33. Highlanders
Highlanders
Highlander/Doctor Who
FR-T
It had been days since the battle at Culloden ended in the rout of the Highlanders and the headlong flight of the boy we all put such faith in, and the guns were still firing. It wasn't the roar of battle anymore, but the solitary crack of bloody murder and the hiss of consuming flame as the Butcher's men rounded up and slaughtered anyone who fought, anyone who might have fought, and anyone who might fight the next time the Clans rise against English rule.
War is always a dirty business, but Butcher Cumberland seemed determined to make a special name for himself in the annals of Mars.
I met a boy on the road. A piper and a son of a piper; son of the hereditary piper of my own clan, no less. He'd no pipes now and no musket, but he chose to hide in the woods and travel by night rather than shed his plaid for 'respectable' clothes and wore the claymore at his side with the same pride and swagger as so many had shown before Culloden. I feared for him and I pitied him, knowing that although I might live to see Scotland rise from the ashes of Cumberland's 'clearance', he never would. He was a young man, with maybe fifty years ahead of him, but it would take a deathless existance to ride out the Butcher's hatred.
""I cannae believe it's over," he admitted, the disappointment on his fresh face heartbreaking to behold. "When we came so close to London."
"Aye," I agreed. "I thought... but what then, eh?"
"What then?" he laughed. "With King Charles III on the throne? Victory, Duncan; that's what."
He was so young; as young and naieve as I looked, and younger than I remembered being. "Ah, Jamie; do ye think the English would give it all up just for we had London? Stuck down there; no food, no comfort, no welcome... Still; I'd've given much to bloody the sasenach king's nose afore we left."
"Aye," he laughed heartily, still full of life and spirit despite the defeat. "Aye; well, another time, heh?"
"Another time," I sighed.
He lay back and looked at the stars, as if struggling to remember something that eluded him.
I met him again, twenty years on. He'd put away his sword and found a new set of pipes, though he never played them in public of course, and had made a fair living for a Scotsman in those hard times. He was still young and still strong, and well-liked by his neighbours, but there was a weariness and a melancholy in him.
"You remind me of someone," he told me and I smiled. "Someone I met... I cannae recall when. In a city of glass and steel," he added, which surprised me, since we'd met on a road in a wood.
We talked of the past and I delighted in listening to his stories of the rebellion and the high spirit of those times.
"Hard to recall it now," he admitted, and I was sad to see him brought so low. It's one of the hardest things in living so long, to have to see the bright spirit of youth become the tired wisdom of age.
And then, last night, I met him for the third time. I was visiting Connor in New York when I almost walked into him, walking with a girl in Central Park. He was as young as when I first met him, but undeniably the same man; bright and bold and quite a picture with the dark-haired girl in her strange, glittering bodysuit.
"Jamie?" I asked.
"Do I know ye?" he asked.
He seemed so sure that my own certainty wavered, yet from his face he was a Jamie. "I... I suppose not," I admitted and I moved away.
As I left, I heard the girl ask: "Now what was that about?"
"I've no idea, Zoe," he replied. "I've never met that man in mah life, yet he seemed so sure... And he knew mah name."
The last thing I heard was the most peculiar, for just as they left my earshot, the girl suggested: "Maybe you haven't met him yet."
I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and after four hundred years it always pleases me to know that there are still things in this world that can surprise me.
Highlander/Doctor Who
FR-T
It had been days since the battle at Culloden ended in the rout of the Highlanders and the headlong flight of the boy we all put such faith in, and the guns were still firing. It wasn't the roar of battle anymore, but the solitary crack of bloody murder and the hiss of consuming flame as the Butcher's men rounded up and slaughtered anyone who fought, anyone who might have fought, and anyone who might fight the next time the Clans rise against English rule.
War is always a dirty business, but Butcher Cumberland seemed determined to make a special name for himself in the annals of Mars.
I met a boy on the road. A piper and a son of a piper; son of the hereditary piper of my own clan, no less. He'd no pipes now and no musket, but he chose to hide in the woods and travel by night rather than shed his plaid for 'respectable' clothes and wore the claymore at his side with the same pride and swagger as so many had shown before Culloden. I feared for him and I pitied him, knowing that although I might live to see Scotland rise from the ashes of Cumberland's 'clearance', he never would. He was a young man, with maybe fifty years ahead of him, but it would take a deathless existance to ride out the Butcher's hatred.
""I cannae believe it's over," he admitted, the disappointment on his fresh face heartbreaking to behold. "When we came so close to London."
"Aye," I agreed. "I thought... but what then, eh?"
"What then?" he laughed. "With King Charles III on the throne? Victory, Duncan; that's what."
He was so young; as young and naieve as I looked, and younger than I remembered being. "Ah, Jamie; do ye think the English would give it all up just for we had London? Stuck down there; no food, no comfort, no welcome... Still; I'd've given much to bloody the sasenach king's nose afore we left."
"Aye," he laughed heartily, still full of life and spirit despite the defeat. "Aye; well, another time, heh?"
"Another time," I sighed.
He lay back and looked at the stars, as if struggling to remember something that eluded him.
I met him again, twenty years on. He'd put away his sword and found a new set of pipes, though he never played them in public of course, and had made a fair living for a Scotsman in those hard times. He was still young and still strong, and well-liked by his neighbours, but there was a weariness and a melancholy in him.
"You remind me of someone," he told me and I smiled. "Someone I met... I cannae recall when. In a city of glass and steel," he added, which surprised me, since we'd met on a road in a wood.
We talked of the past and I delighted in listening to his stories of the rebellion and the high spirit of those times.
"Hard to recall it now," he admitted, and I was sad to see him brought so low. It's one of the hardest things in living so long, to have to see the bright spirit of youth become the tired wisdom of age.
And then, last night, I met him for the third time. I was visiting Connor in New York when I almost walked into him, walking with a girl in Central Park. He was as young as when I first met him, but undeniably the same man; bright and bold and quite a picture with the dark-haired girl in her strange, glittering bodysuit.
"Jamie?" I asked.
"Do I know ye?" he asked.
He seemed so sure that my own certainty wavered, yet from his face he was a Jamie. "I... I suppose not," I admitted and I moved away.
As I left, I heard the girl ask: "Now what was that about?"
"I've no idea, Zoe," he replied. "I've never met that man in mah life, yet he seemed so sure... And he knew mah name."
The last thing I heard was the most peculiar, for just as they left my earshot, the girl suggested: "Maybe you haven't met him yet."
I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and after four hundred years it always pleases me to know that there are still things in this world that can surprise me.