sometimes the past is all we have

Things remained strained between Natalie and Quinn ever since Nat had talked to her Teacher about meeting two other Immortals. Both had called Nat's Training into question and one had even remarked that Teachers often took their own Student's heads. Needless to say, Quinn hadn't been very fond of that remark.

Both women remained silent as they ran along a path in Central Park. It was the day before Thanksgiving and the Park was pretty much deserted. People were either traveling or taking the day off. The early morning air was fresh, crisp and tinged with the sharp scent of fallen leaves. Deep shadows still clung to the trees, and Natalie almost missed the figure standing perfectly still in the middle of the trail nearly thirty feet away.

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Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander/Immortal OC
1830 Words
Natalie is jurisimmortalis & mine to use.
Connor is immortal_connor & written by his scribe.

 Natalie didn't think Immortals could get sore, but she was wrong, again. Quinn was a hard teacher and definitely subscribed to the schools of hard-knocks and tough-love respectively. If she'd expected to be "mollycoddled" as Quinn put it, she'd have to find another teacher. Their lessons weren't always about fighting though. Natalie had learned how to change her appearance by using makeup, contacts, wigs and clothing. She'd been surprised when her eighteen-year-old self had stared back at her from the mirror. An hour later, she looked nearly sixty.

"So, why didn't you and Lance ever get together?" Natalie asked over tea one afternoon. "You know he's crazy about you."

"I don't see how that's any of your business," Quinn replied tartly.

Natalie sensed the other Immortal was still a little upset that her old protector had shown up, unannounced, and expected her to teach her without asking about it first. Natalie felt like a child all over again, not really given a choice as to what she wanted, just handed a life she didn't ask for. It didn't really surprise her when, after three days of seemingly endless fighting, Lance just tossed up his hands in the air and left, without Natalie.

"I'm plenty pissed at him, myself," Natalie replied, as though she didn't hear. "He knew I was a pre-Immortal, but never said a word, and then he just dumps me on your doorstep without even saying 'good-bye'."

Quinn harrumphed. "That's a Roman for you."

Natalie thought back to a conversation she'd had with Lance the day after her First Death. "Yeah, he mentioned something about Boudica. What's that about?"

Quinn looked at her over the brim of her teacup. "What did he say?"

"Nothing, only to ask you about it."

Quinn sighed and set down her cup. "I had met Prasutagus shortly before the birth of his second daughter. I had taken on an identity of a wise woman, a healer and midwife, and everyone knew that his wife's pregnancy was extremely high risk. What surprised everyone was how much we looked alike. We both had the same red hair, the same build. When her time came, it was all I could do to save the babe. She suffered what we now knows as a hemorrhage. In his grief, Prasutagus started calling me 'Boudica,' and I didn't have the heart to convince him otherwise. So, I naturally assumed the role of wife and mother. Taya and Ciara became my daughters. I watched them grow, taught them as my own.

"Shortly after Ciara was born, Claudius negotiated a peace treaty between the Icini and the Romans," she continued. "The basic terms were that when and if Prasutagus died, his lands would fall to Taya and Ciara with an agreement of alliance to Rome. Prasutagus lived for another fourteen years before closing his eyes for the last time. Nero was on the throne then and didn't believe that women had any right to property, and so Taya's and Ciara's claims were null and void.

"I was livid, to say the least," she added. "Who were these intruders, these bullying blowhards, to say what my daughters could and could not inherit? During the fourteen years Rome had occupied Icini lands, they had turned our sacred sites into temples to their own gods and goddesses. They completely disregarded everything we held dear, and to say Taya and Ciara were little more than chattel added insult to injury. Naturally, I argued their case in front of Governor Gaius Suetonius Paulinus."

Natalie could tell that there was some deep-seated anger, and that even after all these centuries, Quinn was still angry about the injustices.

"What happened?" Natalie asked, curiously.

Hatred glittered deep in Quinn's eyes, and Natalie suppressed a flinch. "I was stripped to the waist and flogged. Publicly. So badly I nearly passed out. And though I may not be Christian, I can certainly sympathize with what He went through."

Natalie was dumbfounded. "Flogged? Like with a belt?"

"No," Quinn answered shortly. "You know what a cat-o-nine-tails is?" Natalie nodded. "Imagine something like that only with weights attached every six inches or so."

"But what about your Immortality?" Natalie couldn't help asking. "Wouldn't they notice the wounds healing quickly?"

"I was still young then," Quinn answered. "Less than a hundred years old. It probably took a week or so before I was back to normal."

"A week? But I was only out for sixteen hours when I died."

"First Deaths are unique that way. No one knows why." Quinn took a sip of tea before continuing. "At any rate, the flogging had the opposite effect that the Roman's had planned for. Instead of taming the shrew, it actually infuriated the Icini. That someone would do that to their queen had many talking about revolt. To try and quell those ideas, the Romans raped my daughters thinking that by deflowering them, it would make them less attractive as women. Taya was sixteen and Ciara was fourteen."

Natalie couldn't help but think of little Sarah Knightly who had been raped repeatedly, nearly daily, for two years, and she wasn't even ten yet. It was enough to make her sick. "Was Lance...?"

