He rode until dawn, stopping only when the mare was clearly laboring and needed rest.  He would have pushed on, but he couldn't be cruel to the animal,  especially not after his promise to Old Mog.  He let the horse pick her way down to the river that led off from Glen Kingie, unsaddled her and watched as she drank her fill from the cold water, still running swift and turbulent from the spring runoff.  He put a loose hobble on her to let her graze and rest while he ate a cold meal and rested his head on the saddle for a few hours.  But his sleep was fitful at best.  The thought of seeing his father again, of worry for his mother and the other villagers, helpless against an onslaught of ruthless raiders, haunted his dreams and by mid-morning he was anxious to be on the move again. 

By evening he reached Strathan at the western end of Loch Arkaig.  It was a village he had visited many times, both alone and with his father.  He would be recognized, for certain.  He paused at the top of the long hill sloping down to the small collection of houses, gardens and animal pens and a small kirk.  His heart was pounding, his hands sweaty with fear.  He knew these people, had traded with them, laughed and drank with them, even danced at Beltaine with them once, ending the evening with sweet Doireann NicRath, watching the moon rise from the other side of this very hill, kissing and touching until they both had to stop before it went too far.  Doireann had since married, he had heard, to a widower with two motherless bairns, and had a child of her own.  He wondered if she would be among those who would turn her back on him. 

He dismounted, leaving the mare in a small copse, well out of sight.  He walked in, drawing only glances at first, but soon doors were opened and people peered out of their houses, and by the time he reached the center of the village, a group of men had formed with Edmond Sinclair, the village chief, standing in front.  He had his sword unsheathed, held across his body like a shield.

“Stop right there, Duncan MacLeod,” he said.  “You willna' bedevil anyone here.”

Duncan had deliberately left his sword with Maise, and opened his arms slightly, spreading his palms to show he had no weapon except the dirk in his belt.  “I want nothing from you, Edmond,” he said.  He looked around at the familiar faces.  “Nor from anyone here,” he announced.  “I only want to know about the raiders that I've heard are coming up the coast.”

“I dinna care what you want to know,” Sinclair snapped, and stepped forward, the sword swinging menacingly to point in front of him, held now in both hands.  “I say leave here, Dàmhnull Dubh.”

“Edmond, you know me.  Have known me since I was a lad,” Duncan pleaded.  “Have I ever done ought to harm you or any of these folk?  I only want to make sure my kin are safe.”

“Your kin?  There are none in Glenfinnan who are your kin, nor anywhere else on this earth.  I only know what's been said – that you were a changeling brought by a witch who beguiled Iain MacLeod into raising you as his own.  That you were speared through with a wound the size of a fist and that you died, Duncan MacLeod!  You died and woke again, healed as though nothing had ‘er touched your skin.  I always knew there was something different about you.”  His voice grated, and the crowd behind him huddled closer together.  “Do not think no one noticed how easily you bewitched us all with your Kelpie’s eyes.  Now begone!”  He lunged towards Duncan, who stepped back beyond the reach of the threatening claymore.

“I am not your enemy, Edmond Sinclair!  Do ye want Kanwulf and his men burning the village?  I would think every arm raised against him would be welcome.”

“Every arm but yours!  For all we know you're in league with that devil.” 

Duncan caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned to see others crowding around at his sides and back and he began to question the wisdom of having left his sword behind.  But if he raised a hand, even in defense of himself, they would only use it as evidence that he truly was a demon or a criminal, or both.  “I'm in league with no one.  And I've done nothing to harm you or anyone else.  You,” he pointed to an older face he recognized.  “Hugh Carthy, I helped you with the lambing for two seasons running when your back hurt so you could hardly rise from your bed.  Is that what a demon would do?”  He edged further back, but that only put him closer to those crowding behind him.

Hugh looked uncomfortably around to his neighbors for support, but didn't answer.  Edmond answered for him, though.  “Oh aye, you come in here and try to earn our trust, then seduce our women and steal their souls.  But we're onto you, Black Donald.”  Edmond nodded to the group and Duncan felt a sharp blow on his shoulder that almost sent him to his knees.

