Date: Sun, 5 Feb 1995 13:50:51 -0500 Reply-To: NancySSCH@AOL.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: Aloha Ch 3 p. 216-222 c 1995 N. L Cleveland Shonte stepped onto the edge of the crumbled wreckage. Picked her way, carefully, inexorably, towards them. A tall, stunning woman, with dark flashing eyes set in her ebony face. Determination etched across her countenance. A curved sword glittering in her hand. And the power of an ancient evil.....almost a god....inside her body. Commanding her soul. Reaching out towards them, towards both of them now....for the missing part of itself, that they now shared. Pressing down on both their souls, both their minds....reaching inside, struggling to take control. Even from this distance, it was like fighting a current that grew stronger, eddying around their ankles, then their knees. The tide was rising, the flood might wash away their identities, their very existence. Together, Jonathan and Duncan watched her...it.. come. Realizing, in tandem, their memories, their thoughts shared....that they had only a single choice, a single chance, for life. To take her on, together. Alone, even if they won, even if they defeated her...its....body, neither could stand against the force of this other's mind, neither could survive the Quickening with their identity intact. And even then, even joined as they were, they felt the power, its power, pulling at them. Pulling at the part of it, that traitorous part, inside them both. Even together, they might not be strong enough to survive. Even together, they might lose. <> Their thoughts were like an echo, inside. Hard to know where one began, the other ended. Where one identity began, another ended. Hard to distinguish the boundaries, between themselves...and this other.... The edge. The youth might give them the edge....joined to them, part of their defense, perhaps three could succeed where one, or even two, were doomed to fail. In the distance, faintly, Duncan heard sirens. The characteristic wavering wail of emergency vehicles, the high pitched police claxon and the lower muted howl of fire engines and ambulances....approaching from several directions. Although this area was primarily industrial, and deserted of workers this early on a holiday morning, still, someone must have heard the explosion, seen the smoke, the fire. They had little time to conclude their business here....little time to end this Immortal duel. Duncan and Jonathan moved, together, arms still linked, still touching...maintaining that vital contact, the shield, that split the concentration of power bearing down on them into still resistible parts. Scrambling over the jagged edges of the debris, stumbling, almost falling, catching themselves, catching each other, as the unstable rubble shifted and titled under their feet. Fighting the dizziness that swept across both their minds, as they struggled to achieve this so vital objective. Shonte still in pursuit. Moving towards them at at steady, determined pace. Her step measured, her footing secure. Her presence growing in their minds. They came, at last, to the corner of the collapsed building where the youth still struggled, his aura stronger now, his living, healed body still buried in the shattered wreckage. Shonte was moving faster, speeding her pursuit as if sensing their intent. As if sensing their plan and moving to forestall it. Duncan exchanged a glance with Jonathan, knowing that they had to take the chance. Had to let go. To shift the heavy rubble off the still buried Immortal, they needed both their hands free. Duncan dropped his grasp on Jonathan's wrist. Felt Jonathan's thoughts drop away as well. Felt the pressure of the other Immortal ease on his mind, and saw Raven stagger, almost fall, as he alone took the burden of his own defense again. And he, clearly, was the focus of that attack, now. They dug, tossing aside the bricks, the plaster lathe, the splintered boards and shattered tiles. Dug, furiously, racing time and fate and death. Uncovered a shoulder, then an arm. Cleared a space around the youth's head. His eyes wide, Richie gazed up at them, a smile crinkling their corners. Raven stared past him, his gaze turned inward, abstracted, as he fought his lonely inner battle, and his mind, his concentration, fell further from their side. Duncan watched him, anxiously, then turned his face to the youth, held out his hand to pull him up, welcoming, preparing to explain. "Son of a..... when I felt that aura, I thought I was a goner, for sure, Mac. " Richie reached up, grasped Duncan's extended arm and pulled himself out of the hole, chattering eagerly. "Boy, am I glad to see you guys. I thought it was that other one out here..." He glanced past Duncan at the rapidly approaching form of Shonte, and fell suddenly silent. Turned his stricken gaze to his mentor, his friend, as if asking what to do. As he sensed the threat, from Duncan's touch. Sensed the peril to them all. Duncan pulled Richie to him, roughly. Hugged him, once, relief, affection for this youth he'd made almost like the son he would never have, could never have, flowing through him. Then held the youth's arm, bare skin on bare skin, letting the Quickening carry his thoughts and plans and hopes for their final desperate strategy, to the young Immortal. Reached out with his other hand and guided Raven's too passive arm to Richie's side. Closed Raven's hand on the youth's other arm. Held Raven's hand closed, forced this newest, least experienced Immortal to join together with him, and with the youth. Felt