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
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 (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 (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 (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.

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