Author's Note - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Be it known to all, this is a Highlander/Camelot crossover. With that said...
It has been contemplated by those more knowledgeable than I, that each time we make a choice, a new universe is born. For each action, an infinite number of actions were possible, and each of these different choices will create a new universe. For a single man, a lifetime of choices results in a multitude of possible universes. The single man is Richard Ryan, Immortal, and this is one of the possibilities.
CIRCLES
by Kevin H. Robnett
Part One - Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod
- - - - - Saturday, May 13, 2000 - - - - -
In the city, on a side street named Hudson, stood a building, far enough away from the bustle of people to escape careful scrutiny. Tall and old, it had seen many generations pass by. It had numerous incarnations, some as country home, city apartments, or mercantile store. In truth, though the exterior changed as much as the names on the deed, it remained the same, like its owner. Another generation had arrived, evidenced by the word 'MacLeod's' on the front glass. For the first time in two hundred years, it proudly proclaimed its true self for all to see.
The antique bell pealed through the shop as Richie burst in, wrestling with the key caught in the lock. From outside, the sounds of New York traffic at ten o'clock in the morning followed him into the room. He stopped, surprised at the twentysomething woman leaning over an antique desk. Equally surprised, she turned around with a start, her brown hair threatening to explode from the bun it was currently in. She smiled when she saw the intruder, placing the papers in her hand back on the desk. In three steps Richie had made it to the desk and threw his arms around her, swinging her around in a circle. Their laughter mingled as they kissed each other on the cheek.
"Oh, God, you're finally back" Richie exclaimed, finally setting her back on the floor. "You don't know how hard it is to run the place without you. Where's Connor?"
"Well. I finally learn where I stand around here, Richard Ryan," she mockingly protested, poking him in the chest with her finger. Looking disgusted, she resumed her paper shuffling. "He got held up in Amsterdam. Now hold on..." she said, holding up her hand to forestall Richie's forthcoming questions. "He swore on his grave he would be here for your graduation tonight if he had to get off the plane and push."
Richie gazed at Angela, an old friend he had known since childhood. "You know where you stand with me, Angie. You're first in my heart. If I could only get David out of the way..."
"Leave my husband out of this!" she exclaimed, hitting him with the stack of papers in her hand. "Besides, you had your chance."
Shrugging innocently, Richie added, "Can I help it if Duncan practically gagged me through the 'if any man here...' part? What do you want, effort?"
"Yes. Speaking of which, make an effort to read these and sign them," she said, handing a set of papers to him. "I've got to run. I just stopped by on the way from the airport to drop these off. David and the kids are waiting at home, and we have to get ready for tonight. Oh, by the way.... Congratulations. It's good someone from the old neighborhood got an education."
Again they embraced, this time for longer, ending with another kiss. As Angie ran out the door, purse flying, Richie added, "You only have a year left for your degree, honey!" and then the bang of the door ended the conversation. Grabbing a pen from the desk, he moseyed through the display cases and mounted photographs to a high backed chair in a secluded corner. Settling in, with one leg over the arm as usual, he started reading. He was deep into the 'parties of the second part' when the bell rang, signaling a customer.
"Damn!" he quietly exclaimed, cursing himself for not locking the door. He was sure the sign was on 'Closed'. {Duncan and Amanda aren't due for another hour or so. It's not an Immortal, so it must be a customer. Just be nice and get rid of them.} He cleared the last display case and started his speech. "I'm terribly sorry, but we're not..."
Standing in the doorway was a silver haired man, cane in hand. A man Richie had sworn would never willingly darken the doorstep again. "Dawson..." Richie stopped dead in his tracks. "I never thought you'd come."
The bearded man, looking much older than the last time they had met, shrugged. "I almost didn't. But your prospectus looked very intriguing. And Jeremiah always said your ideas were too good to pass up." Dawson let the door shut, once more ringing the antique bell...
{ { { { { Saturday, October 31, 1998 { { { { {
...as the young man entered. Gregor greeted him from the desk as Richie and Jeremiah continued their soft conversation across the room. Richie glanced from the nearsighted archeologist to the newcomer. The moment he saw the kid, alarm bells went off. He unobtrusively moved Jeremiah to the side of the shop, and prepared for the worst. By the time he got close, the youth had pulled a gun on Gregor and was shaking it threateningly. A glance between the two Immortals confirmed the plan, Gregor would take out the punk while Richie protected their guest. As Gregor grabbed for the gun, Richie turned and pushed the dark haired mortal, forcibly moving Jeremiah toward the back. Jerry's face froze in shock as the sound of gun fire came from the desk. Everything slowed to a crawl as Richie turned to look, and saw Gregor going down, clutching his stomach. The youth swung the gun and pointed at Richie, who tried to keep Jeremiah behind him. The punk took aim, and at that moment, Richie was swung around, Jerry moving to the front. As the sharp report of the gun going off echoed in the room, Jerry whispered, "I promised him I'd..." And then Jerry's lanky body was slammed into Richie, knocking both of them to the floor. They lay like that forever, as the sound of a siren came closer, Richie watching the life drain from his friend's sharply featured face. The blood felt sticky as it poured over his body on its journey to the floor, his ears pounding with the sound of the sirens...
} } } } } Saturday, May 13, 2000 } } } } }
...as they passed outside. {Someone's killing someone else again. Welcome to New York!} "Have you made any plans about staying somewhere tonight?" Richie asked, noticing the two bags outside on the sidewalk.
"No," Dawson replied, glancing around the room. "I didn't even make plane reservations. I just got up and came."
"From the west coast? What time did you leave?" Richie asked in a concerned voice, as he hopped off the outside step to the walk, grabbing both bags and returning inside, carefully locking the door this time.
"One, this morning. I couldn't sleep. I've been thinking since I got your invitation. You can count me in," Dawson stated, grabbing one of the bags from Richie's hand. Richie motioned across the room to the old elevator in the side wall.
"What about your involvement with the Watchers? I think this would break several of their rules," Richie asked as he pushed aside the elevator gate. After he punched the top of the two buttons, the lift grudgingly rose.
"It's pretty much withering away." At Richie's look of surprise, he hastily explained. "With no more Immortals being born that we can tell, and the ones left killing each other faster than you can say 'decapitation', most of the organization has either been retired or shuffled around."
"Like Travis." Richie pointed out, mentioning the Watcher assigned to him after Jeremiah's death. "Not a very sociable chap, but he seems to keep up."
"He comes from the school of 'no involvement'. Anyway, with the Gathering in full swing, it seems our group has outlived its purpose. And I really have nothing else to do." The lift stopped, and Richie open the gate, revealing the multi-storied apartment. Dawson gazed around, mentally comparing it to when Jeremiah had lived here. Connor's old bedroom was still split into upper and lower floors for Richie and Gregor. And there was the little guest room that was added over the dinning area. Not quite the open loft Connor had made, but still very unique.
"Why don't you stay in my room?" Richie asked, heading for the stairs leading down from the upper level walkway.
"I really don't want to put you out. I can sleep on one of the couches." Dawson humbly replied, carefully following Richie down the stairs.
"Nonsense. I'll stay with Greg and Connor can have the couch. Punishment for not being here on time." Richie entered his bedroom, placing the bag on the dresser. "You know pretty much where everything is." Watching as the elder gentleman stifled a yawn, he added. "Go ahead and take a nap. You still have several hours before we need to leave for the campus. I'll make sure someone wakes you up."
Dawson eyed the king-sized bed longingly. "If you insist..."
"I do," Richie turned to leave, but stopped just outside the bedroom door. "Joe... Thank you. I'm really glad you came. We need you."
"He would have wanted me to," was all Dawson said in reply. He had picked a picture from the nightstand, one with Richie, Gregor, and Jeremiah, people he knew only too well. He stared at the twentyish mortal in the photo, as tall as Richie and as dark haired as Gregor. Jeremiah's glasses were also on Richie's nightstand, and Dawson gently picked them up as he sat on the bed and softly cried. Richie silently closed the door, leaving the Watcher to mourn and hopefully rest.
Richie moved across to the sunken area and plopped down on a couch. {Oh God, what a mess he has to muddle through. At least he came. And tonight, I can offer him something for Jeremiah.} He was excited at his unexpected guest, and could hardly wait until tonight. {First graduation, then the important stuff. It's all finally working out. Gwen would have been pleased.}
[As are we all,] answered a voice in his head, still possessing the remains of a French accent.
{What? Did you draw duty tonight, Phillipe? Who did you lose to?} Richie silently answered, throwing his legs on the coffee table.
[Monsieur, since your directive that only one of us should communicate with you at a time, I have allowed myself the privilege of standing the watch on the important occasions. Seeing as I am one of the oldest in this relationship.]
{Yes, you are. And one of my dearest friends. Still no word on Mako?}
[Not in five years. We do not know if he is even here. I am sorry.]
{It's my fault, not yours. The incident with Kiem Sun was the last straw. I proved what an unsalvageable animal I was. I miss him, though. It would have been nice to have him here.}
The internal conversation was interrupted by a soft buzz, the signal that someone had pressed the outside bell. Richie got up and excitedly flew up the stairs, descended on the slow elevator, and burst into the showroom as a female figure opened the recently locked door. Twin tinglings in the base of his skull identified her and the man outside as Immortals, and the lovely visage smiling at him belonged only to Amanda. {Couldn't she just once wait for me to get here before breaking in?} He arrived at the door as Duncan finished arrangements with the cab driver, and away the taxi sped, leaving his friend on the sidewalk surrounded by a mountain of suitcases.
"Hello, Richard," the dark haired woman intoned, holding her hand out. Richie dutifully kissed it, a custom long out of date before he was born. After the token of affection, she waved the hand in the Highlander's direction. "I think Duncan might need a little help with my bags. I really didn't know what to expect, so I packed for anything."
[You mean you packed everything, madam!]
{Phillipe! House rules. Or I may start laughing in her face, and Duncan would never forgive me.}
[Pardon', sir. I will remain silent.]
Duncan MacLeod gave his former student a grateful smile as they gathered the seven bags between them. They barely managed to make it to the elevator without damaging any of the merchandise on display. Out of breath, they dumped the bags in the lift as Amanda pressed the button.
"When did you start displaying Greg's work?" Duncan inquired as they rose.
"Uh, about two years ago. They do very well, and draw the younger crowd. We hold poetry readings every month, and business is booming. Both antiques and other stuff. 'MacLeod's' is becoming very popular," Richie replied. The elevator creakingly carried all the weight to the top floor, where the group moved along the walkway to the small guest room. On seeing the tiny accommodations, Amanda trapped Richie against the wall, playing with his shirt.
"Don't you think we might could have, say, your room? I don't know if there is enough space for all my clothes..." she begged, wetting her lips for maximum effect.
Richie looked pleadingly at Duncan, who was testing the bounce on the bed. Duncan looked back, eyes sparkling in amusement, and only replied, "You slept with her first, metaphysically speaking."
Giving his former mentor his most dirty look, Richie once more faced Amanda, as she breathed huskily in his face. He sheepishly answered, "I would, but... Joe Dawson's already in it, taking a nap. I'll be staying with Greg, and that leaves this room and the couches. If you'd rather..."
That bombshell got Duncan off the bed quickly. "You invited Dawson? Here? And he came?" Duncan asked as he came up behind Amanda.
Extricating himself from Amanda's clutches, Richie moved to the door. "Under the circumstances, he has every right to be here. As much as you. And yes, he accepted. I'm surprised he didn't tell you."
"I haven't talked to Dawson for a week. We left a few days early and flew to Montreal to visit Fitz." Duncan replied, again sitting on the bed, this time in shock.
"Well, he's here. Just be careful. This isn't very easy for him," Richie warned. {Or any of us.} "I'll leave you to unpack. If you're hungry, I've got sandwich stuff in the kitchen." Richie had turned to leave when Duncan called after him.
"Feel like a spar? I hear you've cleared the second floor," Duncan asked, all innocent looking.
Richie turned back. "I don't want to through another one with you again. Ever." The disgust was still very evident in his voice, as was the look he gave Duncan.
In softer tones, Duncan continued. "If we don't, the memory will haunt you forever. Trust me. You used to."
"Fine. I'm through arguing with you," was all Richie said, stopping on his way to the emergency stairs for his katana. Duncan followed until they had descended to the second floor, a big empty room filled only with support pillars. Richie stripped off his shirt, throwing it by the stairway door. At Duncan's questioning glance, he explained. "You wouldn't believe how fast I go through shirts."
"Do you always play this rough?" Duncan asked, concern creeping into his voice.
"I play to win," Richie replied moving through a quick stretching exercise. Each took a few moments to prepare, until they felt ready to begin. Face to face they stood, for the first time in five years. They stared at one another, then...
{ { { { { Tuesday, April 25, 1995 { { { { {
...moved to opening stances, each preparing their strategy. Richie was momentarily sidetracked by his doubts of beating a person four hundred years old. {Especially when he taught me a lot of what I know.} A glance at MacLeod's stern face confirmed his suspicion that the Highlander would pull no stops this time. {Well, I asked for it.} Calling forth youthful exuberance, Richie began attacking aggressively, the loud clang of metal and bright flash of sparks signaling the beginning of the fight.
The late afternoon sun shone into the abandoned warehouse, lighting the two combatants. As Richie expected, everything he threw at Duncan was easily countered. He started using variations, unplanned and unthought, but these also gave Duncan no challenge. Still the teacher bade his time, letting Richie exhaust himself.
As they continued, Richie let more and more of the anger build up inside him, letting the emotion wash over him until the sight of his mentor, calm and collected, shattered it for him. Richie stopped, letting his rapier hang at his side, gulping oxygen. Duncan stopped also. It could have ended there, had Duncan kept quiet. "Well. Looks like your stamina has improved. I didn't think you'd last even this long."
The camel broke.
{Damn him! PHILLIPE!}
[Yes?]
{Tell everyone battle stations. I'm gonna wipe the floor with that bastard!}
[Yes!]
Richie calmly switched his sword to his left hand, and once again settled into an opening stance. He waited as questions crept along Duncan's face before again attacking. This time Duncan stood no chance against the combined skill of three of the world's best sword fighters. In two minutes flat, he had been reduced to disarmed mincemeat, standing with his back against a support column, Richie's rapier at his throat.