“No!  Wait!  I'll leave then, I just…”

But his words were lost in the ugly shouts, grunts and insults that filled the air, along with his own screams when he felt a blow that shattered his nose, and sent him staggering right into the arms of someone at his back.  After that, it was all an agonizing blur of faces and blood and pain.  He knew he was hit, again and again, kicked until he could feel his ribs give way with an ugly splintering, crunching noise, then dragged over rocky ground and dumped in freezing water.  He flailed weakly as the swift-moving current carried him deeper and deeper, but finally had no strength left, almost grateful to let the cold and dark take him.

He opened his eyes, gasping in a painful gulp of air and blinking away the haze until he could focus on the night sky stretched far above.  He was cold, almost too cold to move.  Finally he turned his head, gradually putting together enough information to discern where he was.  He had washed up against the smooth stones at the edge of the river, only a few feet from shore.  A shallow breath, and he coughed, then gagged and made himself turn over, his feet searching for purchase on the slippery rocks.  He barely made it to shore before he was coughing and vomiting at the same time, spitting out river water and blood in equal quantities.

At last the painful spasms eased, but he stayed on his knees, gasping, his eyes closed, trying not to remember, but unable to keep the images of the hate-filled faces of people he had once called friends out of his mind.  He held himself tight, rocking slightly, biting his lip until he felt the skin break, forcing his emotions under control, then deliberately turned his mind away from the memories. 

Time.  He had lost too much time.  He pushed himself to his feet, staggering for a moment, trying to orient himself.  He was downstream of the village, obviously.  He forced his legs to move, and in a few moments he broke into a trot, then a run, the movement warming chilled, stiff limbs.  It took him until after moonset to get back to Maise, mount her, urging her to a trot, then a gallop, southwest, towards Glenfinnan.

He rode through the night, his wet clothes clinging to him, chilling him even under the fur-collared cloak he pulled over his shoulders to try to keep some warmth next to his body.  He pressed Maise until he could hear her grunt of expelled air with each long stride, could see the lather on her withers shining whitely in the dim light, but as he got closer to Glenfinnan, even concern for the mare didn't slow him as he passed two crofts with their roofs burned in, the pens open, the ground trampled, the inhabitants nowhere to be seen.

He knew he was near his village even in the pitch black of pre-dawn.  He could smell burning flesh and smoking thatch, and as he drew near he could hear the shouts, the screams, the wails of grief.

"Donald, who did this?"  He was off the horse and demanding an answer from Donald MacAndie before he even realized his knees were shaking from fear and exhaustion.

MacAndie, who he had known since birth, looked at least ten years older than the last time Duncan had seen him.  His nearly bald head was damp with dirt and sweat, even in the chilly air.  But the man just backed away as Duncan approached, stuttering with terror.  “No!  It cant be you.” 

“Dammit man, who did this?”  Duncan grabbed his arms, keeping him from running away.

“You're dead.  Dead!  I saw it with my own eyes!” 

“Damn you, who did this?” Duncan insisted.

“Kanwulf, the Destroyer!”  The man's eyes were wild with terror and he pulled to get away.

“Kanwulf's a legend.  He's not real!”

“Neither are you!”  MacAndie yanked away, and turned and ran.

Duncan's gaze circled the village, now in ruins, women weeping over prone bodies, men still beating uselessly at flames that had already consumed their homes.  He slowly turned towards the most familiar entrance, his heart pounding in sick dread, fearing the worst.  He ducked his head to enter, not wanting to look, but seeing anyway. 

Iain MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, fully dressed in his best plaid, was carefully laid out on his pallet, eyes closed, that fierce face pale and still, the great claymore he had always wielded lying beside him.

“Father?” 

