For Witt44
Title: Timeline
Author: baffledking
Rating: PG
Word Count: 708
Summary: Some things don't change
Author's Notes: This didn't turn out quite as intended, but I hope you like it. Every section is exactly 100 word and damn, that sucked.
April 2, 1591
It's six months after Heather had fallen to sleep in Connor's arms and never woken up, after he'd burned their home to the ground, the wind scatter the remains of their life like it never had been. He'd rode for Edinburgh, letting the pounding of the horse's hooves numb his mind like it did his body. Even then, he couldn't hate himself for not taking Ramirez's advice. He might mourn her now, hurting with each breath where he couldn't inhale the scent of the flowers she'd tucked in her hair. But at least he'd had her. For a while.
April 2, 1672
"You'd be real proud of me, Blossom," Connor murmered as he hit the candle, genuflecting before the altar before kneeling at the railing, face pressed to his joined hands, praying, not to God, because he didn't any longer, but to the only saint in his heaven. He'd be recieving his degree soon. Under a name that wasn't his, but it was something.
He nodded at the priest, expression changing to Albert Thompson, a young, quiet student at Trinity college. He found it easier than being Connor MacLeod. There was much that was easier than being a MacLeod."Real proud, Blossom."
April 2, 1783
He ducked into the church's entry way, avoiding yet another amused call about his 'famous duel' and mentally castrated Kastagir yet again. Whether more for letting him get that drunk (and he doesn't want to think about how much alcohol was involved in keeping an immortal that drunk thank you) or for spreading the tale by whispering it in the ears of fancy, well bred ladies with a yen for gossip, he couldn't tell anymore.
He lit the candle and looked skyward, speaking as if she were next to him, a common conversation, "She did look like a warthog, Heather."
April 2, 1789
Connor had slipped away from Sarah, not telling her where he was going. It wasn't her business. It never would be anyone's business but his and Heather's. April second would always be their day. Nearly two hundred years after he buried her and she was still more real to him then the warm, human woman who's lips he'd kissed, tasting the wine they'd shared. He wondered if that was more of a testament to Heather or to his own stubborn nature, his belated adherence to Ramirez's words.
He knelt down, staring at the flame glinting on the wick and prayed.
April 2, 1854
It's impossible to find a Christian church to light Heather's candle. Poor winds had kept Connor from the West. He knew that Heather had only wanted him to light the candle to remember her, but since it was impossible to forget her, impossible not to think of her daily, pushing away almost every other person in favor of gilding her memory in the perfection she must have have been.
In the end, he kneels on a hillside, grass swaying around him and the candle he used for reading. "Blossom, we've come a step down from Notre Dame last year."
April 2, 1944
Connor has a neighbor babysit Rachel, letting the old woman cluck over her, calling her a 'poor motherless child' while Connor went to the church to remember the only woman he'd ever want to have a child with. Still his wife. "She's beautiful, Heather. Just like ours would have been. Bonny and fine." He lifted his chin a little, thinking of the little girl with blond hair and bright eyes, clutching his hand and something that felt suspiciously like giving a damn curling his chest. He reminded himself she was mortal. Immortals may not be trusted, but mortals died.
April 2, 1991
Brenda was dead, and with her, the life Connor had almost thought he could have. Lighting the candle for Heather, anger still tinging his movements a little, he mentally raged at heaven. Brenda was dead. Heather was long dead. Rachel was gone from him as surely as if she were dead. Such a deceptive thing, death. He'd brought death a hundred times. He'd died more than that. He might be dead emotionally, but he suspected that had happened long ago.
Kneeling at the railing, Connor made a mental note not to love anyone again. It only ever caused pain.
Author: baffledking
Rating: PG
Word Count: 708
Summary: Some things don't change
Author's Notes: This didn't turn out quite as intended, but I hope you like it. Every section is exactly 100 word and damn, that sucked.
April 2, 1591
It's six months after Heather had fallen to sleep in Connor's arms and never woken up, after he'd burned their home to the ground, the wind scatter the remains of their life like it never had been. He'd rode for Edinburgh, letting the pounding of the horse's hooves numb his mind like it did his body. Even then, he couldn't hate himself for not taking Ramirez's advice. He might mourn her now, hurting with each breath where he couldn't inhale the scent of the flowers she'd tucked in her hair. But at least he'd had her. For a while.
April 2, 1672
"You'd be real proud of me, Blossom," Connor murmered as he hit the candle, genuflecting before the altar before kneeling at the railing, face pressed to his joined hands, praying, not to God, because he didn't any longer, but to the only saint in his heaven. He'd be recieving his degree soon. Under a name that wasn't his, but it was something.
He nodded at the priest, expression changing to Albert Thompson, a young, quiet student at Trinity college. He found it easier than being Connor MacLeod. There was much that was easier than being a MacLeod."Real proud, Blossom."
April 2, 1783
He ducked into the church's entry way, avoiding yet another amused call about his 'famous duel' and mentally castrated Kastagir yet again. Whether more for letting him get that drunk (and he doesn't want to think about how much alcohol was involved in keeping an immortal that drunk thank you) or for spreading the tale by whispering it in the ears of fancy, well bred ladies with a yen for gossip, he couldn't tell anymore.
He lit the candle and looked skyward, speaking as if she were next to him, a common conversation, "She did look like a warthog, Heather."
April 2, 1789
Connor had slipped away from Sarah, not telling her where he was going. It wasn't her business. It never would be anyone's business but his and Heather's. April second would always be their day. Nearly two hundred years after he buried her and she was still more real to him then the warm, human woman who's lips he'd kissed, tasting the wine they'd shared. He wondered if that was more of a testament to Heather or to his own stubborn nature, his belated adherence to Ramirez's words.
He knelt down, staring at the flame glinting on the wick and prayed.
April 2, 1854
It's impossible to find a Christian church to light Heather's candle. Poor winds had kept Connor from the West. He knew that Heather had only wanted him to light the candle to remember her, but since it was impossible to forget her, impossible not to think of her daily, pushing away almost every other person in favor of gilding her memory in the perfection she must have have been.
In the end, he kneels on a hillside, grass swaying around him and the candle he used for reading. "Blossom, we've come a step down from Notre Dame last year."
April 2, 1944
Connor has a neighbor babysit Rachel, letting the old woman cluck over her, calling her a 'poor motherless child' while Connor went to the church to remember the only woman he'd ever want to have a child with. Still his wife. "She's beautiful, Heather. Just like ours would have been. Bonny and fine." He lifted his chin a little, thinking of the little girl with blond hair and bright eyes, clutching his hand and something that felt suspiciously like giving a damn curling his chest. He reminded himself she was mortal. Immortals may not be trusted, but mortals died.
April 2, 1991
Brenda was dead, and with her, the life Connor had almost thought he could have. Lighting the candle for Heather, anger still tinging his movements a little, he mentally raged at heaven. Brenda was dead. Heather was long dead. Rachel was gone from him as surely as if she were dead. Such a deceptive thing, death. He'd brought death a hundred times. He'd died more than that. He might be dead emotionally, but he suspected that had happened long ago.
Kneeling at the railing, Connor made a mental note not to love anyone again. It only ever caused pain.