Raven resisting, pulling away. His mind, his focus, almost gone, his will and identity almost a captive of the other, now. Duncan called out to him. Called him back, pulled him back, into their triad. Pulled him back, against his...against the other's... will. They were three. They were one. Richie/Duncan/Jonathan. Three and one. Facing one other, so powerful, this single, unstoppable, almost invincible one. Duncan pulled up his sword. Willed Jonathan to do the same. Felt Richie's will join with him in urging Jonathan on. Shonte and the one who rode her body were upon them, now. An eerie battle cry coming from her lips, a song, a chant of death. Her scimitar glittering in her hand, beginning its lethal arc toward Richie's unprotected throat. It was only her body, Duncan reminded himself. Not her mind. Not her soul. Not Shonte, at all. < Not the woman you knew . Not the woman you loved, Jonathan. Remember that. Not the woman you loved. Her killer. Not her. > He could not tell, could not hear himself, if he was connecting, was getting through to the other Immortal. If his argument was being understood. If Jonathan could distinguish the woman's body, from her soul's Immortal fate. Duncan's blade came up, to block Shonte's, as his feet shifted and slipped, the debris on which he stood tilting suddenly, throwing him off balance, marring the precision of his stroke. Desperately, he tried to correct, but it was too late. She slid her sword over and past his, slicing towards Richie, towards a Quickening that would destroy their tenuous defense. But Jonathan's katana flashed out, at the last instant, metal clashing on metal, blocking Shonte's deadly cut at the young Immortal's neck, forcing her blade down. Deflecting her stroke, this time. The youth could not defend himself. Not and remain connected with the other two. He was the center, the conduit of their chain. They were linked, were three, but each one still ruled their own bodies, each directed their own thoughts. Tied together, by their need to survive, they faced the power of this strange Immortal. Faced that part of itself, inside all of them now. Faced the part of themselves inside it. Duncan felt the sliding change in perception, the doubling of vision and understanding that had pulled Jonathan away, that had pulled him almost back, inside the other. It was like fighting himself, trying to attack this other Immortal Duncan felt it, and fought it, summoning his own Immortal companions, those he had defeated before, from inside himself, to lend him strength. To share his strength with Jonathan. With Richie. Although the youth had his own reserves, his own company of Immortal ghosts. Mako, and all the others who had come with him. Duncan knew how much they could help. Knew that Mako's added presence, alone, might tip the balance here, between victory and defeat. He could sense them, faintly, pressing in their uncounted legions, against his mind. Flickering on the edge of his consciousness. Peering across the ages, the centuries. Their thoughts slipping in and out, like small, darting minnows, in the stream of his mind. And the other, falling across them all like a huge, devouring shadow. She had two blades out now, a short, wicked looking knife in one hand, appearing as if from nowhere, cutting at Duncan with a low, quick thrust. He saw her move, had no time to bring his sword around, and caught the blade with his forearm instead, letting it sink deep, using his flesh and muscle and bone to hold, to trap her weapon, to keep her away from Richie, gritting his teeth against the pain, hoping to distract her, while Jonathan moved in to finish the kill. He hoped. Shonte's other blade, the long scimitar, flashed back up from the lower arc of its deflected sweep. Flashed up, even as Jonathan's katana continued its thrust and cut into, and through, her chest. Impaled, dying on her feet, but still alive, still animated by her lethal intent, she continued her stroke. Swung the blade up towards Richie and sliced into the soft, vulnerable place between the young Immortal's legs. Richie shuddered at the impact, too stunned to cry out, his breath exploding from his mouth in a short, strangled gasp. Duncan shared his pain, his shock, as it swept out, across the link they shared. Felt the youth's body shutting down, as his blood spurted in a bright red fountain across the shattered gray concrete. Watering the dust, with his life. Shonte's dying body swayed, wavering, as she fell to her knees in front of Duncan, the sword still buried in her....its... chest. The knife in Duncan's arm slipped loose and clattered to the ground, pulling a fresh gush of blood as it went, his katana following it, falling to rest on the debris, as his wrist lost all strength, his fingers all control, and he realized abruptly that Shonte's stroke must have severed a key nerve or tendon. It was up to Jonathan now. As if it had been fated, from the beginning. Up to Jonathan to face down the Immortal who shared his soul and heart. Duncan only hoped, prayed, that the new Immortal could, would, choose to finish it. And quickly, before the youth connecting the three of them slipped away. Before Richie died. Duncan could feel the youth's hand loosening its grasp on his wrist, could feel the chill in his mind and soul as Richie's consciousness faded, his aura flickering with his fading, dying life force. As Jonathan hesitated. Watching Shonte. Frozen. Entranced. The sirens shrill call growing every louder in their ears as the emergency vehicles drew ever closer. And in the