For an endless moment there was no sound, no air, no color, no movement, no life.  Time had ceased and he waited for the darkness to close in.  Against all logic, he took another breath.  And another.  Everything rushed back into painful focus, movement caught his eye, and the still figure at the bedside turned.  Mairi MacLeod’s face was etched in grief, her hair awry.  For a moment, her look was blind, uncomprehending, too deep in her own misery to see anything but her husband's body.

“Mother?”  Duncan approached cautiously and stumbled down onto one knee, still unable to encompass that his father was gone.  No, not merely gone.  Dead.  Killed defending his clan, with no son to guard his back.

He instinctively took the hand that raised up as his mother's eyes widened.  “Duncan!” Mairi gasped, then she touched him as though fearful he might disappear. “Is it really you?”

“I'm here.”  Duncan could barely speak, his throat was so tight.  Now his mother was alone, undefended, bereft.  His eyes traced her worn, tired, ravaged face. 

“My beautiful son's come back,” she whispered, and stroked his hair in wonder.  “They tried to tell me you were evil.  I knew it wasn't true.”

His own problems suddenly seemed so petty, so small. “It doesna’ matter now,” he whispered, wanting to comfort her even though some small, anguished voice whispered that nothing mattered now.  Memories ran helplessly through his mind, of his father grabbing him up in a bruising hug of relief when he thought his son had been lost to wolves in Donan Woods, of hours of patient teaching to hunt, to fight, to lead -- so many moments that could never come again.  He wanted to howl his grief to the skies, but found himself struck dumb. 

Mairi pulled herself up, shaking away her tears and her face hardened as she looked over at her husband of over three decades.  “His sword.”  She nodded towards the familiar claymore. “Claim it,” she demanded. 

Duncan looked longingly at the blade that had represented all that he valued in his life.  His father's love for his people.  His pride.  His strength.  Honor.  Duty.  Loyalty.

“I canno.’"  His voice broke, and he almost gave way to the shameful sobs that choked his throat.  "He banished me.  I have no right.  I have no clan.  I'm not even your son.” 

“No!  It matters not who bore you,” his mother insisted.  “You are my son.  And it is yours.  Take it.” 

Duncan couldn't bring himself to touch the blade, fearful he would defile it somehow, that something awful would happen just by his daring to touch what he knew his father prized above all.

“Take it, I say!” his mother demanded in a voice that brooked no dissent.  She lifted the heavy claymore from her husband's side with her own hands and thrust it towards him, her face hard, her eyes bright with determination.  “Let no man tell you different.  Ye are Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.”

It was painful to hear the pride and love with which she spoke his name, a name he had almost decided he had no right to lay claim to.  But perhaps it was time he tried to live up to it once more.

He took up the blade at last, bracing himself for some demonic consequence, but all that happened was that he felt its weight, the cold, smooth hilt fitting easily in his hands.  The sword had been passed down from Iain’s great uncle, to his father, then to Iain, and had steadfastly served in the defense of the inhabitants of Glenfinnan for a century or more.

And so it would serve again, Duncan vowed in silence.  This time, in vengeance. 

He stepped out of his mother's home to find familiar faces gathered, talking together in low voices, distracted by his presence even in the face of disaster.  Well, if nothing else, he had learned that attempts at reason were worse than a waste of time.  He strode to his horse, pulling his father's baldrick and scabbard over his head and shoulders so he could sling the long blade across his back.  He mounted and turned, eyeing people he had always considered friends and family.

“Whoever did this, demon or no, I swear to you he will pay with his life!” he growled.

Neil MacGregor stepped forward, Donald MacAndie hovering at his elbow.  “Twas Kanwulf, no doubt.  His men screamed his name as they attacked.  There were dozens of them.  They took out our lookouts, first, then fell on us like ravening wolves.”  He pointed to the sword now at Duncan's back.  “But that's the sword of the chief, and canno’ be yours, Duncan MacLeod!  It belongs in Glenfinnan, not in the hands of some devil's spawn.”