A strange look was in Duncan's eyes as he conceded. "Finish it!" he urged. At Richie's uncomprehending look, he added, "Take my head!"
"What?" was all Richie could say, standing there in shock.
"I hold a Quickening in trust for you. It is time to claim it. Take it, and let me rest in peace!" Duncan said through clenched teeth.
"Tell me."
"Take it, and all your questions will be answered," Duncan countered.
"TELL ME!" Richie ordered, twisting the blade.
And Duncan told his story. Told of his first challenge, a redheaded man, sure and powerful. Told how he lost, and instead of losing his head, was offered another challenge.
(Find me before a year's time, and we will fight again. If you have any honor!)
He spoke of leaving Connor, and traveling, and searching. Spoke of finding the mysterious warrior, and another fight, this as disastrous as the first. He again had felt metal on his unprotected neck.
(You have potential, and honor. I will spare your head if you will pledge to complete a task.)
He voiced his agreement, his pledge to train another that would come in the future, a future king. He spoke of holding the warrior's Quickening, to complete the king's training. He told of knowing his duty the minute he laid eyes on a young thief in his store. The thief had matured, the Quickening was at hand, and the future awaited.
(I am Arthur Pendragon, King of Britain, now known as Richard the Lionheart. I charge you to fulfill this oath when I am reborn again. Swear it!)
"Do it!" Duncan pleaded, wanting this moment to end. Forever.
"I'm who?" Richie asked, still not comprehending.
"You will know when you take my head." Duncan was shaking now.
"You think I would kill someone just forf a lousy Quickening?" was all Richie could say.
"You must!"
Richie dropped the sword to his side, wondering how they had ended up here. "I don't have to do anything, Duncan. You showed me that." And finishing that pronouncement, he held the rapier before him, hands on hilt and blade, and brought it down over his knee, shattering it, and with it any connections with Duncan MacLeod. The pieces fell to the floor at Duncan's feet, landing with a thud...
} } } } } Saturday, May 13, 2000 } } } } }
...of Tupperware on wood. "Damn, this hurts," came Richie's muffled voice from deep inside the refrigerator. "I had forgotten how destructive we could be." He picked it up and tossed it to Duncan, who put it on the island counter in the middle of the kitchen area.
"You could have warned me. That was Amanda's favorite shirt," replied the shirtless Highlander as he opened the bread wrapper. He started juggling the bread slices over the counter, finally get five in the air at once, winking as Richie moved to the sink.
"I thought I did, you liar," countered the equally shirtless redhead, trying to wash the dried blood off the quickly healing wounds on his upper body.
"Well, well..." broke in a sultry voice from the stairs, "what a delectable feast." Amanda crossed to the island counter, and pulled a slice from Duncan's pattern. "And food, too. What will liberated men think of next?" She quickly rolled it up, and stuffed it into Duncan's mouth before he could add a word. She quickly turned around to the sink, and eyed her current prey. "And do you need any help, little boy?" she teased, as she slithered across the floor.
In his best John Wayne impression, Richie warned her, "Ya better wait a minute, little lady", as he grabbed the water sprayer and pointed it at her. "I don't want to use this thing, but you're forcing me into an awkward position."
Amanda put on her most innocent expression and raised both her hands. "You _know_ I never have to force _anyone_ into any kind of position, even the awkward ones, you stallion, you." Onward she approached, unconcerned with the threat. "Do I, honey buns?" she asked over her shoulder.
All Duncan did was mumble a "Hmmm hm hhhmmm!" through the sandwich in his mouth. He finally stopped juggling and began throwing sandwiches together, deliberately ignoring the by-play. He looked up as Richie started hosing down Amanda, who issued a screech that had dogs barking a mile away. Around the counter she ran, until she could use Duncan as a shield. Richie stopped for a moment, sighing in mock resignation, and once more shot water with a passion, this time straight at the Highlander, soaking him too. The couple quickly abandoned the island and split up, each approaching Richie from a different direction. Switching from one to the other, Richie tried to keep them at bay, until Duncan grabbed him from behind and Amanda claimed the water sprayer. Smiling wickedly, she hosed down the graduate, struggling in Duncan's grasp. Ever so carefully, she managed to include Duncan in the spray, until both men dived for cover. A noise from the stair area spun her around, water still spraying madly.
With saintly patience, Joe Dawson stood in the water shower until Amanda remembered to stop squeezing. He calmly viewed the room and combatants as water dripped from his soggy hair to the wood floor. From the floor, buried under Duncan came a male voice. "Joe... You're up. That's good. Look who's here."
As the two men picked themselves off the floor, Dawson turned to Amanda, who just smiled and smugly held the sprayer at ready in the air, like a pistol expert with a derringer, daring the Watcher to comment. He instead shook his head, the perfect picture of a disappointed father catching his children doing something they shouldn't. He slowly turned back to the stairs, ambling to Richie's room, chuckling softly. Amanda looked miffed and gave a huff before releasing the sprayer. As she stormed out of the kitchen, the hose slowly undulated back to the sink.
Richie picked himself up and took one look at the floor, moaning about the mess as he left the kitchen, heading for his commandeered room. Behind him, Duncan tried softly to call him back, not to lose the moment, but Richie either didn't hear or ignored it. "After last time, who could blame you?" Duncan muttered under his breath. Once again he was left standing, alone, as his friend walked away...
{ { { { { Tuesday, April 25, 1995 { { { { {
...from the kitchen counter in Duncan's apartment. Richie reached the black chair and whirled around again, facing the Highlander at the sink.
"So was everything a lie, Mac? Were you just waiting for the day I got good enough to take your head?" Richie asked the man he thought he knew. "Or maybe you were trying to save me from becoming an Immortal so you wouldn't have to keep your promise. Was that where all the concern came from?"
"In the beginning, yes..." began Duncan, washing the vegetables, still not able to look up.
"Damn you!" Richie exclaimed, folding his arms and again pacing the room. Outside, night had finally fallen, leaving the windows dark and boding. The only light was in the kitchen, cold and harsh, giving no warmth, like the men it lit.
"Let me finish," Duncan almost yelled. "I was trying to protect you. I was trying to protect my life. I didn't want to hand my head to a sorry pain in the ass like you. And then Tessa was killed, you became Immortal, everything fell apart, and the only thing I had left to keep me going was my duty to you. It did. And today, you were to take my head, and end this farce I'm living."
"Farce? The farce was all of you thinking I would want to go through with this. Kill my best friend for a lousy Quickening? Did you think I would do that?" Richie angrily stormed to the kitchen counter, standing to face Duncan. "You taught me better than that."
"I also taught you to honor your word when you gave it. What kind of role model would I have been if I didn't follow my own rules?" Duncan angrily spat, throwing the zucchini in the sink of running water.
"And you've never broken your word, Duncan? Not in four hundred years?"
That stopped Duncan cold. In a very low, threatening voice, he answered. "Not when I had any another choice."
Richie resumed pacing, trying desperately to understand what was going on. A stray thought hit him. "Did you think I'd want to rule the world? Is that it?"
Duncan silently stared, glaring as if his word was the only thing stopping him from gutting and beheading Richie. "If I thought that, we wouldn't be standing here having this conversation."
Richie froze, not believing Duncan could be so callous. All the paths he saw led to one place. All the voices in his head counseled one action. It was the only choice he had. "I don't think we should be having it anyway. I'm leaving," he said suddenly. "For good. I don't want what you're pushing, and I don't want to be around while you sort out your life. Goodbye, Duncan." He turned and walked to the elevator, stopping to get his jacket. Nothing else was his. He never looked back, never saw Duncan at the sink, water still running. Looking so alone. Standing there while the noise of the elevator permeated the room. Standing there as the sound died, and the faint steps below died, and the outside door slammed shut.
Epilogue One - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
A circle of light shines on the ground, surrounded by dark blackness. Into the light steps a young man, his head crowned in fire and gold, carrying the most beautiful sword ever seen. Calmly he stands, hands grasping the hilt, blade pointed at the earth. There he waits, as he has waited before, in many times, places and bodies. Waits for those he will call. {This is the last time,} he thinks, standing patiently. "I am Richard Ryan. Come to me, my friends. Our work is beginning one last time."
Into the light, at Richie's right, steps a proud man, full of strength and power. The muscled body moves gracefully, the dance of an accomplished warrior. His long, dark hair flows in rivers down his back, his eyes aflame with his duty. "I am Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod, chosen by Arthur Pendragon, called Richard the Lionhearted. I am mentor and advisor, teacher and master. I am strength."
Part Two - Gregor Pavalovich, Russian peasant
- - - - - Saturday, May 13, 2000 - - - - -
"So, anyway, I'm standing in the spare bedroom, praying nobody decides to bring in a coat, when Tessa starts setting huge platters of food around," Dawson continued to his hysterical audience, Richie and Amanda. "Then people start showing up, they're hanging banners and balloons, and I realize I'm trapped at a surprise birthday party for Duncan."
Richie and Amanda could barely contain their laughter at the mental picture of the Watcher hiding in a bedroom. "How did you ever get out of there?" Amanda asked between gulps of breath.
"When Tessa lit the hundreds of candles on the cake, the smoke alarms went off," Dawson told the laughing duo, "and apparently someone called the fire department. In the confusion, I slipped out with the guests." Again gales of laughter rung in the air.
By the time they had calmed down, and munched on several sandwiches, Duncan arrived, setting off another round of snickering. Hair still dripping water, he eyed the group, then unceremoniously started shaking his head, sending water flying. "I hope you saved some for me," he said, eying the shrinking pile of food. Just then, the elevator gave a decrepit wheeze and started down.
As it started up, the three Immortals exchanged glances. "Either Connor or Greg." Richie stated. Soon, the elevator ground to a stop. "Halt, and be recognized," he yelled up to the landing.
"Recognize this, bud. If you want food, you better come up here and give me a hand," Gregor yelled down. In seconds Richie had raced up the stairs and rushed to open the metal gate, taking one of the bags from the overloaded Gregor. "Let me guess," he said privately to Richie, "Duncan and Amanda?"
"And Dawson," Richie quietly added, grabbing another bag as Gregor dropped it. "Which means you have a roommate tonight. Me."
"No thanks. You snore too much, pal. I'll sleep with the voyeur," Gregor said as they climbed down the stairs. "Why's he here, anyway?"
Richie turned to the kitchen area, freshly mopped but still a little damp. "I invited him, dolt."
"I know that," Gregor snorted, setting his bags on the counter. "Why did he accept? After Jeremiah, I thought he'd stay far away."
"He knows a good deal when he sees one," Richie said, grabbing the food items as Gregor tossed them to him. One by one he placed them in the cabinets. "I guess you need to call Antonio's and add one to our party tonight." He stopped as he saw Gregor's worried look. "What?"
"You don't think he blames us, do you? For Jeremiah's death?" Gregor asked, playing with the loaf of bread still on the counter. Concern twisted his usually sarcastic visage.
Richie sighed and leaned in the counter corner. "I think he blames himself for not telling Jerry the truth about us. Jerry wouldn't have sacrificed himself for people who couldn't die."
"We should have told him ourselves," Gregor countered.
"And how many mortals have you told in the last thousand years? One? Maybe two? Besides, he'd stopped watching us years ago." Richie looked around the counter and grabbed a plastic wrapped Twinkie, tossing it to Gregor. "Here, bite this. That's what Jerry would say." In a single motion, Gregor had unwrapped the yellow cake and stuffed...
{ { { { { Saturday, March 22, 1997 { { { { {
...the whole thing in Gregor's mouth. Laying on the main level, head hanging over the sunken sofa, the photographer was in no position to stop him. "Now that the peanut gallery is silenced, I'll try to finish," Jeremiah said, sitting next to the upside down head. "So Dr. Mauler requested me, the Royal Museum forked over the dough, and I agreed to go to Greece."
Richie, on the other sofa, just stared at his hands. Gregor made muffled noises around the Twinkie in his mouth. "Yes, dolt," Jeremiah said, tousling Gregor's black hair, "you can have my room while I'm away. Someone needs to keep an eye on Sir Galahad over there." Gregor's eyes grew wide and he tried hard not to choke on the pastry in his mouth. He was laughing so hard, tears were running up his face. "Oh, bite it and shut up!" Jeremiah ordered.
Richie got up and walked to the panoramic windows looking over New York. Hands in his pockets, he contemplated what he wanted to say. Jeremiah walked up behind him and rested his chin on Richie's shoulder. They watched the sun set in silence, until Jeremiah spoke. "Say something, my friend. You're usually not this quiet."
"If I yelled, would you stay?" Richie asked. Nothing. "Didn't think so. I understand, I really do. You're an archeologist, and you definitely belong in the field. Besides, I'm not old enough to be interesting to you yet."
/Some of us are./
[Oui!]
{Shut up, guys! This isn't funny.}
*But it ain't the end of the world, honey*
"Hey, Red. It's only for two years. And it's not like I'm miles from civilization. You have a computer, I have a laptop. I'm a keystroke away." Jeremiah said, trying to find words to console his friend. "Say, try and weasel a trip to Greece out of Connor. He doesn't have to be the only one spanning the globe. And I'll always be back in the States now and then."
"GROUP HUG" Gregor yelled as he tackled them, wrapping his arms around the other two, squeezing with all his might. Jeremiah laughed, and Richie had a grin on his face as they all tumbled to the floor...
} } } } } Saturday, May 13, 2000 } } } } }
...next to his dress shoes. Richie bent down to pick up his stubborn tie as Gregor yelled from the bathroom. "Which of this junk are you gonna need? I haven't seen such a collection of grooming items since Cleopatra gave up the ghost."
"Throw it in a bag. Hey, you weren't old enough to know her, Augie." Richie yelled back as he removed his suit from the wardrobe. "Besides, she would have beheaded you because of your ugly mug."
"Look, young one, didn't Duncan teach you to respect your elders? Or was that something else you conveniently ignored?" Gregor retaliated, flinging the little bag of toiletries onto the ever growing pile on the bed. "Hey, Joe," he called to Dawson, entering the room, "You know another Immortal that Richie here could study under? Duncan didn't do a very good job."
Joe ambled up to Richie and gave him a quick once over. "There aren't that many good ones left. I say throw him back in the pond."