distance, from the sky, another threat intruded. The thumpa-thumpa-thump of a helicopter, moving towards them, fast. "Hurry, damn it." Duncan snarled the order at the other Immortal, emphasizing it with a push, from his mind. Then he turned, for a moment, to see how far away this new player in their game was. To see if it was indeed the same helicopter in which he'd come to this ill-fated rendezvous. He turned, glimpsed a flash of red light crossing his eyes, identifying it instantly as a laser tracking scope. Staggered back, in that same instant, his body lifted with the force of the sudden explosive impact on his chest. Lifted and flung to the ground. His connection with Raven, with Richie, severed, as if it had never been. His mind with time for only one final thought before the hole punched in his chest pumped out his life and soul. * * * * * Jonathan was alone now. Alone with three dead Immortals, in a field of mortal corpses. Alone, except for the hovering helicopter, which threw up an opaque, choking screen of dust, inadvertently obscuring itself and hiding him in the debris cloud raised by the backwash of its rotating blades when it dipped too low. He heard bullets plucking at the air around him, shattering the concrete as they hit, splattering on the stone, burying themselves in the wood. None close enough to touch him, yet. But the chopper was rising, above the cloud, and he would soon be visible again. And dead. He pulled his blade out of Shonte's chest. Feeling, remotely a replay of the grief he'd felt, days ago, in Washington. Mourning what might have been. What she had been alone. What they might have built, together. Pushing the emotions, the feelings, aside. He no longer deserved to feel grief. Only humans were entitled to grief. To any emotion. He was no longer human. He had given up his claim to humanity long ago, when he became a tool for another's vengeance. He weighed his options. None seemed good. To take her head now, and lose his soul. Or wait. To die again. And lose his soul when she revived. He felt a stir, an aura emanating weakly from one of the others. Not Shonte. Her power was stilled, for the moment. For the moment, she....it.....was no threat to him. But as soon as she revived..as soon as the being inhabiting her body regained life, consciousness, and control, he was doomed. Doomed, as he had known he was, from that moment in Washington when he held her fallen form in his arms, and saw the alien, ancient entity peering back at him, from her eyes. Felt it, a part of him, inside his soul. And welcomed it. Welcomed it, inside. He could wait no longer. His will, his sense of purpose, were rapidly eroding. He had only borrowed that transient passion for life, for survival, temporarily, from his contact with MacLeod. He no longer cared, no longer felt anything, himself. His heart, his soul, were numb. Burned to ashes, like the clan members around him. Burned to ashes and dust, by the loss of everything he had ever valued in his life. He had run, before. Run from Shonte's fate and the fate she offered him. Now, he would no longer run. He no longer cared enough, to run. He had one last obligation to repay, one last debt. That was all. All that kept him going, now. And one last time, he would have to trust his own judgment. Despite all the disasters it had caused before. He hesitated. Unsure. He had been wrong so often. With such tragic, fatal results. He reached down inside for the last solid core, searching for the last inner faith, and strength, in himself. He simply had to trust that what he did would work. Was right. Was the only choice he had, was his last, final debt to humanity, to MacLeod, to mortals and Immortals alike. He would do the best he could, this one last time. He knelt, and clasped the hand of the boy. It was he who had revived. They connected, and the youth stretched out his other hand, grasping the flaccid arm of the still, unmoving, body that was, and would be again, MacLeod. Soon, he hoped. It would have to be enough. Shonte was stirring now, her thoughts reaching out in caressing, strangling tendrils to wind their way around Jonathan's will, insinuating itself into his consciousness. Subtly shifting his goals. Weighting his arms, slowing his thoughts. He found a reserve of inner calm, drew it from Richie, from those other lives, other ancient souls, inside the young Immortal. All that let him focus, and go on. There was simply no more time. Jonathan poised his blade, balanced it. To make the blow with one hand would be difficult, but not impossible. He could do it. The real question was, would he do it. He no longer trusted his own instincts. Had no faith in his own judgment or beliefs. Everything he had done in his life had turned to dust in his hands. Was this another doomed enterprise? Was this another disaster, waiting for his touch to come to fruition? It was MacLeod. Touching his mind, with his own. Touching his soul, with his. Urging him on. Weak, wavering, but there. Alive. Once more. As Shonte's body was alive. And inside him he felt her mind, her memories.stir, and cry out. While her form sat, slowly, pulling itself up from the ruined ground, before him. Her voice. She was there, inside him. He could see her. Feel her. Touch her. Smell her. Her cinnamon and cloves scent rose up around him, transporting him back to their idylls in the sun dappled room of her home. How could he kill the woman he had loved? How could he kill, again, another woman who had loved him? Like Aki. Like Andy. He was fatal to love. Fatal to all who loved