Snip!

Oh, all right, you talked me into it...  *w*

 

From One Highland Night

(c) Jennifer R. Clark

 

One of the soldiers shoved him, staggering, into a snowbank.  The frigid mound could not chill him further than he was already.   Greedily, he swallowed what he could, for they had given him no water and his throat burned from exertion and the cold.  His lower lip was split, and the right side of his face was crusted with blood from a gash in his scalp, made by a Campbell musket.   He could feel it tightening the skin when he winced.  Which was often.

 

Wrists still bound, now rubbed raw and shaking, he struggled to pull his plaid around himself once more.  The action aggravated his ribs; if they were not broken, they were at least bruised.   All of this he noted with some detachment.  His concern was focused elsewhere, miles behind him in the valley of Glen Coe.

 

Elspeth.