“Whatever I am, Neil MacGregor, or whatever Kanwulf is, I will see to it that he who killed my father dies by my father's sword,” Duncan snapped.  MacGregor had ever been a bully and a braggart, and no doubt he would assume he would take over as chief of the village.  He was tired of these people's accusations, of their fears.  Mostly, he was tired of his own fears, and it was time he faced them.  With a cry to Maise, he urged her forward, and the small crowd parted before him, and he could feel their hostile eyes on his back as he rode away.

The hard-won tracking skills he had lived off of for two years were hardly necessary as the signs of a large mounted party clearly led into Donan Woods.  He stopped for a brief meal and to rest the mare, squatting on the ground, chewing patiently at the hard, dried meat while carefully inspecting the various hoof and boot prints he found in the soft forest floor.  It shouldn't have surprised him that Neil had grossly exaggerated the size of the raiding party.  Duncan estimated maybe ten men. 

Long odds, ten to one.  But the Campbells hadn't managed to kill him.  The hunger and cold of two hard winters hadn't killed him.  The villagers in Strathan hadn't killed him.  If there was some purpose, some real meaning to the madness that had become his life, perhaps this was it.

He slid the claymore out of its scabbard, rubbing the skirt of his plaid along its edge.  He could feel the blood pounding in his veins.  He hadn't raised a weapon against another in two years and now he could hardly wait for the battle to begin.  He put the sword back in its sheath, listening to the musical slide of the metal as it slipped home. 

The afternoon turned warm, and Duncan shed the weight of his cloak, enjoying the freedom of just his vest and his plaid.  He felt almost at peace, now, and full of purpose, anxious to find these bastards and strike them down, personally, one by one, ending with the one they called Kanwulf.  They hadn't even bothered to cover their tracks and their arrogance grated on him, only sharpening his edge of anger as he went deeper into the forest.

And then he found the body.  It was Gavin.  Gavin MacAndie, Donald's young cousin, barely fifteen when Duncan saw him last, a playful but shy lad, almost girlishly pretty, anxious to please when Duncan tried to train the village boys.  Not very talented with a blade, but what he lacked in talent he made up for in hard work.  They must have taken him in the raid, toyed with him, beaten him, done unspeakable things to him before they finally tied him spread-eagled to a tree and eviscerated him.  Duncan's stomach knotted at the sight, but he was too angry to acknowledge the nausea that threatened to empty his stomach.  One more reason for vengeance.

He heard them before he saw them.  Their drunken laughter and the smell of their campfire carried through the mist-shrouded woods, drew him in until he crept close, looking into a scene of utter, undisciplined debauchery.  They were staggering around the campfire in drunken revelry, gloating or gambling over the spoils of the lives they had destroyed, his friends’ belongings, his kinsmen’s clothes and weapons, tools and valuables.  The worst of it was that he even recognized a few faces.  Layabouts or no-accounts from other villages, clanless men with no honor who were a disgrace to their families and their country.

Duncan blinked away a red haze of hatred, finding himself at the edge of the small clearing in plain sight.  He paused, waiting for them to see him.  He wanted to watch their faces as they died.

They turned, one by one, the camp growing gradually silent as they stood, reaching for their weapons.  One of the more familiar faces grew slack and his weapon sank.  “It's him,” he shouted to the others.  “The ghost!  The ghost of Duncan MacLeod!” 

That almost made him smile. The man had described him well.  “Aye, back from the dead to seek my vengeance,” he announced.  He pulled the claymore free of its scabbard and stepped to the closest man, swinging the weapon like a scythe, almost cleaving him in two.  The man went down with a scream, and Duncan swirled around, looking for more victims, but the clearing was emptying fast, the men scrambling away in terror.

“No!  Fight me, damn you!” He rushed to the middle of the clearing, his sword raised, eager to engage any and every man there.  “Come on, fight me!” he demanded, but the men scampered away and in seconds the clearing was empty except for the abandoned food and loot and smoking fires, leaving him fuming with frustration.

