simplestgift | One Bell: [Written/Accidental Video] No Gallows Can Touch Me

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One Bell: [Written/Accidental Video] No Gallows Can Touch Me

[Written in a shaky hand]

I don't know if anyone is really out there. I seem to be caught up in a tree. In my defence, the tree looks worse than I do. I think I am winning. However, it is very cold and windy up here, and I can't seem to make it down on my own. I've heard about safe falling, but the only guideline we have about falling in the navy is "don't do it." If anyone can see this, then, I need your help. In the meantime, I'll keep writing, if you don't mind. It's just about the only way to keep moving up here.

I am Lieutenant Kennedy aboard His Majesty's Ship the Renown. If you'll believe it, that used to mean something. You may call me Kennedy (with or without the "mister"), or, since I suppose it makes no difference here, just Archie. I've answered to both. While I am sure you are dying to hear the endlessly dull story of my life and death, my literary skills are limited by my half-frozen fingers and my ability to manipulate this infernal book. Maybe later.

I can only hope this place has a decent glass of whiskey somewhere. I have a headache. Probably a permanent one. Not to mention I'm aching in body parts I actually did not have before. I suppose I should be glad to be alive again. Maybe that will come later.

Damned wings. I've no idea what to do with mys

[Accidental video: a flying shot of, well, mostly a grey-and-white blur as the book falls from the tree. A man's fingertips, nearly blue with cold, pass just in front. There's a dismayed shout and the sound of tearing cloth as the journal thumps to the ground, lying open. Barely visible in one corner is a very cold new feather, barely hanging on to a tree branch far above the ground. His pants seem to be caught and tearing. For a moment, he freezes with his arms around the branch, breathing heavily. Seconds later, he chuckles as if he just got a joke. He can barely be heard when he speaks.]

Looks like I d-didn't escape a hanging after all, H-Horatio.

[After a few more wheezing, half-hysterical chuckles, he goes very quiet.

The rest of the shot is of a location just outside the west side of town, north of the river.]

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[Hang on while he does some quick calculations. Physics: it's not just for Starfleet anymore.] Right. Don't risk it, man. Is anyone coming for you?

I c-can't be sure. The man I sp...spoke with must be a damned...[slight grunt as if he's trying to pull himself back up]...sadist. I'll have to shake his hand later.

Look--I'm over at House 7. [There's the sound of someone rummaging for bagpipes.] I'm closing my journal up for the time being; but in a moment, I'll be on the porch playing the pipes. Keep an ear out, eh?

[And Scotty closes his journal. He'll open it again in a moment to find out if you can hear him from where you are, Archie; and, if so, if you can gauge what direction they were coming from.

Most Scottish Rescue Ever.]

[After a moment, Archie hears bagpipes. They're not far. A few bars into the song, he starts laughing for no reason.]

[What's so funny about Scots Wha Hae (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=32V5nxUl62Y) played in near-hurricane conditions? After going through a number of bars, Scott puts down the pipes and, swollen with Scottish pride and concern, picks up his journal again.]

Ya hear it, lad?

[Archie can't stop laughing. He may sound just a little mad.]

I hear ye tae the northeast, loud an' clear. [He then switches from the affected antique brogue to his normal, high-class English accent.] One Scotsman to another, eh? My granny plays better.

[Oh, no you don't, son.]

Well is yer gran fixin' to get you out of that situation with a ladder, laddie?

[Bloody English.]

[More laughter. Mostly ironic. Archie is pretty sure this really is Purgatory and he's about to kick Dante in the teeth.]

No, no, don't mind me, Mr. Scott. [Giggle] Trust me, you're the best friend I have in the world right now. I feel warmer already!

[This guy is nuts. But, then again, Scotty understands what being exposed to the icy, snowy wilderness can do to a man.]

...Right. I'll be setting out to find you now. Listen for the pipes, eh? Give a shout if you hear me close by.

[He closes the journal and heads to the southwest through the snow, playing a rousing march as he goes.]

Edited 2011-01-06 01:00 (UTC)

[It doesn't take long. Scotty has probably been traveling for all of five minutes before Archie, who was beginning to drowse off, hears the crunch of a footstep in the snow that is, amazingly, not drowned out by the sound of the pipes.]

Mr. Scott? [The words are a little slurred.]

[At the sound of his name, Scotty glances up; he switches from the march to a few bars of this (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wpjvbo8rN88&feature=related) before slinging the pipes back over his shoulder and appraising the situation.]

Well. You're in a state; think you can catch a rope, Mr...Don't even know yer name, lad.

Kennedy. F-fourth l-lieutenant. And I'd better be able to, I suppose.

