Date: Wed, 23 Nov 1994 01:17:18 -0500 Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: Aloha Ch 3.(p58-61) C 1994 N.L. Cleveland (comments to NancySSCH@aol.com) It was a race against time, again. Jonathan rose, pulling himself out from under Shonte's body. Searching through the dark for his sword. Sobbing aloud, the wrenching sense of death, of loss, pervading his soul. Killing her had been like slaying himself. Her mind had been so close, so entwined with his own, that he felt as if a part of him had followed her across the gates of Hades, into the void. As if a part of him was still conscious and alive, inside her, while she was dead. It gave him an odd, blurred sense of space and time, a dizzying doubled feel and vision that made moving in the dark room a surreal experience, as if in a dream. The cold steel glimmered faintly as he found it, lifted the katana, both hands clenched around the hilt, knowing objectively that he held it, yet not feeling it's familiar weight and heft in the way he was used to. Everything was strange and he stumbled as he turned, his legs not fully under his own control, his mind abstracted, still not sure what he should do. Shonte lay, helpless, on the floor before him. Her limbs sprawled loosely, her eyes open, staring blindly, her lips slightly parted. Her aura stilled. So beautiful. So good. Possessed by such evil. He loved her. Had loved what she was once. What she was now, he no longer knew. He only knew they were inextricably linked, for all time. Unless he severed that connection. Forever. Here and now. He raised the sword, held it over his head, the razor sharp edge poised to cut, to fall and end an Immortal life, forever. He saw her stir, saw her chest rise. Sensed once again the faint tremulous threads of her strange new aura, returning, reaching out for him, reaching for his consciousness, his soul. His heart wrenched within him. Jonathan dropped his arms, let the sword swing loose and free for a moment. He could not kill her. Would not. He fought his horror, the repulsion and simultaneous attraction that lured him on. Lust, love, and hunger, all mixed within him, emotions coming to him from outside. The hunger....that was the key.... He feared what she had become. He understood, suddenly, with the cold certitude of absolute truth, that if he took her head, now, he would become a captive, too. He did not have the strength, the experience, the power of a seasoned Immortal. She had had all that, and had defeated the other, only to lose her own soul, at the end. Jonathan might slay her body, but his mind, his beliefs, his will and volition, would be swallowed, whole. And he also recognized, with a chill of fear, that a traitorous part of himself wanted that, wanted him to kill her, and to become her. He fought off the subtle, seductive touch of her mind, on his. Fought it, fought himself and the part of him that welcomed her, joyfully, and instead ran from the room. Ran, knowing he was making a fatal mistake. Knowing he was letting evil loose in the world. Knowing he would have to pay, one day, for this decision. And knowing, hopelessly, that he had no other choice than to do exactly what he was doing, now, or far worse evil would ensue and he would be a helpless puppet in the coming play. He had lost her, and almost lost himself as well. He saw, too, in retrospect, why she had held back, why she had let him kill her. He had thought it was because she was still fighting for control, inside. But that touch, that hunger, was not her, not her at all... The glare of the pale afternoon sun was sudden on his face, in his eyes, as he burst out of the doorway into the bare concrete yard. He leaped down the steps and pushed through the gate, slamming it open in his haste to be as far away as possible, as soon as possible. Wondering at himself, as he moved to the car, his motions automatic, his body on autopilot. Wondering if he was a coward, a fool, if he had overestimated the danger, her power, his inexperience. Yet knowing, in that cold analytic part of himself that he still trusted, that he was right. That he had no hope of winning, if he had killed her, no hope of controlling her Quickening before it absorbed and controlled him. Still hearing the siren call of her mind, her awareness, within him. Still fighting to be free. The car's trunk was opened, he noted without surprise. Vulcan had escaped. Was probably watching him this very moment. Jonathan no longer cared. It no longer mattered. Escape was all that mattered to him now. Escape, and a chance to finish out his own private, bitter quest. She would follow, he knew that. And he would stop running, once he'd completed everything he had yet to do. The end was inevitable. But he had no intention of lying down and taking it. Yet. There was still something to live for. Something he cared enough about to stay alive a little longer. As long as it took. An Immortal's close physical presence, an aura, brushed against his consciousness once again and he turned, snarling, to face the woman he could not bring himself, could not dare, to kill. He spun in a circle, sword at the ready in an empty, useless defense. She was not there. "Richie." Surprise pulled the name involuntarily from his lips. The youth stared at him, from the alleyway, wearing a worn black leather bikers jacket and faded denim jeans, his sword drawn, a wary expression on his face. His motorcycle leaned against the side of one of the garages. Jonathan felt a surge of insane laughter bubbling up in his chest. It was too absurd. Too ridiculous for words. The boy had followed him, had found him. Just like Vulcan. How many other old friends and enemies would he meet today? He hadn't realized he was being so obvious. But that always happened when he let his emotions take over. Coming to the memorial service was like waving a red flag, he realized. Anyone who wanted to, now knew he was still alive. So much for his anonymity. "Who was the Immortal?" Richie's voice was hostile, as he edged closer, his long straight sword held between them like a shield. "Whose Quickening? Who did you kill this time?" Jonathan lowered his own katana, thrust the curved blade back into the hidden scabbard in his coat, and held his empty palms up, out, in a