"Richie was telling me about the Watchers getting smaller," Gregor said from the bathroom as he put out fresh towels for the guest. "Are we getting that close to the Prize?"
Joe moved to the only chair in the room and settled in it before explaining. "I'd give it fifteen years. Since 1985, the Immortal population is about half what it has been for centuries. Even doubling up on the very active ones, that's a lot of Watchers we no longer need. We've retired the older ones and stopped recruiting any new ones."
"Eradicating the Hunters should have helped," Richie spat, not caring about the memories bringing up Joe's brother-in-law caused. During the pause, Duncan walked in, chip bag in hand. In the silence he looked at each person.
"I hope it wasn't something I did," he said, breaking the silence. "Chip, anyone?" he asked, waving the bag around.
"We were talking about our beloved fan club and personal pruning service." Gregor informed him, plopping down on the large bed. "They're finally putting the old ones out to pasture."
"You know, letting them have a real life," Dawson added from his seat.
"So when do you get to rest, old friend," Duncan asked Dawson around a mouthful of chips.
"When you finally take the Prize, older friend," Dawson answered. He calmly watched Duncan turn red, choking on the mouthful of chips. He looked at the other two startled stares and finished his bombshell. "If Richie doesn't get Arthur's Quickening," nodding toward the redhead, "Duncan leads the pack at thirty one percent. Richie and Connor are next at around fifteen percent. Greg, sorry, you're around five, and Amanda..."
"Yes?" she asked breezing into the bedroom and settling on the bed next to Gregor.
"Augie, get Duncan a glass of water before he dies on us," Richie asked, trying to switch the subject. Gregor got up and went into the bathroom.
"Augie? I've heard that name before. Richard use to call somebody that. Rebecca did too... It was some guy she slept with before I met her." Amanda looked perplexed as she fit the many pieces together. "You're Augie?" she asked Gregor. When he finally nodded, she exclaimed "You're older than I am!"
"That's impossible." Dawson said, leaning forward in his chair. "Gregor Pavalovich was born in 1287 in Siberia, long after you were born in England, my dear."
Duncan leaned against the wall, questions overflowing his head, not reaching for the glass Gregor offered, just staring at him. Gregor looked pleadingly at Richie to stop the questions. Richie just shrugged his shoulders. Finding no help, the photographer spoke. "Pavalovich was an imbecile who lost his head in his first fight. I needed a new identity, and so I took his," he flatly stated, looking at the floor so he wouldn't see their faces.
"Then who are you?" Amanda asked.
"If Richard the Lionhearted was Arthur Pendragon, and Rebecca was Guinevere..." Dawson started, the wheels spinning in his mind.
Amanda turned and faced Dawson, "Rebecca was who?"
"...then the betrayer was..." Dawson continued.
"...Lancelot." Richie finished, staring out the bedroom door at the sunken den...
{ { { { { Sunday, December 24, 1995 { { { { {
...as the two men, stripped to the waist, fought by, the clash of steel echoing in the spacious apartment. Richie was on the defensive as Gregor viciously attacked. The rain outside beat on the windows, sounding as an army of tiny feet. With a grunt, Richie executed a backflip over the couches to avoid a crippling sweep by Gregor, barely missing the coffee table when he landed.
Gregor merely jumped. "Showoff!" he shouted above the sound of thunder. The flash of light, whiting out his face, turned the whole fight surreal.
"If you've got it, flaunt it!" Richie replied, his lax attention while he talked leaving his off side completely defenseless, as usual. Gregor saw his opening and took it.
"Stick it out, and I'll cut it off," he said, slicing into Richie's side with all his might. This wasn't the first time their sparring had gone a little bit farther then they planned. Blood gushed as Richie climbed the few steps, trying to keep the bronze statue between himself and Gregor. After a few seconds rest, his foot shot out, knocking Gregor off balance toward the stairs.
Using all the adrenaline he could muster, Richie began a ferocious two handed attack, driving Gregor up the stairs. On the narrow steps, powerful swings were useless, and sparks erupted each time the metal bannister was cut into. Gregor saw something ignite in Richie's eyes, giving extra energy to match him, even with the injury.
One of Phillipe's tricks pinned Gregor's sword momentarily to the floor, giving Richie an opening for a left hook, knocking him toward the elevator. Two more kicks disarmed him, and drove the photographer to his knees. Lighting flashed furiously outside as Richie drove his katana point first through Gregor's chest, impaling him. A burst of white, followed quickly by a crash of thunder and...
...Arthur stood standing, looking at Excaliber plunged completely into Lancelot's chest, only the hilt showing, the blade propping him up from the ground. He was on his knees, blood flowing in rivers down his shirt, mixing with the rain pouring from the sky. In each burst of lightning, he saw the bastard's eyes, watched their life slowly fade, wanting to pull out Excaliber and finish him off. Behead him for laying with Gwen. For betraying their friendship. He had trusted this knight, the faith dying as Lancelot did. He turned and walked back to his horse, riding for Camelot, not seeing the last gasp of breath from the dying knight, nor the look of shame. And then the eyes saw no more...
...as Gregor fell on his side, dead. In shock, Richie gently pulled out his sword, mindlessly cleaning it on his pants as he stumbled away, not wanting to see the results of what he had done. He stood at the railing, fighting the nausea, finally feeling the pain from the side wound. Within minutes, an eternity, Gregor gasped. Richie tried to walk over to him, but feet failing, he fell to the floor, katana clattering away. Crawling to his friend, he gently cradled Gregor's head as the chest wound stopped bleeding, healing itself.
"Oh, Augie," he quietly whispered, stroking the black hair he remembered. The hair of his friend. The hair of Arthur's friend, lost these many years.
"Yes... my lord," was all Gregor said before he fainted, the lighting and thunder and rain pounding on the windows, like the pounding in Richie's soul. {I won't let you go this time. I can't lose you. Never again. Hush little baby...} Richie slowly rocked, rocking his friend to sleep, humming a wordless tune until Jeremiah returned home, the elevator creaking...
} } } } } Saturday, May 13, 2000 } } } } }
...as Dawson leaned back in his chair. "The knight errant. Oh course, how could we have been so stupid."
Duncan finally took the glass of water from Gregor's hand and sat beside Amanda on the bed. "God, I wish this were stronger," he said, gulping it all down before falling back prone.
"Well, don't just stand there. Tell us all about Camelot!" Amanda urged, excitement making her bounce on the bed. Duncan just tossed and groaned.
Dawson was furiously thinking and muttering, "Where's my damn tape recorder. I never can find it when I need it." Richie just stood and watched, leaning against the window.
"What do you want to know?" Gregor finally asked Amanda.
"How did you meet Richard...ah, Arthur?" she replied, using her prone lover as a back rest. Duncan groaned louder and rearranged himself into a more comfortable position. Dawson just relaxed, ready to enjoy the story. Richie never moved.
"Let's see," Gregor began, "I was twenty-two, just knighted. I was searching for someone to defeat me."
"Sounds dumb," Amanda injected. Duncan covered her mouth with his hand and pulled her down next to him.
"Thanks. Seriously, no one could best me. So I traveled the countryside, fighting anyone who would lift a sword against me. I died several times, but kept coming back to life. Rather quickly. I never guessed what I was. I traveled and fought, until one day..."
{ { { { { Spring, 747 A.D. { { { { {
...the knight came to a stream, fast moving and clear. Over the tumult was an aged log, almost wide enough for his horse. From the forest surrounding him came the sounds of birds and the wind. As he dismounted, and prepared to cross, he saw the other knight approaching from across the bridge. "Another challanger. I pray this will be the one," was all the searcher spoke.
Lancelot was surprised when the other knight dismounted, almost as if he expected the challenge. The stranger removed his helm, reveling a shock of fiery red hair. "I am Arthur. Shall we get on with it?" he announced, tossing the helm into the grass. Lancelot quickly crossed the log, keenly aware that the ache in his skull increased. The stranger waited, removing more of his armor.
"My name is Lancelot. Why, pray tell, are thou removing thy armor?" the youth asked, drawing his broadsword. He circled the madman, who finally finished disrobing. Arthur stood before Lancelot in tunic and tights, drawing a much smaller sword from a sheath on the horse. Lancelot was taken aback by the grace and speed the man possessed, once he doffed the heavy metal.
"Come, my good man, is it not better to fight without such hassles?" the redhead prodded, waving his sword at Lancelot's shining armor. "We would just stand there and bash each other until one of us tired. Steel to skin much more civilized. And challenging." Lancelot could only agree, taking his time removing his own protection. He covertly stole glances, sizing up his opponent. Arthur's finely muscled form was evident through the clothing. The practice slices were fast and accurate, artfully managed.
(If this man is not the one, there can be no other. I will lose today, or not at all.)
Lancelot stood before the challenger, his muscled form stretching in its new freedom. Rarely had the youth fought unarmored, but Arthur was right. Knights used no skill, just stamina. This would be a true test of talent.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
They fought most of the afternoon, with Lancelot delivering the first killing blow. Arthur crumpled to the ground like a sack of grain. Lancelot stumbled to the stream, washing his face in the cold water. The stranger had fought admirably, but still died. He lost any remaining hope of completing his quest. He was also upset that the nagging pain remained. Shaking the water from his eyes, he glanced at his face reflected in the stream, seeing a grinning Arthur behind him, sword raised.
"I'm not through with you, yet, young knight."
Lancelot had a rougher time, fighting without sword and from his knees. He managed to win his sword and again they fought. By dusk, they had managed to kill each other several times, Lancelot getting angered at the stalemate. When Arthur drove him to his knees, and prepared another killing blow, he calmly accepted the fact, waiting. Arthur froze, and spoke again.
"We are Immortal, you and I. Brothers. We cannot be killed, save our head being removed from our body." The cold steel rested on Lancelot's bare neck. He shivered, knowing Arthur spoke the truth. "Yield, and live. Or die forever. Your choice."
Lancelot yielded, knowing this man could end his life. Intrigued by the stranger, he had no wish to leave his conqueror's presence. Arthur bade him kneel, ordering him to serve as a knight of the Round Table, touching the sword on his shoulders and head.
"I do pledge... my lord."
} } } } } Saturday, May 13, 2000 } } } } }
"I thought Lancelot defeated Arthur," Amanda finally said, breaking the silence.
Joe Dawson just smiled. "Who do you think writes the histories and tell the stories?" he asked. At Amanda's questioning look, he answered it, pointing at the knight called Lancelot. Amanda turned back.
"We tried to remove all the parts about Immortals and such, but sometimes things got through. I was undefeatable. The Green Knight. The stories never stayed the same, changing almost as much as we did. I defeated Arthur, he defeated me. I've heard both, and many more variations. A thousand years later, it didn't matter anymore." Gregor still didn't look up, not wanting to see their faces. Duncan didn't move. Richie silently left the room, not caring to share the feelings the story brought out of him. Not even with these, his closest friends.
Epilogue - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
To Richie's left, a smaller man joins them. Lithe and pale, only recently finding emotion again, he is sorrow and loss, knowing his duty and his failure. "I am Gregor Powers, born Lancelot the Brave, defender of honor, the undefeatable knight who searched for a conqueror and found a friend. My life pledged to my king, guardian of Arthur's true treasure, betrayer of his trust. So do I pledge my life anew, to a new king. I am friend and confidant. I am loyalty."
Part Three - Amanda, thief
- - - - - Saturday, May 13, 2000 - - - - -
Richie lounged on the circular couch in the memorial room, a circular chamber housing most of Connor's historical memorabilia. It was ironic to him that he had nothing to display here. He was twenty-five, looked nineteen, and had a lifespan of about fifty. {According to Joe. Damn his statistics!} Richie usually came here to get away from the outside world, for here, one could almost feel like time had stopped, or maybe it all came together at once.
Every time Gregor brought up the past, Richie ran. {I guess I'm not really ready to admit my life is not my own.}
/Your life is no one's but yours, Richard./
Her name made an echo through his mind. {Oh, Es!}
/I'm sorry to intrude, but you need help. And Jeremiah is no longer here to give it to you./
{It was nice talking to someone who didn't expect you to be more than a stupid salesclerk.}
/You think everyone here forgets you are simply a young man? Yes, Arthur set many things in motion for when you arrived. Yes, these people are here to mold you on the path he started. But all of them see you, Richard Ryan, Immortal idiot.../
{Oh, thanks. Loads.}
/...not the heroic lord of Camelot. I think it's very brave and courageous to forge a different path./
{I'm still trying to save humanity...}
/But YOUR way. Not his. Everyone will tell you that Arthur wasn't half the person you are./
{He didn't have to be. Everyone talks about him like he was a god.}
/He was a god. That's the point. He was never human. You are. They confide in you. They tell you things and expect things they never would with Arthur. He was their lord. You are their friend. They'll never forget that, even if you sometimes do./
{I didn't know. How could I? They treat me like I remember everything.}
/His lover and his best friend are in the next room. Talk to them. And remember how different you are./
{Thanks, Es.}
/Anytime, my love./
Richie sighed contentedly on the couch, as he always did after talking with Esmerelda. The buzz and the boots on the wood floor betrayed Gregor's approach. "Hey, Red. Are you all right?" the photographer asked, leaning into the room. Concern shone from his eyes.
"Yeah. It's just hearing the story again..." Richie began, not really needing to finish the thought. They'd had several talks on the subject, none very conclusive.
Gregor at least understood the need for solitude. "Duncan needs to run a few errands, and I've agreed to chauffeur. We'll be back in time to get ready." He turned to leave.
"No hurry," Richie called after him. "Plenty of time." {Time that I don't have to be reminded who everyone expects me to be!} The elevator soon wheezed in its descent, and he decided to take advantage of the quiet. As he left the sanctuary, Joe was on the sofa, finishing a conversation with Amanda with another yawn. At a look from Richie, he glared.
"Yes, mother, I'll take a nap. Heck, you're as bad as Jeremiah..." Dawson intoned, barely shivering at naming the dead. A twang of guilt shot through Richie's heart, but he was glad the Watcher was going away. He jumped off the main floor and landed on the sunken couch, inches from the sultry Amanda.
They looked at each other, wondering who would be the first to make the opening overtures. Richie kept thinking up different ways to ask about Arthur, but none felt comfortable. He just sat there opening and closing his mouth like a fish. A smirk crossed Amanda's face, and she gave in to her capricious nature. "You've managed to get rid of everybody. Want another roll in the hay?"
