The Highwayman

A.N. ....I don't know...I just don't know...
Call it AU and be done with it.










The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon the cloudy seas
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor
And the highwayman came riding, riding, riding,
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

The sound of hooves on cobbles echoed up from the inn's courtyard. Seated in the saddle was a man in a deep red velvet coat, white lace from the ruffled shirt at his neck. Boots came all the way up to his thigh and he wore a French cocked hat on his head. Removing the black leather glove from his hand, he lifted his fingers to his lips and blew a loud and shrill whistle that bounced off the walls and shuttered doors and windows.

One window high above him opened and there stood the inn-keepers daughter, her big dark eyes looking down at him. Upon seeing her there, the man on horseback grinned and rode beneath her, reaching up as high as he could in order for the fingers to brush. Even standing in the stirrups was not high enough for them to do more than clasp their fingers together.

"He's coming for me tonight," he informed the landlord's daughter. "My darling, I promise I will return to you for the morning."

Her fingers tightened, and she held onto him for dear life. "Please, don't leave me. My father..." She quickly looked over her shoulder as if fearful the man would be there behind her. "Take me with you."

He gave her a weak and sad smile. "I wish I could, my bonny sweetheart, but alas I cannot. If I do not return to you by the sun's yellow gold then I'll come to thee by the moonlight even if Hell bars my way."

"One kiss, my love."

He rose as high as he could but they were still too far apart. She reached up and unfastened her hair, letting it down to him, where he brushed his fingers through the chocolate brown curls before pressing his lips to the soft strands that glistened in the light of the moon that hung high above them.

Letting the scent of her wash over him, the highwayman sat back into his saddle, green eyes still focused on his one true love. "King Aidan will not keep me from being with you," he told her as he pulled on the reins. His horse gave a jolt and a whinny before heading for the exit of the courtyard. From her he rode, heading along the road into the night.

Come morning, her highwayman did not return to her. Instead came the King's guards. They came to the inn and said nothing, only drinking the ale the landlord had to offer. When they took her and tied her to the bed her father did nothing to rescue her. He just looked at her with loathing and hate and left the guard to do as they pleased.

She twisted her hands in the ropes, tugging and pulling until she could feel a trickle down her fingers of blood or sweat; most likely both. She fought the bonds for what felt like hours until she heard it. Ever so faint, but it was there in the night air.

Hoof beats.

She looked around frantically at the men in the room with her. Had they heard too? They were looking out the window; could they see him riding towards the inn? The highwayman came over the brow of the hill and -- THERE! A figure in the moonlight.

Writhing against the ropes, wrists slick she managed to break herself free. Stumbling to her feet, she threw herself to the window, his name formed in her throat ready to yell to him -- to tell him not to come.

But it was not her voice that warned him, but the gunshot of her death. She slumped against the open window, her red blood spilling down the wall where only the night before he had stood, reaching up to her. Hearing the bang, he pulled the reins and turned, riding away without seeing that she no longer stood by the window and that she instead lay upon the sill with no life left within her.

When this new reached him the next day, the man could not stay away. Charging back to the inn with a cry like a madman, he cursed loud to the sky while brandishing his rapier high.

But he never reached the inn to avenge her death as the guards shot him down like a dog on the highway and he lay in his blood on the road in a wine-red velvet coat and lace at his throat.

Still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon, tossed upon the cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding, riding, riding,
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.