Date: Mon, 31 Oct 1994 01:43:33 -0500 Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "Kevin H. Robnett" Subject: ALL THAT'S LEFT, Part 2 of 3 < < < < < < < < < < < < < < < The younger paced on the other side of the fire, nervous. Duncan finally had enough, standing and planting his spear in the ground. "What's the matter, Ian. Why won' you speak to me?" The other stopped, staring over the flames. They were still two halves of one young spirit, though manhood had come long ago. Acclaimed war leader and his second they had become. And a fine pair of hunters. "We are friends, you and I?" Ian asked, concern written all over his face. "Wha' kind o' stupid question is that?" Duncan asked, storming around the fire. {It's bad enough the hunting is going badly, now he's asking childish questions!} "O' course, we're friends!" Ian turned away, still nervous. He clenched and unclenched his fists, turning around, a resigned look on his face. "I asked Colleen to be my wife, Duncan." Silence descended over the campfire. "She agreed. It's done." At first, Duncan couldn't believe what he was hearing. {Ian and . . . Colleen? They wouldn't!} Then came denial, followed by anger. {How could they?} He turned, wanting to strike out at Ian but unable. It seemed best to leave for the moment. Duncan MacLeod grabbed his hunting spear, and disappeared into the night. The warrior released his rage to the forest. "Colleen is mine!" he exclaimed to the night, knowing he had done nothing to win her affections. She was always there, just as Ian had always been. It was his future to marry her, not Ian's. "He betrayed me!" he yelled. But the fact remained Ian had won her, fair and true. Because Duncan was a fool was no reason to destroy their friendship and Colleen's happiness. The night was cold, and living alone was even colder. In the end, he would survive, and find another, and his two loves would be happy. It was much later when he returned to the fire, the logs burnt to embers. Ian sat close, the red glow lighting his tormented face. He flinched as Duncan drew near, waiting just outside the light. "How goes the night, kinsman?" he asked, not looking up from the coals. Duncan grimaced, afraid he was already too late. "Cold, my friend. An' very lonely. May I warm myself by the fire?" Ian stood, gesturing to the clearing. "You are always welcome, brother. Come and be warmed." Much later, when the fire was almost dead, and the two hunters were covered in furs, Duncan realized Ian was awake as well. The elder moved his head closer to the other. "Forgive me, Ian. I have no right to be angry." "Sleep, Duncan," Ian said, turning away. "In the morning this will seem a dream, an' we will be ourselves again." Duncan yawned, slowly drifting to sleep. "An' Colleen will still be . . . " > > > > > > > > > > > > > > "...up at your cabin for a little bit, and you're not listening to a word I'm saying," Richie said, giving a disgusted huff as he stood, taking his empty plate to the sink. Duncan noticed his own was still full, the food cold. Richie's plate clattered in the sink, joined by the crash of silverware. The redhead was still angry when he came back, sitting on the edge of the coffee table across from Duncan. "Is this about an Immortal?" he asked. Duncan shook his head. "No." He wondered how much he wanted to say to this man who reminded him of Ian. But that part of his life he still kept locked away. "It's about . . . before I became an Immortal . . . " The Highlander's words trailed off into silence. Richie looked like he could spit. "And you're not gonna tell me anything." The quiet was answer enough. Tired of the games, Richie got up, making his way to the door by the elevator. Stopping in the little hall, he turned back. "What about letting me use your cabin for awhile?" Duncan took a moment to puzzle together what he had missed. "It's yours," he answered, envisioning a campfire long ago. "Come by in the morning, and I'll have the keys for you." The sound of the door shutting told him Richie had left, the buzz fading away to nothingness. Duncan berated himself as he carried his plate to the kitchen, dejectedly dumping the cold food into the trash. {So much for celebrating.} -------------------------- It was dark and quiet, but the night was not a peaceful one for Duncan. Tossing and turning in the bed, unable to still the voices the past dredged up. A time long ago, one voice he had thought he had buried. The pipes still called, the ghosts never resting. The sounds . . . < < < < < < < < < < < < < < < ...of preparation for battle all around him. They were expecting him to signal the march any second, but he had to wait. His guilt called for no less. Not knowing quite what to do, he fiddled with his kilt again, readjusting the belts. "An' what are you waitin' for?" Ian asked, appearing suddenly out of the fog. He was also clad in battle gear, answering Duncan's summons. "No' for me. Surely no' for a.... what did you call me?" Duncan released the breath he was holding, his hopes dashed as he saw his kinsman's eyes. There was no forgiveness, only anger. He cursed his own stupidity the night before. The night he drunkenly revealed to all the fighting men his friend's inability to conceive a child. His boasting that Colleen married the wrong man five years ago. {Not even a man.