Broch Ian Cunningham
Copyright (c) 2002, All writings under this fictitious character to his writer. Web Design by McHugh Graphics

Life, Death, Spectra, Rebirth

He came under a ruse of being the first born son of the Frasiers in order to help the Ferret to see to their destruction. They failed and in the process Broch was killed. Broch had almost escaped if it wasn't for his lusting of women and in this instance, Sarina. Heaven nor Hell opened up for him for his past held good in it too. His judgment held in the balance between the two and so was given a second chance for redemption. If he could manage redeeming himself.

He was destined to go back and help the Frasier family out, being they were the last he had tried to do wrong. No guidelines given, nor any hints on how to achieve this. So  Broch plagued the family by being their personal ghost, especially Danny. Long months followed as he learned how to cope on the Earthbound ethereal plane. Thoughts, will power, were the basic ingredients that once mastered he was even able to manifest.

Redemption was finally achieved when he successfully prevented the deceased Witch Octavia from possessing the child Ellyn. There was a final battle held in the little girl's room with Sarina and Danny witnesses. It was the bracelet of the Frasiers that once more would tip the scales. Both disappeared that night to different destinations and the Frasiers finally to find some peace.

However, Broch found himself not on the road to heaven but once more Earthbound. This time he was projected to Kerry, Eire. Instead of bliss forevermore in a little corner of heaven he would find shocking surprises to gradually unfold with his own heritage and kin, the Cunningham clan.


The room faded from sight as he was once more floating in an endless sea of white mist. White this time instead of gray. He was once again suspended where time held no hold and the impressions of voices were once more imprinted. Broch understood far more this time as he awaited his destiny. He had made good his redemption to have earned a bit of heaven. He would count his blessings with just a little corner of it. He waited. It gradually dawned on him it was odd to be waiting. In an existence that was not bound by time and distance he should not be here in this white mist.

Barely had that thought prevailed when that suction once more had mist the swirl in passing him as one great speeding storm without wind, hail or rain to where he landed on his back flat out. There was no breath to be knocked from him but still held the same effect of time pausing before one regained their bearings. Another moment he was standing, looking out over a valley and a great lake below that ribbon the lands. At first he thought he was back in Heathfield for the scenery was so much the same. He was not. He was in the highlands of Kerry, Eire. Unsure of even where the knowledge came from but some past, long ago memory had him certain of the view.

He had barely time to wonder why he was here when he heard the cry in anguish, a woman's name no less, that brought him around in a mental whirl to see the body of a man being hurled from the cliffs above. What instinct took hold was anyone's guess as the form of an old tree was in his mind's path. With what he had learned and without a second thought, he had it pushed to rip it near from its root-hold to crash across the way preventing the one from falling the hundreds of miles below to his death. Another instant he was there watching the one struggle to regain his breath as he lifted his head. Shock. Broch backed off from the very image of himself of a decade plus four years younger at best.

What he didn't expect were the curses to follow of the tree that miraculously fell to block his descent to the valley below saving a life that wished not to be saved. They abruptly stopped when he realized the man, his mirror image was looking straight at him, seeing. Minutes passed in that stunned realization shared that what was being seen, was there. "Who are you?" Was finally demanded of the one as he disentangled himself from the tree. "Broch Cunningham." Came the honest answer, not that Broch felt it would make a difference for many reasons. Realization dawned the one could hear him too. "That's impossible." Was the reply as the man sat back against the rocks to rub at his head while adding. "I'm Broch Cunningham."

For a moment there Broch wondered if he had not redeemed himself after all and was condemned to some sort of a mental hell of torture where things would make no sense in playing with one's psyche. The man seemed as confused as he was as hunter green eyes held their likeness captive. "If I didn't hurt like hell I would believe I was looking at my dead self." Broch was fading in and out by this time for having manifested for a good length of time. The connection was breaking up before gone. The one resorted to his native tongue of Gaelic, one Broch didn't know but could tell he was still cursing up a storm. If the man was on a death's mission it seemed abandoned as he got up to make his way along the precarious cliff to wind his way back up to the top. Broch followed for a few reasons, the main one being that somehow his appearance here was tied up in his look alike.