Aye, Lieutenant; otherwise it could prove fatal, at least for a week or so. Here--catch! [Setting down the pipes carefully on the snow, the engineer swings the rope as hard as he can toward the man in the tree.]

[It takes some effort to fight against stiff joints, but Archie manages to hook the rope with one arm. But now he's hanging by one hand. He has to move quickly. He can't feel his fingers, but he has to move quickly. Still sluggish, he tries to pull himself upward, but his leg is still caught and he can't swing it over the branch. He takes a moment to glance down at Scotty.]

I'll understand if you laugh, Mr. Scott. [He says this with a degree of both irony and dignity. Flexing his fingers, he manages to sling the rope over the branch, then grab hold of the tree and let the rope hang for a moment. It's pure willpower that's keeping him going at the moment. After getting his bearing for a few seconds, he kicks his caught leg sharply, ripping the fabric almost clean off. Now he tries to climb back on...and slips, saving himself only by grabbing the rope that is folded over itself. Numb fingers aren't the best for holding ropes, to he slides to the ground at a speed that is barely safe, landing hard in a poof of snow.]

Laugh, what? [Scotty winces as Kennedy's exertions dislodge most of the snow from the surrounding branches onto his head. He's not laughing so much as brushing the stuff out of his face.] Just--be careful, eh? And...good Lord, man, you'll need new trousers after this. Unless that's a new plaid no one's apprised me of, yet.

[Scotsman jokes: he has them. And then a significantly larger amount of snow tumbles down, along with the lieutenant himself. Scotty rushes to the snowbank beneath the tree, searching for evidence of success.]

Oi! Lieutenant!

[Cough, hack.] I'm fine. [Cough. He landed on his feet, more or less, though he is now lying on his back. Considering how numb he is, he's really not sure if he's fine at all, but he doesn't see any part of him that is bleeding. Nothing important, anyway. No great gaping hole in his stomach. He raises his hands to his face to make sure it's still there too. Then he realizes his hands are bleeding. Hunh. Well, that should have been expected.]

[Scott does the most neighborly thing he can think to do and hands a flask of something warming down to the man in the snow.] You did well, there, man. Welcome to Luceti.

Thank you. Ah. [He takes the flask by his fingertips. There's not much blood on his hands, but the fingers seem to be relatively clean. He takes a grateful swig, barely able to hold the flask at all.]

Got a spare shirt, by chance? [A grin. He's kidding.]

[Please, man; every Scotsman worth his salt gets a little blood on the flask every so often.] In point of fact, I do. Let's get you along, eh? Here, I'll even give you this; and you can keep it, since I don't enjoy laundering blood out of clothing in this primitive place.

[Scotty removes his coat and reaches down to help the man up.]

[Archie gets halfway to his feet before realizing one of his knees is not cooperating like it should. Sort of hurts when he puts weight on it. Nothing to do about it for now. He has to walk. It buckles a bit as he steps on it, then switches to his other foot.] Thank you, Mr. Scott. M-might you also know of a doctor?

[And he nearly collapses. Only a collision with his accented savior keeps him from another explosion of semi-dry snow.]

Do I know of a doctor? Aye, I know of a very fine doctor indeed, one of the best in Starfleet. [Ooof. Steady there, Kennedy. Scotty will offer an able yet rather unhappy crutch--he has to leave the bagpipes behind under the tree.

Nobly, he says nothing about this and continues to help this New Feather toward the clinic.] So tell me, Kennedy--where were you serving when the Malnosso took you?

[Archie limps carefully, the movement stirring feeling in his legs. Ouch. Scotty's words about the doctor ease some of his reservations about, well, the practice in general, but he still isn't looking forward to it.] West Indies. I was in Kingston when I...

[A pause, then a quick smile.] Died. What about you, Mr. Scott? Oh-- [He glances back over his shoulder.] Your pipes. Just a moment. [He starts to peel away from his crutch to limp back.]

Oh, for pity's SAKE Kennedy, leave 'em! Nobody'll bother them.

[Actually, there's a good chance that a concerned villager will bury them, or chuck them in the lake, or burn them, but for good or ill, Scotty is not thinking this way.]

Wait. Died?

[Archie's sense of motivation for anything other than survival is not at its best right now, or he might just give Scotty a "don't be ridiculous" glance and ignore his request. But he leans against his savior again as they continue.]

Yes, died. Shot in the gut. It took days. I'd rather not talk about it. Now...did you answer my question?

[He's not being facetious. He actually can't remember.]

I was back in San Francisco when they took me.

[Gutshot? Death? What was all this?]

And I was very much alive, actually...

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