(AN) Thanks for the review, Mija. I would say more, but my mother is yelling at me to go to bed and I am rushing to get this posted.
This chapter is, again, rather short, but I plan on making the proceeding ones longer and more explanatory.
"Charles!"
The cry echoed through the moors, causing a rather blonde, rather tall, and rather lost man to jump.
"What? John!? Where the hell are you?"
Silence.
Charles Darcy hissed through his teeth angrily and threw his pack to the ground. He hated outings. He was never one for out-doorsey type things, and somehow, he had been convinced into venturing out into the unknown, only to get somewhere that was definitely not in the atlas.
"Trust a Scotsman to get you lost in the first twenty minutes," he grumbled to himself as he unfolded a map. "Of course, that's all there is to be expected from that race." He attempted to seize up his surroundings, and then peered at his map, not quite sure which way was up. He turned it round a few times, grew frustrated, and then threw it to the ground irritably.
"Perfect. Absolutely brilliant. Lost in a world full of skirt-wearing men who play instruments made out of pigs and sheep guts. Aren't I just drunk with happiness!" He sat upon a rock and scowled to himself. Soon, plans of escape filled his mind, but each became more imaginative than the last. Finally, when a toothpick, Marmite, and a stick of chewing gum became his liberation tools of choice, Charles took a deep breath and sighed, emptying his brain of all thought. However…
Perhaps he could become a hermit! That's it! He could have a hut built out of peat, Marmite, and chewing gum, eat wayward tourists, and be called Charles The Hermit Who Lives In A Hut Made Of Unusual Products And Eats Wayward Tourists! But then more tourists would flock to come and see him, for tourists are tourists… Nosy gits.
The only solutions were to (a) Wander about until said Scotsman was found, or to (b) Wander about until one gave up and died. Or until they found a telephone.
Telephone! That's it! Charles' head snapped up and he felt about in his pockets for his mobile. He found it in his trench coat; it chirped once, and then fell silent, its screen gone dark.
"Oh bloody Christ."
It was going to be one hell of a day.
"Monotony, thy name is Scotland."
Charles kicked at the trunk of a tree that seemed peculiarly familiar. Well, the only reason it looked familiar was because he had only passed it five times. On finding this out, Charles discovered himself to be in a very foul mood indeed, and nothing would alter it, save for the sudden appearance of a Ritz Hotel. It had been hours since he had last seen his hiking companion, and frankly, Charles felt that he didn't quite care to see him again, considering all the trouble he'd caused.
John Dunbar was the joint owner of The King's Head Tavern in Killinghall, Leeds. Charles had met him on one particularly slow night, and both had downed at least seven beers when it had been decided that they would become partners. Neither of them remembered much after that, but they afterwards concluded that it was not a problem and would leave it alone. (The fact that they the both of them had woken up bare-chested, and in each other's arms had absolutely no effect on the resulting conclusions whatsoever.)
Business had always been mediocre, but somehow, with some Scottish trick no doubt, John had managed to get the pub packed to the brim almost every night. It wasn't that Charles was inhospitable, or rude, or any of those nasty, despicable things. John was just a hearty, fine-looking person, who would save you from the brink of destruction at the drop of a hat using only a pair of tweezers and some candyfloss. Along with a neatly trimmed goatee, he sported a handsome, chiseled face, and his build not much different; Charles was attractive, but not handsome. He was also tall and skinny. This sometimes posed a problem, considering that most of the doorways in the tavern itself were designed for people who were incredibly vertically challenged. Therefore, he was forced to stoop his way through the inn constantly. Charles was also a very, for lack of a better term, artistic person. Whereas John would save you from the brink of destruction with only his bare hands, Charles was more likely to talk his way out of the situation using words that even Ginsberg would describe as lengthy. He was the kid who never applied himself at school, but always received high 'O' levels indicating that he could possibly become the cause of another string of Napoleonic Wars.
It had been two years since that fateful (yet hazy) night, and one fine day, in early spring, John had announced that he was going home to Scotland, and that Charles was coming as well, although he had not had any say in the matter. Understandably, Charles had protested; going to a place where once the inhabitants had fought wars naked and painted blue was really rather disturbing, but in the end, he had grudgingly agreed to go after John had pointed out that watching 'Changing Rooms' and old episodes of 'Monty Python's Flying Circus' in the early hours of the morning was a complete waste of a perfectly perfect life. Well, it had been a perfectly perfect life up until the day he had stepped into this wretched place.
Something fluttered to his left; Charles jumped for the second time that day. It was eerie there, on the abandoned moor, and he shivered. So many things had taken place in the mists. William Wallace, liberator of the Scots, had walked here, perhaps fought the English in that very spot. Countless wars, raids, ambushes, deaths, births, treaties, promises; the essence grew up from the ground; from every rock, tree, and shrub it came, sprung to life in the very air. Charles panted breathlessly at the wonder of it all, struck dumb with the sadness, the joy, the passion. The Earth loved Her people, and this She made evident in the moments that next passed. All Charles could do was stand in place, rooted to the ground on which he stood, swept away in absoluteness of his home. Yes. His home. Such a place could be nothing else. Tears ran from his eyes at the thought. The very idea of Belonging near brought him to his knees. But a voice in his head told him to stop. To regain his senses. Shaken from out of his trance, Charles looked about embarrassedly, secretly hoping that no one had been around to see that.
But he did not have much time to recover. As Charles readjusted his pack, he did feel the tremors. The auras of both Man and Nature clashed and meshed together as one. Charles' eyes widened as he was knocked to the ground, and he knew no more.
(AN) So…? Whaddaya think? Please review, those damn things are the food and drink on which I thrive upon. DON"T LEAVE ME TO STARVE!!!