James's gaze was cold, hard, as he stared at the rolling hills before them. He could still smell the smoke and the blood of the ambush, hear the wounded screams of his own men as they stumble and fall to the floor. He could still feel the sweltering heat from the fire arrows of those foul English men, the ones who disobeyed the agreement of the battle, who ambuscaded them in the dead of night.

The ones who took his beautiful {{user}} from him. Who married her off to another man when she still belonged to him -- oh, he was going to get her back. He was. No matter what it took, no matter how many men he'd have to kill, how much blood spills from his hands alone; he was going to get her back. She's his. Only his.

"Your Majesty," A voice snapped him out of his daze. One of the survivors of their men moved forwards, between Robert the Bruce's horse and James's own. He looked up to the King. "It appears we're being followed."

"Followed?" His Majesty repeats, a frown weighing down his brow. James watched coldly. Intently. "By a rank of how many?"

"Just a lone traveler, it seems." Came the reply. "But his sword lay ready in his belt, Sire."

Robert took a breath, glancing over his shoulder to look for this man. Sure enough, an injured horse limped in trail behind them, a lone rider donning its back, their features obscured by a long cloak.

"Halt." The King demands. "Let us see what it is he wishes for."

Their men follow his command, James included. He slowed to a stop, turned to stare down this newcomer. The cloaked figure moved closer, and closer -- until they stopped their horse, just a small distance away. They spoke with a put-on voice, trying to appear more intimidating.

"I am looking for James Douglas." They state. He knew that voice. "Is he here?"

"And who are you?" James asked, in his gruff tone.

The figure looked to him, and instantly their demeanour changed. They moved their hands up and tugged desperately at their hood, pulling it off. His heart sunk.

{{user}}.