Then a painful blast of sound that wasn't really sound slammed into his head and his heart was suddenly pounding so hard he thought he would pass out.  The overwhelming sense of impending doom made him whirl around in a panic, looking for the threat that he felt certain must be near.  His instincts drew him cautiously along a trail away from the campground to find a man standing patiently, waiting for him.  A long cloak enclosed his body and icy blue eyes of the northern tribes looked at him with calm disdain.

“You're Kanwulf,” Duncan breathed, believing for the first time that the legendary warrior truly was a demon, for the terrible fear that had washed over him just at the nearness of the man had felt like nothing of the natural world.

“I killed the one who held that,” the man said, casually gesturing to the claymore Duncan held.  “He fought well, for an old man.”

“I'll do better.  I'm his son!”  Duncan's claim was part bravado, part oath to himself.

“His son?” Kanwulf smiled and shrugged off his cloak, revealing a vest of chain mail over a dark, loose shirt and breeches.  “You don't even know what you are, do you?  Or what I am.”

“I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and you're dead!  That's all I need to know.”  The man's icy arrogance rekindled his rage and Duncan swung hard, meeting Kanwulf's strange, single-headed axe with a force that vibrated his bones.  Duncan spun, slicing across Kanwulf's back, but his blow bounced harmlessly off the broad shield slung there. 

Then Duncan found himself entirely on the defensive, backing away at a near run as he fended off a weapon that whirred at him with unexpected speed and force.  Duncan considered himself an experienced and well-trained swordsman, but he had never conceived of such skill and power as he dodged and weaved down a long slope, using the claymore more as shield than weapon.  Then their blades clanged together and caught under the head of the axe.  Duncan strained to push away, but Kanwulf swung a mighty fist and Duncan was falling, tumbling over and over until he landed in a painful heap at the bottom of a shallow ravine.

Kanwulf was on him again in only a heartbeat and Duncan forced himself to his feet, fending off blow after blow of that deadly axe.  There was a moment of horrified surprise when Duncan realized he was totally outmatched, that this man was far stronger, more experience, more powerful than he, and he stumbled back and back again, falling painfully against a broken stump, barely keeping Kanwulf's axe from slicing him into bloody pieces, and he knew his doubts and fears were showing on his face by the gleam of satisfaction in Kanwulf's icy eyes. 

Barring a miracle, any second now, it would be over, and somehow this time, death would be permanent.  However much he hated his current life, Duncan realized with no small surprise, something in him truly didn't want to die, not yet.  Not like this.  Not at the hands of the man who had killed Iain MacLeod.  The two blades met, and Kanwulf pushed forward until the axe blade hooked over Duncan's shoulder, its curved metal digging painfully into his shoulder.  Kanwulf pulled, throwing Duncan off balance and he tumbled to the ground.

Instinct and training made him instantly roll away, barely avoiding the axe which cut deep into the forest floor where his head had been only a second before.  He found his feet, then fell back and back again, overpowered by sheer speed and strength until he found himself trapped against a stump with nowhere to go.  He was out of time and out of space for retreat when Kanwulf charged in for the final blow, a triumphant grin on his face.

The only move left was to attack.  Duncan ducked, swinging the claymore low in desperation.  He and Kanwulf were both surprised when the blade struck, and he could feel and hear it slice into flesh.  Kanwulf gasped, his eyes wide with surprise and he slowly folded over, his belly opened side to side, blood gushing out over the deeply embedded metal.  The Viking slammed to his knees, still hanging onto the axe now embedded deep in the wood of the tree stump, where Duncan had almost been trapped.

Kanwulf slowly turned his head to look at Duncan.  Surprise had transformed into an oddly peaceful, almost transcendent expression.  “Strike!” he gasped. “Send me to Valhalla!”

“I'll send ye to hell!”  Duncan yanked the claymore free of Kanwulf's flesh and as the man tumbled to the ground, Duncan spiked the blade down through the heavy chain mail, the flesh and bones of the broad chest, and deep into the earth beneath.  With only a sigh, Kanwulf breathed his last breath.  Not a demon after all, then.  Just a man.