Richie went from shock, to disgust, to embarrassment, his face turning shades of red to match his hair. He tried vainly to sink lower into...
{ { { { { Friday, June 7, 1996 { { { { {
...the chair as Duncan brought the brandy glasses from the cabinet, handing Richie's to him. The visitor set it untasted on the side table as he continued. "The Cordova finally sold, and added to the swords, your take is $25,000, more or less. I'm still working on the cavalry saber, and the burial masks." Richie finished, closing his portfolio and setting it on the floor. He leaned across the space between them, and handed Duncan a check. The brightly lit apartment reminded him of times past, when he spent many an evening with Duncan. {Oh, for the good old days.}
Duncan took a swallow and set his glass on the coffee table. "Very nice. And you made excellent money off the deals. My congratulations. But you didn't fly three thousand miles to hand me a check," he stated, as he moved to the cabinet again.
"I want the pistol set, Duncan," Richie blurted, leaning back into the massive chair. {This isn't going to be easy, Esmerelda. How do I bring it up?}
/Since when have you ever called MacLeod easy? Just be patient. The right moment will come./
Duncan waited until the check was safely put away before replying with a hint of anger. "Just because I decide to sell a few of my less memorable keepsakes doesn't give you the right to pick and choose over what I still have." He turned to look at Richie, a grin of challenge on his lips. "If you think I'm as easy a mark as your buyers, give it up. I've been in the antique business longer than Connor."
"You don't even display the stuff. Hell, you don't even look at it. Why do you keep it?" Richie argued, finally reaching for his glass.
"I don't have to look at things for them to be a part of me. It's enough to know they are there, within my reach," was Duncan's only defense. "I don't need a showroom to announce who I am. Or what I've done. But some things... I don't think I could handle them being with someone else."
"Like Tessa's bracelet?" Richie quietly asked. {Somehow, this has gotten way too painful.}
/If you are to help him, it will have to get worse./
"Why are you here?" Duncan asked again, finally sitting in the other chair. He looked straight ahead, jaw clenched. He grabbed the brandy glass and clutched it like a possessive lover.
Richie leaned forward, hoping to catch Duncan's eyes peripherally. "To bring you peace." He waited for a sign, anything from Duncan, but got nothing. Sitting back, he continued, "We found the punk who killed Tessa. In Florida. He was appropriately punished."
Duncan closed his eyes. All he said was "How did you find him?"
"Jeremiah has a virus program that scanned mug shots when they were stored on the police net. It was matched to a sketch of the guy I had someone draw. A quick flight to Tampa, and it was done."
"Is he dead?" Tears started to form as Duncan clenched his eyes tighter, as if trying not to see her body lying in the street.
"No. I chopped his hands off," Richie curtly replied, emptying his glass with a healthy swig.
Duncan's eyes flew open, his remorseful train of thought completely derailed at the barbaric action Richie had described. He turned to look at his old student, wonder and loathing etched on his face. Richie just shrugged, "It's no better than what Arthur used to do. That's the kind of man you wanted me to become."
Duncan got up and again went to the cabinet, pouring himself another healthy dose of alcohol. "It was never about what I wanted..."
"...it was all about your damned word," Richie finished for him, the echo of many other conversations swirling in his head. Silence filled the room. "Why is it we always end up fighting when we're together more than ten minutes?" He abruptly stood and grabbed his portfolio. "I just came to tell you it's all over. Get on with your life, Duncan. There's nothing left to beat yourself up with." He turned and made for the elevator as Duncan slammed the cabinet doors closed.
"Richie!" Duncan called, filling the room with the name.
"What now!" Richie yelled, whirling around again, ready for another fight, either swords, or fists, or words. {We've played this game too many times!}
Duncan had his hand to his forehead, looking like he was trying to get rid of a headache. He shook his head and looked at Richie. "When's your flight?"
"Whenever I show up," Richie replied, his anger momentarily deflated by the harmless question.
Duncan tried to smile. "Stay awhile. I promised Dawson I'd help him for a few hours tonight, but I'd like to talk to you later, in the morning. And I promise, no fights," he said, holding his hands up in surrender.
"Well..." Richie started, playing it for all it was worth. "Jerry can take of the store, and I am kind of tired." He flashed Duncan a smile he hadn't used for a long time. "Besides, you make the best breakfasts on two coasts."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
After a relaxing shower and another glass of brandy, Richie made himself at home and dived into the bed. He was fast asleep before Duncan had even left, and dreaming pleasant dreams of lovely young women. He tossed and turned, picturing Janice in his bedroom in New York. For some reason he pictured her as an Immortal, his passion inflamed by the feeling he had when an Immortal was near. Moaning his pleasure, he tried many of the techniques Phillipe had suggested on the teasing coed, who throatily answered with her own cries. They writhed on the bed, heat inflaming their union, as she ran her hands over his chest and arms. Slowly, he realized this was more powerful than just a dream. Or fantasy. She was murmuring Duncan's name in his ear as she licked it. It was happening. He could smell her perfume, taste her hair on his lips, feel the bite of her mouth on many places. Crying his sweet anguish in turn, he grasped her face in his hands, his pleasure erupting with hers as...
...the lights came on in the apartment. Richie lay there, exhausted, and gazed into the lovely face of Amanda, eyes still closed as her body shook. She collapsed on top of him, spent, as both gasped for breath. The ticking of the clock pounded in his ears until a roar from across the room shattered his daze. "What the HELL is going on?" The sudden noise jerked Amanda's head up, her satisfied smile beaming as she opened her eyes and saw...
"RICHARD ? !"
In a flash, she had dived to the right, grabbing the sheet and rolling away from him. He belatedly tried to catch the end as it flew after her, succeeding only in grasping air. The stomps of Duncan's feet as he approached the bed drew Richie's attention, as he realized he was naked. He slid to the left, trying to cover himself as Amanda screeched from the other side of the bed, pointing her finger at him, almost in hysterics. All he saw was Duncan jumping on the bed, coming for him, face etched with anger. He waited until the last second, and threw himself on the floor, as Duncan sailed over him into the stairway to the roof. He ran across the room, grabbing his clothes, heading for the elevator, Amanda throwing his shoes after him. He took the emergency stairs down, not daring to look at the carnage behind him.
Richie burst through the stairway door to the dojo, black and silent. He was struggling with his zipper as he made his way to the other end, blindly running into equipment. He reached the green glow of the emergency sign above the entryway, and pushed forward. He ran into a wall, somewhat flexible, feeling like it was covered in cloth.
"You haven't had breakfast yet," Duncan said, right in his face, as he pushed against Duncan's chest with his hands. Richie yelped and turned to run, but Duncan grabbed him from behind, lifting his bare feet from the floor. "Hold on, hotshot."
"I didn't know..." Richie wailed, trying to connect his elbow with Duncan's face. And kick him.
"Of course," Duncan replied, setting Richie down. "I think it's rather funny. And it may teach Amanda not to let herself in anymore. Then again, we are talking about Amanda..."
} } } } } Saturday, May 13, 2000 } } } } }
...leaned back. "So you want to know about Richard. Well, where do I start? I think I've already told you about how good he was in bed. Taught me most of what I know. You need to work on your technique, but I could tell you were Richard incarnate." She ignored Richie's blush and continued. "He was very powerful. Had a real presence. He could stop princes and their petty bickering with a single glance. Or a discreet cough. Always mindful of other people's pride, but never letting that stand in his way..."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Richie lay there, on the sofa, and listened to Amanda for over an hour. Only once more did she bring up Arthur's abilities in bed. {When she forgets the word 'sex' she can be quite amazing. I can see why Duncan loves her.}
[And was afraid to live with her.]
{I think they make a good pair, Phillipe. And Duncan does deserve some lasting happiness, after what he's been through.}
[But her kind?]
{Any kind.}
Richie abruptly got up, looking intently at his watch. "Sorry to interrupt, but I really must start getting ready. I hope we can continue this later. Mind the store?" he asked, taking off for the stairs. {And he slips past the defense and dashes for the goal line.}
[Not very nice.]
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Opening the bathroom door caused a surge of steam to whirl past Richie into Gregor's bedroom. In the haze, he stumbled into Amanda, blocking the door. "By the way, Connor called while you were in the shower. He needs to be picked up in two hours," she informed him, enjoying the chance to ogle his naked body. He had felt her presence for the last ten minutes, waiting to pounce.
"Thanks," was all Richie could manage as he moved to slip past her. Left and right. She never gave an inch. He tried to let go of the towel wrapped around his waist to give him an extra hand, but knowing her...
"I thought I might could help you, say, scrub your back. But someone locked the bathroom door. Must have been accidental." She ran her fingers over his chest, oddly reminding him of Felicia Martins. Any other man would have succumbed, but he grabbed her wrist in one hand, protecting his towel with the other.
"What would Duncan say?" he asked, searching for a defense from this woman.
She used her other hand to play with him through the towel. "Duncan's never really had a say in our relationship."
"Since when?" Richie asked.
"Since the beginning," she replied, turning him toward the...
{ { { { { A sunny day, 1635 A.D. { { { { {
...brick wall. He seemed surprised it was only she. {He really does look so delicious when he's confused!} she thought. The dark haired swordsman left his post holding up the wall and approached her, swaggering like a stud bull, taking in her more feminine garb.
"Your friend Rebecca dinna' want to join us for a drink?" he asked, his voice a melody to her ears. If she wasn't careful, she could really learn to like this man.
{I love the way he talks. All tongue.} "Why, Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod. Who said I would invite her?" she replied. With that pronouncement, he smiled. It was like sunshine breaking through the fog of Britain, lighting up her soul. {Pity. He won't be smiling long. Well, I could spare a head this once...}
They walked along the street, careful of the vendors and children running about. She convinced him to try a small pub in a desolate corner of the town, and he blindly followed her to the empty alley. Letting him lead around a corner, she had drawn her sword before he'd turned around. He was confused, and a little frightened as she made short work of this young Immortal. His back pressed firmly to the wall, unarmed, her sword at his throat, he finally spoke.
"I... I dinna' think my company was that bad... I hope you'll..." Fear coursed through his eyes, and some shame for being beaten by a woman. {And an English one at that!}
"Shut up!" she ordered, prodding his flesh with the point of her sword. "And get moving," she added, glancing down the alley. Prodding him in front of her, she directed him to a door and told him, "Open it!" As they climbed the stairs to the upper story, she waited for the inevitable attempt at escape. When they got to the bedroom, and the Scot had tried nothing, she was even more curious. And very pleased. A swift knock on the head from her hilt, and the infuriating man fell to the bed, unconscious.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
By the time he awoke, everything was ready. He found himself tied to the four corners of the canopied bed, naked as the day he was born. {If he was born. Rebecca's still puzzling that one.} She had changed into something less restricting. On cue, he started struggling, cursing, and generally making a rumpus. {And a very nice looking rumpus it is.} She used her lips to silence his, as both responded to the obvious heat between them. It was a long time before she left his lips, and longer before she left the bed. He was quiet in the moments following, as she quickly dressed. {I think I will leave him his head. I may need it someday.} His goofy smiled faded as she approached, again dressed in her street outfit.
"It was a pleasure seeing you again, dear fellow. I hope we have a chance to meet in the future. Because I will let you have yours." A quick caress as his muscled body as he struggled against the ropes and she strolled to the door. Once there, she looked over her shoulder. "I feel I should warn you that the sheriff is usually home by sunset, and won't take kindly to strangers in his bed." The look of terror is his face as he strained to see her was worth every moment of it. {And those that will surely come later!} He frantically looked to the window as she left, gently closing the door with a smirk...
} } } } } Saturday, May 13, 2000 } } } } }
...as she caressed Richie even more. "I saw him later, working on the walls. Apparently the sheriff was not amused at my little passion play," she finished. She glanced thoughtfully at the redhead. "You know, we could see how well you like it..." Her gaze of hunger left little to his imagination.
Abandoning the towel, Richie forcefully grabbed both her hands with his, levelly staring her down. From somewhere deep inside him came words matching the feelings in his heart. "I don't appreciate these little games of yours. Listen good, because this is the last time I will say this. I am not your old lover, Richard. While you're with Duncan, I am NOT an option. Not for sex, not for flirting, not for wet dreams. Got it? Feel free to ravage anyone else you want, but keep me out of it. If I have to take your head to stop you, I will. Understand, wench?" He shook her to emphasize his last words.
For once Amanda actually looked terrified. All she could get out past quivering lips was "Richard?" Her eyes saw someone else, someone he wasn't going to become.
"Damn right," he answered, releasing her wrists and barreling past her to his suit hanging across the room. From the door came a slow, steady sound of two hands clapping. Duncan leaned against the door frame, a mocking grin on his face. "And how long have you been listening?" Richie angrily asked, trying to remember when the extra buzz had intruded on his rage.
"Long enough," was Duncan's calm answer. "Darling, I think we need to start getting ready." Amanda shakily walked toward him, leaving the room. "I'll be right back," he told Richie as they left.
Richie called out, "Make sure her hair dryer doesn't blow the fuses!" as he closed the door. {Oh, damn.}
[And what, pray tell, are you worried about? You did nothing wrong.]
{I don't think it was something he wanted me to hear.}
[Who ever said it was true?]
{What?}
[We are talking about Amanda...]
{Yeah. Right.}
"Hey, Red," Gregor began as he entered the room, "any word from Connor?" His eyes were full of questions at Richie's startled expression. "And what was going on in here, you half naked and Amanda in shock? Pardon me for saying so, but you're not _that_ stunning!"
"None of your business," Richie snapped, zipping his pants. "Connor lands in two," he continued, buttoning his shirt. "Can you give Duncan directions to the airport?"
"As you command, mighty graduate," Gregor intoned, bowing, as he backed out of the room. By the time an Immortal returned, Richie was calmed and dressed. The soft knock came as he was straightening his tie to no avail. "Come in, Duncan," he said, having a pretty good guess.
