William Wallace lay dying.
An old man, he had lived a long life, and a full one. It had been rich in joy and happiness. It had held its sorrows as well. He had watched his oldest son grow into a fine young man, only to be drafted in to the English army and killed in a far off land. He had seen the light in his young daughter's eyes die gradually as she succumbed to a childhood disease. But he had another son who had become a farmer like his father, who had raised children. William Wallace had lived to hold his grandchildren on his knee.
When he was younger, William would challenge his friend Hamish to contests of strength. He would hold the occasional theological discussion with the priest in Latin. He would teach his sons and the other boys of the clan to use their minds before their muscles. He would be a voice of calm reason. He would flatter his wife in French.
Ah, his wife. The beautiful Murron, who he seemed to love more each day. Truly she was a wonderful woman. He thanked the Almighty constantly for her presence in his life. She made everything bearable, everything blessed.
And now he was old, the days of his life fled. During his time he had seen famine and oppression, starvation and revolt. William always managed to get by. He avoided trouble. And so here he was now, dying in his bed.
For a moment, he allowed himself to wonder. What if, he thought, what if I had followed in my father's footsteps? What if I hadn't had Murron? It would have been a very different life, lonely and hard. But it would have had its rewards – to wake up each morning and know he was doing everything he could for his people, for his people's freedom. Freedom. The dream he had given up for this life, for Murron. Was it worth it? he wondered suddenly.
The door swung open. His son's wife walked in, shepherding her own children. William saw the bright and eager young faces of his grandchildren, innocent and precious. After a few words with William's son, their mother began ushering them back out into the sunlight. She paused in the doorway and looked at her husband.
William beckoned his son closer. "Take care of the little ones, lad. And your mother," he added softly. Raising his voice again, he shooed his son out with his family.
Murron came and sat by his side, held his hand. He looked up at her face, the face he had loved as long as he could remember. No words passed between them. There was no need for words. Was it worth it? he wondered again. His eyes closed slowly, still fixed on Murron's face.
William Wallace lay dead.