Oct. 27th, 2009

foreverwarrior: (Miranda (fearless))
{OOC: I know some community somewhere has posted a "fury" prompt, I'm just too lazy to look it up.}

October, 60CE
Near present-day Norfolk
Alias: Boudica



I stormed into the tent where my generals and council had gathered. The wounds to my back still oozed blood and the warm liquid trickled down between my buttocks. They (five generals, two advisors and a Druid) looked up from the war table around which they all stood. Braziers of flame illuminated their curious glances.

“My lady,” Chief Councilor Aedan greeted me.

I ignored him and the glances of the others. Instead, I stripped bare to the skin so all could witness the results of the flogging I had received at Roman hands. They fell silent as the welts and gashes were revealed. I slammed my hand on the war table, feeling the wood shudder beneath my wrath.

“I will have vengeance!” I shouted. “Not for myself, but for my daughters.”

“Your daughters?” the Druid asked, confused.

“Yes, Irial,” I hissed. “Both were raped. By Romans.”

Scowls formed at my blunt words. Each began to murmur to the others in angered tones. This was worse, oh so much worse, than the Romans taxing our people to build their temples on our holiest of grounds.

“Someone needs to be made an example,” I seethed. “I don’t care who, or how, but they will pay for this. I will have my vengeance, or I will die trying. Rome needs to learn that they cannot simply deflower my daughters without retribution. I want Nero himself to remember my name, and my fury. And I want every last putrid Roman to leave these lands and return to Gaul with terror in their hearts. Now go!

Each bowed their heads and murmured a “yes, my lady,” before leaving the tent until only the Druid remained. I shook my head, feeling my coppery locks sticking to the blood of my back. I did not want to know what the gods had in store for one hapless Roman whose only crime was his chosen occupation.


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
316 words



Mun note: This does not reflect on any other character(s). As far as she knows, the Roman could've been strung up by his balls to rot drawn & quartered.
foreverwarrior: (Default)
When: Summer, 61 AD
Where: SE Briton
Alias: Boudica, Iceni Queen



"My lady, what you are proposing is to go to war against Rome itself!"

She glared at the man standing across the war table.

"What would you have me do, Irial? Pretend they didn't desecrate our holy sites with shines to their Cæsars? Forget they brutalised my daughters? Dismiss the fact they publicly humiliated me?"

The air in the tent was charged with her fury. Ever since her husband died, the provincial Roman government had treated Iceni lands as their own. The Romans had disregarded their customs, and had raped their lands just as they had raped the heirs to Prasutagus' crown.

"It's a fight we can't possibly win!" her General argued. "Going against better trained, better armed soldiers is suicide!"

"By all means, Conmael! Roll over like a dog to be whipped!" she shouted. "You're welcome to tend your gardens and live in cowardice! I, however, will not!

"I may be a woman, but the gods also know me as a warrior!" she raged. "I refuse to let these conquering brutes bully their way onto Iceni lands! If you want to be their slaves, so be it! Go! Throw yourselves on their mercies! But as you are offering them your arse, know that I, a woman, fought while you decided to live in bondage!"

The men all exchanged looks. She had struck at their most vulnerable point: their pride. And well she knew it.

"What do you suggest, my lady?" her Chief Councillor, Irial, asked.

"We must take back what is rightfully ours," she stated. "We take Camulodunon."

The rest of the evening and into the night, they planned. Strategies were planned and routes were plotted. By morning, all had heard that Boudica would revolt against Rome.

Within two years, three outposts were sacked, over seventy thousand were killed, a Legion was annihilated, and even an Emperor feared her. Her!

A woman.


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
313 words
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (looking down/soft smile))
For years they had tried to have a child, but remained barren. Everyone in the small village took pity on Gunder and Sigrún. Most had known the pair since the two were children themselves, and all thought they were well matched. He was one of their best hunters and trackers and she was a gifted healer and midwife. All could see the joyful sadness in her eyes each time one of the other village women gave birth. All knew she wanted a child of her own.

It was her twenty-third springtide when she, along with healers and midwives of other villages, made their annual pilgrimage to a holy site dedicated to the goddess Freyja. As always, Sigrún felt an outcast. She was the only one of the women who had no child of her own. Nightly, she prayed that the goddess would favor her, bless her with a bairn.

On the last night of the pilgrimage, each woman entered the small, wooden temple alone to commune with the goddess. Some reported visions of Ragnarok while others said that the Freyja had appeared to them. For herself, Sigrún simply hoped that the goddess had heard her pleas.

The shrine was lit only by a small brazier of coals and incense, and she knelt in the flickering light, hoping to feel the presence of the goddess. She quieted her mind, and let her thoughts take her where they would. She was ultimately disappointed when no visions appeared, nothing of the goddess touched her. With a leaden heart, she stood to leave.

But something caught her attention. It was a sound so soft, it was easily lost in the rustle of her skirts. She paused a moment, waiting to hear the noise again. When she did, Sigrún looked around for the source. Placed just inside the door to the shrine was a small bundle. At first glance, it appeared to be a simple bundle of clothes, perhaps something left as an offering to the goddess. But when Sigrún picked up the bundle, she heard another soft noise. Instinctively, the midwife knew just what the bundle contained.

With hope in her heart, she carefully carried it closer to the light and eagerly peered inside. Swaddled in the cloth was an infant girl. Sigrún knew the child couldn't be more than a few days old, and none of the others had brought any of their bairns with them, much less one so young. This truly was an answer to her prayers.

When she emerged from the shrine with the child, the other women were wholeheartedly in agreement. Sigrún had indeed been blessed by the goddess. All hailed it as miraculous, and when asked the child's name, she answered "Freyja." It was the only name appropriate.

In time, the child grew into a young girl, and was both both her father's son and her mother's daughter. She would spend days with Gunder in the woods, learning to hunt and track. From Sigrún she learned small medicines and poultices. Though the villagers had been skeptical of the girl at first, they quickly embraced her as one of their own, and all knew that the strange, blessed child, named of the goddess, had a destiny all her own.

Freyja Gundersdøttir
Highlander OC
540 Words
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (looking down/soft smile))
When: Early First Century AD
Where: Nærøyfjorden, Norway
Name: Freyja Gundersdøttir



The blanket of glittering white cast a spell across the forest, but it was a spell that was quickly broken by boisterous, joyous voices. Tomorrow was Winter Solstice, a time of celebration on the darkest night of the year, and the traditions of her village held that the fathers and eldest, unwed daughters of each family would go into the woods surrounding the settlement to fell a tree for their Yule log.

The tree would be felled and then dragged by a team of four sturdy fjord ponies back to the mead hall. Each father would cut branches and sections of the trunk to bring back to their own homes with the largest part of the trunk to burn in the meadhall. Celebrations would continue day and night until the last of the Yule log had turned to ash. And, aside from nominal chores, no one worked.

So, on that night, her strawberry-blonde hair hidden by a reindeer-pelt hat, thirteen-year-old Freyja followed her father and the others through the darkened forest. The light from the fathers' torches glimmered off the snow-covered boughs as the other, older girls whispered stories of snow spirits who would capture anyone who ventured too far from the torchlight. Underneath her fur-lined cloak, Freyja could feel the comforting weight of the antler-handled knife her father had given her for her thirteenth birthday. Usually, such a weapon was given to the son of the house, but since Freyja was Gunder and Sigrùn's only child, she was treated as both son and daughter. And she was proving to be an avid hunter much like her father as well as a skilled healer like her mother.

A chill wind pinched her cheeks and brought her back to the task at hand. It was tradition that the youngest to pick which tree to use for the Yule log. She looked at the expectant faces of the others before roaming quietly around the sacred clearing where past logs had been felled. She took her duty very seriously, and did not want to disappoint the others.

