Author's Note: In recently discussing a potential crossover story on Twisting the Hellmouth's forum, another author going by DaveT mentioned he wasn't going to use my suggestion of a 'Braveheart' crossover. So, I decided to do it, instead, historical inaccuracies and all. (Actually, that made it even more fun…)
About to take another deep quaff of something which had to be defined as 'alcohol' only because liquid rocket fuel wouldn't be invented until centuries hence, Xander Harris blearily paused to process what he'd just been told. After a few more seconds of clouded thought, he cautiously replied, "You…really want me to become clan chief and lead a rebellion against the English?"
"Aye!" Hamish McHamish bellowed, leading to loud cheers from the other Scotsmen crowding the cramped stone cottage located somewhere in the Highlands. They next all took the opportunity to toss down their gullets a good dram of just-distilled usige beatha from the tankards in their hands while the village's newest guest mentally cursed the latest magic portal misadventure which had deposited Xander at least seven hundred years in the past.
Hold it… Remembering something he'd read in one of Giles' history books back in the Sunnydale High library, Xander mentioned, "Uh, isn't there some guy here, by the name of William Wallace, who's already doing that?"
In that instant, every Scot there froze stock-still at what they were doing: wiping lips with the backs of their hands, yanking out nose hairs, scratching groins, etc. to unnervingly stare at where Xander wondered exactly how he'd screwed up this time for asking that. The group's immobility was broken by Hamish sighing so hard he looked about to cry.
"Ah, puir, puir Willie! Vurra strange that wus, laddie. He wus walkin' to the privy one mornin', an' after comin' oot there, our chief of chiefs, he trips o'er the loose end of his kilt, and knocks all the brains oot of his skull. Dead, y' see?"
Xander speechlessly nodded, his attention diverted from that sad news by once again listening to the world's worse ever Scots accent. It sounded like nothing else but a horrifying combination of James Doohan in Star Trek (the original series, of course), a French Christopher Lambert trying to portray the immortal Highlander, and lastly Robin Williams passing himself off in drag as Ms. Doubtfire. Xander took a moment to speculate if sometime in this era's future the surrounding countryside would gather together and wipe out the entire village with fire and sword simply to eradicate the merest possibility of that accent ever escaping from captivity. The rest of the planet already deemed how the Scots usually talked as amusing enough; they didn't need to hear something which even other Hebrideans were sure to consider to be totally ridiculous.
Unaware of what their guest was thinking, Hamish went on in a musing tone, "Strange, I said, did I not? Even stranger is that none ae us ha' the slightest idea why Wullie wrapped a sheet 'round his goolies instead of wearin' honest trews like all us men do. A kilt, my arse! It'll nivver catch on!"
"Right," Xander weakly replied. "Anyway, getting back to the clan chief thing… How come you picked me? Wouldn't it be a better idea for someone you've always known to have the job?"
A murmur of appreciation came from the other people there at their guest's proper modesty. Hamish himself beamed at Xander. "Aye, laddie, but just after Duncan took on the chief's duties, he were grievously wounded and still be recoverin' in his bed. Indeed, it were his idea that we offer it to such a silver-tongue divil which ye be, laddie."
Deciding that it'd be at this point of his story told later on to Wils and the other Scoobies when the New Council rescued him via another portal created by them that his friends would collapse in laughter to the floor due to Xander's recounting of how his California accent was so charming to his hosts, that one-eyed man still had to ask, "Your last clan chief got hurt? What happened to him?"
With an absolutely straight face, Hamish answered, "Duncan were savaged by Haggis."
Now, it was Xander's turn to shut up and stare in disbelief at where Hamish was placidly gazing back at the New Council troubleshooter. Eventually, Xander ventured in a wary voice, "Look, I got dared myself once into eating sheep leftovers boiled in its' stomach, but however bad it tastes, a haggis isn't that dangerous-"
Xander had to stop then and there because of how the whole cottage besides himself was presently guffawing at the tops of their lungs. Things soon quieted down to stifled chuckles throughout the room, with Hamish scrubbing away the tears of mirth trickling down his cheeks. With this finished, the Scotsman merrily chortled, "No' the meal! Ye can see for yerself, laddie!"
Turning his head, Hamish then called towards the far corner of the cottage, "Here, Haggis!"
Where this monster with black fur had formerly been concealed in the corner shadow, a massive Scottish wolfhound uncurled two hundred pounds of raw canine ferocity and stood up. Stalking on silent paws toward where a seated Xander was transfixed upon the rude bench of the only table of the room, this visitor to 13th century Scotland watched a pair of glowing red eyes over jaws dribbling saliva from numerous fangs approach him.
Stopping with his nose an inch from Xander's left buttock, Haggis licked his chops at the prospect of an early dinner, and then started a low rumble that resembled in the words of Terry Pratchett, 'the sort of growl that starts in the back of one throat and ends up in someone else's.'
Where he was seated next to Xander, Hamish leaned over and gave a friendly clout upon the top of Haggis' head, which had all the effect of a single stroke of a tack hammer against the hefty anvil used for making horseshoes for the Budweiser Clydesdales. He then assured a petrified Xander, "Just push Haggis awa' if he bothers ye, laddie."
Just managing to croak this past a dry tongue, Xander breathed, "Shoo, boy" while flexing his pinky a fraction in a somewhat fatalistic gesture towards the dog baring his teeth at him.
