Date: Mon, 31 Oct 1994 01:43:51 -0500 Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "Kevin H. Robnett" Subject: ALL THAT'S LEFT, Part 3 of 3 "You really want to know?" the other asked, eyes wide with madness. Duncan nodded slowly, never daring to blink. That seemed to please Ian. "They found me, Duncan. Breathing," he said. Without preamble he turned, looking away. Into the past. "I guess they thought it would be fitting to use me like the cattle we had stolen. I dragged their plows, crushed their grain, pulled their carts. They planned to work me to death. They succeeded, several times. I kept praying you'd come, but . . . " Ian faced Duncan again, face alive with hate. "You never did." "I didn't know," Duncan said, dropping his gaze from the fiery stare. "You never even looked, now didja?" Ian sarcastically asked. "I saw you once, up a hill, running behind Connor," he continued, his voice low. "But after twenty years, I gave up hope. Then I just tried to survive. I was a demon to them, Duncan. They tried to kill me. Burning, hanging, burying. They didn't waste food on me, barely gave me enough to survive. And work. But one day, they got careless . . . I killed them all." Duncan couldn't believe what he was hearing. All that time he trained with Connor, he never guessed. "How long?" he finally asked in the silence. "Seventy years," came the answer, driving like a knife into Duncan's heart. "I didn't find you for a century after that," Ian continued, the words coming quicker. "I've watched every fight you've had, learned every move as you perfected it. I've spent all my time imitating you." The pieces clicked. "To take my head," Duncan volunteered. Ian beamed. "Dinna' you learn back then I was no' like the others, Duncan, me lad?" he quipped, with a thick Scottish brogue. He laughed, continuing in his normal voice. "My revenge will not be so swift." He pivoted, pointing his claymore at Richie's prone form. "I plan to take that one's head. If I succeed, you go through what's left of your life knowing he died because of your failure. If you stop me . . . Well, I've told him enough that he'll want to know the whole story. How you treat your friends. He strikes me as the unforgiving type, don't you think?" Like some cardboard villain, Ian laughed after playing his last card. Duncan boiled it down to two choices. {Kill Ian, or watch him kill Richie.} He looked up, finally meeting Ian's stare. "I won't fight you, Ian. There's so much . . . " "Spare me," the other said, turning his back to the Highlander, walking toward Richie. Once there, he raised his claymore, both hands on the hilt. With a yell, he swung down at the redhead's exposed neck. *CLANGGGGG* Duncan could barely believe his sword would stop the blow. If fact, the force of it drove the point of his katana an inch into the cement. Ian's gaze moved up the blade and arm to Duncan's face, smiling. "I said to leave him out of it," Duncan quietly menaced. Ian just laughed, freeing a hand, elbowing Duncan in the face. With a start, the Highlander fell back, overjoyed when Ian turned away from Richie. One could hardly call it a fair fight. Everything Duncan tried, Ian could counter. It didn't help that neither one really wanted to kill the other. Each, for his own reasons, wanted to disarm, possibly disable, the other. But still Ian held the upper hand. Too many cuts on Duncan's left arm weakened it, leaving him only one arm to wield his sword. Ian proved the faster as well, several of Duncan's swings slicing empty air. One even cut through a metal pipe, one of the few working parts of the heating system. But none found their mark. Steam poured from the angled cut, shooting skyward like a fountain. The white mist settled to the floor, hiding the cement, even Richie's unmoving form. Duncan knew he was out-matched. He tried playing possum, but Ian only slowly walked back to Richie, again threatening the younger Immortal. Duncan struggled to stand, charging Ian and barreling both of them over the prone shape. It was an effort for Duncan to get up a second time, the sinking feeling he was going to lose this battle settling in his stomach. But the price for this loss wasn't his head. He'd lose the last remains of his tattered family. And always know Ian could come for his Quickening at any time. With a surge of determination, Duncan tried one final move, easily blocked and countered. His katana slipped from his grasp, his palm sweaty from the fight and the steam. With a snarl, Ian kicked his legs out from under him, sending him sprawling to the floor, defenseless. This time he couldn't get up. His arms failed, his legs unsteady. Ian looked down, eyes alight with disdain. He turned in triumph, walking once more to Richie. "Ian . . . " Duncan feebly called. His boyhood friend came back, almost concerned. "Please, Ian . . . " Duncan