Jamie McCrimmon was, as he could usually be found these days, sat by the window at the Fox and Duck Inn nursing a glass of whisky. Since the end of the Battle of Culloden, he’d found himself wandering rather aimlessly through life– that is, when he wasn’t trying to keep his head down and out of sight of the soldiers that occasionally trooped through.
He felt older, somehow, like he’d aged several years in the short time since the battle– which, he assumed, was how most soldiers felt during the aftermath. Lonelier, too, given most of his clansmen had fled the country without him… which was why he often found himself at the Fox and Duck. Just being around folk - hearing the background thrum of chatter, even if he wasn’t talking to anyone - was its own kind of peaceful.
“You bloody well do know.” The larger of the two Englishmen - Jim, he presumed - advanced on the scrawny bloke a few tables down. “He’s a witch, I tell you. Saw him making lights in the air, communing with the Devil–”
“S’a crime against nature,” the other one spat, grabbing himself a fistful of Chance’s shirt. “You ought to burn for that, lad.”
“Aye, but he won’t.” The other scattered drinkers, who’d been watching from their various corners, turned their attention to Jamie as he stood, shoulders squared. “Because ye’re goin’ tae put ‘im down.”
As the hand lifted him by his shirt, Chance gripped the man’s wrist frantically. He hated conflict, he really really did.
“I didn’t, I--!” He had. Not the Devil but... a spirit, certainly. And the lights were so he could see... (If he tried to escape now he’d surely be barricaded from the door...)
His eyes widened at the stranger who came to his aid. The man holding him growled, glaring at Jamie as an unwelcome interloper. “Not bloody likely. And what do you think you’re doing here? Didn’t you fuckers lose?”
“Don’t-- trouble yourself--” Chance stammered, still trying to disconnect the hold on him without harming anybody. “--on m-my behalf--- Please sir, put me down.”
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