"No, he wasn't one of the men," Quinn answered. "If he had been, you can bet I would've taken his head a long time ago. As it was, I ordered one of our Druids to make an example of someone. I didn't care who, or how, but someone, anyone, needed to pay."

Again, Natalie thought of Steve Johnson who was pushing up daisies as they spoke. She doubted she would ever see the man as anything more than a depraved child molester. In a way, she could understand Quinn's issue with Rome, even after all this time. But Natalie could tell there was more to the story. Quinn shook her head.

"No, that's not all," she answered. "Three settlements and seventy-five thousand people later, I finally met my Thermopylae."

"Don't you mean Waterloo?"

Quinn shook her head again. "Thermopylae is more apt. Waterloo hadn't happened yet, and the Roman forces only numbered around four hundred where I commanded nearly two hundred, thirty-five thousand angry Britons. The Roman's chose the battlefield well. Trees prevented us from flanking them, and the low hills served as a bottleneck. They might've had the smaller force, but they were better trained and better armed. Had I won the battle, Nero would've pulled his forces from Briton altogether, but as it was, I failed."

Natalie nodded as she took a sip of tea. "Then, to your surprise, Lance shows up centuries later as one of Arthur's best friends."

"I didn't know he was Roman then," Quinn said defensively. "He and I never met before Camelot. He never told me about his upbringing until we crossed paths again during the Middle Ages."

"Is that why you won't give him a chance?" Natalie asked, trying to be tactful. "He couldn't exactly help being Roman, you know."

Quinn sighed and sipped on her own tea. "The thing of it is, he was never man enough for me."

Natalie nearly choked on her biscuit. She remembered Lance's towering, brawny physique well. Quinn gave her a stern glare.

"I don't mean physically," she retorted. "To Lance I'm always going to be his Queen and he's always going to be a subject. He'll fight for my honour, but will never fight me as a person. Until he does, until he stands up to me, I don't see it going anywhere."

It made a strange sort of sense. Throughout most of his life, Lance had identified with the motto "to serve and protect." The man practically had it tattooed to his forehead. When Natalie had gone her own way during their investigation, didn't listen to him, and got killed in the process, it pissed him off but good. Because he couldn't protect her. Because she wouldn't let him. Even though Natalie had never been anyone's subject, she knew enough that one, except maybe a king, never, ever, negated a queen, and to use an obviously-popular quote, "not nobody, not nohow."

"And that three-day-fight?" Natalie argued.

"He was definitely going the right way," Quinn admitted. "But he still left. Now, if we're done talking about my love life, we'd best get back to your training."

 The gray stone house had been built in 1853, and whoever RB & NH were, they had started their lives together that year in that house. That had been one of the smaller details Quinn had come to love about the old farmhouse. She had truly thought it too big for just her, but the semi-seclusion of the property, as well as being right on the sea, was ideal. There weren't any neighbors who would question her about any odd goings on, such as unexpected guests, freak lightning storms, and burned patches of lawn. Oh, she could toss any previous opponents into the sea, but didn't think the seals would much care for her polluting their fishing grounds. Besides, if the body resurfaced later, there would always be questions.

The kitchen was one of her favourite rooms, besides the study and conservatory. The traditional stove was the heart of the house, and for someone who loved to cook, it was perfect. Even though she may not have anyone to cook for, Quinn still enjoyed puttering around the kitchen making all kinds of homemade treats from fudge to pies to hearty stews.

One of the garages she had turned into a gym/dojo. Quinn didn't see the need for lots of fancy equipment when free weights, still rings, a ballet bar, and a couple of punching bags were really all she needed. She'd renovated another part of the garage into an equipment room complete with swords, bows, staves, throwing knives, but no guns. They were messy, noisy and too easy to use. Though, there were times when she would set up straw targets for archery and crossbow practice.

With six bedrooms and four bathrooms, Quinn had plenty of room for guests, of the invited variety. She knew Orkney was pretty far off the beaten path for most, but Kirkwall boasted flights to and from the Island daily. She also had to admit, the ferry ride from Stromness to Thurso was an adventure amongst itself, and though she didn't mind flying, the sea would always be home to a Norsewoman.

There were also a few details Quinn added herself, such as a wooden plaque carved with the saying "Ceud mìle fàilte" hanging just over the front door. In Scottish Gaelic, the sign translated to "a hundred thousand welcomes." Hanging over the mantle in her study was Bragloré, ready for battle at a moment's notice. She'd also had an endless hot tub delivered and set up in a secluded area of the back garden. It was perfect for both training and relaxing, and definitely one of her favourite purchases for the property.

In the short time since she'd moved in just before December, Quinn had come to love the house. Perhaps, in time, she might buy back some of the original 880 acres and possibly raise and breed horses. Or, at least, keep a few to ride herself.


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander/OC
485 Words
Guests & comments welcome

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.
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Muse: Quinnleigh Kincaid
Fandom: Highlander OC
Words: 1047 (not incl. lyrics)
Prompt: 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.

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

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

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.

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.

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

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.