Epic
by Angel Monroe

Disclaimer: I gave my soul to God for the book I'm writing. I have nothing left to barter for Veronica Mars. In other words, unfortunately, I don't own it.

A/N: This one was a hoot and a half to write. Logan said they were epic, spanning years and continents. Boy was he right. This is the several reincarnations of LoVe. Spoilers 2.20 in the last chapter. Have fun.

1295 Scotland

He had been walking through woods and plains for near a week, hearing phantom dogs barking behind him. Two more nights of this and he would be dead to the world. Two more nights and he wouldn't care if they caught him. Not even six and twenty, and he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He hadn't killed her. Even if the whole world thought he did, if they had put his likeness up all over Scotland with the word Murderer bold across the bottom, in his heart he knew that he couldn't have killed his wife. She had been there when he went to sleep, and then just wasn't when he woke up. He didn't do it. But with sleep deprivation forcing his mind to the point of agonizing reverie, he was starting to care less and less. Without his Maggie, what was he living for anyway?

When out of the black came the foreign orange glow of a candle only ten meters or so away, he actually laughed. Maybe that was them, and the executioner wouldn't be far behind. He sank to his knees.

The laugh must have been louder than he expected because the candle stopped moving and a tiny gasp reached his ears. So dainty a gasp.

"Who's there?" came a girl's voice, scared, and he wished he wasn't the type of man who created fear. But he was. "Da! I heard something!"

Then the orange glow streaked and disappeared into a house he hadn't known was there.

"Who's there?" This time it was a man, and his sword was probably not far.

"Just a traveler," he called out finally, his voice breaking as he stood. "I don't mean any harm. If you'd be so kind, a bit of water and a piece of bread, and I'll be on my way again. I don't have any money, but…"

And suddenly the light was in his face and he was being ushered into a hut. "Come in, come in," the man was saying, but he had not the energy to thank him. Three days it had been since he'd had a decent bit of food, and suddenly his body reminded him of it.

He sat in the chair he was offered and looked around him. The house was small, comfortable, but lacked a woman's touch. Just from a glance, he could tell there was no mother here. But the man who sat opposite him was kind-looking and the girl who set a bowl of stew in front of him was beautiful.

"Thank you, lass," he mumbled, and the color of her eyes made him want to weep for his wife.

"What's your name, son?" the older man asked him. "Where are you traveling to?"

He hesitated, but his name probably wasn't in the highlands yet. "McMillan. Donovan McMillan. I'm looking for a place to start over."

The man looked at him intently, and for a moment he doubted his previous assumption. The girl was staring at her stew. But then the man smiled lightly and replied, "Angus Robertson." Then to the girl sitting between us, "Margaret, why don't you get Mr. McMillan some ale?"

He cringed at the name and put a hand on her arm to stop her. She looked surprise and so did he, before pulling away. "Water, if you please, lass."

She nodded, her eyes on his again, and he hated himself.

"I don't know what you're looking for, son," Angus said, and for a moment he was confused, "but I can make you a room in the barn and there's a lot more work than I can handle here myself."

It surprised him, kindness from such a recent stranger, and for a moment he didn't know what to say. "You have a daughter," he replied softly, and they both saw the double meaning in it.

"Are you planning to take advantage?" Angus looked hard into his eyes, and he broke under it.

"No, sir. But I just lost my wife." The man didn't look surprised, and that surprised him. "You know who I am, don't you?"

"Ay, I know who they say you are." There was no accusation in his voice and Donovan was getting more confused by the moment.

"And you'd ask me to stay here?"

"You don't have the eyes of a murderer," Angus told him, and again he broke under the man's gaze. "Why don't you take a good look in my eyes, son."

Unnerved, he did, and the hardness in them, absent only a moment ago, shocked him more than anything.

"Those," Angus said gravely, "are the eyes of a murderer. And I know you'll remember that every time you look at my daughter."

He didn't look at Margaret again for three days.

OOOOOOOO

She didn't know what to think of this Donovan McMillan.

He was supposedly a murderer. She'd heard talk of him when she'd gone visiting last, a lowlander who'd killed his wife in her sleep. It unnerved her that he slept not a hundred yards from where she did, and yet her da had accepted him and so must she.

He worked for her father, taking care of the animals and doing farm work while she worked in the house. She didn't see him much save meal times, and she rather liked it that way. Having another man around was disconcerting by the sheer fact that she wasn't used to it. Her da was one thing, but she was not eighteen, and a man unrelated to her working so close was something foreign and dangerous. She didn't like it one bit, especially since he never looked her in the eyes, he rarely talked to her, and he never called her by her name. He called her lass, and even that was whispered as if he were keeping her a secret.

She just didn't know what to think of him.

Two weeks later he called her Maggie on accident and then started to cry.

Two months later he kissed her and didn't shed a tear.