him. To his parents. Truly a messenger of death. A child of death. He knew this sweet vision was the last, desperate trick of the other. Knew that Shonte was no longer there. No longer aware, or alive. But knowing, and acting on that knowledge....two different things.... The helicopter hovered directly overhead now. Its squat shape becoming clear as the dust around him settled. It rose and moved away. Hovered, to the side. He watched it, trying to distract his mind from what he was about to do. Watched it, the bird of prey, as a long black gun barrel pointed out of its open bubble window. Jonathan stared at the gun. Let it fill his mind with its promise of death. Let the black shape enter his soul, and hide his intentions from the Immortal using Shonte's form. He dared not think, dared not anticipate his own actions. He moved, without thought. Moved with a fluid, instinctive motion. Slashed out with his katana and took her head. And cried out in soul wrenching pain as his blade connected with her neck. Felt her head leave her shoulders, as if it was his own. Felt her death, as his own. Felt her Quickening....its Quickening....gathering itself like a massive thunderstorm above his head, and surround him. As he felt himself die, in her... He threw himself back, threw himself onto Richie's and Duncan's forms. Grabbing at their hands, at their heads, feeling their arms around him, feeling their life force, their vibrant pulsing selves, holding him on this side of death, keeping him from following Shonte to the other side...as the three of them huddled together like lost children facing a hurricane. The tang of ozone in the air, in the calm before the storm. The force of the Immortal's power washed over them, sending arcs of explosive energy into the sky. Outlining their bodies, in a glowing aurora. Freezing them together in a crackling field of light that filled their minds and bodies with indescribable pain, and ecstasy. That burned into their souls and burned their souls together, for all time. Above them, the helicopter glowed as the overflow of energy spat and sizzled along its shiny metal carapace. Dancing, whirling balls of fire flying from the tips of the rotor blades. The machine shuddered in the air, as the engine choked, and stalled. The excess power of the Quickening surging through its electrical system, fusing the wires, destroying the controls. Suddenly silent, it plunged to earth, a wingless, crippled bird, landing with a shuddering explosion at the edge of the debris. The noise, the wash of flames, were as nothing to the three Immortals, who were almost blind, deaf, and dumb to the world around them. Their eyes seeing only the blue fantastic light that glowed and pulsed around and through, within and about them, their whole being, whole concentration tied up in absorbing the power and strength and memories of this creature..this ancient, ravenous, eternally consuming creature who had died. Died, and released everything, everyone it had ever been. Absorbed in trying to remain themselves, in trying to remember, to continue, to be. Eternity. Timeless emotion. Pain. Love. Hate. Death. Lust. Rage. Envy. And the eternal quest, for life. For eternal, endless life. All there. To be lived and relived, again and again. In an infinite number of ways, from an infinite number of perspectives. There seemed to be no end to this Quickening. No end to the minds and thoughts and memories that flowed from this other, into the three. Into him.... Jonathan had only glimpsed, only touched lightly, before, the power and depth of the memories and emotions, that the Quickening imparted. He had no reserves, no other perspectives save his own, from some thirty four years of human life, to fall back on. He could feel his own identity slipping away, in this overwhelming flood. Could feel himself begin to wander, as his sharp keen sense of his own self faded, disappeared. As he became one with the forces flowing through him, became himself that fearful, awesome other....feeling the power, the hunger, ravening through him. Feeling the centuries of life, of deaths uncounted and lives subsumed in the endless, eternal quest for more, ever more.... He reached out, desperately, towards the familiar, known memories of Duncan. Of Richie. Seeking to share their solid, grounded perspective. Their strength. Their minds recognized, welcomed his. Reaffirmed his existence. Renewed his vision of himself, let him re-emerge, re-define his own reality, his own life....let him survive, and endure, in the cataclysmic storm that beat at all their bodies and whirled through their minds. The power, the force, passed through him and partly into them, splitting its focused concentration, dividing its focus. Losing control, as it battled to hold, and direct, three separate lives, and could not. Each one of the three stood firm. Held out their individual thoughts, beliefs, like a beacon of hope, to the others. Supported, sustained, one another, as the conglomeration of selves, of hundreds of Immortal lives that had bound together, that had become the eater of souls, split, and died, within them. And then it was over. Silence, inside. Peace. Calm. Only the pale morning sky, the sun peeking though the filmy clouds of dawn, provided light. Only the occasional sigh or creak as metal, concrete or wood shifted in the ruins, broke the immediate stillness. And from beyond the shatterd buildings, came the wail of the approaching sirens. Close. Very close, now. =========================================================================