'Love me or hate me, both are in my favour: If you love me, I'll always be in your heart. If you hate me, I'll always be in your mind.' - William Shakespeare
Scotland, 1800.
His father lay on his sick bed dying. Oliver sat beside his father on the bed. Raucous coughs shook Edmund.
"Take it easy." Oliver soothed. He wet a cloth in cool water and wiped his father's forehead. He did this to bring down Edmund's fever. It was dark outside and the rain was falling quite heavily. The cold wind that the rain brought, wasn't helping matters in Edmund's health.
"I do not think I'd last the morning." Edmund said between fits of cough. His lungs felt on fire and breathing was a great labour. The light from the hearth reflected the beads of sweat, that formed on Edmund's forehead and neck.
"Do not say such things." Oliver reprimanded. He couldn't bear the thought of loosing his father. He was all he had left in this world.
"You'll live. You'll survive, as we have through all these hard times. The Barringtons always survive." Oliver said with strong conviction in his voice.
"Promise me, Oliver," Edmund said as he took his son's hand in his. He turned his head to look into Oliver's eyes. "Promise me that, when I'm no more, you'll bring justice for us. That you'll bring honour once again, to the Barringtons name." He wheezed as he spoke.
"Father....."
"Promise me."
"I promise."
Edmund coughed strongly again. He took in a laboured breath as his chest rose. "Promise me also, that when you get the chance, you'll ruin the St. Claires. Pay them back in their own coin."
"I....I...."
"Remember what they did to your mother. Remember what they did to us." Edmund said bitterly.
"I promise father. You have my word." Oliver squeezed his father's hand in reassurance.
"Good. Now I can die easy knowing you'll do just that." Edmund said removing his hand from Oliver's. "Too bad that I won't live long enough to see Angus's face when I ruin him."
"Father! Please stop saying that! You will not die. What would I do without you?" Oliver shook his father's shoulders lightly, anguish in his voice.
"You'll do just fine. After all, the Barrington's blood courses through your veins." Edmund said lightly. He coughed again and again, heavily.
"Sorry. Easy there." Oliver cooed as touched his father's chest. He then applied the cool cloth to his father's forehead again. Then he stood up and walked towards the hearth. He bent over the kettle hung over the fire, and stirred the boiling broth. He put some of it in a small, wooden plate and took it to his father.
Sitting his father up in the bed and leaning him against the wall, Oliver sat down and fed him some spoons of broth. When Edmund had had enough, he then helped him to lie back down.
Oliver went to the hearth and removed the kettle over the fire. He stoked the fire and added more wood to keep the room warm against the outside cold. It was just early spring, but the weather was still very cold.
Oliver went to sit on a chair beside his father's bed. Tired, he expelled a long breath and leaned into the chair. He looked over at his father. Edmund was already sleeping. His breathing sounded noisy. Sometimes, Edmund coughed. Oliver leaned forward and arranged the blankets well on him. Leaning back on his chair, exhaustion took over and Oliver's eyes began to close. Soon he drifted off to a troubled sleep.
He dreamt that when he woke up, Edmund had already died. Jolting awake, he looked out the window. The purple tinged sky told that it was early morning. Standing up to check, he put his hand on his father's chest. He couldn't feel him breathing. Panicked, he lit an oil lamp to see well.
"Father?" Oliver shook his father awake. No response.
"Father? Father?!" Oliver called out. Still no response. Face stricken, he put his ear to his chest. Edmund's heart wasn't beating. He was dead. His father was dead. Now, he was left all alone in this world.
Tears staining his face, he sat down on the chair with his head in his hands and wept. Grief washed over him like a bitter taste. His heart was heavy and ached with deep sadness. His father had died a bitter man. He had made him promise. He would avenge his father's death. And his mother's. If not for the St. Claire's, this wouldn't have happened. They took everything away from them. They took everything away from him. And now, swearing in his heart, his would take everything away from them.
Hours later, Oliver stood sweaty in the early sun with his face, shirt and hands smeared with dirt. He leaned the shovel against the cottage wall. He had just buried his father. The fresh mound of dirt there on the ground indicated. He went out and gathered wild flowers to put on Edmund's grave. He knelt by the grave and arranged the wild flowers on it.
"Rest well father. I know that you're in heaven right now, smiling down at me." Oliver said with a wistful smile.
"I will avenge our family and restore the Barringtons name, as of days of old." The words he said served as a balm to his grieving soul. Gathering resolve and wiping the tears that dropped from his eyes, he stood up. His father was dead and never coming back. Now he must be a man and move on. He must work hard and fend for himself. He must work to fufill his promise to his father. And by God, that he will do.