The Highlander opened the door, his face awash with emotions Richie couldn't begin to guess at. {He's got things on his mind, tried to get my attention all day. Boy, I'm stupid.} He brought with him a huge package, relatively flat, but as big as a tray. His first sight was of Richie fighting with the tie. In seconds he had set the package down and moved to help. His strong hands and supple fingers had the knot undone and started again. "You never could tie a tie," Duncan chided. A grin crossed his lips as Richie feigned helplessness. In short order, the tie was knotted and placed to both their satisfaction.
"Chalk one up for Richie Ryan, Immortal idiot," Richie said, as he turned to look at it one more time in the mirror. He watched the reflection of Duncan's face turn serious.
"You're not an idiot," Duncan flatly said, staring at Richie's reflection in the mirror. Richie whirled around.
"I'm kidding, Duncan. Jeeze, lighten up." He poked Duncan in the ribs as he walked over to the package and grabbed it. "For me?" he asked, his eyes sparkling like a kid at Christmas. Duncan laughed and sat on the dressing table, dangling his legs. A nod of acquiesce was all it took. In two seconds flat, the wrapping was on the floor, and Richie was holding the framed artwork, looking at it in shock. He slowly moved to Duncan, leaned against his legs,giving Duncan a view of the gift over his shoulder.
In a solid oak frame was a sketch sheet. {Look's like Tessa's work.} In the bottom half was a pencil drawing of Richie, in leather jacket and a bandana on his head, every bit the thief that broke into the antique store that fateful night. Alive with laughter, the face looked childish, almost innocent. In the upper left corner, another face of Richie, this time in a different jacket, the Paris wind blowing the curly hair. The face was full of anger, and sadness, looking less the innocent and more the spited lover. A day after a night he still remembered so well.
[Why so sad?]
{There was a woman in Paris. She was married. I thought she'd leave her husband...}
[Say no more, I understand. I am very sorry.]
{I'm way over it, now. I just didn't think Tessa saw me. Obviously she did.}
Duncan's voice from behind him startled him from the internal conversation. "Tessa was going to do a third drawing of you on our wedding day... as my best man..." Time stopped as Richie remembered that horrible moment many years ago, the night Tessa died. Duncan placed his arms around Richie as he started to tremble. "I know she would have wanted you to have it anyway. And I know she'd be proud..." Again, silence. "...very proud of you. As I am." Duncan's voice was in his ear, for him only. "I am very, very proud of you."
"Thank's, Mac," was all Richie could get out. From behind him, Duncan let out a breath, one held for many years.
"You know, it's been a very long time since you called me 'Mac'," the Highlander said, squeezing gently.
"It's easier to think of you as a stranger if I call you 'Duncan'. It doesn't hurt as much," Richie finally admitted, after years of wanting to say it aloud. {But it was safer to run.}
"I never meant to hurt you," Duncan whispered, as if they were the only two in existence.
"It wasn't all your fault. It was me, too. And us together. Everything you said rankled. Every time you told me to butt out hurt. You didn't trust me, and I didn't trust you. I ached for a compliment, or a kind word. All you did was yell. And I couldn't do anything right in your eyes."
"Don't you think all parents and children feel that way?" Duncan wondered aloud, finally bringing up the subject he had avoided for centuries.
"Huh?" was all Richie could reply, trying to follow this new thought.
"What am I to you?" Duncan asked, holding Richie even tighter.
Richie hurriedly thought, trying to formulate an answer to this unexpected question. "You're the person I look up to. Want to be like. My role model. And my friend." He waited for Duncan to mull that answer before asking his own question. "What am I to you?"
It took barely a second for Duncan to answer that. "You are my son. The one who will take what I have to teach and go forth into the world. I know we share no blood, and you were practically an adult when we met, but the first time I saw you... Really saw you. I though of you as my child. And that caused all the problems."
Richie tried to find his voice. "Why did you never say anything about this sooner?"
"I always believed you would think I was crazy. Wanting a child so badly."
"It's not crazy at all. It makes perfect sense." Richie marveled at this revelation. {He always though of me as his son?}
A buzz and quiet knock broke the reverie of the two. Gregor stuck his head in. "Sorry to interrupt, but we've got to go, Red. And Duncan, your rental car will be here in about forty-five minutes. I've left directions to the airport and campus with Joe." Once again, he shut the door, leaving them their privacy for a few minutes more.
Richie broke away, moving toward the door. He stopped and turned, looking at Duncan in a new light. "I'd like to talk more, if you want." His mentor sheepishly grinned at the offer.
"As long as you want to..." was Duncan's reply. "And no fights. Maybe over a game of chess?"
Richie looked shocked, remembering. "Oh God, no chess. No chess ever." And they both laughed. Then Richie was gone and soon the sound of the elevator...
{ { { { { Tuesday, October 11, 1994 { { { { {
...filled the room. Duncan didn't move from the chair as Richie raised the gate, barely looking up from the chess board between him and the shadowy figure in the other chair.
"Well, Mac? What couldn't wait until morning? Or do you enjoy getting me out of bed at three a.m.?" Once more Richie was brimming with anger, something Duncan was use to by now. All the emotion clouded the redhead's senses, else he never would have missed the third Immortal in the room.
"Tell me about Albuquerque..." Duncan casually said, moving his bishop.
Richie just stared. "What? I don't think I've ever been to Albuquerque. It's someplace in New Mexico."
"Then tell me about Felicia Martins. The last time you saw her."
Richie was more confused. "The last time... on the beach. When you didn't take her head."
"No, I mean the time you killed her." Duncan finally stood, hands on his hips, waiting, anger creeping into his voice.
"What do you mean, killed her? I haven't..." Richie was on the verge of tears at the confusing cross examination Duncan was giving him. He silently pleaded for the Highlander to stop, but Duncan barged on.
"What about when you left town after killing Mako. What happened then?" Duncan moved right up to Richie's face, rage bursting through the calm exterior.
"I rode around... I was in New Orleans. I told you about that," Richie stuttered, the brick wall keeping him from backing up any more.
"How about San Francisco? Dallas? El Paso? You died there. Remember?" Duncan yelled in his face. The other figure finally stood and moved into the light. Gregor.
"How about saving me from Xavier St. Cloud? Remember that?" the photographer asked.
"Greg? I don't... Please stop..." Richie collapsed to the floor, holding his face in his arms, trying to shut out their voices. Voices. (Trying to shut out the voices...)
{Oh God, STOP IT!}
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Richie lay on Duncan's bed, exhausted by the questions he lacked answers for. Gregor was musing the chess board, as Duncan, eager to relieve his frustration on anything but Richie, chopped vegetables for a late snack.
"I don't get it, Duncan. Everything is fine after Denver, no, just after he left Dallas. Could he be hypnotized or something? King's Knight to King's Rook four," Gregor said, moving the piece.
Duncan chose that moment to savagely dice a cucumber. The sudden chopping sound startled everyone. "We can find out. It doesn't sound like a medical condition, or even medical related. He doesn't remember being hurt, or in an accident. Can Immortals have amnesia?" He looked up as Gregor gave him a sarcastic look and gestured at the board. "Oh, hell. Queen's Rook's Pawn to three."
"So, Richie, wanna be hypnotized?" All Gregor got in response was a groan from the bed. Duncan moved around his chair, taking stock of the board and munching vegetables out of a bowl.
"Mate in six," Duncan stated as he sat, handing the bowl to Gregor. Popping the last of the squash cubes in his mouth, he leaned forward, studying the board, his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand. The classic thinker pose.
Sarcastically, Gregor adopted the same position, stroking his goatee as he chuckled. "I don't think so... Queen to Queen six."
Duncan calculatingly eyed his adversary, wondering what surgical technique Gregor would use to try and save his king. "Pawn takes Knight," Duncan slowly drawled, elongating the moment. So intent were they on the game, neither noticed Richie pull Duncan's katana from its resting place under the bed. Neither saw him get up and slowly move toward them. Raise the sword above his head. Calmly take a deep breath.
Duncan leaned back, smiling in victory as Gregor figured out his mistake. A split second later, his katana whistled through the space his arm had been in, slamming into the board. The chess pieces scattered across the table and floor as the sword was deeply wedged into the wood. Richie started to free the weapon as both Gregor and Duncan scattered.
[Now guys! I'm going to try for the mouth. Mako, hold the fort.]
{Roger, Phillipe. Esmerelda, got the arm?}
/I'm trying. He's very strong. I can't hold.../
*We's keepin' him occupied, but... Hurry, Phillipe!*
Richie stood there, trembling, as Duncan and Gregor rushed for weapons. Gregor unsheathed his broadsword, while Duncan came back with a two handed claymore. They approached cautiously, not understanding why Richie was frozen.
Suddenly, a French accent sprung from Richie's mouth. "Monsieur MacLeod, you must leave. We cannot hold him forever, and you are the catalyst. Hurry. Get out while..." The voice cut off, replaced by a wail, rising from low to high, emanating from Richie. He let go of the katana, and raised his hands to his forehead. His body violently shook, finally falling to the floor, where the redhead twitched and moaned, spasms sending his body into convulsions.
Slowly, the two standing Immortals inched forward, still on their guard and ready for anything. In seconds Richie had stopped thrashing, too suddenly for Duncan's taste. Dropping the claymore, he jumped the table and bent to examine Richie. Pulling the hands away, he saw the purple marks on Richie's temples. "Greg, get over here!"
Gregor looked at the growing bruises, and then moved across the body, checking for pulse and breath. He stopped and looked at Duncan. "He's dead. I'd say from..."
"...internal bleeding, possibly a concussion," Duncan finished, having a clue about what had happened. "Kiem Sun," was all he elaborated. "Damn!"
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
[What happened?]
{I don't know, but he's stopped struggling. What now?}
[I don't know, Mako. Where's that box we were in?]
*Got it right here, honey!*
[Thanks, Mamie. Can we get him into it?]
{Kill Duncan, Kill Duncan, Kill Duncan, Kill...}
[On three. One... Two... THREE!]
{Lock it, Es!}
/Got it!/
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"Duncan?" Richie weakly said, staring up at the man cradling him.
"Hush, Richie. You need to rest," Duncan softly whispered, placing a wet rag on his friend's forehead.
"Xavier's trying to kill you..."
"It's all right. Everything's going to be all right. Just close your eyes and rest. I'll protect you."
"But..."
"Hush, little baby, don't say a word..." And for the first time, Richie listened to Duncan's rich baritone voice, singing him to sleep. Singing him to... Singing... He remembered in that brief second between wake and sleep, a woman. Singing to him. His woman. His wife. {Gwen...}
Epilogue - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Across the light, a woman entered, clad in white robes, a wreath of flowers in her hair. "I am Amanda, successor to Rebecca, known as Guinevere. All I am is yours, my lord, save my heart, for my true love will always be another. Thus harmony is disrupted and peace no longer assured. I am strife. I am emotion."
Part Four - Connor MacLeod of the clan MacLeod, antique dealer
- - - - - Saturday, May 13, 2000 - - - - -
The noise was deafening in the concourse, as graduates and friends rushed about, trying to cram several years of experiences into these last few moments. Richie, in his black robe, paced back and forth, waiting for everything to start. Gregor leaned against the wall, wearing a white robe, holding Richie's ceremonial hood over his right arm, as instructed. Beside him, a very pregnant Marla Russell was talking to her husband until she got tired of Richie's incessant actions.
"Hold on, Ryan. Walking yourself into a mess is not going to speed things up! And don't fidget during the ceremony. Or I'll whack you like I did in International Studies," she reminded him. He still remembered the agony when she had pinched him to keep him awake.
"Or Economics, or Business Law, or..." he added, only stopping when she unsheathed her nails in his direction. Surrendering, he begged, "O.K. I'll stop. What am I going to do without you?"
"You can always call us in Washington," her husband said, well aware of the intimacy his wife and her study partner had developed over the years. An intimacy he shared in as well. "They only work the political aides twenty hours a day. The entrepreneurs get to work ten." Steven explosively exhaled as his wife elbowed him in the stomach.
"You just make sure you come and visit regularly," Marla intoned, shaking her finger at Richie. "I know flights are every hour, seven days a week. Junior here needs his uncle Richie," she added, rubbing her stomach.
"And we all know how well Red likes sleeping on lumpy couches," Gregor chimed in. In the background, over the chatter, the first strains of music could be heard. Laggers quickly rushed to find their spots as everyone else checked to make sure robes and such were in place. And then they were off, marching in twos into the coliseum, walking in parade to their seats. They filed in, the music ended stunningly, and everyone sat as the ceremony began.
Richie spent the first few minutes after the prayer scanning the crowds. Gregor, sitting behind him, finally directed his attention to Angie and David, holding four empty seats between them. Marla followed his gaze, and waved. Angie waved back. Minutes later, a commotion in that section signaled the late arrivals. Duncan and Amanda led, Connor helping Dawson bring up the rear. Angie had tried to get floor seats, but there were still several steps the Watcher had to navigate. A fifth person was with them, but in the brouhaha, Richie couldn't make out who it was. The stranger left, looking for an unoccupied seat as clansmen and company settled into their places.
During the presentation, Marla leaned over and whispered, "Is that the infamous Duncan sitting next to David?" At Richie's nod, she softly whistled. "All of you are such lookers!"
"Good skin. It runs in the family," Richie whispered back, getting a little nervous as the moment they walked across the stage got closer. {Joe's the only one I know that has been to collage. I'm the first.}
[Calm down, Richie. There's nothing to be nervous about...]
{ { { { { Saturday, September 9, 1995 { { { { {
"...Calm down, Richie. There's nothing to be nervous about," Connor chided him. Richie still shifted from side to side, tugging at his outfit.
"But I'm wearing a SKIRT, Connor!" Richie wailed, pulling at the cloth. He'd been complaining ever since waking up in the hotel this morning. The cold, the outfit. Connor looked like he wished he'd never brought Richie to Scotland. {He should have brought Jeremiah. That guy would enjoy all this stuff.}
"It's called a kilt, laddie. An' you look smashing in it, if I do say so," Connor informed him, also dressed in MacLeod plaid and white shirt. He had forgone the cap matching the one on his companion's fiery crown, claiming no need to impress the pretty girls. "Here's the man I want you to meet," he said, indicating the car approaching them on the desolate little road. It was sleek and black, unidentifiable to Richie's eye, purring softly as pulled off the road next to Connor's car.