Hearty firs could not be burned. Their soft needles stayed green throughout the long winter and were better used as decoration rather than fuel. Though birches made for good carving, they wouldn't provide enough wood to last two days, much less the hoped for week. Oaks were sacred, and no one wanted to encur Thor's wrath. Finally, she paused at the trunk of a great ash.

She remembered climbing through its branches during the bygone summers and was sad to discover that its outer branches were slowly dying. It was an old tree, and one that had spawned many offspring during its long years. It was one of her favourites in the forest and she would miss it come summer, but it was time the old ash served another purpose.

"This one, Fader," she said finally.

Gunder, a great golden bear of a man, approached the tree and ran his enormous bare hands across the rough bark. A faint smile played on his lips as he looked at the strange girl the goddess Freyja had chosen for his daughter thirteen springtides ago.

"I once played in its branches, too," he said softly, remembering his own childhood. "He was a grandfather even then. He has given many years to this forest and I do not think he should wither away like an old man."

Gunder rested a paw on Freyja's slender shoulder, and turned towards the rest of the group. The mindless twittering of the other girls as well as the gruff undertone of the men slowly died into silence.

"Freyja has made her choice," he started. "And it is a good one. Most of us have enjoyed this tree. It was here that Sigrùn and I met, and he has weathered many a storm as much a warrior as any of us. He should not be condemned to die an old man's death, but should have a hero's pyre."

The other fathers nodded in agreement and everyone moved to stand in a solemn ring around the trunk of the great tree as they all intoned the hero's prayer. Then, the daughters would all stand with the ponies to ensure they wouldn't spook as the tree crashed to the ground. As the men worked with their axes, they sang not the songs of Yule and the coming of warmer, brighter days, but warrior songs of battle and glory.

Finally, with a groan that almost sounded to Freyja like a sigh of relief, the great ash tumbled to the ground. They all then began to reduce the felled giant to smaller, more managable pieces. It would take them, all told, ten trips through the dark and bitterly cold night to bring the old ash to the village.

Each time they returned, more villagers ventured forth to watch them bring home boughs and branches for their individual homes. Everyone knew which tree Freyja had chosen, and all had fond memories of the ash, and knew it was time to celebrate the tree's great life.

Dawn was nearly breaking when they at last reached the village with the enormous trunk in tow. The fathers, the daughters and especially the ponies were exhausted from the long night trekking back and forth through the snow. A grand breakfast was prepared for the loggers, and after which, they all went to their respective homes to sleep until evening set in.

As the sun set on the longest night of the year, everyone gathered in the darkened meadhall where the families would bring a spark from their own home fires to light the great Yule log. Only after the log was fully aflame could the celebrations begin. This was Freyja's true test. If the log failed to catch fire, not only was it a bad omen for her and her family, but it didn't bode well for the rest of the village.

But she was soon rewarded as the wood began to smoke and then flames began to gnaw at the bark. Before long, the meadhall was awash in firelight and warmth representing the waxing days of sunlight to come. Everyone cheered as mugs of mulled mead were passed from table to table and the roast haunches of venison were brought forth.

To everyone's amazement, the log continued to burn for an unprecedented two weeks. Those who had been against Gunder and Sigrùn adopting this strange girl of unknown parentage, began to think differently. Some even wondered if she just might even be a child of the gods. But all agreed that there was something special about Freyja Gundersdøttir.



Quinnleigh Kincaid
Freyja Gundersdøttir
Highlander OC
1105 Words

Mun Commentary: This was one of those times when the muse takes the idea and runs with it. I have no idea if the actual traditions mentioned are true, but I'd like to think so. This is also one of the few times that Quinn Freyja has talked about her life before her First Death.
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (fearless))
When: Early First Century, AD
Where: Nærøyfjorden, Norway
Alias: Freyja Gundersdøttir



It isn't the birds or the spring sunshine that awaken her that morning, but the stench and incessant buzzing of flies. Her back is still to the unyielding granite escarpment, her legs tucked underneath her awkwardly. Slowly, she breathes, feeling life flow back into her veins. Her mind can't comprehend what's happened.

She should be dead. She had been dead. She doesn't remember anything of Valhal, only cold, all-consuming darkness. The gods had sent her to Hel. They had tested her, and she had been found wanting. She wants to scream at the unfairness. She had fought against at least six others. Hadn't that been enough for Oden?

She opens her eyes and pain rips through her. The bright sunlight is harsh against the small glen. Smoke rises up through the trees. A few paces away, she sees someone laying amongst the leaves. She stands slowly, the front of her dress is stiff with dried blood. Her blood. Her stomach clenches.

Her legs are unsteady as she stumbles over to prone form. She touches an arm, but the flesh is already cold. Flies feast on the exposed meat. The sound makes her cringe. She continues through the trees towards home. She is ill prepared for the carnage that greets her.

The feasting table has been toppled and chopped to splinters. The remains of the food litter the ground. Bodies lay nearby, cleaved and bloodied. She finds aunts, uncles, cousins. The Chieftain and his family are little more than charred remains buried under the soot and ash of the meadhall. She wanders among the wreckage of her life, numb and cold.

Her foot catches on something and she stumbles. It takes her eyes a few moments to see what lays upon the ground. A child, a girl, her eyes plucked from their sockets by a carrion-bird. Brynhildr was the first child she had helped from her mother's womb. This should have been her fifth summer, yet here she lay, broken and cleaved. Her stomach could not contain its horror any longer, but it has nothing to give. Dry retches wrack her body as she collapses to the ground.

She doesn't know how long she lays there, but she knows she cannot stay. She doesn't know where she'll go, but she can feel the pull of the sea. She gathers what supplies she can and even finds a reasonably clean change of clothes. After washing her face and mouth in the frigid waters of the fjord, she says one final prayer for the fallen, and begins her journey.

She never returns.


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
429 Words
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (fearless))
A rewrite of this.

{For Immortal Knowledge Only}

The white ribbon the Romans called “Wæcelinga Stræt” coursed through the landscape. I scowled. It was yet more proof of Roman intrusion into lands that were not theirs. They defiled the land just as they had deflowered my husband’s daughters. Nothing was sacred to them. They made their Emperors into gods and made my people pay for their temples.

The Iceni they had claimed as “savages” had systematically ruined three of their precious settlements. And the one and only Legion that had dared stand against us was slaughtered. Still, I wouldn’t rest until every last Roman left Britain without a backward glance. I would be free of them, or I would die trying.

At last the dawn came. I took to my chariot, my husband’s daughters beside me. With a flick of the reins, I urged the two horses to ride to the front of my forces. 230,000 strong; it was a sight to behold. I raised my voice to the clear morning air and spoke to them not as a Queen but as a mother avenging her daughters and a woman fighting for her freedom. Although Immortals couldn’t scar, my back still twinged at the memories of being flogged for trying to keep my husband’s daughters intact. That fury added power to my voice.

“On this spot we must either conquer, or die with glory. There is no alternative. Though a woman, my resolution is fixed: the men, if they please, may survive with infamy, and live in bondage.” I raised my voice to the dawn, praying the Gods would hear my cry. “Nothing is safe from Roman pride and arrogance. They will deface the sacred and will deflower our virgins. Win the battle or perish, that is what I, a woman, will do!”

To their credit, each raised their arms and roared with battle lust. Men, women, Iceni and Trinovante alike had answered my call. Rome must know that their deeds would not go unpunished, and we would not be conquered easily.

“Fight the foe!” I cried.

“Fight the foe!” Over two hundred thousand voices echoed in the dawn.

The Battle )


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
351 words (not including wiki info)
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (fearless))
When: October, 62 AD
Where: Venonæ, Britannia (High Cross, Lutterworth, Warwickshire, UK)
Alias: Boudica


Bodies littered the ground, broken and bloodied. Half her forces had not survived to see sunset. Half or more of those that remained told the story of the battle in wounds and severed limbs. Over a hundred thousand against maybe five hundred and still, she had lost. Carrion birds squawked and argued amongst themselves for the best morsels. Her stomach churned in revolt, knowing they feasted upon those she had just that morning called friend and ally. Wind whipped at her cloak, bringing with it the vile stench of death as the sun slowly slid below the horizon. For a moment, the sky turned as bloody as the field below.