gesture of peace. He saw Richie relax, slightly, but the youth's sword still stayed between them. It was a start. The boy had been observing, obviously. But not closely enough. Jonathan focused on Richie's face, trying to read the possibilities there. Trying to gauge whether he could convince the youth to believe him, in time, or if they would have to fight. There was simply no time. In a few moments, Shonte, or what had been Shonte, would be coming out the dark gaping door behind him, looking for him. And he couldn't face her. Not now. Maybe not ever again. She...he...it...was too powerful. And they were too close. Like lovers, still. Inside. He shuddered as a ghostly caress stroked across his mind, crooning of past and future delights. Lies, all lies. He thrust the thoughts aside. For the moment How long could he continue to do so? How far did he have to run? And where was Vulcan? Jonathan couldn't afford to miss him, either. He felt the tension coiling within him. Too little time. Too many variables. The longer he waited, the less he controlled the situation. Jonathan took two fast steps towards the boy, his hands, his arms, open, loose, apparently relaxed. Smiling. Watching Richie's eyes. Watching his shoulders and his wrists, his feet and knees as Richie backed cautiosly away in a fighter's crouch and raised his sword. "Will you trust me? Will you leave, now? We have no time to waste." Jonathan kept his voice calm and level, hoping that the horror he'd felt was not coming through. Richie's brows raised in inquiry, but his shoulders and legs relaxed a tiny bit, then stiffened again. The youth's eyes darkened and seemed to flash fire at Jonathan for a second. "You didn't have to kill all those people, did you? What gave you the right to play god back there?" Richie's voice carried a weight, a passion Jonathan had never heard in him before. Jonathan felt again the crushing grief and guilt that would haunt him for the rest of his life. It was just part of him, now. What were a few more deaths, a few more souls to add to the balance. For a few moments, he had let it slip away, but the youth's anger, his idealistic rage, had brought it all back again. Too bad. It meant the boy would not leave on his own, it seemed. And there was no time to debate the issue. Even away from close physical proximity to Shonte, Jonathan could sense her...its...growing strength..its mind seeking him out as its body knit slowly back together. In a moment the boy would feel it too. Jonathan prepared himself. Richie's eyes widened. The aura had touched him, as well. In the split second his attention was distracted, Jonathan moved. He kicked out, his foot connecting with Richie's sword hand, the hard toe of his shoe shattering the boy's wrist. Richie's complexion whitened at the pain. The sword arced into the air from his nerveless grip and Jonathan stepped forward, grabbing for the youth's head, blocking a blow at his face that Richie threw with his remaining good hand. Jonathan dropped his attack and held onto Richie's good wrist, then torqued his body, throwing the youth to the ground, the boy's breath coming out of him in an explosive gasp as he hit the alley floor. As Richie lay momentarily dazed, Jonathan leaned over and lifted him bodily, throwing him into the now vacant car trunk. He slammed shut the lid and clawed his way into the vehicle, pulling open the door, jamming the keys into the ignition and gunning the motor in a frantic daze.He hit the accelerator and pulled out of the alley with the brakes screaming as he cornered sharply and cut across the quiet residential street, fighting the insidious pressure on his mind that urged him to stop, to sit quietly and wait. It was stronger now than before. Stronger than he'd ever felt another Immortal. And Shonte was inside it. His face was a mask of strained muscles, rigid with concentration and fear, as he fought to keep the car moving in a straight line, fought to still the trembling jerking motion of his hands. His hands that tried to swerve the Mercedes into the trees or parked cars lining the road, into a crash that would have left him a wounded, weak and passive victim. He fought for control of the car, and of himself, as part of his traitorous mind welcomed the intruder in. A red traffic light glowed in warning in front of him. The pressure was too much. He could not dare stop, or he would never start the car again. Not as himself, anyhow. He took the car through the intersection, his mind blank. The will of the gods, of the great wheel, would be done. At the last instant, he swerved, cutting around a taxi that darted out , presuming to have the right of way, in front of him. He clipped its rear bumper, felt the metal drag and tear, and then they were through. He drove up the street, crested a hill and descended the other side. The pressure eased. Fell away. Disappeared, the furhter they went. Almost. Just a tiny trickle of alien awareness remained at the back of his mind, like a ticking clock on a countdown to apocalypse. It was not over. Just a skirmish, won. A breif respite for him to run, to hide. For the other to grow even stronger. A dull thumping reverberated from the rear of the car. Richie, pounding at the lid of the trunk, trying to get out. Jonathan sped up, and took the first entrance to the Beltway. It was time to leave, and he'd at least drop the car, and the boy, soemwhere they would be safe. For a while. Perhaps he'd even let the youth follow him to Japan. It would keep him away from Shonte...temporarily. Jonathan followed the exit signs to Dulles. He had a reservation, and the cash to cover all the exigencies he could forsee. He wondered what he had not forseen, and wondered if it would be enough to stop him from achieveing what he intended. Shonte's car phone gave him a few moments to check in with his Pentagon contact. The brief, coded message on the man's voice mail left him smiling. At least his quarry was where he expected it to be. And did not appear to know he was coming. Kyoto was beautiful in the spring. The cherry blossoms would be fading now. It had been a lifetime since he had seen the festival. It would be another lifetime before he did. =========================================================================