The Rebellion Still Stands

This short story I wrote as a writing exercise and I wrote with minimal historical research outside of the movie Braveheart and Outlaw King, I wrote it to build some skills for thematic writing.

 My life is a wash. My lands lost , my ancestors ashamed. My wife, my children…

God has abandoned us, the Scots a people with no king to lead them.

“Oi!” a soldier shouted at the beggar, “get off the road you damned leach!”

“Y-yes sir,” the beggar said humble, with his back crouched in shame as he backed away from the soldier who sold his people for a fortune in gold for the foreign crown, he bowed low as he backed away hiding the family sword of his shame which hung on his belt, the hilt was barely visible.

“Halt!” another voice shouted this one was proper English, the other man approached from the side examining the broken destiny attached to the worn belt of a man who believed in the revolution so much that it cost him everything. “this is a… A Broken sword!” the soldier howled in laughter, as the traitor joined him. Off in the distance was a figure in the shadows, watching the exchange he looked at the beggar with an eerie familiarity.

“You must have one of Wallace’s boys then?”

The Beggar did not answer he just shifted away from the soldiers, but the figure perked up when he heard the name, his body moving slowly.

The traitor persisted, “Oi, he asked you a question.”

The man gripped his eyes shut as shame polluted his fury, “N- sigh -Yes, I was one of Wallace’s men, once a Scottish laird but now I am just an old fool with a bum hand who believed too much in a free Scotland in a united people against English tyranny. This broken man you see before you now was once a great warrior who would’ve fought both of you boys with one hand tied behind his back, but now I am just an old broken washed up beggar with no king who will fight for him, who will believe in him!” he paused as tears flooded his eyes, “I am nothing.”

The English soldier chuckled to himself, “Old man, I believe that you still got some spirit in ya,” he pulled his sword out with the scabbard sill attached, it was a two handed long sword, “Lets see if I can beat it out of you.”

The old man pulled his broken sword from its scabbard, in its heyday the weapon was a magnificent claymore one that his grandfather had forged himself when he took control of their first lands, but now the weapon was as shattered as he was, as broken as forgotten, as useless as he was standing not quite able to lift his sword to height, with his bum shoulder shooting with pain  and his right hand mangled from the British soldiers who found him attempting to flee the battle, shame reared its ugly head as he fought off the memories to just focus on the man infront, 20 years younger, spry, blonde haired, tall strong and English most of all. The Englishman charged forward his sword wacking against the old mans head as he fell, he stood attempting to grip the sword with his left hand his grip full, but as he charged forward the English man used the extensive reach of his in tact sword to block his attack, reaching for the man’s collar pulling him into his knee causing the man to fall down his hand still gripping his honor. The English soldier kicked the old man in the gut while he was still on the ground, with a laugh the soldier kicked him again. “I think that we have squashed the last of the rebellion, what do you think lad?” The soldier looked over at the traitor who seemed now uncomfortable. This time the figure marched forward drawing his sword in hand as he exited the shadows.

The old man gripped his sword, his nations rebellious spirit and with one fluid motion he sliced off the English soldier’s foot on his support leg, causing him to fall as he cried out in pain. The old man stood his sword in hand, wiping blood from his mouth from his free hand, “The rebellion still stands, because I do.”

Then the figure came from the shadows, it was the true king of Scotland, his claymore ready for the fight, “You English boys seem to take an interest in beating up an old man, how about you fight someone your own size.”

The Scottish traitor stood, “R-Robert, I-I’m not with him, I’m Scottish like you.”

Robert shook his head, “You stood by and watched as your fellow country men are being beaten down and sisters raped by the english monarchy, you seem pretty damn English in my book.”

Robert charged forward attacking the traitor and cut him down with a single strike, he turned to the English soldier who’s foot had been cut off and said, “As you and your people have crippled my people and left them to live in suffering so I shall leave you in yours.”

He shook the blood off his sword so that it hit the mans face and helped the old man walk away. As they approached the King’s party, the old man asked, “Sir why do you want me in your army? I have nothing to offer, I have no Lairdom, no men, no sons, not even a whole sword, not even a whole man myself…”

King Robert the Bruce shook his head, “The Sword can be mended, men can be redefined, how will you define yourself?”

“Not much of a man, I-I…” the old man teared up, “I’m a coward, I ran when I saw them take Wallace, I feared for my life.”

“It is not the faults of the past that define a man but the dictates of his destiny.” Robert put his hand on the old man’s shoulder, “Take a reminder of who God created you to be my friend and we will get you back into fighting shape soon, and we’ll take a thousand English men to hell together.”

In my life I was broken and forgotten, betrayed and alone.

But today I have chosen hope, and Hope chose me too.