"Lady Boudica." She knew the Druid, Irial, by voice alone.

"I am dead," she said without turning.

"My lady?"

"Tell them I am dead."

"But... why?"

"How do you expect me to face them after this?" She waved a hand in the direction of the mutilated carnage. "Taya and Ciara will understand. Our lands belong to the Romans now. There's nothing for me here."

"Where will you go?"

"North."

"To the land of the Prydyn?"

Her only answer was mounting the horse standing nearby.

"What should I tell the others?"

"That I took poison and was given a proper funeral."

Of course, that meant a pyre and her ashes scattered to the four winds. The Druids would find no shortage of volunteers to play her part.

"Be well, my lady. The gods have honoured us with your presence."

"And you have honoured them, Irial. Be well."

The Druid raised his hand in solemn salute and watched in silence as she rode into the oncoming night.



In response to [livejournal.com profile] _call_me_snake_'s question here.
Note: Names (aside from Boudica's) are fictional. Ciara is pronounced Key-ARE-ah.
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (Guinevere))
"His treachery runs deeper than you know."

Merlin's warnings were never idle, that much she knew from the old wizard. What surprised her was the adamant tone of his voice. Even the brown owl perched on the back of a chair fluffed his feathers in surprise.

"Mordred has always wanted the Crown for himself, and will do anything to succeed in his obsession," he added. "He will use any means at his disposal. Already, his lies have caused discord among Arthur's knights, and he will use your friendship with Lancelot to his advantage, Guinevere."

At the sound of her name, she turned from the massive stone fireplace that occupied one wall of the tower room. "Do you truly think Mordred that devious?"

Merlin nodded gravely. She crossed her arms defiantly. She refused to let that sot push her around, no matter how subtle his methods. If she quit her friendship with Lancelot, Mordred would think her easily manipulated. Should she continue said friendship, Mordred would very well use that against her to boot. It was a situation that would have to be handled with panache and grace.

"Is Arthur aware of Mordred's schemes?" she asked.

"I think not," Merlin replied, running a hand over his flowing white beard.

"His own son and he doesn't realize the lengths he'll go to. And, again, my hands are tied. Arthur refuses to believe me instead of his bastard son."

"Men are often blinded by their offspring," Merlin replied sagely.

"And the only heir to the throne to boot," Guinevere grumbled. "Oh, how I hate politics!"


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Guinevere Pendragon
Highlander OC/Historical Legend crossover
262 Words
This is not binding to any Arthur, Merlin or Mordred muses.
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (Guinevere))
As requested by [livejournal.com profile] rude_not_ginger

Tourney days were always the highlight of summer. Crowds filled Camelot lands, dotting the landscape with brightly-coloured tents. Merchants brought their wares, farmers sold their crops, and the scents of roasting meat, baking bread, and bubbling pies filled the air.

She loved walking amongst the everyday crowd. To that end, she had slipped out of her rooms and donned a more humble dress. Only her dragon-crested ring marked her as anyone out of the ordinary.

She wasn't simple enough to think that her disguise was foolproof. Many of the stall-keepers and some of the other gentry knew her on sight. Most tolerated her strange behaviour with a small nod of acknowledgement, and she knew that any stall where she paused would see an influx of business within moments of her departure. Everyone wanted to know what she had said, or bought, and the merchants would be busy for the rest of the afternoon. She had just complimented a fabric merchant on a particular bolt of fine blue velvet when someone caught her eye.

He was unlike anyone else she had seen. His close-cropped brown hair stuck up at odd angles, and a most interesting suit of brown clothes hung from his wiry frame. Over the suit, he wore a strange, sleeved robe. What intrigued her the most was his manner of speech.

"Brilliant! Would you look at that?" he muttered to himself with all the wide-eyed enthusiasm of a small boy. "I've always wanted one of those!"

She approached him curiously. "Sir? Are you quite well?"

"Never better!" he exclaimed with a wide grin. "I must say, the things you humans have managed to create without electricity is absolutely fantastic!"

If she hadn't had half the conversations with Merlin as she did, she would have been utterly confused. As it was, she wondered if he was another wizard. She had just opened her mouth to speak when he spotted a jeweler’s stall and began walking towards it. Several people gasped as he turned his back to her.

"What? What is it? What happened?" he asked turning his head, looking around for the object of their chagrin.

She cleared her throat with a mild, wry smile. "My name is Guinevere Pendragon."

"Blimey! Are you really?" he asked, astonished.

"And you are?" she prompted, holding out her hand for him.

"The Doctor," he grinned, pumping her hand enthusiastically.

A few people looked at him in consternation, but she simply smiled, not letting his behaviour bother her. In fact, she found it rather charming.

"Well, then, Doctor. How do you find our little tourney?" she asked politely as they continued to walk down the row of stalls.

"Oh, I didn’t find it," he replied. "The TARDIS did. Simply mentioned I fancied a bit of jousting and here I am. Brilliant, ay?"

"TARDIS?" she repeated, confused. "What is that?"

"She, actually," he answered, almost distractedly.

"Alright, what is she?" Guinevere asked, curiously.

"Time And Relative Dimensions In Space," he muttered. Then his eye landed on a nearby fruit cart. "Gutted! No bananas! I mean, there wouldn’t be would there? They haven’t been discovered yet, have they? By Western Europeans, I mean."

"The TARDIS. Is that your…" she paused looking for the right word. "Ship?"

"Not really, no," he replied evasively and quickly walked to a glassmaker’s stall. "Hello! What have we here?"

He promptly picked up a multi-faceted prism nearly the size and shape of an apple. Holding it up to the sunlight, he was quickly covered in small rainbows.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked excitedly.

"A prism," she replied simply.

"Well, yes. Besides that," he answered. She shook her head in confusion. "I’ve been looking for one of these for ages! It’s a Multi-Beam Refractor Unit, and it’s exactly what I need to fix the TARDIS’ chameleon circuit! Brilliant!"

He then prattled on about the faulty circuit and its repairs. She quickly realized she had absolutely no understanding of half the things he said. Perhaps Merlin…

"Well! This has been interesting, but I need to be off," he grinned, and quickly started walking in the other direction.

"What about the jousting?" she called after him, most unladylike.

"Some other time!" he replied with a wave and disappeared into the crowd. "Nice meeting you, though!"

She stared after him, equal parts confused, amused, and indignant. It wasn’t often that someone rendered her absolutely speechless. Gathering her skirts, she walked quickly back to the castle to have a word with Merlin. Maybe he could explain the odd man’s even stranger behaviour.



{And thanks to [livejournal.com profile] handysparehand for the beta/review! *G*}
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (Guinevere))
“Death ends a life, but it does not end a relationship, which struggles on in the survivor's mind toward some resolution which it may never find.” I Never Sang For My Father


I didn't want to see him. I couldn't see him. I wanted to remember him as hale, healthy and whole, not laying on his deathbed suffering a mortal wound. It was because of me he was wounded. Mordred, damn him, had called my honour into account and Arthur could not stand idle any longer. Lancelot offered to take his place, but Arthur wouldn't hear of it. Later, Lance had told me that Arthur knew of his Immortality, and that trait would be seen as an unfair advantage. Arthur, himself, being an honourable man would not let another fight for him, especially when his wife's fidelity was called into question. It was a conflict of interest of monumental proportions should Lance fight in his stead. The guilt rested squarely on my shoulders. In my logic, twisted by grief, Arthur would only recover if I never entered his rooms. I counted myself a thousand times a fool for not listening to Merlin's warning.