An older man, similarly dressed as the two Immortals, emerged from the driver's side, the feathers in his bonnet twitching in the breeze. He was accompanied by a younger fellow, about Richie's apparent age. The two eyed each other warily, instinctively at odds. Connor introduced Richie to his friend, Chief Angus MacLeod, head of the clan. Angus in turn introduced his son, Dougal. The youth tossed his head, clearing the dark hair from his darker eyes, almost an insult to Richie's outstretched hand. But a look from the father, and Dougal was all smiles, shaking hands, even agreeing to guide Richie around.
On that less than promising note, the quartet left the cars and climbed a small rise. As they approached the top, the martial sound of pipes and drums got louder, sending adrenaline surging. A quick look at Connor revealed his dreamy look, oblivious to the present and lost in the past. It was ignored by the father and unnoticed by the son. Richie wondered how much the old man knew. And then all thoughts and concerns were pushed out of his mind.
Spread out below was the gathering. It assailed all his senses. His heart beat in time with the drums, the pipes sounding a chord that stirred his soul, mixed with the babble of happy voices. The rich smell of delicately spiced food started his mouth to water, as he imagined the feast that was prepared, meats and breads mixing into a heavenly scent. Down below, framed by imposing mountains and laid on a quilt of kelly green grass was a multitude of tents and tables, with constantly moving people dressed in their finest. Several different tartan meshed into a pleasing whole, complemented by white, everywhere white. White so clean and pure, it was only dreamed about. The wind puffed in his face, jostling his hair, carrying just a hint of sea spray. Cold and crisp, it was a punctuation to the scene. The wet grass beneath his feet cried out to be run on. In that split second, he felt truly alive. And at home.
With a whoop, Connor took off, running like a stag toward the crowd. Not to be outdone, Richie did likewise, enjoying the rush of excitement as he tried to catch Connor. Behind, the other two continued to walk, Angus chuckling at the childish display, Dougal glaring at the crazy Americans. People stared as they approached at a dead run, hearts pounding. From the mass of Scots, a lass suddenly broke free, running toward Connor, meeting him yards up the slope. They collided, Connor grabbing her and swinging her around as she gleefully laughed.
Once things had settled, Connor introduced Richie to Heather, who had somehow grown up in the last fifteen years. She begged everyone's pardon and dragged Connor off, explaining he owed her a dance. Away they ran toward the competitions. Angus also begged Richie's leave, having his own duties to perform that day, leaving him alone with Dougal. Superficially pleasant, the Scottish youth took every opening for a verbal thrust at the "American".
The day progressed, the pipe and drum contests giving way to the athletic events. Richie was puzzled by the local girls, eagerly rushing up to be introduced, and just as suddenly disappearing, until he noticed Dougal giving small signs of discouragement. By mid-afternoon, Richie was fed up with his companion, glad when Dougal excused himself for the log tossing contest. Richie stayed out of politeness and curiosity during the preliminaries, but when Dougal kept winning, he decided to explore on his own.
By this time, everyone seemed to know exactly who he was and who he was with. Old ladies lovingly handed him warm bread and tasty meat in exchange for a few words. He politely passed on the haggis. Men approached, pounding him on the back, and discussed politics like he was family. Two pretty girls taught him some dance steps after he watched Connor and Heather in competition, dancing over crossed swords on the ground. He ran into Angus once, who introduced him to his nieces, Margaret and Mary, both a tender six and charmed by the handsome stranger. He was beginning to enjoy himself when Dougal found him.
"American, I have found you!" the Scot said, roughly grabbing Richie and dragging him to a tent. "Cousin Finley and his weasel of a brother have challenged us to a drinkin' contest. Dinna disappoint me, now."
Richie found himself at a table, mugs of ale ready, surrounded by MacLeods, betting on both sides. By the fourth mug, the weasel was puking and the crowd was cheering. Finley passed out around the eighth and the crowd roared as money exchanged hands. Dougal and Richie, drunk to the gills, pounded each other on the back and left, stopping to soak their pounding skulls in the water trough for the horses. Dougal looked over Richie's shoulder and pointed. As Richie turned to look, the Scot had grabbed his bonnet and shouted, "Race ye!", running for all it was worth.
It took a moment for Richie to focus on the pile of rocks in the distance, lower down the valley, looking a mile away. He had begun a step before stopping, closing his eyes and concentrating. Trying to find a specific heartbeat. {I'll give you a race, you little....} Among the mountain rocks he found what he was looking for, the pounding heart he matched. The breathing he borrowed. Like a shot he was off, the alcoholic stupor lost in the emotions of the stag, running like the wind. His legs pounded the green grass, the distance between the runners slowly eroding away. The power of the Quickening raced through him, feeding energy to muscles and blood. As the power in him was moved, so too the powers of nature gathered. The wind rose as he caught up with Dougal, then slowly pulled ahead. From behind, Dougal gave a soft grunt, and suddenly, they were racing side by side, neither giving an inch. In a split second, or maybe an eternity, they no longer raced to beat the other, but instead ran together as one, each keeping pace as thunder called from the distance. The energy no longer need in competing spurred them to greater speeds, seeming to outrace life itself. All to soon, the rock cairn was reached, ending the experience. Both moaned and gulped air, pain and pleasure crashing together. They lay on the rocks, watching a sudden storm build in the valley.
As the wind whipped their hair, Dougal explained about the Demon's Tower, a story of love and fairies, swords and evil. A good fairy had built this for his human love, but an evil one came and killed them all. The story Richie had heard first hand from Connor. Many voices gave a silent prayer for Ramirez's soul, and that of Connor's dead love, Heather, buried up the mountain. Dougal went on to explain that the MacLeods and fairykind had a special relationship, one in which fairies, or demons, have guarded the clan for ages. He went on to spin another tale as the winds whipped the clouds above them into a frenzy. They were ready to return to the crowd when a little girl raced up from the other direction. Richie recognized her as Dougal's cousin, Mary, as she pointed back toward the beach, her voice drowned out by the roar of distant thunder.
Dougal sent her back to the crowd for help as he motioned for Richie to follow. They ran to the cliff edge overlooking the ocean. Dougal carefully leaned over, Richie holding him in the swiftly changing gusts of wind. The Scot motioned to his left, and soon both were on the ground, looking at Margaret on a small ledge several feet down the cliff. Try as they might, neither could reach her outstretched hands. Dougal suggested having Richie hold his legs, but the Immortal was already over the precipice, holding on until he could gently drop to the small perch.
Digging his hands into the cliff side, he yelled at Margaret to climb up his body. Once passed his head, Dougal grasped her wrists, pulling her to safety. Within seconds, Dougal was again leaning over the edge, stretching toward Richie, lightning illuminating the sky behind him. Richie slowly pulled himself up by his handholds, but in the wind and the rain, they gave way, dropping him to the ledge. This final landing was enough, sending the ribbon of dirt plummeting to the surf below. In that instant, Richie looked straight into Dougal's soul.
"Find me"
It was too much to ask that the Scot heard him. Suddenly, the cliff edge sped away as gravity claimed Richie for its own. He lay on a pillow of air, calm as he fell, hearing one word above the thunder and crash of the water.
"R I C H I E!"
} } } } } Saturday, May 13, 2000 } } } } }
"Richie, get up," Gregor said, pushing him from behind. Richie, dazed, noticed the whole row was standing up and moving toward the stage. In the background, he heard names being called, matched with people walking across the stage.
Standing next to him, Marla turned back and mock whispered, "See what I mean? Couldn't pay attention if his life depended on it." And then they were off, following the line toward the stage. All nervousness vanished as he climbed the steps, finally having something his own.
"Richard Allen Ryan, Bachelor of Business Administration."
He was gushing as he walked those twenty steps, shaking hands with the president and chancellor, grabbing the diploma, and raising his hands in victory for the photographer at the end of the walkway, the moment forever recorded in light and dark.
*Greg must be rubbin' off on you, honey*
{Hey! Keep the music down. I'm trying to navigate chairs, here.} From somewhere deep inside his head, an Immortal gave a very convincing imitation of a popping cork. And clinking glasses.
[Are you sure its imaginary?]
{Stop that!}
And once again, Richie was in his seat, this time glancing at the piece of paper and comparing it to the one in Marla's hands. A check of the audience showed all his friends with smiles and thumbs up. Gregor positively glowed behind him, shaking his shoulders. The rest of the ceremony passed too quickly, and suddenly they were standing, launching their caps into the air. In the press of bodies that followed, Richie acted as a wedge, plowing through the mass, followed by Marla, Steve, and Gregor. The Russells were eager to meet the elusive Duncan MacLeod they had heard so much about. Or as Marla put it...
"If you don't introduce me to that Greek god, I will personally rip your head off!"
Richie was unsure what the hormones in her body were actually doing, but Marla was the type who usually backed up her threats. Including the time she made him eat Portuguese food. With a grimace at the memory, he introduced the Russells to Duncan, stepping away as everyone chatted with everyone else.
Moving through the crowd, Richie vainly tried to find his current bed mate, Janice, and her family. Her brother had graduated today with a Bachelor of Arts, and they probably were together on the other side of the coliseum. He spotted her as she struggled through the crunch of bodies.
"I thought I'd never find you, handsome," she exclaimed, throwing her arms around him for a kiss. Bringing up the rear were Dr. and Mrs. Taylor, and Butch, her brother, looking like the portrait Janice had on her wall. Introductions were made, and a commitment for brunch the next day settled before Janice and her family left. "I know we both have different plans for supper, but I hope we can all get together tomorrow. By the way, you should have a surprise waiting for you at home," she teased, not giving another hint. And the she was gone, her perfume lingering in the air. He stood there and watched her leave, then the rest of the crowd as it thinned after a time. By then, the buzz approached.
From behind, a soft voice spoke, the accents of a thousand places slipping into his ear. "You're disappointed she couldn't join us tonight," Connor MacLeod said, reading Richie's mood as usual.
"Yes," was all the reply needed between the two.
They turned and walked back around the concourse to the others. "She doesn't have a place with us..." Connor began. They had talked about it before, coming to no satisfactory conclusion.
"I know," Richie answered. "But she's a part of my life. That connects her to us. To me."
Connor stopped Richie and turned him around. "It would be safer if she doesn't know."
"Duncan told Tessa..."
Connor gave the youth a compassionate smile. "In four hundred years, both Duncan and I have told a total of five of our lovers. That only made things worst. Trust me. Trust us. We destroy a little something in mortals when they know about us. I want to spare you that lesson."
Richie said nothing as he turned to the group of eight down the hall. Marla was saying something about his promised visits to Washington D.C. as he started toward them. Connor's hand on his shoulder stopped him again.
"You must leave them, brother."
The voice almost wasn't Connor's, instead it was deeper, more accented. Another Immortal. Another conversation he recently had. He had never accepted the fact he could no longer see the Russells, that their move was the perfect break. Marla was growing suspicious of his unchanging looks. {Another sacrifice I make. God, when does it end?}
"I know, Connor," he finally admitted to himself, and his friend.
"MACLEOD!"
The shout came from around the concourse. The few people remaining scattered, Angie and David moving the Russells to a protected stairwell. Duncan and Amanda took defensive positions blocking the mortals as Connor and Richie instinctively turned slightly back to back, giving them less area to worry with. Richie spotted the man down the hall first, or at least recognized the stranger before anyone else. He raised his fist with the diploma into the air and returned the salute.
"MACLEOD!"
Dougal MacLeod walked down the concourse, deep laughter filling the air. Richie met him halfway, the two friends clasping each other in a painful hug. "Tis' been too long, laddie," Dougal began. "Look at you, still a tender age if I saw one."
"Don't you start," Richie warned, taking in the five years of changes that had affected the other. Time had filled out Dougal's teenage frame, lending a maturity Richie would forever lack. His features had become sharper, framed by a thick mane of black hair just short of Duncan's. "It's good to see you."
"An' you as well," Dougal replied, as Connor approached.
"I was wondering when you would finally find us," he said, clasping his kinsman's forearm.
"Let me guess," came the voice of Marla, "you must be a MacLeod."
Dougal looked surprised at being recognized by a stranger, an American at that. "Aye. Dougal MacLeod." He flashed the arriving people with a smile Richie remembered all to well. "How did you know?"
"Good skin," Richie, Marla, Steve, and Gregor replied at once. They followed it by a short burst of giggles. Introductions were made, especially to Duncan. Dougal seemed awed by the third MacLeod demon, whose life was as famous as Connor's. Pleasantries aside, Richie got down to business.
"What are you doing here?"
Dougal just smiled, and removed a bone scroll tube, possibly as ancient as some of the antiques Richie peddled. Opening the end and removing a page of vellum, Dougal read. "Be it known among the clan, that on this day, the thirteenth of May in the year of our Lord 2000, in recognition of his sacrifice in service to the clan, we declare that henceforth Richard Allen Ryan bear the surname MacLeod, granting all rights and privileges due him as a member of the clan MacLeod. Signed this day by my hand, Angus MacLeod, Chief. Long live MacLeod."
"Long live MacLeod," echoed Connor and Duncan, looking unsurprised. The other's reactions varied, from confusion to pleasant grins.
Richie stood speechless, not really comprehending what he had heard. He still looked shocked as Dougal handed him the legal papers showing his change of name, signed in his own hand. Angie looked smug and told him he might read what he was signing after this. Congratulations again were heaped upon him, until Dougal excused himself, informing everyone his flight was less than an hour away.
"You can't leave the moment you got here, Dougal," Richie begged, finally showing some life.
"I have to, American! Your flights dinna wait," the Scot joked. "Besides, you promised to visit me at Oxford. Studying law doesn't take up all my time." With a poke in Richie's stomach, he was gone, racing to a waiting cab.
"You both knew about this," Richie accused the MacLeod clansmen as they walked to the cars. The pinch of anger at being tricked was washed away by the knowledge he was now part of their family. {I'm a MacLeod!}
*You always were, child. You just didn't believe it.*
"Someone had to convince them you were worth adopting," Connor chided from one side of Richie.
"Let that be a lesson to you," his mentor admonished from the other. "We MacLeods are a sneaky and untrustworthy lot." And with that, the two Highlanders grabbed him, rushing him to the fountain in the middle of the courtyard. On three, they flung him into the water, drenching him from head to toe.