Duncan was trembling from shock and fear and exertion, and vaguely surprised he had both survived, and that something in him still cared.  He yanked Kanwulf's axe free, staring at the odd,  deadly weapon as he stumbled away from the body.  His shaking legs finally gave out from under him and he fell to his knees, and had he not had the axe in his hand he would have landed face down in the dirt.  As it was, he leaned on the cold metal of the strange blade, gasping for air.  “For you, father,” he whispered. 

He sat on the ground until his body finally stopped shaking, but at last pushed himself to his feet, stumbled over to the body and yanked out the claymore. He walked away and didn't look back, leaving Kanwulf there for the carrion eaters to consume.  He did manage to stop and pull down Gavin MacAndie’s poor abused body, wrapping it in his cloak and putting it over Maise’s withers before heading back in a haze of emotional and physical exhaustion, the shock of his grief finally settling like a weight too heavy to bear.  He barely remembered the ride, frequently nodding off as the overburdened mare plodded on, only waking when she would stop to find something interesting to graze on by the trail, and then urging her on.

It was dusk when he finally topped the rise above Glenfinnan.  The fires had been doused, although the acrid smell of burned thatch still lingered in the air.  He could see the villagers gathered in the graveyard, and urged Maise forward.  The somber crowd turned and watched him approach, huddling a little closer together.  They were silent as he dismounted.  He could see his mother standing apart from the crowd, her chin held high.  Their eyes met.  She looked much older in the dimming light of day.  Old and frail.

He took a deep breath and pulled the axe from his saddle bags, finding no small satisfaction in the audible intake of breath and murmurs from the crowd.  As he stepped into the graveyard, he stiffened.  It was as though he could feel some tangible difference in the space.  Given his nature, he would have expected that walking on consecrated ground might cause lightening bolts to fall on him from the sky.  Instead he felt a profound sense of peace.  Perhaps it was the presence of death itself that caused the strange sensation.

He stepped to his mother's side and looked into Iain MacLeod’s grave.  With no time or materials for a coffin, they had dressed his father in his tartan, then wrapped him in his best cloak and fastened it with a beautiful circle brooch that had been in their family for as long as he could remember. 

Duncan sank down to his knees in the soft dirt.  “Forgive me, Father,” he whispered.  “And be at peace.”  He reverently laid the axe in his father's hand.  The flesh was as cold as the plain circle of silver that ringed one finger, matching the band on his mother's hand.  He climbed out and reached for his mother, holding her for a long, precious moment.  Her frequently unruly auburn hair was bound with the elaborate celtic knot ornament that had been a gift from his father.  He touched it, picturing the gruff, embarrassed, but loving look the clan chief could never contain when he felt strong emotion, and for a brief moment mother and son shared a smile of remembrance.  They needed time to grieve, but it was not to be.

“So,” Neil MacGregor stepped forward, his lanky, thinning blond hair and pale complexion still streaked from dirt, soot and ashes of the battle and the fire.  “Did ye think killing a demon would prove something?  It changes nothing.  Evil can turn against itself as well as against the innocent.  Perhaps it took a demon to kill one.”  Like the rest of them, he looked much older and more worn than Duncan had ever seen him.  He was vaguely surprised they had the energy to care about an outcast such as he.

Duncan looked around at the familiar faces, seeing nothing but fear, nothing but rejection.  Old Mog had been right.  No matter what he did, no matter how he felt or what he said, these hearts were poisoned against him.  The only one who might have been able to change that was dead.

“You've always been a hard man, MacGregor,” Duncan said.  He crossed in angry strides over to his horse and pulled the cloak-shrouded body of Gavin MacAndie into his arms.  The blood-soaked material fell away and Gavin’s naked, tortured body was exposed.  The women screamed and Donald cried out, rushing up and taking the body from him.  He sank to the ground, cradling his nephew's head in his lap.

“If I were a demon, I would hardly bring back your dead for Christian burial, now would I?”

MacGregor folded his arms across his chest and raised his chin.  “Perhaps you did it just to torture his kin, to see him like that.  How do we know you didna’ do this, after all?” he demanded, waving at the young man's pitiful flesh.

