The road now leads onward and I know not where [arrival]
For a moment, Jamie McCrimmon had no idea how he got here. He knew where here was, certainly. Here was just outside of Iverness. They fled here. Himself, Laird MacLaren, and his two children. They fled here after there was nothing on the field of Culloden but blood and death and terror, the acrid smoke of gunpowder and the screams of the dying, begging for mercy, for water, for Jesus, or for death. Iverness, while not safe, seemed a better place to tend to the wounded Laird, to hole up and figure out how to evade the English, get back north, survive. His father had taught him the art of the Highland ways: hit, run, hide. He knew it well, and they'd known it to be their only hope. Charlie's banners were down and the English were set to slaughter them, as many of them as they could. Punishment for rebellion. Punishment for being Scottish. Punishment for daring. But he was not with the Laird now. He remembered. Laird MacLaren and his daughter were on the ship to France, safely gone. He was not. He was still here. And when he caught the flash of red out of the corner of his eye, he remembered. His sword was in his hand, his father's sword once, before Falkirk. Now his. And his only defence.
For a moment, Jamie looked desperately around for...someone. Someone, he was supposed to protect someone. But there was nothing but him, the three redcoats coming up through the rocky landscape, the sword in his hand, and the whipping, cold April wind. Nothing. The sense of loneliness, he decided, it was from missing his brother and father, that was all. That was all. And he had their blood to avenge, and Laird MacLaren's son, Alexander. He had blood for which the English had to atone. And there was no way to go but through the redcoats and straight on into perdition. With a cry like a beansidhe's keen, Creag an tuire! screeching from his throat, Jamie launched himself at the soldiers, his sword brandished high. He knew he had no chance. No chance, no hope. Three against one, and only a sword and a dirk on his side against their muskets. He was a dead man. But he'd go down fighting.
It went largely as Jamie expected it to go. He managed to get something like the element of surprise, slashing one English throat. (The death rattle wasn't half as satisfying as he remembered it being, why didn't he revel in this, why didn't he love revenge well taken? Why did he feel guilty?) But that sudden advantage did not last long. They had bayonets and there was still two against one. Every time he dodged a blow or landed one of his own, he took a hit from another blade. He was outnumbered, overwhelmed, bleeding all over the place, and as he made a feint to try to evade a bayonet coming at his leg, he caught the but of the other musket to his chest, sending him backwards. This was not going to end well, and as soon as he staggered back, nearly falling over the rocks that littered the ground, he saw one of the redcoats loading. And at that point, he knew he was doomed. The only thing to do was to get to cover, because a musket ball this close would kill him, or at least put him down so that they could finish the job.
So he did the sensible thing: he scrambled to get his feet, and started to run for cover. He knew this land better, and these were his people, even if they weren't his Clan. If he could find shelter, he could get out of here. He just had to get some better ground, hit, run, hide.
That was the plan. That's how it should of gone. And he thought he could do it, too, until his body jerked and he felt the overwhelming pain radiating from his arm. They'd missed. He knew that. If the shot had landed, the musket ball would've been rattling around in his lungs, so he knew he was lucky. But all the same, he cried out and fell to his knees, the world radiating pain, hot blood drenching the sleeve of his shirt, and he couldn't hold on to his sword. Quickly, he snapped it up with his other hand, not about to be reduced to his dirk and nothing more, then tried to clamber up, tried to get his feet. He just had to get some cover before the other shot came. Cover, cover, cover.
The second ball slammed into the ground, throwing his dash off course, and desperately, Jamie threw himself behind a rock outcropping, bracing himself for the impact.
And then, everything changed.
Instead of ending up on the hard rocks, there's something smooth under him, and he's tumbling, tumbling, head over feet and he hears the sword clatter out of his reach. Then out of nowhere, his head clocks into something--not rock, no, too soft, but it still hurts and he's seeing stars. He's certain this can't be death; there are no angels and saints, no welcome home. It can't even be purgatory; there's no pain in purgatory, no physical pain, at least. It's dark and he's lost and everything hurts and his arm, they're going to have to take his arm off, he's sure of it, and he's moaning for the Doctor, though who, he doesn't know, only that he wants the Doctor and now because the Doctor will make it better, he will, he has to, he's the only one who can, Doctor.
Welcome to Chicago, Jamie McCrimmon. Have a lovely view of a basement to begin.
For a moment, Jamie looked desperately around for...someone. Someone, he was supposed to protect someone. But there was nothing but him, the three redcoats coming up through the rocky landscape, the sword in his hand, and the whipping, cold April wind. Nothing. The sense of loneliness, he decided, it was from missing his brother and father, that was all. That was all. And he had their blood to avenge, and Laird MacLaren's son, Alexander. He had blood for which the English had to atone. And there was no way to go but through the redcoats and straight on into perdition. With a cry like a beansidhe's keen, Creag an tuire! screeching from his throat, Jamie launched himself at the soldiers, his sword brandished high. He knew he had no chance. No chance, no hope. Three against one, and only a sword and a dirk on his side against their muskets. He was a dead man. But he'd go down fighting.
It went largely as Jamie expected it to go. He managed to get something like the element of surprise, slashing one English throat. (The death rattle wasn't half as satisfying as he remembered it being, why didn't he revel in this, why didn't he love revenge well taken? Why did he feel guilty?) But that sudden advantage did not last long. They had bayonets and there was still two against one. Every time he dodged a blow or landed one of his own, he took a hit from another blade. He was outnumbered, overwhelmed, bleeding all over the place, and as he made a feint to try to evade a bayonet coming at his leg, he caught the but of the other musket to his chest, sending him backwards. This was not going to end well, and as soon as he staggered back, nearly falling over the rocks that littered the ground, he saw one of the redcoats loading. And at that point, he knew he was doomed. The only thing to do was to get to cover, because a musket ball this close would kill him, or at least put him down so that they could finish the job.
So he did the sensible thing: he scrambled to get his feet, and started to run for cover. He knew this land better, and these were his people, even if they weren't his Clan. If he could find shelter, he could get out of here. He just had to get some better ground, hit, run, hide.
That was the plan. That's how it should of gone. And he thought he could do it, too, until his body jerked and he felt the overwhelming pain radiating from his arm. They'd missed. He knew that. If the shot had landed, the musket ball would've been rattling around in his lungs, so he knew he was lucky. But all the same, he cried out and fell to his knees, the world radiating pain, hot blood drenching the sleeve of his shirt, and he couldn't hold on to his sword. Quickly, he snapped it up with his other hand, not about to be reduced to his dirk and nothing more, then tried to clamber up, tried to get his feet. He just had to get some cover before the other shot came. Cover, cover, cover.
The second ball slammed into the ground, throwing his dash off course, and desperately, Jamie threw himself behind a rock outcropping, bracing himself for the impact.
And then, everything changed.
Instead of ending up on the hard rocks, there's something smooth under him, and he's tumbling, tumbling, head over feet and he hears the sword clatter out of his reach. Then out of nowhere, his head clocks into something--not rock, no, too soft, but it still hurts and he's seeing stars. He's certain this can't be death; there are no angels and saints, no welcome home. It can't even be purgatory; there's no pain in purgatory, no physical pain, at least. It's dark and he's lost and everything hurts and his arm, they're going to have to take his arm off, he's sure of it, and he's moaning for the Doctor, though who, he doesn't know, only that he wants the Doctor and now because the Doctor will make it better, he will, he has to, he's the only one who can, Doctor.
Welcome to Chicago, Jamie McCrimmon. Have a lovely view of a basement to begin.