387 years and 42 days old.
MacLeod knew he couldn't die when he was stabbed in the chest aged 20. He was left to fester in his own pig sty, the knife hilt deep in a maceration of lung and heart.
Hours earlier MacLeod had taunted a man about his wife. "She has tried us all" he sneered, his syllables dancing to the tune of whiskey. The man slowly unveiled a rusty blade, his pride replaced by rage. The other men saw this and decided they wanted no part in it, carrying on with their cards and booze as the man placed the knife in MacLeod's chest. No one flinched as the man dragged MacLeod's lifeless body out of the saloon, and no one stopped him as he lugged the corpse down the street to leave him in the MacLeod pig sty.
It was sundown when MacLeod woke. Reality seemed to have changed since he was last alive. The filth he lay in smelt of raw clay, the air feeling thin as he inhaled through his blood-crusted nostrils. Above him, dusk had washed the sky in hues of red and orange, the clouds soaking in the flame as they floated by. There was no pain, no discomfort as he sat himself up. The dagger was still in his chest, rising and falling with every breath. He got up, dusted himself down and walked back to the saloon, leaving boot prints in the trail he had exsanguinated earlier.
The local paper ran a story on what happened next, the headline sounding something like this: "MACLEOD KILLS HIS OWN KILLER - REMAINS AT LARGE". Rumours spread about how a dead man with a knife in his heart walked into the saloon. He had quietly approached Mr. Gordon Black, politely saying 'Sorry sir, I believe this is yours'. Accounts differed on what happened next, but apparently the dead man then pulled out the knife embedded in his chest, and swiftly stabbed it into Mr. Black's windpipe. Mr. Black fell to the floor, choking on his own blood. The man sat at the bar and sipped Mr. Black's whisky. No one dared interrupt the man. He only stood up when Mr. Black stopped gurgling, his crunching footsteps echoing in the silence he left behind.
Centuries had passed since his death. MacLeod wandered the Earth. His body was a tapestry of scars; a timeline of swords, bullets, claws and fire. His hands were coarse from centuries of manual labour, but the same calloused palms had written, played and painted masterpieces. Time was his only constant, it's unrelenting advance lay teasingly out of reach. There was no suggestion he had aged; there were no wrinkles to contour his wispy beard, or creases in the tanned skin above his vacuous eyes. He had ceased to have a name, his identity worn out by his sheer existence.
Five lifetimes of living and yet he couldn't feel more empty of life. The futility of it all was nauseating. Every person he had known had lived only for Time to archive their short stint into the landfill of history, alongside billions of others. The individual was just so irrelevant, so dispensable.
MacLeod’s initial response to this was to reject society and embrace depravity. He killed thousands in the wars he took part in. He never cared what or who he fought for, and quite often switched sides mid battle on account of being bored. He raped, pillaged, sacked and burned all in his path whilst almost always completely inebriated. There were no more boundaries - dying on a daily basis was the only way he could challenge his existence. His primal urges were all that remained to define him.
It was during the Japanese Boshin War that MacLeod abandoned warmongering. It was 1868 and he was fighting for the Imperialists. They were battling to overthrow a government which was increasingly lenient to Western powers. The contradiction in a Caucasian man fighting against his own roots troubled the Imperialists, but they were too terrified of him to do anything about it. He stood tall in battle; his tattered samurai garb was held together with a fraying cord. Tethered to it was a sheathed katana. His technique was flawless, his approach methodical, earning him the title ‘White Blade’. This wasn’t because of his ethnicity; it was said the last thing his opponents would see before death was the white flash of light reflecting off his katana as he unsheathed it.
He was challenged by a young foot soldier who was clearly in his first battle. He held a sword as opposed to the rifles rationed to those with experience. His eyes were alight with terror, his sword oscillating as his hands trembled. MacLeod didn’t hesitate to cut him down; he was just another kill. Nothing matters when you're immortal, so nobody mattered to MacLeod. In the absence of an expiry date his life was one without consequence, or so he thought.
The man didn’t die immediately. Despite his severed carotid, he reached into his shirt and pulled out a grainy daguerreotype. He touched it, his fingers smearing it with blood as his arm dropped with his last breath. MacLeod was curious. He picked up the stained photograph.
It was a family portrait. Standing was the dead man. He was in an oversized western style suit. Sat on a wicker chair to his left was a young woman. His hand was perched on her right shoulder. She was dressed in an elaborate kimono, its silk lazily encased her tiny frame, the flowers decorating it were fuzzy in monochrome. On her lap was a chubby infant in a white frock.
It had been centuries since he was last moved by anything, and this image had shaken him like no war ever had. He was fixated on the woman. Each facet of her face (whether it was her eyes, brow, mouth or cheeks) when taken on its own, was bland. Put together, MacLeod saw a snapshot of pure bliss. She emanated a happiness he had never experienced, and one he secretly craved in all his years. It unleashed a new terror inside of him, one that he felt rippling through his veins.
He had just murdered a husband and father, and with that the very happiness he didn’t know he was seeking. She would be joyous no more and it was his fault. It had now dawned on him- the thousands of deaths he was responsible for had now extended to grieving relatives. They never mattered before, but now meant it all.
MacLeod dropped his katana and slowly walked away. He took every gunshot, stabbing and cut in his stride. Pain never stimulated him... but this time he relished, welcomed and internalised it. He had made up his mind - it was time for change. He would have to resurrect happiness through atonement.