“Because he is my son, Neil MacGregor!” Mairi MacLeod spoke behind him, her voice rough with emotion but still strong.  “He is Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.  Your kinsman, and a man of honor.  He killed Kanwulf, for mercy's sake.  He risked his life to avenge his father and this village.  Can ye not see that there is no evil in him?”

“You weren't there to see him rise from his deathbed, Mairi!” Neil snapped.  “And ye know not of what ye speak!  He is no’ your son, nor any MacLeod, for all that.  We were all deceived.  Who knows how much evil he caused all these years, all unknown to us?  For God's sake woman, he killed your own nephew!  But I don't blame you and Iain, for you were beguiled, as were we all.”

Mairi stepped up to MacGregor, her arms folded tight across her chest, her face hard with anger.  “You all know he killed Robert only because his father insisted that his honor had been besmirched.  I nursed this boy at my breast. I bathed him and sang to him and held him.”  Her voice broke, but she pressed on.  “I watched him grow from a sweet babe to a loving and caring man.  And I tell you he is no demon!”

“Stop it, Mother,” Duncan stepped up and took her by the shoulders, pulling her back.  “They will believe what they want to believe and there's naught you can say or I can do to change it.”

Mairi shook him off, “Nay!  They must see, Duncan, else they are blind, stubborn fools!”

“It is you who are blind and stubborn, woman,” MacGregor insisted.  “But a mother will always protect her babe, even when it is a devil's spawn.  Perhaps especially when tis so, for he has had more time and opportunity to work his magic on you.”

“The only magic here is that you lived so long!” Mairi shouted, at last, lunging towards the new clan chief, her hands closed into fists, but Duncan held her back.

“Enough!” He held her tight as she fought against him.  “Let it go, Mother,” he whispered in her ear.  “You canno’ change this.”

“Nooo!” she wailed, finally turning and hitting out at him as the only available target.  “I canno’ lose you both!” The tears she had been holding back flooded her eyes, and her blows against his chest eased as she clutched at his vest instead.  Her cries turned into sobs, and Duncan picked her up, cradled her close and carried her back towards the village, feeling the eyes of everyone on his retreating back.

He laid his mother on her pallet and moved around the familiar room, stirring the embers of the hearthfire to life and putting on some water for tea.  He felt his mother's eyes on him as he worked, and when he turned to straightening up the disarray caused by the last several days of chaos and death, she called to him.

He sat beside her, taking her worn hand in his own.  They sat like that in silence for a few minutes before Mairi started to speak, but Duncan interrupted her words before she could voice them.  “No, Mother.  I canno’ stay.”

“But…”

“He banished me.  And now he's dead and nothing can change it.”

“Then take me with you,” she whispered, clutching his hand to her body.

“No.  You canno’ go where I must go.  You canno’ live the way I live.  This is your home, where all your kith and kin are.”

“You are all the kith and kin I care about,” she insisted, reaching out to touch his face, then stroked his hair.

“You say that because you are worn out and grieving and angry.  But I live in the wild, Mother.  In a cave, for God's sake.  I willno’ have my mother living so.”

“Duncan, please…”

“No, Mother.  Tis not to be, and that's an end of it.”

She pulled her hand back and hugged herself, closing her eyes.  “You sound just like your father,” she whispered.  Slow tears trickled into her hair.  “I loved him you know.  He was a hard man, but a good man.  He rarely said he loved me, but I knew he did.”  She opened her eyes again, her focus settling on her son.  “And he loved you, too, Duncan.”

Duncan stood, moving away to the hearth to pour the tea.

“He did, ye must know that,” she insisted.  “Just because he never said it didna’ mean he didn't feel it.”

“I thought he did, once,” Duncan responded softly.  “I worked all my life to be exactly what he wanted me to be, to be the perfect clan chieftain's son.  But I'm not, am I?  I am not the son he thought he had, not the son he loved.  Oh, its not just looking a little different.  I've always had a voice inside that insisted on seeing things a little differently than others.  Maybe that voice is evil.  I truly don't know.”

