Here we go again. On My Own. With the original incarnation of Kiltward. Its coming back to you, piece by piece. Here's the prologue and the rest of it is on its way (slowly, but it's on its way!)
Thank you to Kitty Kat & Sam, my eternally patient betas and to Rae Cullen for pre-reading.
Thank you also to everyone who PM'd, tweeted and emailed when OMO came off this website. I appreciated everyone's support and concern. Everything is fine, and I just had to make some changes, that's all! Promise that basically it's the same. And it's finished. And you'll get it all back.
Stephanie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own this story (apart from the Twilight names and any quotes), its ideas and events, Kiltward, and quite a lot of the places. Official disclaimer is own my profile page and on my website (link is on the profile page)
It was at exactly eight thirty three in the evening when the ferry pulled into Crannoch Dubh's main ferry port.
I watched it from the pub, from my pub, the pub which had a sign above the door stating that I was legally allowed to sell alcohol. To be honest, the term ferry port was probably a bit of an exaggeration. Ferry port insinuated it held a teaming metropolis of boats, ferries and general sea traffic. Reality dictated otherwise as there was only room for one ferry. Okay, so it was a big ferry boat, a huge ferry boat. It carried nearly a thousand people, over eighty cars and brought our frozen food, coffee and toilet rolls to the local stores.
And it brought beer to the island's six pubs.
Most importantly to the island, it brought tourists in; visitors who traded their incomes for a look at quaint island life, those who looked past the mainland and more popular islands like Mull. They made the passage on a boat the size of an ocean ferry, whose journey only lasted ninety three minutes.
Known by the locals as The Boat.
It ran five times a day from Crannoch Dubh to Oban, also making the return trip from Oban to Crannoch Dubh. Less in Winter, more in Summer, with one late boat a week on Fridays. Some days its journey ended on the island and sometimes dropped anchor for the last time on the mainland. Either way, the days' last ferry landing in Crannoch Dubh carried me home.
Often as not, the Crannoch Dubh Ferry took me away from the island, from my home, from the remains of my family, from my hell on earth, to anywhere; my old career, my old life, any other place but here.
Today, I waited as it was theoretically bringing me my future. It was bringing the person who would decide, at the whim of my lawyers and the bank, how I could run my business, my life, my home.
I was not happy about this. Not happy at all. I nursed my double Grouse glaring at it in the false light of the pub's ceiling lamps, twisting my wrist so the golden liquid swirled around in the glass.
He could just fuck off. I didn't need help. I didn't need. I could do this.
On. My. Own.
Edward Cullen needs no one.
Crannoch Dubh is pronounced Cran-nogh Dooo. Its Gaelic and roughly means black artificial island. It's not a real place. I made it up.
If you've not reviewed before, please do. As I said at the top, the rest of this story is on its way, but it not all in one go.
Thank you for being so patient with me.