Between Gavel and Greatsword: If I Were William Wallace with the Heart of Atticus Finch

Between Gavel and Greatsword: If I Were William Wallace with the Heart of Atticus Finch

If I could step into the soul of any character from literature or film, I would choose to wear the mantle of William Wallace, the fearless Scottish warrior from Braveheart. His cry of “Freedom!” still echoes across hills and hearts, reminding us that some battles are worth more than breath itself. But I would temper his fire with the mind of another hero I revere—Atticus Finch from To Kill a Mockingbird—thus creating a blend of brawn and brain, valour and virtue, heart and head.

William Wallace was not merely a soldier swinging a claymore in the misty glens of Scotland. He was the voice of the voiceless, the banner-bearer of liberty in the face of tyranny. What stirs me most about Wallace is not his battlefield exploits, but the purpose behind them. He was not fighting for personal gain or glory; he was fighting for the right to breathe freely, to live honourably, and to die with dignity. He was not just a man of war, but a man of will.

There’s an idiom that goes, “Fortune favours the brave,” and Wallace lived it to the hilt. But his bravery wasn’t blind. It was born of pain, honed by loss, and fuelled by an unshakeable belief that no man should kneel where he ought to stand.

Yet, if I were to walk in his boots, I would carry also the inner compass of Atticus Finch. Imagine a Wallace who wields not only a sword but also reason; who rides not only into battlefields, but into courtrooms and classrooms; who inspires not only by defying kings but by defending truth with quiet resolve.

Atticus once said, “The one thing that doesn’t abide by majority rule is a person’s conscience.” William Wallace lived by that, even before it was penned. His conscience refused to be shackled, even when his body was. His life teaches us that courage is not merely the absence of fear—it is the audacity to walk into the fire knowing you may never come out, yet go in anyway because the cause is just.

If I were Wallace, I would wear my scars like medals, speak with conviction even when my voice trembles, and dare to defy not out of hatred, but out of hope. I would rally not just clans, but communities—urging them to rise against ignorance, injustice, and indifference.

The sword and the scale need not be enemies. In the silhouette of William Wallace and the shadow of Atticus Finch, I see a version of myself I strive for—one that fights not with fists alone, but with facts and faith; one who doesn’t just lead armies, but awakens minds.

In a world that often demands silence in the face of wrong, to be William Wallace is to roar. And to be Atticus Finch is to reason. If I could be both—a warrior with wisdom, a rebel with a righteous cause—then perhaps I would not just be a character from a film or book.

I would be a story worth telling.