“I know,” Mairi answered.

“Do you?” Duncan had to ask, looking up to meet her eyes as he handed her the tea.

She just nodded, and sipped, warming her hands on the cup.  She stared into its depths for a moment before she spoke again.  “Don't let them make you doubt yourself, Duncan.  No matter what happened.”

“Mother, in that, Neil is right.  You didna’ see…”

“It matters not what I saw or didna’ see,” she insisted.  “I know your heart, and always have, since the moment you first looked up at me, and your tiny fingers wrapped themselves so strongly around mine.  Magic can be good as well as evil, and you are a good man.  Perhaps you've been given a special gift; a power that's meant to help others, or perhaps you had to live to fulfill some great task.  But whatever has happened, you are still Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.” She met his eyes with a fierce look of pride that twisted his heart.  “And it is he who I trust, and who I will love as a son to the end of my days.”

He was drawn to sit beside her and take her in his arms.  She lay against his shoulder for a moment before drawing back and holding his face in her hands.  “Know that, Duncan.  Believe that.  Wherever you travel, whatever happens, you are loved.”

Duncan had to swallow to get this throat to work.  “And you, Mother,” he whispered.  Then he took her hands in his and kissed each, and lay them in her lap.  “I must go.”  He stood, ignoring his mother's subvocal cry. 

“When will I see you again?” she asked, reaching to touch him, but he pulled away.

“I dinna know.  But I'll make certain MacGregor treats you with respect and care,” he answered, steeling his heart.  It was the only way.

“Duncan!”

He turned away, striding quickly out of the place that had always been the center of his life.  The villagers were still gathered, waiting – for what, he wasn't sure.  Perhaps they were expecting him to perform some magical feat.  If so, they would be disappointed.

MacGregor had brought Maise to the front of his croft and held her reins in his hand.  “Duncan MacLeod,” he intoned as Duncan stepped up to him.  “You have been banished by the chief of this village.  His sword does not belong to you.”   MacGregor pointed to the claymore in the scabbard still slung on Duncan's back.

“Neil MacGregor,” Duncan answered softly as he drew the claymore out of the scabbard and held it before him in both hands.  “Pledge to me that my mother will be treated with respect and kindness, that she will be cared for and provided for to the end of her days.”

MacGregor’s eyes traveled up the shining blade, still stained with Kanwulf's blood.  Duncan didn't know whether he would take the gesture as a threat or an offer, and didn't really care anymore.  Either would suffice.

“She is the widow of Iain MacLeod,” MacGregor answered harshly after a moment of silence.  “She is my kin and an honored member of the Clan.”

“I have no need of any pledge, Duncan!” he heard his mother's voice behind him, but he didn't turn to look.  If he did, he might not have the strength to do what must be done. 

Duncan swirled the blade in a circle with a rush of wind and a low musical hum, then struck the claymore’s point deep into the earth.  “Then let it always be so!” he demanded, looking Neil MacGregor in the eye until the new chief placed his hand on the sword’s hilt at last, and solemnly nodded.

“It will always be so,” he echoed.

“Duncan, no!  That is your sword!” Mairi insisted, tugging at his arm.

“Nay, Mother,” Duncan said over his shoulder.  “Tis the sword of the protector of these people, and no matter how much I might wish it, ‘tis something I canno’ be.”  He didn't look back as he took Maise’s reins and mounted.  But he could not help but look down at the touch of a hand on his leg. 

“Never forget who you are.” His mother looked up at him, her eyes dry, but still red-rimmed with tears.  “Never let them take that away from you!”  Neil MacGregor took his mother by the shoulders and pulled her away, but their eyes were locked together as Duncan nodded.

“I willna’ forget,” he just barely managed to say past the tightness in his throat.  He wheeled Maise around and galloped out of Glenfinnan, urging the poor, tired mare on until they were out of sight of a place he could no longer call home.
 
 

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