} He never noticed Ian in the door until it was too late. Even now he had no answer for his friend. Ian drew closer. "Care to gloat agin? Dinna' you do enough last eve? The cattle sit; our families are starving. Do your duty." The fiery Scot whirled, storming toward the war party. "Ian . . . " Duncan called. The other spun. "As war leader, I will fight for you. Die, if need be. But dinna' ever call my name again, clansman. Or, by the gods, I'll remove tha' flapping tongue from your mouth." > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > "IAN . . . " Duncan called again into the dark. Exhausted, he fell back onto the bed, no answer returning. He was alone. His skin was cold, and wet from his sweat. Tessa's warm body was missing, Richie's faint buzz gone. Even Charlie's voice didn't echo up the elevator shaft. All alone. He felt strange, realizing the last glimpse he had was not of his childhood friend on the field of battle, but the bullet torn body of Richie, lying dead in the street. {I'm doing it all over again.} -------------------------- Morning light shone through the dojo's windows as Charlie was giving some pointers to Jill. He took a moment to comment as Duncan jogged in, running in place right inside the doors. "Well, man. This is a first. I'd never pick you for a morning person, MacLeod." "You haven't . . . known me . . . for long . . . " Duncan answered around his puffing. "Richie . . . come by . . . ?" Charlie gestured around the room. "Not yet, man." He came closer to the bouncing man. "But that producer lady called again. She's very interested . . . " Charlie paused until Duncan gave him a wary look and a frown. "About using the place," Charlie finished, holding his hands raised in mock surrender. Duncan took off slowly for the elevator, not stopping his exercise. "If he shows up . . . I'll be in the shower . . . " With a jerk of the strap, the elevator gate dropped, the retreating form of Charlie showing between the bars as the lift rose. Once in the shower, he stopped pretending. Pretending his life was fine, his head didn't hurt, and hot water was all he needed. He let the tensions drain as the pounding water soothed his muscles. Soaking his hair, he toyed momentarily with the thought of cutting it all off. But that wouldn't help anything. It was a relief when he finally felt the buzz. {Thank you, God.} He turned off the water, quickly drying himself off, wrapping the towel around his waist as he fumbled for the doorknob. "Richie, I'm sorry about . . . " He stopped when he saw the empty room. Unconcerned, he grabbed sweat pants, hopping on one leg toward the elevator as he drew them on. Below, Charlie was still helping Jill, glancing over as the elevator stopped. Duncan met him partway into the dojo, looking around. "Where's Richie?" the Highlander asked, trying to peer around the few bodies working out. Charlie looked bemused at his boss. "He hasn't shown up," the black man replied, suddenly worried at Duncan's confused frown. "There's a reporter asking about you, though. He's using the phone . . . " Charlie gestured to the office, both men turning to stare at the empty space. "He was right there, man." The buzz faded, frightening Duncan as he raced to the office door. Once inside, he rushed to the open windows, hearing Charlie right behind him. No cars, no people. No trench coated figure with a sword. And especially no Richie. The rolodex drew his attention, the cards open to Richie's apartment and phone number. Nervous, he leaned on the edge of the desk, quickly dialing Richie's number. A busy signal. {Great!} Without an explanation to Charlie, Duncan ran for his katana. -------------------------- The Highlander knocked on Richie's door a third time, still not getting a response. With a furtive look to either side, he slipped the pick out of his jacket. The old lock presented little problems for Amanda's tricks. With a click, he was in, quickly glancing around the room. A duffel bag was on the sofa, unzipped, full of clothes. A backpack was on the floor next to it. On the kitchen counter, the phone sat off the hook, a note with a list of food items under the receiver. The bed had been made. {Or not slept in . . . } It wasn't until he found the rapier, still hidden in the closet, that he started worrying. {He could have just forgotten it.} Once he was back in the car, he mentally ticked off places Richie would have gone. He tried Angie's place, the park where Mr. Stubbs usually was, even the motorcycle shop. A call to Charlie didn't do much good. No one had seen him at the basketball court where he usually hustled. It was well after lunch before he found the courage to drive by the antique shop, boarded up and empty. A stop at the grocery store produced no results, as did the bar where Greta plied her trade. It was almost dusk by the time he gave up, returning to the dojo. He was surprised the lights were out, deciding Charlie maybe had an idea. {I knew I should have called this afternoon.