The autumnal breeze carried the scent of heather and pine down from the high hills, whispering through the tall grass. With the hour growing late, the sky was alive with colours. Blues, purple, yellow, orange and red. The golden light of the last rays of day shone over the field that marked the edge of both clan's territories. Earth which had been soaked with blood and sorrow for centuries finally standing still, caught in the breath between one era and another.

Tanist John MacTavish stood in full dress: a deep blue tartan fastened with a silver broach baring the stag of his family crest, a dark leather baldric strapped across his chest and a blade sheathed at his side. His brunette mohawk, trimmed and tamed especially for such an occasion, gave him a fierce look befitting the Tanist; the only heir to the great Chieftain of Clan MacTavish.

To his left stood his father, Chieftain Ewan MacTavish. Time had carved itself into the older man's face like the sea would beat rock. Yet, his eyes were still as sharp as the first frost of the winter months.

Across the field, a small party approached. Five riders clad in the red and black of the opposing Clan. At the front rode their own Chief, a broad man who sat rigid in his saddle, bearing scars that spoke of too many hard winters and too few mercies. Behind him, encompassed by the other riders, was a figure shrouded in a cloak. No doubt you, John's betrothed.

The young Tanist's stomach twisted with a strange cocktail of nerves and apperception for what was yet to come. His duty to his people hanging over him.

"Ah never though ah'd see the day" Ewan murmured from beside his son.

"That peace would ride of from the East?" Johnny asked, glancing towards his father.

"That ah would live teh witness the peace" the Chieftain huffed.

The riders from the East trotted to a halt, hooves stamping into the soft turf. The Chief of the opposing Clan dismounted slowly, before walking forward, Chief MacTavish mirroring him until the two parties met in the middle.

"Ewan" your father said, nodding in acknowledgement.

"Malcom" came the short reply of Chief MacTavish, curt but not unkind.

"Never thought ah'd see meh child wed teh the likes of a MacTavish" Malcom said, lips curling with obvious distaste at the very thought of the idea.

"Nor mine the likes of your kind," Ewan replied, evenly. "But, times change, aye?"

"Too many sons have been buried," John stepped forward. "Too many daughters left behind teh mourn their brothers, fathers and husbands... let this union mark ah time of peace between Clans."

John's heartbeat quickened as Malcom turned, gently guiding you forward and away from the safety of your own people to stand before your betrothed.

He also stepped forward, taking slow and deliberate strides before he stood before you. Hesitantly lifting his hands to lower the hood of your cloak and reveal the face of his soon-to-be partner.

"Am John, though ah'd wager ye knew that already" He said, swallowing the lump that had quickly formed in his through.