"Gwen." Only when we were well and truly alone would Lance ever unbend as to use my nickname. "Guinevere, you must go see him."

I stopped my pacing in the torchlit corridor to face my protector, my champion and my best friend.

"Do not ask that of me," I answered softly. "You know I cannot."

"Guinevere," he chided softly, taking a shoulder in each hand. "He is your husband, and your King. If you do not make an effort, and he dies, you will be forced to bear that for eternity."

"Or until someone takes my head," I replied wryly.

"You are too much of a warrior for that to ever happen," Lance answered. "Do you want to carry the guilt of not saying 'good-bye' when you had the chance?"

It was a point he didn't have to make twice. I simply nodded, my unbound hair falling to cover my face and my shame. In a rare gesture of affection, Lance leaned forward and gently kissed the top of my head. It was nearly my undoing, but as Queen, I had to be strong, as strong as my King had been weakened. Stiffening my resolve, and my spine, I slowly opened the door to the solar.

The walk from the door to the bed was the longest twenty paces of my life. Arthur's face was pale and drawn. Merlin could do nothing to slow the poison Mordred had used on his blade. The blade itself had sliced into Arthur's belly, leaving him to languish for nearly a day and a half. I cautiously approached the bed, not wanting to disturb him lest he slept.

"Ahh, Guinevere," he greeted me, his voice barely above a whisper, and his eyes open only a fraction.

"Hush, my love," I replied, easing myself into sitting on the edge of the bed. "Save your strength. You'll need it to get well."

"Guinevere, I have never known you to be in denial," Arthur said. His voice was halting and with each breath, I could hear the death-rattle in his lungs.

"It is not denial, but faith," I answered, taking his hand. I tried to tell myself that it was warm when it clearly was not. Death's icy grip had already begun to claim his fingers.

"Then you must have faith that Heaven awaits me," he replied. "The one who has died for my sins awaits me there. If you have faith, believe in that."

Arthur had always been patient with my disagreement for Christian doctrine. He had never berated my pagan upbringing, nor did he condemn me, and for that he would have my eternal loyalty.

"You will hold the Grail, Arthur," I promised vehemently. "One day, you will hold it."

A vague smile crossed his lips. "And I hold you to your vow, Guinevere Pendragon."

Breath ceased to fill his lungs as his hand went limp in mine. "Go to him, Arthur." I whispered, fighting a losing battle with tears.

I slowly eased the ring bearing the crest of Camelot off his finger. I knew it would pass to Mordred who was Arthur's closest kin. I wiped my tears on a flowing sleeve before leaving our rooms. Lancelot, Merlin, and Mordred were all awaiting me in the corridor.

"The King is dead," I announced, pausing to give the ring to Mordred before soundly backhanding him. "Long live the King."

The passing days were a grief-stricken blur. Arthur hadn't been buried on Avalon a week when Mordred condemned me as unfaithful and removed me as Queen in the same breath he proclaimed himself King. Lancelot and Gawain escorted me to Gawain's family holdings on Orkney. It was there that I began to formulate a plan to retrieve the Grail for Arthur. In truth, it would take nearly fifteen hundred years, but I did indeed keep my promise to my husband and my King.

Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
810 Words
[livejournal.com profile] her_championis Quinn's headmate & mine to use.
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (b/w sword))
{Based on this picture from this post}

You run through the darkness. A sword gleams brightly in the moonlight. Nighttime surrounds you as you flee your attacker. You need safety, sanctuary, holy ground. He cannot hurt you on holy ground.

The air bites at your cheeks as the ground reaches for you. Leaves and dirt crunch loudly beneath you as you sprawl onto the forest floor. The sword abandons your hand and you search for it, your only protection against death.

He's coming. You can hear him breathing in the crisp air. You can hear his footsteps on the leaves. You can feel him crawling up the back of your neck.

You hate this life. You hate being vulnerable. You hate the dance of kill or be killed. You hate this curse that has kept you alive longer than a hundred men put together. But the warrior within you won't let you die.

Your fingers finally find the hilt of the sword, and not a moment too soon. He's right behind you. You swing the weapon wildly, feeling the crunch of bone beneath the metal. He bellows in pain. The sword has nearly cleaved his arm.

You use the distraction to regain your feet and run. A path unravels before you in the dim moonlight. You don't know where it leads, but anywhere is better than here.

Your heart pounds as your feet pelt the earth. The cold burns your lungs as skeletal branches reach for the eclipsed moon. You have only one thing on your mind: sanctuary.

You can hear him behind you, taunting you, running for you. He tells you no woman should have the power you do. That power should only belong to men. They are the only ones who understand how to wield it.

In the distance, an object looms above the trees: a dome, capped by a cross. Tears of relief and fright stream down your cheeks. You're almost there. So close!

A hand reaches out from the darkness, tangling in your cloak. You fling your sword backwards, hoping to fend off the attacker. You feel it slice through flesh, biting against bone. The hand releases you and you stumble forward.

It is a race. The race of your life. The one who can reach the church lives. The one who does not, dies. You are too much a warrior to lose.

An iron gate bars your way, and you scramble over it, the bars clinging to your skirts like beggars after coins. Cloth rips and you are free.

Gravestones gleam in the moonlight. Your fingers clutch your sword in the moonlight. Your heart is pounding in the moonlight.

You gather your strength and stagger up the stone steps to the oaken door of the church.

"Sanctuary!" your breath rasps in your throat as you pound on the wood. "Sanctuary!"

Your vision dims and you collapse against the steps in the moonlight.


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
480 Words
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (b/w sword))
A priest opens the door, and ushers you inside. Sanctuary, you mumble wearily. Of course, my child, he answers. His voice is soft, kind, safe. The night blurs past you. A woman, a nun?, comes to help you. You're cleaned with shockingly cold water. Rough, homespun cloth settles around you. You're given a bed to sleep in, and suddenly, it's morning.

Breakfast is bread, cheese, an apple and some fresh spring water. You're ravenous. The fight last night has brought out your appetite. Who were you running from? the priest asks. The man with the sword, you answer. He was trying to kill me. The priest and the nun exchange glances. We saw no one. That doesn't surprise you. You know holy ground is your only haven. An idea tickles your mind.

I'd like to stay, you say, once the last crumbs of the meal have been eaten. You want no more of being what you are. You hate being Hunted. And if staying on holy ground keeps you safe, so be it. Of course, my child.

Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
176 Words
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (b/w orly))
Your muse has been captured or imprisoned and must rely on an enemy or a complete stranger to secure their release.


When: April, 1630
Where: Paris, France
Alias: Gabrielle Dubois Vicomtesse d'Anjou


Freyja exited the carriage with a sense of foreboding. When one was summoned by Cardinal Richelieu, refusal was simply not done. She had never before met the Cardinal, second in power only to King Louis XIII, and she was not aware the Chief Minister even knew of her existence. She tucked away her fear into a small corner of her mind and climbed the steps of Le Palais Cardinal as though it were an everyday occurrence.

Once inside the imposing structure, a valet took her cloak and gloves and another richly-clothed footman showed her to the Cardinal's formal offices. Gabrielle held her elegantly-coiffed head high, and tried not to gape at the opulence surrounding her.

The servant's footsteps echoed hollowly down the corridor. She spotted several other dignitaries along their route, nodding to those who acknowledged her, ignoring those who didn't. Guards dressed in the red tabbards of the Cardinal stood at several doorways and at intersecting passages. She couldn't imagine why Richelieu wanted to meet with her at all.

Read more... )



Quinnleigh Kincaid
Gabrielle Dubois
Highlander OC
1228 Words
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (b/w orly))
Continued from here.

When: April, 1630
Where: Paris, France
Alias: Gabrielle Dubois Vicomtesse d'Anjou


Pacing always helped her think. She couldn't very well give Cardinal Richelieu what he wanted. A man like that? Immortal? She shuddered to think. She had to act, now. Staying there until morning would spell her doom.