Astonishingly enough, Haggis refrained tonight from devouring man-flesh. Instead, he gave Xander a narrow-eyed look which indicated this dreadful dog was only waiting until his fell hunger needed to be satiated…finally. Wandering back to the cottage corner, Haggis disappeared in the shadow, with the gleam of red there unwaveringly gazing at where Xander was sweating.
Trying not to think of his doom lurking there, Xander blurted out to Hamish the first thing he thought of, "Hey, just why do you want to revolt against the English, anyway?"
BANG!
The bottom of Hamish's empty tankard slammed against the tabletop, followed by this Scotsman glaring at a bewildered Xander. Looking around the cottage, Xander saw that the rest of the other guys were also showing off their own bad tempers.
Leaning towards Xander to snarl in one of the most menacing tones he'd ever heard, this New Council member then heard, "We ha' guid cause, laddie! T'were only last Sunday when our new Sassenach laird coom to survey the lands granted him by that bloody king in London!"
Hamish then did a meaningful pause which lasted longer than what Xander considered to be necessary. In fact, an exasperated Hamish then sharply barked at the other three Scotsmen on the opposite table bench, "Will ye no' already do the flashback sound effect, ye scunners?"
Sheepishly finishing their drinks at Hamish's irritated expression, the trio seated there next put their heads together and in unison, they intoned, "Whooooosssshhh…."
Lord Effingham Throckcodweller the Fifth swished, flounced, and did a few tap steps before halting to regard with a cold fish-eye the estate peasants sullenly huddled in front of their hovels, summoned today into his presence. Taking out from a pocket edged in frothy lace a small bouquet of flowers, Lord Throckcodweller ostentatiously sniffed this nosegay a few times before giving a casual flick of his fingers which caused the flowers to be flung right into the face of the village headman or whatever this primitive cur's title was.
Bouncing off his bearded countenance which was now rapidly turning purple in anger, Hamish McHamish paid no attention to the flowers falling to the ground. Instead, he, like the other villagers, listened to a contemptuous voice laying down the law to them in the purest BBC English.
"Heed me, you scum. By the grace of God and also the money I poured into good King Edward's coffers, I'm now your absolute master. I expect nothing less from you than your best cringing and groveling, and if I don't get it, all of you will be executed, down to the merest babe. To make sure you'll obey, today we shall have a delightful ceremony imported from the continent where the lower classes know their place. It's called 'Jus primae noctis.' Since everybody here is obviously incapable of making any sounds but your usual animal grunts, it means 'right of the first night.' Or to make it even plainer, I'm going to rape your most beautiful females, no matter how old they are!"
In a twinkling of an eye, Lord Throckcodweller changed from his former urbane manner into a slavering, bestial maniac tearing off his clothes to reveal a throbbing pizzle in its full glory.
Screaming, every villager then bolted for their homes. Unfortunately, a small group of women and girls rushed off together for safety, followed close by a pursuing Lord Throckcodweller who roared, "You can't escape me! I'll hunt you down, wherever you go!"
Hearing that, the ladies and their daughters or nieces or granddaughters looked over their shoulders in fear at the nude man chasing them. As one, they changed course to make for the presumed shelter of the village kirk…and Lord Throckcodweller dashed past the startled women and girls.
Pausing at the kirk entrance, this group trying to come to grips with their just avoided bout of rapine then watched with utter astonishment shared by most of the other villagers peering out from window and doorway how Lord Throckcodweller then ran towards the small, stone-walled enclosure used as a pen for the local farmers' pigs.
In a graceful leap over the low wall which turned into a swan dive, a cackling Lord Throckcodweller now out of sight from anybody landed with an evident Splat! inside the muddy swine pen. Sounds of splashing across the ground covered with water were intermixed by happy shouts of "God's teeth, look at those marvelous haunches! You're first, you lovely girl!"
Afterwards came a lengthy amount of terrified squealing which soon drove the entire village out of earshot.
Xander gulped down the last of his whisky, and then slowly placed his tankard onto the table. He glanced around at the intent band of Scotsmen waiting for his reaction. Giving a little shake of his head, Xander could be nothing less than honest when he at last inquired, "So, Hamish…you and all your buddies, you want to revolt against the English when you've got absolutely no chance of winning, just because your new overlord, he's porking your porkers?!"
This time, it was an unanimous cry of "AYE!" from all there in the cottage in a fervent demand for liberty and independence from a bloody lunatic. Who was now making all the village pigs much too skittish to be easily caught for butchering.
Shrugging, Xander hiccupped a few times and admitted, "Okay, I can understand that. The problem is, nobody else's gonna take you seriously when you run off to get killed. You need a much better excuse to go down in history, all right?" He leaned forwards, unconsciously mirrored in this by the others at the table. "Good thing for you, I've got a cunning plan…"
Willow Rosenberg finished chanting in time with the rest of the castle coven arranged around the ceremonial circle set in the ancient building's former dungeons used along with the rest of the Scots castle as the New Council's main headquarters. In the middle of this magical construct, a glowing portal suddenly shimmered into existence.
The Red Witch smiled with relief. That portal meant they'd been successful in finding and bringing back Xander in good health, wherever he'd been. Any second now, her best friend would show up-
Staggering out of the portal, a dead-drunk, stark-nude, and woad-painted Xander Harris stopped short at seeing Wils and the witchy gang there. Knowing he might as well as lose the remainder of his dignity in style, a swaying Xander raised his clenched right fist over his head, and then yelled, "FREEDOM!"
Right after that, Xander fell over onto his sky-blue ass and passed out in a stupor.
Willow sighed, "Oh, this is going to be good."