Fiona froze. “Harris, what are you—”
He pulled the dirk from his belt and held it out to her, hilt first.
“Take it,” he said.
Her hands shook as she did.
“Place it here,” he continued, pressing the cold point just above his heart.
Her breath hitched. “Don’t—”
“I married you out of duty,” he said, eyes lifted to hers, steady and bare. “But I kneel to you by choice.”
The words stole the air from her lungs.
“I cannae promise safety,” he went on. “I cannae promise peace. But I swear this—before God, before this land, before the woman I’ve bound my name to—”
He closed his hands over hers, the dirk’s tip still resting over his heart.
“—I will give my life for yours without hesitation. I will stand between you and every musket meant for me. You are my wife, Fiona Cameron, and I pledge my life and my name to ye.”
Fiona stood in stunned silence.
“If ever I break the vows I give to ye this day, between us and God Himself, may you pierce my heart with this very blade.”
The dirk dropped out of her hands and into the wet grass in front of him. Fiona fell to her knees, forehead pressing to his.
“Don’t you dare die for me,” she whispered fiercely. “If you do, I’ll never forgive you.”
His breath shuddered. “Then I’ll have to live.”
Harris pressed the dirk’s hilt into her palm once more.
“We shall livetogether.”
He turned toward the stone shelf.
They carved it there—slowly, carefully—her hands still trembling, his steadying hers without taking over. A thistle: sharp leaves, stubborn stem, petals cut deep enough to last.
Not a crest.
Not a legend.
A mark of truth.
When it was done, Fiona leaned back, breath unsteady, fingers aching.
“The thistle always endures, doesnae it,” she murmured, brushing the embroidered flowers at her hem.
Harris exhaled. “It’s a promise.”
They stood side by side, the wind lifting his tartan, stirring her skirts—green and purple against stone.
They did not swear love.
They did not pretend certainty.
They simply stood there, married by duty, bound by choice, choosing to stand together anyway.