Cautiously, she crept to the door and peered through the keyhole. Two guards stood at either side of the door. Getting past them would be difficult at best, but not entirely impossible. It was the rest of the palace that would present the real problem.

She continued to pace, toying with the the gold, dragon-crested ring on her right hand. Though Arthur had been dead for centuries, wearing the ring helped remind her of her role in history. A warm sense of determined fury filled her veins.
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foreverwarrior: (Miranda (b/w sword))
Quinn and Kit as pirates.
Two strangers in a pub griping about boyfriends past.
Quinn is one of Kit's teachers.


Sorry, I couldn't resist combining them. :D

The port of Tortuga was lively that night, and the Oar and Rudder was the rowdiest grog shop on the waterfront. Voices were raised either in song or argument while billiard balls clashed in another room and rum flowed like water. It was a grand escape from life aboard ship, and Captain Jacqueline Ravenwood, Jac to those who knew her, was glad to be on shore, at least for the next few days.

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foreverwarrior: (Miranda (b/w sword))
April 16, 1746
Culloden, Scotland


A lone figure, wrapped in a drenched woolen cloak stood on a small hillock overlooking the battle, watching the dream of a free Scotland crumble under English cannon and musket fire. Shouts of men were drowned by the raw April day full of fierce winds and driving rain, and it was suicide to do battle in such conditions. Something had drawn the figure to the site. One of her kind was caught up in the fray, she could feel it. An hour, one bloody hour, and Scotland was changed. She knew what the victory meant: death to the old ways. The English would make sure the independently-minded Scots would be brought to heel. She watched as the English redcoats moved among the fallen, slicing and stabbing with their bayonets. She felt that tingling flicker and fade and waited to see a subsequent lightning storm. The figure breathed a sigh of relief when it never came.
---
Connor waited until darkness to rise from the spot where grapeshot had lain him down, and the Clansman glanced about bitterly at the death and destruction that surrounded him. The MacLeods had been at the front of the line, the very center of battle where the fighting had been fiercest. His countrymen had fought bravely but had been outnumbered and outgunned, and now the sessenach would make sure there would be no more risings out of the Highlands. "What a bloody waste," he muttered, disgusted.
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…To be continued…

Connor's parts written by [livejournal.com profile] immortal_connor's mun
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (fearless))

Wherever I May Roam ~ Metallica
[listen, lyrics]
When: October, 1792
Where: France
Alias: Gabrielle Valmont


Mist swirled around her as the horse galloped down the road. Dawn was only an hour away and she need to reach Calais. The country was roiling with words of "révolution" and "guillotine." She had to escape.

Wind tore at her coat. She wasn't so foolish as to try and ride in full skirts and corset. A tricorn was pulled to her brow and her long, red hair was tied back in a queue. Only her soft features would give clue that she wasn't what she seemed.

Though the night was silent, she could almost hear the shouts of the rioters behind her. In days past, she might've taken up their cause, but their new weapon turned her blood cold in fear. She knew it wasn't just the nobility that were hunted, but also those like herself.

Light crept onto the road and Calais was only a few miles ahead. She would miss the physical belongings she had left behind, but had decided to spare no time packing them. Instead, she simply changed into a man's costume, strapped her ages-old sword to her back, and had disappeared from the Valmont estate that very night.

Since then, she had called the road her home for nearly a week. She could've stayed at several inns along the route, but was wary of such establishments. Instead, she chose to make camp where she could. Luckily, she remembered enough woodslore to live off the land, as it were.


Music Meme

Oct. 27th, 2009 10:16 pm
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (Victorian Elegance))
Prelude from Partita No. 3 ~ Johann Sebastian Bach [listen]
When: April, 1793
Where: Yorkshire, England
Alias: Victoria Wyndham


The spring air was cool and the sky was a brilliant shade of crystal blue. And it was a day best spent out of doors. Lady Grammerly had arranged a picnic luncheon to be held at her estate and Victoria had graciously accepted the invitation, along with quite a few of the other neighboring families.

Most of the attendees reclined on a grassy hill overlooking the estate proper. A meal of fresh fruits, breads, cheeses and wines had been prepared and brought to the knoll. Soon after the picnic was started in earnest, a Mr. Thomas Remington was encouraged to produce his violin. Much pleading was required for him to play, but eventually he took up his bow.

Sweet, clear tones soon filled the meadow adding perfect counterpart to the sounds of nature. Though Victoria couldn't play an instrument of her own, she nevertheless found great joy in the beauty of the piece, and enjoyed it immensely.
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (classy))
When: May, 1827
Where: Vienna, Austria
Alias: Elsa Dreher


You take the footman's hand as he helps you down from the carriage. Tonight is a ball in honour of a late composer, and you are dressed in your finest gown and gloves. Diamonds sparkle at your throat. Your long, red hair has been pinned up in intricate braids and curls. The emerald green silk suits you to perfection.

You walk through the doors and pin a smile to your lips. No one here knows you. No one here could ever guess what you were beneath all the finery. No one knows how many you've killed. No one expects the stiletto hidden in the bodice of the gown. No one knows you're older than you seem.

You spend the evening dancing, laughing, flirting, all the while conscious of your deadly nature. You can never forget what you truly are, but you are an expert at making people see what you want them to.

"May I have this dance?" a gentleman asks.

You don't know his name. You don't bother to ask. Though he may be young and handsome now, in a few years, decades perhaps, he will be dust, and you will be just as you've always been: alone.

You agree to the dance, hoping to forget, for a moment, that you are anything but mortal. He proves to be one of the better partners you've had that evening. His cologne isn't overpowering nor is he a clod. His eyes don't quite meet yours, perhaps there is something he sees in them that makes him uncomfortable. Maybe he knows that underneath all your specious finery, you are a warrior who wouldn't hesitate to snap his neck, if necessary.


Muse: Quinnleigh Kincaid
Fandom: Highlander OC
Words: 278
Prompt: [livejournal.com profile] theatrical_muse #257: Specious
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (Victorian Elegance))
When: July 2, 1863
Where: Gettysburg, PA
Alias: Maggie Rhodes


She could feel the country holding its breath as the battle raged into its second day. Two armies clashed: one North, one South, one blue, one gray. The pervasive July heat made the stench of gunpowder and gore nearly unbearable as she went from one medical tent to the next. As a field nurse, it was her sworn duty to give the surgeons whatever aid she could. Though she'd seen a fair few battles herself, the butchery of this one was almost appalling. This was America's Culloden.

Night had fallen on the once-sleepy farming town of Gettysburg, but she couldn't stop. There were bedsides to visit, letters to write, fevers to tend, medicines to administer. She may not have needed sleep, but her body cried out for rest.

She was just walking past the morgue pit where the discarded limbs and bodies had been piled when she felt the first stirrings of an Immortal. Shortly after that, she could hear the panicked cries as he came to amongst the dead. She set her lantern down near the edge of the path, and holding a handkerchief over her nose to keep out some of the revolting smell, she climbed into the pit.

"Help!" he cried weakly.

"I'm coming," she called back, scrambling over the disgusting refuse.

A hand reached out and caught her wrist, nearly scaring her witless. Strong fingers gripped her arm. Fingers that had once been cold and dead were now quickly warming back to life. She tried not to think about exactly what she was touching as she helped him out of the pit.

"What...? What's happened to me...?" he stammered once he was out of the vile mess. "And who are you?"

Lamplight glowed orange on what was once a gray uniform. His piercing blue eyes regarded her with open curiosity. A day's growth of dark stubble covered his jaw. His face, much like the rest of him, had been smeared with the muck of war.

"Come with me," she said curtly, gathering the lamp and blowing out the light.

Through the darkness, she led him back to her tent. She knew that someday, something like this would happen, especially given the violence of this war. She opened up a footlocker and retrieved two items: a haversack and a saber.