MacLeod knew he couldn't die when he was stabbed in the chest aged 20. He was left to fester in his own pig sty, the knife hilt deep in a maceration of lung and heart.
Hours earlier MacLeod had taunted a man about his wife. "She has tried us all" he sneered, his syllables dancing to the tune of whiskey. The man slowly unveiled a rusty blade, his pride replaced by rage. The other men saw this and decided they wanted no part in it, carrying on with their cards and booze as the man placed the knife in MacLeod's chest. No one flinched as the man dragged MacLeod's lifeless body out of the saloon, and no one stopped him as he lugged the corpse down the street to leave him in the MacLeod pig sty.
It was sundown when MacLeod woke. Reality seemed to have changed since he was last alive. The filth he lay in smelt of raw clay, the air feeling thin as he inhaled through his blood-crusted nostrils. Above him, dusk had washed the sky in hues of red and orange, the clouds soaking in the flame as they floated by. There was no pain, no discomfort as he sat himself up. The dagger was still in his chest, rising and falling with every breath. He got up, dusted himself down and walked back to the saloon, leaving boot prints in the trail he had exsanguinated earlier.
The local paper ran a story on what happened next, the headline sounding something like this: "MACLEOD KILLS HIS OWN KILLER - REMAINS AT LARGE". Rumours spread about how a dead man with a knife in his heart walked into the saloon. He had quietly approached Mr. Gordon Black, politely saying 'Sorry sir, I believe this is yours'. Accounts differed on what happened next, but apparently the dead man then pulled out the knife embedded in his chest, and swiftly stabbed it into Mr. Black's windpipe. Mr. Black fell to the floor, choking on his own blood. The man sat at the bar and sipped Mr. Black's whisky. No one dared interrupt the man. He only stood up when Mr. Black stopped gurgling, his crunching footsteps echoing in the silence he left behind.
Centuries had passed since his death. MacLeod wandered the Earth. His body was a tapestry of scars; a timeline of swords, bullets, claws and fire. His hands were coarse from centuries of manual labour, but the same calloused palms had written, played and painted masterpieces. Time was his only constant, it's unrelenting advance lay teasingly out of reach. There was no suggestion he had aged; there were no wrinkles to contour his wispy beard, or creases in the tanned skin above his vacuous eyes. He had ceased to have a name, his identity worn out by his sheer existence.
Five lifetimes of living and yet he couldn't feel more empty of life. The futility of it all was nauseating. Every person he had known had lived only for Time to archive their short stint into the landfill of history, alongside billions of others. The individual was just so irrelevant, so dispensable.
MacLeod’s initial response to this was to reject society and embrace depravity. He killed thousands in the wars he took part in. He never cared what or who he fought for, and quite often switched sides mid battle on account of being bored. He raped, pillaged, sacked and burned all in his path whilst almost always completely inebriated. There were no more boundaries - dying on a daily basis was the only way he could challenge his existence. His primal urges were all that remained to define him.
It was during the Japanese Boshin War that MacLeod abandoned warmongering. It was 1868 and he was fighting for the Imperialists. They were battling to overthrow a government which was increasingly lenient to Western powers. The contradiction in a Caucasian man fighting against his own roots troubled the Imperialists, but they were too terrified of him to do anything about it. He stood tall in battle; his tattered samurai garb was held together with a fraying cord. Tethered to it was a sheathed katana. His technique was flawless, his approach methodical, earning him the title ‘White Blade’. This wasn’t because of his ethnicity; it was said the last thing his opponents would see before death was the white flash of light reflecting off his katana as he unsheathed it.
He was challenged by a young foot soldier who was clearly in his first battle. He held a sword as opposed to the rifles rationed to those with experience. His eyes were alight with terror, his sword oscillating as his hands trembled. MacLeod didn’t hesitate to cut him down; he was just another kill. Nothing matters when you're immortal, so nobody mattered to MacLeod. In the absence of an expiry date his life was one without consequence, or so he thought.
The man didn’t die immediately. Despite his severed carotid, he reached into his shirt and pulled out a grainy daguerreotype. He touched it, his fingers smearing it with blood as his arm dropped with his last breath. MacLeod was curious. He picked up the stained photograph.
It was a family portrait. Standing was the dead man. He was in an oversized western style suit. Sat on a wicker chair to his left was a young woman. His hand was perched on her right shoulder. She was dressed in an elaborate kimono, its silk lazily encased her tiny frame, the flowers decorating it were fuzzy in monochrome. On her lap was a chubby infant in a white frock.
It had been centuries since he was last moved by anything, and this image had shaken him like no war ever had. He was fixated on the woman. Each facet of her face (whether it was her eyes, brow, mouth or cheeks) when taken on its own, was bland. Put together, MacLeod saw a snapshot of pure bliss. She emanated a happiness he had never experienced, and one he secretly craved in all his years. It unleashed a new terror inside of him, one that he felt rippling through his veins.
He had just murdered a husband and father, and with that the very happiness he didn’t know he was seeking. She would be joyous no more and it was his fault. It had now dawned on him- the thousands of deaths he was responsible for had now extended to grieving relatives. They never mattered before, but now meant it all.
MacLeod dropped his katana and slowly walked away. He took every gunshot, stabbing and cut in his stride. Pain never stimulated him... but this time he relished, welcomed and internalised it. He had made up his mind - it was time for change. He would have to resurrect happiness through atonement.
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