Broch hung back watching the whole scene unfold before him as his look-alike approached the clan village. It was a warring clan by destination rather than design. Defensive. Rounded huts were scattered over a few acres of land with more around the largest one of the leader. The Laird. One could tell there were many years of rebuilding as war scars showed not only over the structures but the people themselves. Weapons laid ready propped against the thatch wooden structures from which smoke curled through the openings at the tops. There was a bond between them all and that too showed in the way the younger Broch was greeted. It became obvious he was their Laird.

Dogs and children ran about as women made ready for the evening meals. The men were gathered in smaller groups until the Laird appeared. They converged on him with slaps to the back and words of concern. It would seem he had been gone far longer than he should have been or maybe there was a deeper underlying reason to elicit such a reaction. The Laird greeted them each in turn as if nothing was amiss although he had no kill brought back with him. Broch noted two of the older men were not so easily appeased and watched the younger man like a hawk. If the Laird was aware of such scrutiny he showed no signs in his dealings with them. A few of their warriors had brought back more than enough kill this day and as were their ways food was brought to the Laird's hut first, already cooked for him.

A few of the elders, consultants, gathered with the Laird in his hut to partake of their meal together. Broch hovered off to the side within keeping any awareness of his presence at bay. The younger Laird seemed to have written off his experience as some sort of sign he was not to commit suicide even if that was his earlier intention. Now he sat down with shared meat and mead to talk over the news the runners brought. It was not good news but none seemed surprised. There was a neighboring Dempsy faction that had been at war with the Cunninghams so long none could even remember the starting reason. It was the same clan that had taken the lives of the Laird's family a decade or so ago leaving Broch head even at a young age.


According to their spy, the Dempsy clan once more was making ready to attack. They figured they had about three days before they could mass for the strike. Rumor had it they had finally gained the help of another clan to aid them in this new war to start. It seemed that the Dempsy Laird had finally sacrificed his daughter in marriage to this other, older, clan leader that had coveted her for a number of years. That was part of the bargain, to aid them against the Cunningham clan and wipe them out for good. The news did not forebode well and talk of retreating, running, to the deeper highlands was considered. None of them were cowards although they all knew that this time they would be slaughtered and their name wiped out if they let pride stand in their way.

Grave concern marked the brow of the Laird as the Elders finally made their leave. No decisions were made this night but all angles approached for them to sleep on and decide come the following day. What would be determined would be by vote of all their people which numbered about a hundred and fifty strong. A nation that use to be around five hundred until the wars started. The Dempsy clan was around the same size, why neither had been able to wipe the other out. The addition of another clan to join in this clan dispute would tip the scales in favor of the Dempsies. The Laird knew at this point it was short of a miracle that in his distraught state of mind he had been prevented from taking his life. He was needed, a need that far outweighed his own personal grief that had long ago taken the zest for living from him. 

The Laird turned into his furs to sleep on all that was discussed. About to settled in he ended up bolting right back up as Broch now appeared. Surprise once more registered. "I thought you were a figment of my distraught imagination only there to prevent me from taking the coward's way in some alter ego of mine. What are you doing here?" Demanded with the authority of the Laird the man was. Broch stood, or so appeared, just a few feet from the Cunningham Laird. If anyone had walked in they would see their Leader facing a hazier mirror image of himself. Broch indicated his furs. "Sit and we shall talk. I can help you in this upcoming battle but first we shall share our life stories that will bring to light this situation of you and me. Agreed?" The Laird was at the point willing to listen to anything that might help their plight and so settled to sit on his furs. His reply in the action.

Broch settled into what appeared a seated position near his live image. He studied the man in a new light after having seen this other side. There was courage there, honor and strength, so why he was going to take his life earlier that day remained a mystery. One that Broch hoped would come out in his life story. He felt it was important to find out in things to come but how, he was uncertain. Sounds outside the hut could be heard gradually dissipating as the others found sleep in their own abodes. So Broch let the silence settled in around them before he would start. It was as if the night held its breath, waiting for that right moment that would bring that clarity in knowledge between the two. "I will start." Broch felt that in doing so it would help the other to not hold back.

Broch eyed his counterpart in that ethereal way of his before beginning. "I was baptized Broch Ian. Son of Broch and Elizabeth Cunningham. Ian was after my uncle who was single when my parents and I took the trip to Scotland. There was a storm of a magnitude that sent the ship off course and crashing into cliffs. I may have been the only one to survive the wreckage as I was washed up on Scotland's shores barely alive. I survived by learning the ways of the rift raft there. There was nothing for me to go back to in Ireland, at least nothing I wanted to go back to at the time. I had a chip on my shoulder as big as the cliffs that took that ship." He paused long enough to watch the Laird's expression before continuing.