"Here," she said briskly, handing the things to the new Immortal. "There is a creek a few miles west of here. You can stop there to wash. There's a fresh change of clothes in the haversack. Follow the road another five miles and you'll see a house, three stories with a light in the middle attic window. The woman there is another like us. She can explain more."

"I don't rightly understand, ma'am," he replied.

"You can't stay here," she answered, simply. "And you can't go back to your family. You're probably already on the lists. Everyone thinks you're dead."

"But..."

"No, you're not. You're Immortal. From now on, the only way you can be killed is for someone to take your head. That's why you need the sword. Always keep it with you."

"An Immortal? Ma'am, I still don't understand."

"In time you will, but please, you have to leave, now, while it's still dark."

She ushered him out of the tent and into a nearby copse of trees. "Remember, first the creek then the house."

"Three stories tall with a light in the middle attic window," he repeated. "How can I ever repay you, ma'am?"

"Just keep your head, and you'll do fine," she smiled.

"And this other lady? Who can I tell her sent me?" he asked.

"Maggie," she answered. "Maggie Rhodes."

"Thank you again, Miz Rhodes," the new Immortal said, politely bowing. "I promise you, if I am what you say, I'll find a way to repay you. Might be awhile, but I'll find a way."

With a quick kiss to the back of her hand, he disappeared into the night. She smiled to herself, secretly charmed by his Southern manners.

~ TBC ~


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
668 Words
Prompt: We never touch people so lightly that we do not leave a trace. - Peggy Tabor Millin
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (b/w sword))
When: September, 1875
Where: Near Manitou Springs, Colorado
Alias: Kate Darcy

The fire was warm on her feet as she leaned back against her saddle. The smell of the venison stew filled the small clearing. It wasn't the best meal she'd had in her nineteen centuries, but it wasn't the worst. Someone (a former husband perhaps?) had once remarked that all she needed was a pot and a fire and she could cook just about anything. The memory amused her.

Read more... )


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
965 Words
In fannish memory of David Carradine. Rest in peace, Grasshopper.
Special thanks to the writer of [livejournal.com profile] dani_kypros for beta-ing this, even though it's been years since either of us have watched the show.
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (fearless))
Where: New York City
When: May, 1979
Alias: Nikki Charles


Getting tattooed had originally been Danny's idea. He was such a girl about it that I often wondered what had possessed him to get "inked" in the first place. So, thinking it would be gone the next day, I decided to be Danny's guinea pig.

At first I didn't know what to get. Butterflies seemed so commonplace. I wasn't into cartoons so stuff like Tigger or Betty Boop just didn't do anything for me. I still believed in the old gods, so crosses were out. But that gave me an idea. I talked it over with one of the artists, and he sketched out a black and gray fehu. The only other question was where to put it?

Artisans often drew or sculpted Freyja to the left of her twin brother Freyr, so I started thinking: left ankle, maybe? No, too many people put their tattoos on their ankles and I wanted to be different. So, I opted for the inside of my left wrist, about an inch above my watch-line. It would still be painful, but it would show Danny that there really wasn't anything to be afraid of. So, with the self-proclaimed "King of Queer" by my side, I watched as the needle buzzed black ink into my skin.

Yes, it hurt. It felt like an itching burn, but compared to the various injuries and duels I'd had over the centuries, as well as subsequent Quickenings, it was tolerable. To a point, it was almost mesmerizing to watch as though the pain, and my arm, belonged to someone else.

"So, what's it mean anyway?" the artist asked. "What'd you say it was? Fay-hoo?"

"It's an old Norse rune," I answered over the buzz of the needle. "It's the first letter in the alphabet. It's the symbol of Freyja, the Norse goddess of war, love, lust, harvest. It also means luck and hope as well as wealth and success."

"All that, huh?" Danny asked, amazed. "How'd you know about it?"

Because I'm almost 2,000 years old, I answered silently. Because I was raised on the sagas of Freyja and Freyr, Odin and Thor. Because I was named after Freyja, herself.

"Oh, I had a friend before I came here who got interested in all that runic 'new age' stuff and I thought it was interesting," I lied.

"Alright, let me just add some white highlighting to this and you'll be done," the artist said, thankfully filling any awkward space.

The needle buzzed once again and as it added white to the morass of grays and black taking shape on my wrist. Just a few more quick jolts and it was finished. The artist washed off the surface ink with some water and revealed the finished piece.

"So, whaddya think?"

"Wow," I said, honestly. "Just 'wow'."

The fehu was three inches long and about an inch and a half or so wide centered perfectly on the inside of my left wrist. I had to admit, I'd actually feel sorry to look at that spot in the morning and find it gone. Except that didn't happen.

"My turn!" Danny announced proudly.
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (eyebrow))
{For Mun/Immortal/Watcher Knowledge Only}

January, 1980
Studio 54, New York City


The music was loud, the drugs high quality, and the club was packed. If you could get in, you were pretty much guaranteed to bump into some of the better-known celebs of the day. I had barely walked through the door when my club friends descended on me en masse. There were, of course, the usual greetings of hugs and air-kisses before everyone climbed the stairs up to the balcony where we could see, be seen, and fly high.

I was just beginning to get a buzz from my first line of the evening when Danny plopped down on the couch next to me. He was already giddy from a cocktail of booze and probably a half-dozen or so different meds.

“Ever been to a rodeo, Nikki?” he laughed. “With actual by-god cowboys?”
Read more... )
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (looking down/soft smile))
Where: Lubbock, Texas
When: August, 1985
Alias: Elaine Brown


I was standing by the trailer, brushing down Falling Water, when a child squealed happily. I looked over my shoulder to watch as a man swung a little girl up from the ground and almost over his head in one swift move. The girl, probably no older than four, shrieked with glee.

"Again, Daddy!" she demanded.

I smiled to myself as I went back to grooming the buckskin. Falling Water and I had been together almost a year and a half. He'd been named for a Cheyenne friend from long ago, and I knew he would be honored to have his name passed to such a beautiful animal.

Falling Water's last owner and I hadn't quite seen eye-to-eye. John Clark's original intention was to turn the buckskin into a saddle bronc. Anyone with eyes could see the horse didn't have a mean bone in his body, and that made training him all the easier. It had taken a few months, but Falling Water went from a skittish, abused, ex-bronc to a much happier cutting horse; once he got over his fear of saddles, of course.

"Nice horsey."

I looked down to see a small boy, probably not much older than two and a half standing close to the horse's left front leg. My back went stiff as a board. Falling Water hadn't been around kids at all and I didn't know how he'd react to the youngling.

With my heart in my mouth, I watched as he swung his head down to inspect the boy, whose shirt was covered with sno-cone syrup. The buckskin lipped at the material, but didn't bite him. The boy laughed and tried to cover up his belly.

"Tickles!"

I couldn't help smiling as Falling Water gently blew into the tyke's face before turning away. I breathed a sigh of relief and looked around for the child's parents. Luckily, I didn't have to look too far.

"Scotty!" I heard a man call out.

I turned to see the father and daughter I'd spotted a few minutes before. The little girl was now on his shoulders as he hurried over to his son.

I had to admit, he was kinda cute. He wasn't really all that tall, most bullriders weren't, and judging from the belt buckle, he'd won a few go-rounds. He was wiry, another characteristic of a good bullrider, with bright blue eyes and a chiseled face. Yeah, he was definitely cute.

"Scotty!" he scolded the young boy, as he set down his daughter. "You know better than to wander off like that!"

Immediately, the boy's face fell. "Just wanted to say hi to horsey."

"I know, but not all horseys like little boys," his father replied, then turned to me. "Sorry if he's been any trouble."

"Don't worry about it," I replied, tossing Falling Water's brush into a bucket that I used for all his currying things.

"By the way, I'm Wade Jameson, and this here's Erin," he said, patting the little girl on the head, "and you've already met Scotty."

