hot water be brought up for a bath.
“I like to travel in style.” Gabriel commented as he let them into the room, the inn’s largest, “So there should be room enough for us both.”
There would be room for six families, Crowley thought as he looked around the room with its stone walls and rich velvet and brocade furnishings. His own home was a tiny stone farm cottage with barely enough room for himself and his mum.
“Can I lend you some clothes? I know they probably won’t fit right, but at least they’ll be clean.”
“That’s kind of you.”
“Just the decent thing to do. I’m not a kind person.”
Crowley couldn’t help smiling at that.
“In my admittedly limited experience, people who feel the need to point out that they’re not kind, often are.”
Gabriel gave him an unreadable look that made Crowley shiver slightly. Thankfully a knock at the door saved him from having to figure out his next move. A young man in a servant's livery came in and started filling the copper bathtub in the adjoining bathroom. When he’d finished, Gabriel rummaged in his luggage and pulled out a pair of plain black breeches, and a ridiculously fine linen shirt, handing them to Crowley.
“The rest of my belongings were sent ahead, so I don’t have a spare nightshirt, I’m afraid. But now, enjoy the water while it’s hot and I’ll have some supper sent up.”
“I can’t pay you.” Crowley said bluntly.
“My good sir, you stole sheep to feed your family. I guessed as much.”
“Am I .. some sort of project?”
“No, you suspicious thing. Just get in the bath, would you? And let me feed you?”
“Bossy.”
“Stubborn.”
Crowley laughed. “All right, thank you. I won’t be long.”
“Crowley, be as long as you like. You’ve at least earned the right to a relaxing soak.”
Crowley thought about that for a moment, then decided that actually, a hot bath and some food sounded like absolute heaven, and though Gabriel was an odd fish and no mistake, he genuinely seemed to want to help.
“All right.” He said again. “Thanks, actually. Um. Cheers.”
Thus eloquently speaking, he vanished in the direction of hot water, peace and quiet, and blessed freedom.