"I had been considered to be the perfect son, honorable. I threw all away for hating life and mostly death in taking my parents. I became unscrupulous, learning the ways of thieves and liars, anything for a coin that could be taken dishonestly. A man name Ferris took me under his wing, a man well versed in these ways and used me as much as I used him. He had a gripe against the family of Frasier and I helped him out in a scheme to confiscated their wealth but ended up in my ultimate death. By the powers above I was given a second chance to redeem my otherwise condemned soul. I managed that redemption but find myself here, that very instance you were to plunge to your death had I not interceded." Another pause was taken as he let him digest all of his words so far.

"I am not sure why I ended up here but obviously it is wrapped up somehow with you. The very fact your surname is the same hints at that. It is possible I am only here to help you with this battle, to help my own kin for some reason. This may well of been part of my redemption, not just helping the Frasier family to make amends there. So, my advice is not to run from the Dempsy faction but stand and fight. Dig trenches along certain areas they would have to cross that will have spears in them to slay. Make potholes that horses might lose footing in or any on foot to fall with spikes in the ground. Use twine hidden that when tripped will swing up. I have found that animals are sensitive to me and I can spook them towards where the traps would lay even send them into a frenzy to make them uncontrollable. This is what I can offer you to help out. Now, its your turn." He fell silent as all focus turned on his live image.

The Laird listened well, listened intently as it dawned very quickly who exactly his namesake was. His cousin who was presumed dead along with all the others of that ill fated voyage. "My father, Ivar was very fond of you. He told me stories how you were like a son to him. He and his brother were very close. He took your deaths hard. He had taken himself a wife finally and named his firstborn after you and your father. Me. Two more sons and a daughter would be born in that union. Michael, Logan and Laura. They too are now lost for in a battle a number of years ago they were amongst the slaughtered. The Dempsy faction no less. Both sides suffered great loses that day as the field the battle took place on was left red for all the blood spilled." He needed a moment to compose himself as that day became vivid within his mind once more.

"It was chaos as men and women were slaughtered in a way most were in pieces, unrecognizable. When all the fighting was done, those who were left after calling it quits when amongst the carnage to try and find their families. There was no victory that day for either clan. I lost all of mine, at least none showed up and would have. My brothers, my sister. I was able to identify my mother and father, killed together. Besides my family I lost the one woman who was my very breath of life. We were to be married within the month." He took a long pause here struggling to control his emotions that were still so raw after these many years. "I became Laird in my father's stead as is the way of the clans. We fought many more battles between then and now but not of the magnitude of that time nor what is headed our way." He eyed the wavering image of himself thoughtfully.

"The day you showed up, I tried to take my life. Suicide had become too appealing in that distraught state of mind. I had one of those days that my own personal loss became intolerable. I wanted to end the pain but more, I wanted to be with my love, my Maureen. She was a bonnie lass so full of life to have it snuffed out in the way it was. Hair of a fiery red, eyes as blue as the sky above and her laughter would make the nightingale weep in jealously. At least her death had been swift unlike many that littered that battlefield. We buried all of them together that day for they had moved on together into the next life, there in that field. The only thing I live for is my clan. All else has been taken away from me." There was another long pause, so much so one could hear the silence fall around them.

"I will stand and fight and accept your offer to help. It is the least I can do for my clan, for our honor and for kin if such will help you too. This I will do for my father's memory of you and from keeping me from what was not right, a coward's way out in dealing with life. If the Cunningham name should be wiped out this day to come, then so it is destined as the Elders will follow me in my decision even if they disagree. They will think me insane for I will not be able to tell them a ghost of my kin will be helping us. Now it is time for me to sleep as I will need such to face tomorrow even if few hours remain. I will hold you to your promise even if in death it is given." With that he turned into his furs, sleep would elude him as it usually did but he would rest. He found he needed to at least allow his body that even if his mind refused.

Page Two

The photos used are in reference only on how the fictitious character of Broch Cunningham would look. The actor is Gerard Butler. Story is original and all rights copyright to this writer of Broch Cunningham.