"Elaine Brown," I replied, shaking the hand he'd offered.

"Nice to meet you," he said smiling.

It was a nice smile that lit up his face under the dark brim of his cowboy hat, and I found myself smiling back.

"You too."

"You from around here?" he asked.

"Nah, Colorado," my mouth lied easily. "Manitou Springs."

Well, it was partially true. I'd lived near there under the alias Kate Darcy for awhile, but that was over a century ago.

"So, what brings you out on the circuit?"

"Woman's gotta make a living," another lie. "Trained Falling Water and if I can make a name for myself as a trainer, I'd like to start up some kind of ranch. Maybe do a bit of stock contracting."

Sometimes, I just don't know where my mouth comes up with things like that, but as my head thought about it, I realized it wasn't such a half-bad idea after all. Wade, in the meanwhile, looked impressed.

"What about you?" I returned the question.

"Got these two to feed," he answered, looking down at his kids.

"Where's their mama?" I asked impulsively.

"Gone," Wade answered simply, looking back up at me.

I could tell by the look in his blue eyes that she wasn't "dead gone" but definitely wasn't around anymore. I felt an upsurge in anger that anyone could throw away not one, but two, kids she'd given birth to. For someone who couldn't have any kids, it just pissed me off, but I quickly got my temper back under control.

"Sorry to hear that," I replied.

"Not your fault," Wade answered. "You gonna be in town long?"

I shook my head. "Heading up to Pueblo after tomorrow."

Wade smiled, and I could see a bit of mischief behind it. "Alright, we'll probably see you there."

Just then, the loud speakers blared with an announcement for all the cutting entries to make their way over to the arena.

"That's me," I said, picking up Falling Water's saddle from nearby. Wade nodded.

"C'mon, let's go find some seats," he said to the kids, then plopping Scotty down on his shoulders, he took Erin by the hand.

"Bye, horsey!" Scotty called, waving.
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (embarassed/shy))
Where: Eastern New Mexico
When: February 14, 1986
Alias: Elaine Brown


"Marry me."

I nearly choked on my mouthful of hashbrowns, and stared at him. "I... Uh... What?"

He smiled at my nearly being speechless. "I know this isn't the most romantic spot to ask and all, but you know the kids love you."

He was right about that. A Waffle House somewhere in the middle of eastern New Mexico wasn't exactly a ritzy restaurant in Paris. I stared at him and then looked over at the two kids swinging back and forth on the counter stools.

Truth was, I loved them, too. And they needed a mom. And I liked feeling needed.

I looked at him again, speechless. There he was, in a faded cotton shirt, his best jeans, the belt buckle he'd just won, and his brown sweat-stained hat on the seat next to him, upside down. I watched as he dug around in his pocket, not an easy thing to do, given the fit of the Wranglers. He pulled something out, but kept it in his hand so I wouldn't see it.

"This was my granma's," he said softly. "It's the only thing I have of hers. Normally, I'd wanta ask your daddy first, but since he ain't here..."

My throat closed on the lie. I'd tried to avoid him out on the circuit. I wanted time to myself, time to forget about the past ninety years. But he was always there, every rodeo, every town, every motel. That had lasted all of three months. The next three months were spent getting to know him and his two kids.

"Wade, I..." I tried to protest.

He then showed me the ring: a deep green emerald in a platinum setting. My heart stopped. I didn't realize he was serious.

"But... I... you don't know anything about me," I finally managed to say.

"The way I figure it, we've got the rest of our lives to sort all that out," he answered simply. "Besides, Elaine, no one's supposed to be alone. Even you."

The small restaurant turned into a massive watery blur as I realized he was right. So what if he was a mortal and I wasn't? We could make it work, couldn't we?

Two weeks later, we were standing in front of a Justice of the Peace in Albuquerque, and I hadn't known him for a full year. Funny how things work out.
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (looking down/soft smile))
August 14, 2002
Cripple Creek, Colorado
Alias: Elaine Jameson


Wade and I had returned from our "date night" to find the kitchen in utter shambles. The loaf of bread was left open on the center island. A jar of peanut butter, complete with knife still sticking out of it, was nearby. There was also an open jar of marshmallow creme and the redolent scent of microwaved popcorn. While I went to go find the kids, Erin: 14 and Scot: 11, Wade investigated the gooey mess left to congeal in a pot on the stove.

The sounds of screaming led me to the den. The lights were off, but the TV had been left going on an old movie channel airing B-rate horror movies. By the flickering light of the TV, I could tell that the mess continued in here. Pop cans littered the floor and coffee table. No less than six plates, in varying degrees of dirty, added to the mess on the coffee table. It looked like the kids had pigged out on all the junk food in the house, and even created some of their own. The culprits in question were asleep at opposite ends of the sofa, in what appeared to be one massive sugar crash.

"Find them?" Wade asked quietly, waking up behind me.

"Yeah," I whispered back, pointing to the two. "What were they eating?"

"As far as I can tell, peanut butter s'mores and microwave popcorn balls," he chuckled.

I resisted the urge to laugh. They were inventive, if nothing else.

"What are we going to do with them?" I sighed.

"Leave 'em," Wade replied, simply. "Betcha when they're faced with the task of cleaning up after having slept on the couch, they won't be as eager to do this again."

I couldn't help a soft laugh. He was right about that. After we tucked blankets around the two, Wade and I headed upstairs to bed.

Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
313 Words
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (embarassed/shy))
Where: Cripple Creek, Colorado
When: September, 2006
Alias: Elaine Jameson


"Geez, hun, I was just tryin' to heat up some chilli."

She tried not to roll her eyes at her kitchen disaster of a husband, and turned off the stove. Sitting on one of the eyes was a pot containing what should've been chilli, but instead was a blackened mess of beans and meat. Smoke still wafted from underneath the lid as she moved it from the stove to the sink.

"I guess I kinda forgot."

She still didn't say anything. She wasn't angry at Wade. Well, maybe just a little. The man couldn't be trusted to boil water. What in blazes made him think he could heat up some chilli?

"You know you're not supposed to leave it on 'high' right?"

"I didn't mean to. I wanted to get it started thawing, but the game was on."

This time she did roll her eyes. Football. Men in more padding than a knight in armor shoving each other around a field for a damned ball. She'd never understand it.

"Look, I said I was sorry."

"I know. Just next time, let me do it?"

"Yeah, I'm just glad one of us can cook. Otherwise, we'd starve."

She laughed just as the kids walked in.

"Oh my GAWD!!"

"Dude! What died?"

"Your father and my latest batch of chilli."

"Awww, man! Now what'll we have for dinner?"

"Dad, you're hopeless. Hope. Less."


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
231 Words
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (b/w orly))
January, 2007
Cripple Creek, CO
Alias: Elaine Jameson


I wasn't just mad, I was furious. The whole back forty acres of pasture had been turned into a rutty, muddy pit. There were tire tracks everywhere, and it looked for the world like half the SUVs and 4x4s in the state had had a Mud Bowl on my ranch. I couldn't believe Scot and Erin were so irresponsible as to not know about it. I turned in the saddle as I heard the triple-plod of someone approaching at a lope.

"How bad is it?" Wade asked, riding up.

"See for yourself," I said, jerking my chin in the direction of the pasture.

"Dammit," he swore, taking off his sweat-stained hat to run a hand over his brown hair. "I did not raise those two to act like that."

"And I did?" I shot back.

"That wasn't what I meant, Elaine, and you know it."

"So, what do they have to say for themselves?"

"They'd only mentioned it to a couple of their friends and it got out of hand," he answered. "Some deejay up in Denver heard about it, said something about it on the air, and next thing they knew five hundred people showed up."

"Five hundred..." I repeated. "So, what do we do now?"

"I already called the radio station and they're willing to foot the bill for mending some of the fence," Wade replied. "It's not really the kids' fault that the station put it out there."

