Disclaimer: I own nothing relating to Highlander. I own only my own words.

A/N: Interesting idea, probably over done… but I like it. One-Shot

Remembrances

Stepping out of my rental car, I scanned the area. Tourists stepped in and out of shops; their cameras, and suitcases full of pictures of the local area. Their wallets and bank accounts a bit lighter. No one noticed me as I stepped into the hotel, a simple black bag slung over my shoulder. I didn't have any other luggage. No need for it.

The girl behind the counter gave me a smile she'd probably practiced on tourists the entire season. I only gave her a small one back. She couldn't know, but I was only here to celebrate a day that meant nothing to anyone but me.

Signing all the papers, getting my credit card, approved all took only a few moments. Resettling my bag on my shoulder, I headed up the stairs, key in hand.

I sat on my bed, the bag at the foot, and stared out the window. It was a window that should have been filled with stone walls, the outline of each individual brick clear. But the only thing it showed me was a hilltop filled with broken stones and rubble.

That hurt.

Closing my eyes, I opened them again, seeing it as it had been so long ago. How long doesn't matter. But it was long ago.

The grey stones were well fitted to one another. There was the clank of metal along the wall as men patrolled, watching out over the fields where serfs and freemen worked.

Inside, things weren't still. There were smells coming from the keep kitchen. The blacksmith's hammer rang on the metal he was working on. Men-at-arms worked against each other near their small barracks.

Taking a deep breath, I let reality take control of my sight once more.

It still hurt.

• • •

The next morning, hiking boots donned, long coat shrugged into, I headed toward the ruins. I certainly lacked a lot of the other things tourists were carrying. I had no camera —Why would I want to remember this place as it is now? I wanted it back to where it had been.— no guidebook —I knew the place. I knew what was here now and what had been here so long ago. I needed none of the things the tourists found necessary.

I had my memories. I remembered that… at that corner of the wall was the armoury. Opposite it, in that corner, were the stables where the Lord kept his prize warhorses. Over there was the kitchen garden. The cook was fanatical about her herbs. Granted, she'd also been the local herb woman, and midwife.

I sighed, watching my steps over broken stones. I glanced at a pair of children, American by their accent, as they pretended to be Knights coming to rescue the Maidens of the castle.

A snort. Most Knights had been loud, brash, crude and after anything in a skirt, noblewoman or not. The Age of Chivalry? Another derisive snort; it hadn't been the romance and glamour that people thought it was.

I stepped carefully along a path.

In fact, if those that I was passing had had to live back then, most wouldn't last a week. No running water, no flush toilets. Showers? Baths? Ha! The most we got into was standing out in the rain.

Lice, fleas, encrusted dirt, body odour. Those were the realities. Poor sanitation didn't begin to describe it.

You didn't drink the water. Well, not if you wanted to live anyways.

I didn't say anything as a small tourist group passed me. I listened to what the guide had to say.

"Right around this corner, you'll see where the lady of the keep fell. She was killed by an invader a black knight of ill reputation, while her lord fought in the Crusades." The petite brunette was telling them.

I shook my head and continued down the path. What tripe! The 'Lady' had become the invader's mistress —though I wouldn't doubt that she'd been with all the upper officers— the 'Lord' was an ass who took whichever serving wench he chose, no matter how old, young, or otherwise and, in several cases, against their wills.

It was true that the Knight had killed the Lady. When he'd tired of her; he'd moved on and slit her throat before he and his troops moved on. That wonderful act left the keep without Lord or Lady and in the hands of the seneschal, who, frankly, made snakes look nice.

Finally finding what I was looking for, I stood next to a small stone wall. One gloved hand reached out and ran along the rough stone. I closed my eyes, remembering again. The smoke, the flames, the screams… the smell of blood on the wind; metallic and sour with the smell of the acrid smoke.

I opened my eyes. They were dry. Why cry over something that had happened so long ago? No one could change it now. Sighing, I looked out over the town. These people had no idea that I walked among them. They didn't know that I'd witnessed the death of this keep.

I knelt, my knee resting on the cool stone as a wind picked up, blowing my hair back from my face. Gently, I pulled a small sprig of heather out from the inside of my coat. A little ironic. I'd taken the name of that plant. Finding a small stone, I placed it precisely in the spot it needed to be.

I stood, looking down as the wind tugged at it. Then, I looked around. Stepping away from the heather, I turned away and began carefully walking the path again. I tuned out the tour guide, with her erroneous facts.

I listened to the wind as it began to pick up. In my mind, it played a small tune.

Happy Death Day to me….

The past was laid to rest for another year. Or maybe another decade.

It didn't matter.

I had other business to attend to.

For there can be only one….

—Fin—