Was it ever tae be, this nation we crave?

I ha’e sought kingship o’ this land o’er barely a year, yet still the southern crown is pesterin’ me. Still Edward’s armies taunt and harry my meagre and dispirited brithers.

Can it be that, wh’tever I may try, the spectre o’ the English sword will hang fore’er o’er my head? What w’ld Wallace advise me now, after Methven? What w’ld he say, knowin’ Longshanks had made me an outlaw in mine ain hame. How I wish that brave patriot were here tae counsel my thunderin’ heid.

Yet, here I sit, a’cowerin’ in a cave, wi’ despair and failure my only freends. How can this be? Was a’ o’ this tragedy, and death, worth the price o’ the men slain in my name? How can I look at the wives and the bairns o’ these men, an’ tell them their loss was justified? When I’m hidin’ in a hole in the ground?

What dae you think, beastie?

Sh’d I tuck my tail a’tween my legs, an’ scuttle aff tae the Holy Land? P’rhaps I can regain my lost trust in God by fightin’ a’side the brave knights just now defendin’ Christendom. That w’ld surely be recompense enough for my foolish ambitions and dreams.

And yet… Scotland is my hame. It is my blood. It is my heart; beatin’ furiously in a tumultuous fight tae live free and breathe oor ain air.

Look at ye, beastie. Look at ye. Ye fall again and again and again. Never knowin’ that ye’re beaten. Always clingin’ tae that sliver o’ silk ye call hope. Are ye a fool? Are ye no’ just wastin’ ye’re life on a futile, impossible dream.

Dae ye no’ realise that I c’ld crush ye? Just like that? Wi’ my boot… naw, no’ my boot… my wee finger w’ld dae the job. Yet still ye work away, ye’re industry o’ercomin’ yer frailty. Why can’t I ha’e such resolve? Why can’t I ha’e the heart?

Why can’t I…