gasped. "He's done nothing . . . Let him live. Torment me if you wish . . . He's only a boy . . . " The effort proved to much, the Highlander's lungs hurting with each syllable. Leaning over, Ian chuckled. "He's close to you. That's enough for me. Shall I tell him goodbye for you?" Again the laugh. Through the pain, Duncan drew what remained of his strength. With surprising speed, he drew his legs to his chest, planting his boots on Ian, and pushed with all his might. A look of surprise appeared as Ian flew back, not high, not fast. But enough to propel him backwards, the cut pipe suddenly sprouting from his chest as he was impaled on the steam-belching stake. Only the pillar behind him stopped his flight, the shock still on his face. It took a moment for Duncan to get to his feet, the agony overwhelming. As he stumbled to Ian, he saw the rivers of blood coursing down his front, pooling at his feet. A small flow appeared from his mouth, dripping off his chin. "Please," Duncan begged, "don't make me choose." Ian coughed, sending a glob of blood down his skin. "Me or him, Du . . . " Another cough, more blood appearing from his nose. It was getting harder to hear him over the noise of the steam. "But, you're my friend . . . " Duncan began, trying to wipe away the red liquid from Ian's face, without success. Ian weakly chuckled. "Your friend died that day. All I am is hate. Revenge." Miraculously, the blood stopped by itself, the cough not as deathly. "It took a long time for hope . . . " A breath. ". . . to die, for joy. Even love finally withered." The voice grew stronger. "Didn't it?" "Stop this," Duncan implored. Before the Highlander's eyes, he watched Ian heal, knowing this would never end. "Your pain is my life, Duncan MacLeod," Ian said, starting to pull himself off the pipe. "It's all I have left." Part of Duncan's mind was screaming at the necessity the other part performed. In years to come, he could not recall this moment, watching his sword neatly slice through flesh, bone, concrete. Watching the head of a ghost tip, fall to the floor. Feeling the lightning as it coursed along the pipe, jumping to his body, flooding his soul. Hearing what had to be his scream of rage, of loss, echo in the warehouse. Knowing what he had just done. ---------- It was dark, and quiet, as Richie made his way across the warehouse, dropping the length of rope to the floor. He followed the slight noise, zeroing in on the figure still crouched on the ground. He gently knelt, placing a hand on the quivering shoulder. "Come on, Mac. Let's go home," the redhead said. The Highlander shook his head, sending his loose hair flying. "N... No," was all he replied. His body still shivered, his arms crossed, as if holding in his chest. He never looked up, even as Richie stood, making his way to the convertible. He returned, unfolding a blanket kept for emergencies, draping it over Duncan's shoulders. The Highlander's hands clutched at the cloth, drawing it closer, enveloping himself in it. A sigh. Richie leaned in, not wanting to speak louder than necessary. "I'll wait at your place, my friend. Don't be too long . . .. " And he was gone, softly padding away, starting the rental car and driving away. Leaving Duncan with the oh-so-vivid memories. And the grief. ---------------- The warrior stood beside the ruins, next to the lump of weed-covered earth. The only marker this grave had ever borne was Ian's claymore, rusted away to almost nothing. It had taken the Clan's historian weeks to find record of this place. The wind whispered around the crumbling tower, weaving in and out of the rocks, carrying the sound of boys playing, long ago. In the distance, the thunder rumbled, the dark clouds visible on the horizon. "You were wrong, Ian. After the hate is gone, you're still in here. What do I do with the past, Ian? When am I free from it? When do the memories go away?" The Highlander walked away as the discordant weather approached, leaving the eternal question lingering over the grave, like a specter. The storm arrived, the pounding rain soaking the grave, the lightning igniting the dark sky. And over the patter of raindrops, and the roar of thunder, the wail of unearthly bagpipes softly wafted through the ruins, finally fading into silence. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Well, Happy Halloween, folks! Here's my treat so NO TRICKS!!! (Actuall, the gremlins have messed with my mailbox, so I have a new address. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it! And *please* send comments!! (Good, or bad) For good words hearten and stregthen, bad words help re-evaluate, but silence only discourages. Until next time! Kevin H. Robnett Kevin HR@aol.com (till Dec. 1, 1994) and Hobert@aol.com (after Dec. 1, 1994) =========================================================================