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The Bruce raised his sword high, the driving rain battering against the silver blade, washing away the English blood. The dark clouds that had been the menacing back drop to the battle suddenly parted. Glorious sun shone over the tired and battered survivors. This was his moment.
He could think of nothing to say. He pumped his arm, the sword slicing through the sky, shafts of sunlight glinting off the metal. He roared a loud, guttural, animal noise. The brave warriors surrounding him raised their blades to the heavens and joined in the outcry.
Scotland was a nation once more.
Rab walked down Duke Street in the East End of Glasgow. In his pocket he fidgeted with the blade.
The rain bounced off the black pavement, the clouds grey and brooding and unrelenting. Head bowed, chin tensed, he walked on with purpose.
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