I agreed that the fact things got out of hand wasn't something they could have foreseen, but they shouldn't have mentioned anything in the first place, especially while Wade and I were out of town looking at new stock. Someone could've been hurt, or maybe even killed, and we'd be liable for it. Naturally, that just fueled my already heated temper. Without another word, I kicked Snowdancer into a full gallop, hoping the ride back to the house would cool my jets. It did, barely. I found the two of them sitting at opposite ends of the couch in the family room like a couple of angry bookends.

"Dad already read us the riot act," Scot started.

"Now you're going to hear it from me," I snapped. "Do either of you realize what would've happened if anyone had gotten hurt?"

"But no one did!" Erin argued.

"That's not the point, and I wasn't finished, young lady," I replied. "Your father and I have worked our asses off for this ranch. If anyone had gotten hurt bad enough, they could've taken all this away from us. Now, all you two seem to care about are the chores and that you have food to eat and a roof over your heads. Your dad and I've had to make do with a lot less! Yeah, the radio station made it worse, but they're going to step up and do something about it. Now, it's your turn."

A cold draft ruffled my hair. I knew Wade was standing behind me, waiting to see what kind of punishment I would hand down.

"I don't care how long it takes," I continued, harshly. "But you two are going to spend every Saturday putting that pasture back to rights. You'll start by filling in the ruts, then you'll seed the entire thing by hand. After that, you'll put down straw so the seed doesn't wash off. Maybe, just maybe, after you're done putting your own sweat and blood into this ranch, you'll understand how lucky you are to have this place to call home."

There was so much more I wanted to say to them, not just about the ruined pasture, but about actually having something they could call their own. As an Immortal, I'd pulled up stakes more often than not without a backward glance. This was the first time in a very long time I actually considered myself part of a family who cared about each other, and my decision not to tell them about my life was tearing me apart. Maybe I was mad, after all, mad for thinking I could keep up this charade. Before I could say another word, I stormed out of the house to take Snowdancer down to the barn after her hard ride.


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
705 Words
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (b/w sword))
What secrets do you wish you hadn’t kept?

Rubbing down Snowdancer was just the therapy I needed after what had happened with the kids. I'd been able to concentrate on something else for a little bit. Besides it wasn't like the mustang could tell a soul what I'd said. I stomped the snow from my boots and let myself in quietly through the mudroom. From the den, I could hear Wade and the kids deep in conversation.

"But she's not our real mom," I heard Erin argue as I walked towards the door.

I stopped cold in the middle of the hallway, something inside me screaming to pack up and leave. Then and there. Tonight. And never look back. I'd done it a million times before, and I could damn well do it again.

"You're right, she's not," Wade replied softly, sadly. "She never talks about it, but she can't have kids."

"Why not?" Erin asked.

"She said something about getting kicked as a kid that fouled up those plans but good," he answered.

It was a lie. A lie I'd told him just a few weeks after we'd first met, but I couldn't see myself marching in there and saying "the reason is, I'm Immortal and we can't have kids." As Wade's uncle Charlie once said, "that'd go over like a fart in church on Sunday." Even better than that would be, "hon, I know we've been married for twenty-plus years, but I'm nearly as old as Christ." Again, another fart in church. I knew Wade. He couldn't stand for anyone to lie to him for any reason, and for me to keep something that huge from him for that long would be something he'd never forgive me for.

"You two have to understand, we're the only family she has." At least that was the truth. "She never had any brothers or sisters, and her parents died in a car wreck just before she graduated high school. All she had were her daddy's truck and Falling Water."

I pressed my lips together, trying to hold back a sob. More lies, more secrets. I had to explain how I ended up on the circuit. I knew rodeo folk were a proud bunch and if they ever caught wind that I had a bank account big enough to buy Texas, I'd never hear the end of it.

"She could've ended up doing other things to make ends meet." I knew, just as the kids did, that he meant other things as being a hooker or worse. "Instead, she did the only things she knew how. She rode. She raced. She trained. I've never seen anyone who can train a horse like her. I knew then that if she treated a man as good as she did a horse, he was one lucky fella."

The wistful tone in Wade's voice was my undoing. Before I could make an absolute fool of myself, I retreated upstairs. I looked around the room Wade and I shared. Night was just falling outside of the windows as I sat with a battered old photo album on my lap. In it were pictures of Wade and I on the circuit, at our wedding in front of a justice of the peace, with the kids at various rodeos, finally buying the ranch, me training our first horse. Little by little, in each picture, Wade aged and the the kids grew, but I never changed a bit. Sure, I had the odd moment where I cut my hair, but for the most part, I remained just as I had been nearly two thousand years ago.

I couldn't tell him now. It was too late for "oh, hon, by the way"s. Not for the first time, I cursed my Immortality. For once I wanted to know what it would've been like to have children of my own, to grow old with someone, to be a grandparent. As long as I kept my head, those things couldn't happen, and even if I did lose my head, it was over and I'd be six feet under. Gods how I hated this secret, this burden, this truth, and this pain.



Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
690 Words
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (b/w sword))
When: November, 2007
Where: Cripple Creek, Colorado
Alias: Elaine Jameson


And now I'm glad I didn't know
The way it all would end, the way it all would go.
Our lives are better left to chance.
I could have missed the pain,
But I'd have had to miss the dance.


She had been struggling with this decision for years: to tell or not to tell? He trusted her with his heart and his kids, and what she had to say next could blow them apart. It wasn't easy for her to make the call. If he hated her, well, she was going to leave anyway. She just didn't know how he'd take it.
Read more... )


Muse: Quinnleigh Kincaid
Fandom: Highlander OC
Words: 1047 (not incl. lyrics)
Prompt: [livejournal.com profile] charloft Take a few steps back, take a left instead of a right, and walk down the road not traveled in your past.
Note: Rather than make this a 'what if', this is now muse!canon for why she left Colorado.
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (classy))
November, 2007
Orkney Island, Scotland


I stared out over the water and let my mind wander. I had left Elaine behind in Colorado, and it was time to reacquaint myself with Quinnleigh. I thought about her personality, her beliefs, her quirks, who she was as a person.

Elaine had been a rough and rugged, hard living and hard loving woman. She could rope, ride and knew almost everything there was to know about horses and ranching. She was tough and proud and absolutely fearless.

Quinnleigh was a different sort. She was a woman who could kick back with the chaps, toss back a few pints, and tell bawdy jokes. She was a flirt and a knockabout in her own right with a fierce pride for her native Scotland.

In some respects Elaine and Quinn were actually rather similar. They could both drink just about anyone under the table. They both swore a blue streak that was a “country mile wide.” They were both outgoing, and they were both fiercely loyal: Elaine to her family and Quinn to Scotland.

I turned back to the house and realized something about myself as well: I was home, and I was a coward. Every time I felt threatened or exposed, I ran. I had been running my entire life, the whole two thousand years I’d been on this Earth. I tried to tell myself that it was for my own protection and to protect those around me. Self-preservation demanded I change lives every few decades, more or less, and I was tired of running, tired of not having a place I could call mine.

This is where we fight! This is where they die!

It had been a rallying cry in a swords-and-sandals movie I’d seen with Wade and the kids back in March. I had uttered almost the same phrase as Boudica when faced with a similar situation, and I felt a strong kinship towards that man, that king.

I looked at the house once more. It was a simple home of stone and slate, but it was mine. Hunters, Immortal and mortal alike, be dammed. This was where I would make my stand. This was where I would live. This was where I would fight. And, if worse came to worse, this was where I would die.

I knew quite a few Immortals who had one place they could always return to, but I had seen no reason to have anything like that, until now. I had always traveled light and burned bridges behind me. I’d never had someone, or someplace, I could return to time and time again. But there was something about this house, this remote island, that changed my mind. It had taken nearly two millennia to find it, but I was home. Finally.


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
460 Words

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