In Memory of Murron
"Murron!"
Silence.
"MURRON!"
Nothing but the wind.
William Wallace frantically looked around for his love, Murron, his wife. She was no where to be seen. Then a thought of horror struck him. Perhaps she hadn't made it out of the village. Perhaps they had her. His Icy, sky blue eyes widened as he tore off the English uniform revealing the kilt her worse under it and ran to find a horse and get back to the village. Her ran with out stopping, his heart racing, his blood pumping and his mind thinking only of Murron. A little ways out side the village was a horse. A strong, thorough bred. Prefect. He found something to arm himself with and rode to the village. Perhaps they hadn't done anything to her. Perhaps there was still hope to save her… perhaps. She meant everything to him, he hoped she was still there, able to be saved. She was everything he worked for, everything he had. He hoped she was all right. Hope was all he had.
A fight; a very large and very, very bloody battle in sued when he returned to the village. A very young English guard had greeted him. He looked to be no more than 21 at best. He still looked to be a boy. The Englander looked up at him curiously, and suspiciously. He looked up thinking he might try something, and try something he did. After the long and bloody fight, he took the magistrate. Murron was no where to be found. He took the magistrate to the place where common criminals were bound and executed. Maybe if he threatened… then his eyes fell on something, on the two poles to which the prisoners were bound… blood. Fresh blood; Scottish blood; Murron's blood. He knew it was Murron's. It had to be. He felt it; everything in him told him that it was. Murron had died there. His eyes went wide with vengeance, with hate. His wife's throat slit by this bastard! William, with out any remorse, with out hesitation, with out a thought avenged his wife, and slit the old man's throat. He then picked up the muddy tartan that had bound the two of them. The scarf he gave Murron when they were wed. Murron was dead now, and so was her murder.
That night as he sat by the fire, he looked into it was mourning. Killing the magistrate did not bring Murron back. It stopped him from killing others, but not in time to stop him from killing Murron. Murron was gone; William's own soul and heart seemed to have died with her. He stared out into the fire, a tear beginning to come to his eyes.
Weeks later, at Sterling, William Wallace was there. He rallied the troops like none other could ever do. Every word he spoke flamed their anger and their determination for freedom. Through out it all he thought of Murron. With every word he said, Murron was in the back of his mind, watching. When he attacked, he thought of Murron. Every English man he killed, he thought of her. Every blow he struck, Murron was in his mind and was the driving force. All of it, his battles and his words, in memory of Murron. For the rest of his life, and his death, every blow, every stride, every drop of blood shed, every fight, every battle, every speech, every attack, every defense, everything, in memory of Murron