Richie stood, red hair dripping, looking at his collection of friends, all together, happy and peaceful. It had not always been so, especially for the two MacLeod Immortals. {Three, now.} He raised his fist to the air and shouted at the top of his lungs...
{ { { { { Sunday, March 19, 1995 { { { { {
"MACLEOD!"
Richie shot around in his chair, looking out the bay windows of the chateau, almost knocking over the chessboard between him and Duncan. Again the voice from outside rattled the glass.
"I'VE COME FOR YOUR HEAD, MACLEOD!"
The redhead left his chair and moved to the nearest window. "It's Connor," he exclaimed, shocked. He turned at the sound of a sword being unsheathed. "You don't look surprised."
"Dawson warned me he was on the continent," Duncan flatly stated, examining his katana. Richie felt a little betrayed at this revelation. His teacher had never been this secretive before.
{But what else is new?}
[Duncan did ask you to join him in Paris.]
{Phillipe, I don't think this is the time to dredge up that old discussion...} "You aren't going out to fight him, Mac. You're not that stupid," Richie said, moving to block the door. Duncan looked up from his sword.
"He's been killing Immortals for months. Good ones. Friends. I don't think he's going to keel over from the exertion like you did. Kiem Sun got his potion right this time. I have to fight him. Or let him kill me." Duncan doffed his coat, sacrificing warmth and protection for maneuverability. He advanced to the door and Richie.
The flat of Richie's rapier smacked against the Highlander's stomach, stopping him. "Run," was all Richie said, staring at Duncan, no hint of emotion showing on his teenage face.
"He may come after you. Or someone else. I have to end this now." Duncan tried to convey all the emotions he felt to his friend. "If I don't come back..." he started, not able to finish.
"There must be another way," pleaded Richie.
Anger exploded in the Highlander's eyes, quickly repressed. "Do you think I want this to happen?" he said through clenched teeth. In frustration, he unloaded both barrels. "My teacher, my friend is trying to kill me. To save my life, I have to take his. The only winner in this fight is Kiem Sun, and it's KILLING ME!" He grabbed Richie by the shirt. Something snapped behind his eyes, and all the rage melted away. He slowly released the redhead, hands smoothing the bunched shirt. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't take this out on you." He smiled weakly, unsure of what else to say.
"Go, Mac, if you must," Richie counseled. "Whatever happens..."
Duncan MacLeod silenced Richie with a finger on his lips. "No goodbyes. One day you'll understand." And then he was gone, out the door onto the lawn. From the window, Richie watched the two clansmen face each other. He remembered back to his earliest encounter with the two of them, and their sparring in Duncan's warehouse. It was one of the things that had intrigued him about Duncan. He had imagined what Duncan's training had been like, especially during his own training. He watched the centuries old friends draw swords on each other, intent on death. He cursed Kiem Sun and swore revenge on the Chinese Immortal.
The first clang of swords drew him from his contemplation. He moved so he only peeked out from the edge of the window, hoping if he didn't watch, it would end, yet not wanting to draw his eyes away. Fascination and revulsion coursed through him as they fought, for the first time to the finish. His newly trained eye showed him marvelous details in the carnage, how Duncan was obviously holding back. He kept waiting for Duncan to seriously defend himself, waiting for him to attack. Comments in his mind led to the conclusion Duncan would let himself be beheaded before taking Connor's life. When Connor connected with a debilitating slice, Richie moved to the door, adjusting the grip on his rapier.
{Boy, you can't interfere. It's against the rules.}
{Screw the rules, Mako. I'm not gonna let them kill each other.}
For a brief moment, Mako tried to establish control, but Richie proved too powerful. Using adrenaline and Quickening both, he shoved Mako away. As he crossed the threshold of the front door, he saw Duncan kneeling, Connor ready to deliver the decapitating blow. Launching himself from the entrance, he shouted...
"NOOO!"
...as he plowed into Connor, diverting the blade into Duncan's back, inches from the neck, where Connor's katana wedged itself into the spine. The two Immortals wrestled, Richie using every dirty trick he knew to keep Connor on the ground and on the defensive. The Highlander got a good roundhouse in, knocking Richie off. Richie thanked the gods as Connor followed after him, ignoring the dead Duncan for now. Richie retreated around the house, heading toward the garden. He hid behind a bush, waiting for Connor to come by, a quick headbash against his opponent sending him to the ground again. Again they rolled in the dirt, Connor having very little experience in nineties street fighting techniques. And Richie used them all.
For once, the youngster didn't tire first. Connor's punches kept getting minutely weaker, each time, until Richie managed finally to stay on top. "Fight it, Connor. God damn it, shake it off," he yelled, shaking the struggling Immortal. Richie tried slapping him, but that only angered him more. Something went off like a light in Richie's skull. "Ramirez. You've got to take control. Fight the drugs. Please." Confusion registered on Connor's face, screwing up his features. Screaming gutturally, Connor tried pushing Richie off, unsuccessfully. Connor's eyes flew wide, face frozen in shock. Suddenly, small bolts of energy coursed up his arms, gathering in his hands, until they released into Richie's chest. The electrical push threw the redhead several feet.
By the time Richie crawled back to Connor, the Highlander's whole body was covered in sweat. Different eyes looked up at Richie, holding no recognition. "Ramirez?" Richie tentatively asked, answered by the peaceful smile and the slow closing of the eyelids. Within seconds they opened again, a Scottish Highlander once more.
"Richie?" Connor weakly asked, sweat still pouring off his face. Richie helped him to sit up. It was then they both heard the sound of a car approaching the other side of the house. The side Duncan was on. Richie lifted Connor into a standing position, mostly dragging him around the chateau. They turned the corner as the black sedan sped away, Duncan gone. Without stopping, Richie headed for his bike, praying Connor had enough strength to hold on. Leaving Connor propped over the Harley, Richie raced to the nearest katana. Duncan's. Then they were on the bike, speeding after the car, dust from the road billowing behind them. A chase Richie could not afford to lose.
Epilogue - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
In the space between Amanda and Gregor walked another Highlander, a poet and lover. A warrior as well. "I am Connor MacLeod of the clan MacLeod. I have answered my liege's call as another did a long time ago, named Gawain. A knight by virtue of his heart and soul, not his standing or training, forsaking his life to defend his king's honor. I am his champion by right. I am faith."
Part Five - Joseph Randall Dawson, Watcher
- - - - - Saturday, May 13, 2000 - - - - -
Antonio's was buzzing with the usual Saturday night crowd. In a secluded corner, a table of eight waited on their food. Liberally supplied with champagne and other beverages, they were in no hurry. Toasts had already been made, the sound of glass clinking resounding in the good cheer. It had been awhile since Richie had been at a dinner party, this being special because of the guests. Dawson visibly relaxed at the head of the table, joking with both Duncan and Gregor. Connor spent most of the appetizer detailing his recent trip to Richie. David and Angie, on Richie's other side, split their time between stories of Amsterdam and Amanda, being remarkable polite to the mortals.
The food arrived along with strolling musicians, adding a flair to the remarkable creations Chef Flippo had arranged for this graduation dinner. It was surprising with so many Immortals that conversation stayed in the recent past, giving David no clue he was dining with people older than his antique pocket watch. Joe led the chorus of requests for Richie's college stories as they finished the apricot crepes, coffee being quickly supplied to all. The graduate's bladder finally complained, causing the honoree to beg everyone's pardon for a quick trip to the restroom.
After calming his bladder down, Richie stopped for a moment on the terrace, overlooking Manhattan. The buzz warned him of an Immortal's approach, even before the sound of the door opening. {Bet it's Connor.} As usual, he was right.
The smirking Highlander joined him at the ledge, gazing at the city from the one hundredth fifty seventh floor of the Empire Tower. "Out for a bit of fresh air?" Connor casually asked, taking in a deep breath himself. "It wasn't long ago the air here could kill you."
"I still came, didn't I?" Richie dryly commented, as he grinned at Connor...
{ { { { { Friday, July 28, 1995 { { { { {
...sitting on the couch in Gregor's office. "Come on Richie, I'm serious. Run the shop so I can travel and buy stuff. I'm tired of New York," Connor pleaded.
"Duncan put you up to this, didn't he," was all Richie said, leaning against the darkroom door. He had been waiting for Duncan to pull such a stunt. {But to involve Connor? That's a real low blow.}
"He told me what happened, and he told me where you were. But everything else is the truth. I was already planning to ask you when I called him." Connor was running out of sales pitches, apparently not thinking it would be this hard to interest the young man in a job.
"Why me? I'm sure there are plenty of more knowledgeable people out there." Richie asked, trying to decide if he believed the Scotsman or not. {They can be so tricky.}
"You're almost family, you have experience, and you know my dirty little secret. Enough! Will you take the job or not? I won't beg," Connor stated, fed up with the hotshot.
"By the way, Jeremiah did mention he was looking on the east coast for universities with masters programs," Gregor injected, breaking his silence since this whole thing began. Richie trusted the photographer, but still it felt like a setup.
{Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained.} "Deal," he finally said, shaking hands with his new boss. "When do I start?" he asked, relieved to end his freeloading off Gregor.
Connor smugly reached in and pulled out two plane tickets. "Our flight leaves in three hours," he said, smirking at Richie's angry look. "Don't pout, little thief. One thing I learned in Dallas, I can read you like a book." Richie stood there...
} } } } } Saturday, May 13, 2000 } } } } }
...gazing at the city. Not feeling very chatty, Richie drove to the point. "What couldn't you tell me with everyone around? Something hit a snag in Amsterdam?"
Connor turned his head to look at the youth, face awash with the sorrow of bad news. He softly spoke. "Gawain is dead."
Richie stared out at the lights, almost as brilliant as the ones of Camelot so long ago, saying a silent prayer for the man who was once his squire. "Who?" was all he wanted to know.
"I did," Connor revealed. When Richie made no comment, he continued. "Someone called me in Amsterdam, requesting that I go to London. Once there, Gawain asked me to take his head. He was tired, Red. So very tired. He begged me for rest. I couldn't refuse."
Richie spoke before he could remove the sarcasm from his voice. "Couldn't, or wouldn't?"
"I couldn't," Connor answered, walking away from the precipice. "We had the same teacher, Ramirez. I couldn't turn my back on him. He was in such pain. And I was the only one alive he trusted with his Quickening."
Richie knew Gawain's mentor, not believing it was the same person as Connor's Ramirez. "Juan Ramirez was the Green Knight?" he asked, voicing aloud his rhetorical question.
"Aye," was Connor's response from across the terrace. "If it helps, I think Ramirez approved. I could almost hear him giving his consent."
"You don't seem surprised. Has it happened before? Hearing him, I mean," Richie asked, trying to sound casual. {Busted!}
"Sometimes. I think he helps me at important times. Oh, I know it's not real. But sometimes it lets me live with my choices. Enough, you have guests waiting. I just wanted to tell you about Gawain..." He opened the terrace door, motioning for Richie.
{I'm not crazy, guys!} Richie thought as he followed Connor back to the table.
/You're worried about that this late in the game?/
{Well... yes.} "Are we leaving?" he asked aloud, as the group at the table had gotten to their feet at his arrival. Coats were provided and they made their way to the elevator.
"We have a lot left to do tonight, young man," Dawson reminded him as he walked with Richie. "I'm not the spring chicken I used to be." They descended in the private elevator car, and walked across the massive lobby of the New Empire Tower. As they reached the glass entrance, Duncan handed a red ticket to Richie, everyone moving so that he encountered the valet first. The vested man smartly grabbed the ticket from Richie's hand, and within moments, a black Lambergini was deposited at Richie's feet, the door pivoting straight up. He longingly eyed it, not realizing anything until the valet deposited the keys in his hands. He turned around and looked, Duncan and Gregor grinning at his silent question.
"You didn't..." he started, grinning like a Cheshire cat. He had wanted one since long ago, in Paris. It was a fantasy quickly discarded, one he wasn't sure even Duncan knew about. "How am I gonna drive it in the city? No combustion engines allowed," he pointed out, referring to the Clean Air Act of 1998.
Duncan firmly grasped him across the shoulders, leading him down the side of the beauty. "Grace managed to add an electric motor, good for about sixty miles. Plug it in each night, don't joy ride in town, and switch to the gas engine after you get to the city limits, and you'll be fine. Now get going, we have a business meeting waiting," Duncan added, giving his friend a nudge to the driver's side.
"Thanks," Richie gushed at Duncan and Gregor. "Anyone want a lift?" Amanda looked interested, until Duncan whispered in her ear. Duncan and Gregor passed as they had ridden in it that afternoon. Joe Dawson broke the stalemate, guilelessly sliding into the passenger seat, placing the cane in his lap as he slid the door down.
"I guess age does have it's reward," the Watcher commented before the 'whoosh' of the door seal cut him off. With a hum, they were off in the traffic, the car doing zero to sixty in five seconds flat. Inside what Richie considered a cockpit, he was all alone with Dawson for the first time in a year and a half, not counting that morning's awkward pleasantries.
"You're a whole lot friendlier after a few hours sleep," Richie said, starting the ball rolling. He hoped he wouldn't strike a gutter.
"Yes, I am. Thanks for the use of the bed," Dawson answered, watching the city pass by the tinted windows. He swung around to look at Richie, smiling. "I had forgotten how comfortable it was."
"No regrets?" Richie said, again avoiding the chitchat he considered useless with his friends.
"About coming? No. About Jeremiah? Other than introducing the two of you? No. Things happen. People die, Immortals included. That shouldn't cripple me anymore than my legs did," he replied, stroking his prosthesis.
Richie didn't take the easy way out. "I'm just sorry you had to trade my life for his."
"Who could have known, back then?" Dawson asked, as Richie suddenly blared his horn...
{ { { { { Sunday, March 19, 1995 { { { { {
...of the car going by as they kicked in the double doors. Framed against the afternoon light was Richie and Connor, swords ready. "I don't think so," Richie announced to the stunned pair in the foyer of the French villa. Kiem Sun smiled as he lowered the blade, his assistant still struggling with the bound and kneeling Duncan.
"Mr. Ryan, Mr. MacLeod, so good of you to come visit," the Chinese intoned, smiling. "You've saved me much trouble." He rapidly added a word in Chinese, his smile faltering as the Immortals showed no apparent effect. He looked down right nervous as they descended the four steps from the double doors.
