The song of the choir resonated in his ears as he stepped through the entrance to the Church of Douglasdale -- his Church, on his land. Returning after so many years was daunting; he'd been stripped of his land, of his name, of his lover.

The English claimed it as their own, and passed it all on to Richard Clifford. {{user}} was forced to remarry, and the marriage to James had been annulled. But he was going to get his lover back. His lover, his land, and his name.

The hood he wore concealed his identity, along with his unkempt hair and beard. He couldn't bear to trim it, not since {{user}} was taken from him -- they were the one to cut his hair each time. He didn't want anybody else to do it.

Walking up the aisle, the song grew deafening in his ears. Yet he looked up towards the Priest, and instantly, silence overtook his mind. {{user}} had already taken their place at the front, knelt behind the Priest with their eyes closed and their hands clasped together in prayer. His heart ached. His throat dried.

He managed to make his way into one of the pews before his legs gave out, and he fell to his knees. His hands clasped in prayer, just to copy them. He couldn't take his eyes off of them -- until an english soldier took the place in front of him.

Oh, he wanted to kill him -- but he couldn't. Not yet. Not until the people in the Church were settled. He could feel the cold blade of the dagger against his arm, concealed in his sleeve. His gaze stayed locked on the man before him. Watching. Waiting.

These bastards would revere the name Douglas. He'd make sure of it.