I left her hut before dawn. She was still cackling to herself, chewing roots like a goat, muttering about trousers and talking boxes.
I wrapped my cloak tighter and marched south. Away from the Highlands. Away from Mary's grave. Away from the whispers.
The road stretched on, mud and frost clinging to my boots. I told myself I was free now. Free to start over. Free to forget.
But her words followed me like ghosts.
"Horses with no legs…"
Every time I saw a cart stuck in the mud, I muttered, "Not yet."
"Food in sheep's guts…"
When I bit into stale bread, I grumbled, "Still not cursed enough."
And the worst, "The talking box."
I couldn't shake it. Sometimes I'd catch myself staring at an empty chest or a barrel, half-expecting it to suddenly yell gossip at me.
The more I traveled, the more I realized the world was bigger, and dumber, than I'd ever imagined. In Edinburgh, they burned men for sneezing at the wrong time. In York, a merchant swore he could sell me "flying powder" that turned out to be crushed pigeon bones. And in London, dear God, someone tried to charge me rent for breathing their air.
Through it all, I didn't die. I got stabbed in a tavern brawl, caught plague twice, nearly drowned when a ferry tipped, and once got kicked by a mule so hard I saw the stars dance. But each time, I healed. Slowly. Painfully. Like a man stitched together by stubbornness alone.
After a decade of wandering, I realized something: the Highlands were gone for me. My life wasn't about clans and villages anymore. It was about… waiting. Watching. Surviving.
And maybe, just maybe, proving that old hag wrong.
Because no matter how far I roamed, I still muttered under my breath:
"…A box that talks? A horse with no legs? Aye, we'll see about that."
---
Ships smelled of fish, piss, and fear, but they carried me farther than my legs ever could. I became a wanderer, a mercenary, sometimes a drunk who swore he was fifty at the age of twenty. Europe was chaos, but chaos welcomed me better than home ever did.
And yet… the longer I lived, the heavier the silence in my head. I'd lost Mary. Lost my son. Lost the Highlands. Every town gave me fresh names, new ale, new scars, but no answers.
That's when the experiments began.
The first time was by accident. I slipped on a cliffside path in Spain and plummeted into the rocks below. Bones shattered, ribs cracked, blood pooling like spilled wine. A farmer found me, muttered prayers over my twitching corpse, then left me to die.
But I didn't. Days later, I crawled out of that ravine, limping, coughing blood, half a skull showing where stone had kissed me too hard. I should've been gone. Any sane man would've been gone. Yet I stumbled on, somehow alive.
After that, I started testing.
"What if I drink this mushroom stew?"
Spoiler: I vomited for two days, then felt fine. Eventually.
"What if I sleep in the middle of the road where horses gallop?"
I woke with hoofprints on my back and a jaw that clicked every time I chewed. Still breathing, though.
"What if I just stop eating?"
A month later, ribs poking out like prison bars, I collapsed… then woke in a stranger's barn with someone's leftover porridge in my hand. Thanks, universe.
Every wound was agony. I still bled. Still screamed. Still begged for death in the night. But death never came. My body just… kept going. Broken. Patched. Scarred.
And then, like clockwork, on my thirtieth birthday, it all reset.
One morning, I woke in Florence, dirty and limping from an old sword wound. The next, I looked in the mirror of a cheap inn and saw a smooth face, young skin, bright eyes. Twenty again. My scars gone. My limp vanished. My body brand new.
I stared at my reflection, horrified.
"…It's not healing. It's bloody cheating."
That was the curse of it: I wasn't spared pain. I was forced to suffer it all… only to be dragged back to youth when time thought I'd had enough.
---
That morning in Florence, I stared at the stranger in the mirror. Smooth cheeks, no scars, hair thicker than it had any right to be. Twenty again.
But outside the inn, people were looking for me, the "me" with a limp, a crooked jaw, and the weariness of thirty years.
"Have you seen Ewan? A Scot, scar across his brow?"
"Where's the limping mercenary? He owes me a drink!"
I ducked into an alley, heart pounding.
If they saw me like this, young and flawless, they'd never believe I was the same man. Or worse, they would. And then I'd be the devil again.
So I vanished. Again. Packed my few coins, stole a cloak with a hood, and became a ghost.
But the question gnawed at me: What does it take? What finally ends me?
That's when I eyed the oak tree outside the village of Siena. Thick branches. Strong rope. A crowd of bored farmers who apparently had nothing better to do than watch a stranger tie a noose.
One man scratched his head. "Oi, you sure about this?"
"Absolutely," I said, tightening the knot. "For science."
They all frowned. "What's science?"
"Never mind."
I climbed, slipped the rope around my neck, and jumped.
SNAP!
…Not my neck. The branch.
I hit the ground flat on my back, gasping like a dying fish. The rope lay across my chest like it was mocking me. The branch landed nearby, almost crushing my skull. The crowd burst out laughing.
"Best hanging I've ever seen!" one farmer wheezed.
"Encore! Try a bigger tree next time!" another shouted.
I rolled onto my side, groaning. "Encore my arse…"
It hurt. Everything hurt. My spine felt like broken pottery. But by nightfall, the pain dulled. By morning, I was limping again. By the next week, nearly fine.
I learned two things that day:
1. Hanging doesn't work.
2. Never do it in public.
---