His assistant flung Duncan to the floor, drawing his own sword at their approach. Kiem Sun darted for a side door. Richie and Connor spilt up, Connor staying with his clansman, Richie chasing the impeccably dressed Oriental. He followed the curving corridor until he reached a back door, open to the fields behind the house. Seeing a flash of orange in the dense foliage, he gave chase.
Diving through the underbrush, he found himself face to face with a high brick wall, taller than he could jump. Moving to his left, he soon came to a small gate in the wall, made of black bars. Once through it, he found himself surrounded by statues, pedestals and tombstones. {Holy Ground. That coward little shit!}
He found his prey calmly standing in the middle of the cemetery. As Richie approached stealthily, the tormentor waged his finger and shook his head. "Holy ground, Mr. Ryan. No Immortal may fight here. And here I shall remain, until my servants arrive, too many for you to overcome. It seems I win, Mr. Ryan." Kiem Sun smiled at his brilliance, not believing for an instant Richie would break the sacred rules.
Richie didn't stop. As he got within feet of the Chinese, he raised his sword.
{Stop it, boy. You can't break this rule.}
[Monsieur, listen to Mako. This is madness...]
/Richie, please stop, you're scaring us.../
"Fuck the rules," he said, neatly severing Kiem Sun's head from his meticulously dressed body. The smile was still plastered on the face as it fell and rolled among the graves. Richie turned and began walking to the gate, each step a struggle against fatigue. The first bolt of Quickening caught him square in the back, sending him reeling. He was proud that he kept on his feet in the first few seconds, not falling to his knees until it became too strong. It was so powerful, he was flattened to the ground, his face in the dust. And then it was over, a feeling of relief rushing through his body after the Quickening had finished. He was waiting for the mental welcome he would give this Immortal, surprised when he felt another small shock of energy along his legs. He tried to rise to his hands and knees, but two more small shocks weakened his arms, sending him back to the ground. Small bolts, like ant bites, flicked to him from the graves, randomly hitting parts of his body. As the seconds passed, they became more numerous, irritating in their own way. By the first minute, the agony was almost unbearable as small jabs continued to pierce his skin. A general feeling of heat joined the pain, like his skin was burning from the sun. A cry of pain left his lips, his body trying to curl into a fetal position as each new shock sent a different muscle twitching.
An hour later, or so it seemed, Connor and Duncan found him, the small bolts of energy continuing to course over his body. They saw blisters forming on the exposed skin as he convulsed uncontrollably. His voice was gone, leaving a noiseless sob to escape from his charred lips. Duncan reached for him, jumping back as bolts menaced the contact. They managed to get Connor's trench coat around Richie, Duncan carrying him to the villa despite the pain. From there, they made a quick phone call.
It seemed like an eternity before they slipped him carefully into the back of the black sedan, driving through the streets of Paris. Richie never remembered them stopping, nor entering a theater, closed for afternoon.
Joe Dawson was waiting on them, motioning to a desk on the stage. Duncan deposited the energized body on it, moving away as quickly as possible. Dawson shrugged his shoulders helplessly, not knowing what to do. They argued for hours, as Richie moved less and less. Dawson angrily threw up his hands and went into the office grabbing the phone.
"Jeremiah, it's Joe. Yes, I know what time it is. I need you to do something for me. It's important. Are you ready to write this down? Good. Go to my house. Open the safe behind the bookcase and get books one, two and the one labeled 'M'. Bring them here. Yes, Paris. It's important. A jet will be waiting at the airport. Someone will meet you at this end. Godspeed." He hung up the phone and looked at Duncan. "He'll be here as quickly as possible. All we can do is wait."
"Can Richie last that long?" Duncan asked, arms crossed, feeling helpless. They looked out the door, seeing Richie twitch even less.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Duncan waited at the deserted airstrip, looking at his watch for the twentieth time. Impatiently, he took up pacing again. Just as he was giving up, the lights of a small plane glided in for a landing. Duncan ushered the passenger into the car, not pausing for a look. Once he had gotten the car on the road and up to speed, he took the time to evaluate Richie's savior. The stranger was young, almost Richie's age. Rumpled black hair and spectacles gave him a bookish look. He clutched a bag possessively, as if not trusting Duncan at all. They spoke not a word when they arrived at the theater, the stranger quickly entering.
Duncan walked in just as Dawson finished greeting the arrival. Jeremiah handed over the ancient texts as he was introduced to the two Immortals. Then the studying began. Several of the stories in books one and two were interesting, only a handful remotely relevant. The book marked 'M' Dawson reviewed, letting no one else near it. After two hours of careful search, only a handful of clues pointing to a solution had been found. Jeremiah was the one who suggested Richie was like a generator with too much power, needing to be bleeded, but Dawson formulated the plan. Not in so many words, he suggested Duncan and Connor accept small doses of energy and then absorb them. He couldn't back up his theory with proof, only guesses. Dawson finally had to send Jeremiah out for food, explaining that the youth knew nothing of Immortals.
Duncan and Connor tried, but only got burned for their effort. Nothing apparently changed with Richie, other then he had stopped breathing long ago. His skin had started peeling, oozing blisters bursting of their own accord, blood seeping out his nose and mouth. When Jeremiah returned, he asked why they couldn't bleed the excess into the city power lines. Duncan brutally tore apart a lamp, testing the theory with the thin power cord. The resultant discharge melted the plastic and dropped the Immortal in agony. Connor suggested using the cables to the stage lights, these able to carry higher currents. In moments, they were ready, Duncan again sacrificing himself to test the theory.
The energy blew every light in the building, shattering the lights over the stage. Sparks rained down on the participants as the speakers in the walls blew. Outside, four city blocks were ravaged, destroying lights and fuses. In moments, the discharges were weaker as they coursed over Richie. They were gone in ten minutes. By noon the next day, he was breathing again.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"This proves it, Duncan. You've got to let me assign somebody to watch him."
"He won't go for it Dawson. You know the Watchers give him the creeps. Even you."
"I don't have a Watcher in mind."
"Who, then?"
"Jeremiah."
"The kid? What's so special about him? Why would you trust him to watch Richie?"
"He's my son."
} } } } } Saturday, May 13, 2000 } } } } }
The two men sat in the car, silent as they sped through the streets of New York, each lost in their private thoughts. They arrived at 'MacLeod's' and waited for the others before entering. On the front step, a package of yellow waited. The card simply said 'Richie'. Quickly tearing into the gift, Richie found himself staring at a small purple dinosaur with a shirt that said 'Press Here' on its stomach. Dawson began laughing when he realized what it was. The rest of the group arrived as Richie pressed, the night air filled with "I love you... You love me..."
Gregor laughed as he grabbed the stuffed toy from Richie, barreling through the showroom to the elevator. The two Immortals struggled as it rose, leaving their companions waiting on the first floor. They crashed out of the cage on the top floor, Gregor successful at keeping Richie away. With a flourish, the photographer threw the doll in the air, drawing his sword with his other hand. "There can be only ONE!" In midair he struck, decapitating the helpless dinosaur, send the parts flying over the walkway. Together they looked over the edge, seeing the headless doll throw sparks like a miniature Quickening. Laughing, they threw themselves over the railing, dropping to the main floor.
"Augie, that was a gift! How could you?" Richie asked, kicking the pieces with his foot.
"Tis' a bad Immortal, Red, my boy. See the sparks? Would have taken your head in your sleep, mark my words," Gregor replied, piercing the body with his sword again. As the electrical shock traveled up the metal, Gregor cursed, dropping the sword. From above, the others just stared at them from the walkway, muttering comments.
"How long have you left them alone, Connor? They need help."
Richie grabbed the head and tried to jam it to the body. "You killed Barney! What am I going to tell Janice?" He made a mental note that Gregor would tell Janice, and Richie would be in L.A, or Paris. {Yeah, Paris.}
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Seven sat around the dining room table, David having left to collect the children. In front of each a portfolio lay open, copies of the prospectus Richie had sent with his graduation invitations. "To summarize," Richie began, "I believe I've proven that the human race will destroy itself in fifty years unless two things occur. One, people decide not to have kids, or two, we find more real estate. My outline proposes a plan that will get us off this planet by 2050. Any questions so far?" he asked, briefly glancing at each person around the table.
Duncan voiced his concern first, "You mentioned Grace helped prepare these figures? What kind of accuracy are we looking at here?" He rifled through the first couple of sheets, looking for the answer himself.
"I'll answer that," Dawson broke in. "I've seen similar figures. Not so much the same time frame, but the fact that humankind must leave the planet soon or choke on itself. Everyone agrees."
"Any more? Moving along," Richie said, turning to the second section. "I propose establishing a corporation to accomplish that. The timetable on page five shows a rough estimate of a viable space station in orbit by 2010, a moon base or such by 2020, and the preliminary exploration and terraforming of Mars by 2025." The rest hurriedly scanned the outline.
"Why Mars?" Amanda broke in. "What about Venus?"
"Cost," replied Richie. "I have the figures in another proposal. Can I give it to you after the meeting?" She smiled at him as she shook her head yes, then returned to scanning the papers. "Moving on... The company's name - Camelot, Incorporated, naturally." Richie let loose a wide grin as he named the company.
Duncan interrupted again. "What about money? Personal finances? Say, mine?" he asked, looking like he wanted to add a comment on Richie's finances as well. Richie motioned for Gregor to field that one.
"It's simple, really. We're siphoning off the assets of dead Immortals from their Swiss bank accounts," he explained. Several people looked as if they were going to ask the hows and whats, so he continued. "We're using one of Jeremiah's algorithms, based, I believe, on the Watcher's encryption program." Dawson looked stunned. "Out of thirty-five Immortals, we've collected about $265 million. Our goal is $2 billion by year end."
"Board of Directors and major shareholders as follows," Richie plowed ahead, not wanting to give anyone time to argue until it was all said. "Chief Financial Officer, Duncan MacLeod." When his former teacher opened his mouth to protest, Richie added, "Come on, Mac. It's the same thing you do for yourself, only with a few more zeros on the end. Vice-President in charge of acquisitions, Amanda. Including the second story kind she does so well." She acknowledged his compliment and accepted the offer. "Chief Information Officer, Joe Dawson. You've run the Watcher's for twenty years, so I know you're capable," he said, forestalling the mortal's protest. Turning to the other mortal in the room, "Angela Davis, Personnel Director. Someone has to make sure the company keeps going after we all kill each other off. Connor will act as liaison in our various headquarters, Amsterdam, New York, the Bahamas... Grace declined any stock, but agreed to head up the science division, and Fitz said he'd help as he was able. That leaves Greg, who will act as our 'MacGyver'," he stated, referring to a television character, famous for his multi-purpose usefulness. No one questioned who would head this merry little mad house. He wound up his presentation. "I know this is a lot of information. Many of the details have yet to be ironed out. What I need is each of you to commit to this. Because if we start this, there's no turning back."
He waited as each of the others thought about his proposal. A few took hardly any time, Gregor giving his hand a squeeze as he smiled his encouragement, Angie and Connor gravely nodding at his glance. Amanda leaned back, commenting, "I followed him once, I can do it again," as she shut her portfolio.
That left two, sitting side by side at the opposite corner. Joe Dawson looked up first, eyes misting. "He would have said yes without hesitation, Richie. How can I do any less?" Richie nodded, understanding the silent thoughts as well. That left Duncan.
Richie remembered Duncan's eyes the best, followed by the hair and the accent. In them, he had seen a range of emotion, as well as memories Duncan sometimes shared. Those orbs now held him, echoes of ruling the world flashing in their depths. For so long Duncan had just existed, not really living. Not since Tessa. Richie hoped this would give Duncan a reason, if only he would take it. "Yes," came the final word, racing across the table, binding the seven in a circle of purpose. One Richie planed to take a step further this night.
"We're agreed. I have preliminary proposals for your inspection, and I'd like to set a possible board meeting in a few months. Meanwhile, I'd like Amanda to start working on getting the plans for NASA's aborted space station, Freedom, and Connor can start on opening offices around the world." For a moment, the Arthur part of him disappeared, and he looked every bit the teenager Duncan had taken in. "Thank you, folks. This means a great deal to me." Then champagne was brought out, bubbly flowed, and the party moved into full swing. Angie bowed out early, needing to get home to her family. Amanda started dancing with anyone willing by the piano. As time passed, Richie quietly moved to the circular room, needing to converse with other voices in private. {Only one thing remains, folks.}
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The Immortals had quietly left, thinking Dawson to be asleep in Richie's bed. He looked down from the windows, watching their cars speed off toward Central Park, and the site of the ancient stone circle, eroded to dust before even the Vikings had arrived. He picked up the cordless phone and dialed....
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Travis quickly moved through the loft, searching for the note Dawson had signaled he had left. The Watcher felt no buzz, heard no sound, as the Immortal slowly crept up behind him, grabbing him around the neck, twisting suddenly until the neck snapped. Travis' body was cold when the answering machine started, playing the corny message by the two who lived here.
* BEEP *
"Uh, hello? This is for, ah, Richard Ryan. I'm Andrew Bullock, an administrator here at the New York Medical Center. There's been an accident. The Russell family was involved in an accident. You're the only name we found in their belongings. I need you to call me as soon as you get this message. Steven and Marla are both dead, but we managed to save the baby. Please call me soon..."
Epilogue - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
One space remained. They waited an eternity for their missing member. They contemplated their tasks as well as the others. Soon, a soft sound penetrated the stillness. Shuffling forward came an older gentleman, silver haired, the thump of a cane in cadence with the steps of prosthetic legs. Surprise registered on several Immortals, for the newcomer was not one of them. "I am Joseph Randall Dawson, directed by Darius to complete this gathering. Blessed by him named Merlin and given the secrets of the universe, I am prophet and soothsayer. The stars my informers, the hearts of man my truth, I come as chaos. I am the Watcher. I am knowledge.
Richard stepped forward and plunged Excaliber into the ground at the center of the light. Sparks of energy cascaded through it. "The time is at hand. The Knights of the Round Table are met again. So be it."
The End.
Kevin is the author of 33 other stories.
This story is part of the series, The Possibilities Trilogy. The previous story in the series is Changes. The next story in the series is Choices.
This story is part of the series, The Possibilities Trilogy. The previous story in the series is Changes. The next story in the series is Choices.
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