} The doors were locked, the dojo empty. Hoping the black man had left a note, he fumbled in the dim light to the office, tripping in surprise on the unconscious Charlie. Reaching from the floor, he switched on the office lights, startled at the bruise on the side of the black man's head. He turned for the desk, finally seeing the large red letters painted on the wall. 'WAREHOUSE'. A closer examination showed the blood used to paint the letters had dried long ago. All that blood. Just like . . . < < < < < < < < < < < < < < < < . . . a simple livestock raid on a neighboring clan. The MacLeod war party was easily defeating the old caretakers, almost child's play. Duncan's excitement and the thrill of battle drove all the hesitations about Ian from his mind. The lust for living, the taste of blood, overrode all other pleasures. Duncan didn't worry when two younger men approached from the other clan's village. But another two, then four more arrived, young and fresh to join them. Suddenly the tide was turned, more MacLeods on the ground than standing. The battle party was being whittled away as Duncan watched Ian get his head bashed in across the field. Trapped by two opponents of his own, he could only scream his vengeance, watching in terror as his friend fell to the ground. Distracted, his opponent drove a sword deep into Duncan's gut, the pain bringing him back to his fight. Wounded and sorely pressed, he quickly collapsed to his knees, the wet blood gushing from his stomach. He heard his uncle yell, knew the riders approached, felt himself being lifted onto a horse. Then the MacLeods were away, retreating from the fight, Duncan vainly trying to glimpse Ian among the dead. Ian, who had no family to rescue him. He only had Duncan, who left him behind. Bouncing along, he watched his kinsmen withdraw - knowing they would be followed home. > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > Duncan could feel the two Immortals from his car, imagining one to be a very scared Richie. He slammed the convertible's door, an unneeded announcement of his arrival. The Highlander didn't bother hiding his katana, this being a very desolate area. {Perfect for training. Better for fighting.} A quick check of the rental car already parked revealed no clue to the identity of the Immortal holding his friend. The car had been rented that morning from the airport, according to the paperwork in the glove compartment. It bothered him that whoever it was knew enough to guess Richie could be used as leverage against him. {Felicia? She tried it before, *and* she knows about this place. St. Cloud? It has a certain flair. Richie could have told him . . . Though not willingly.} Walking into the large building, seeing the duo standing together, his attention was drawn to Richie first. Gagged, terrified, obviously bound by the way he was struggling with his hands behind him, the young man was physically unhurt. The other Immortal had an arm around Richie's neck, a claymore glittering in the last light of day resting on the redhead's shoulder. Duncan had to look twice, not believing who held his student. "Ian?..." was all he managed to utter. The dapperly dressed gentleman laughed, throwing Richie to the floor. The claymore blade dropped, again moving to Richie's neck. "You're . . . alive . . . " Duncan stammered. "Last time I checked." The voice was more clipped, English. The Scottish accent was totally buried under other lives. With disdain, Ian slung his sword on his shoulder, shuffling away from Richie without a concern. "It can't be. I saw you die," Duncan said, lost somewhere between now and then. {It's got to be a trick.} The other chuckled. "As I you. Well, fatally wounded. Really, Duncan, I'd thought you would have learned something by now." A half turn, and he started walking back to the bound Immortal on the floor. "Shall I tell you something . . . personal? So you have no doubts, of course." He stopped, right next Richie, turning to grin at the Highlander. "Say, how you left me behind that day?" Savagely, he kicked out, sending his boot into Richie's gut. "Or when you drunkenly blurted out details of my sex life?" Another kick, eliciting a moan from the redhead. "How 'bout Colleen . . . " He had drawn his foot back a third time when Duncan yelled. "STOP!" The other complied, grinning wider. "I take it you believe me?" Duncan frowned. "The Ian I knew wouldn't do this," he said, unsure at what to believe. "People change," Ian answered. "Especially after four hundred years." He spared the Immortal below him a glance. "I see some things stay the same. Still picking up strays?" That drew a flash of anger. "Leave Richie out of this. He's innocent," Duncan ordered. Ian calmly stepped over the prone body, taking the few steps needed to close with the Highlander. "Nobody connected with you is ever innocent. You exude your foibles everywhere you go." With contempt, he pivoted the claymore until it rested threateningly on Duncan shoulder. With a *clang*, Duncan angrily knocked it to the side with his katana. "What happened to you, Ian?" =========================================================================