Date: Thu, 29 Sep 1994 02:41:41 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Hobert@AOL.COM Subject: CHOICES, Part 12 of 20 Determined to rescue the flag, Dougal stood, catching sight of the man in the trench coat pulling out Excaliber, pinning his wrist to the wall. The man then ran toward the Scot, looking furiously behind at the unconscious Jeremiah. A flash of lightning momentarily blinded Dougal, and when his sight cleared, the man was before him, Excaliber in one hand, a revolver in the other. The thunder and the gunshot occurred simultaneously, the impact sending Dougal sprawling on the ground. The rain mixed with blood as he lay there, consciousness fading. Dougal watched the arcane battle between Joe and the robed figure. Colors barely describable arced between the two, balls and bolts, like a bizarre tennis match. Occasionally a lob got through the other's protection, obviously causing pain, but neither could gain an upper hand. Dougal held Jeannie closer, praying this would soon be over. Richie struggled futilely in the Immortal's grasp, watching helplessly as first his son, and then Dougal fell to the ground. He renewed his efforts as a new figure left the terrorist's transport, moving toward the still glowing Fitz, a fresh buzz signaling this also was an Immortal. Richie watched as the newcomer raised a sword, no one stopping him as he effortlessly beheaded the Englishman. In a rage, the redhead rammed his head backwards into the other's face, his skull crushing the nose and sending the fragments deep in the bald Immortal's brain, killing him instantly. Anger rushed through his body as the energy began coursing over Fitzcairn's body. The newcomer raised his hands and sword, ready to receive the Quickening. With no time to spare, Richie closed his eyes, pulling mentally with all the concentration he had. Weakly, Jeremiah forced himself to sit up. His head pounding, he saw lightning play over Fitz's body across the parking lot, a new person standing next to it with sword raised. Small bolts of energy shot between the two, as a ghostly fog spread from the dead body. Eyes closed, the stranger waited, but the bolts suddenly veered away, shooting across the space to his father, followed closely by the fog. The bolts got stronger, and more numerous, the stranger finally opening his eyes. There was murder in them as he saw the last of the Quickening enter Richie, who collapsed on the ground, moaning. The stranger's voice cut through the storm, straight to Jeremiah's soul. "That wasn't very nice, father. But that's fine. I'll take your head now, and no one is left to stop me. Say goodbye, Pendragon..." Forgetting the pain in his head, not noticing the blood in the storm, Jeremiah forced himself to stand, searching for a way to save his helpless father. On the ground, faintly glowing orange, was a piece of cloth. The mysterious, magical flag, on the other side of Dougal and Jeannie. Jeremiah started running. More powerful spells shot between Dawson and the robed one. Jeannie watched, terrified to move from her injured father, as the light made strange patterns and shapes, dragons and snakes. The lights stopped as Joe dropped his arms, a blade sprouting from his chest, the blood stain growing on his shirt. A look of shock crossed his face, then pain, as the sword was twisted. Dawson died slowly, watching his life drain like the blood on the sword, washed away in the rain. The man behind him, in the trench coat, used his foot to pry the dead body off the sword, the robed figure cackling in glee. The hood was thrown back, the wild hair of an old crone revealed in flashes of lightning. "I warned you, mortal," Morgana cackled, her eyes alight with an unearthly glow. She ran for Joe's body, gleefully chuckling as the other man wiped the sword. Together they turned as Jeremiah approached, Jeannie following their gaze as the young man picked up the flag, racing back to his father. The pain faded from Richie's body as the new Immortal approached. He was still crouched on the ground, weak and exhausted from the Quickening. Looking up, he saw the other raise the sword for the killing blow. "Mordred..." The name escaped his lips, the other smiling at the recognition. Arthur's bastard son. Suddenly a shape interposed itself, blocking Richie's view. "I wouldn't count on it, if I were you," Jeremiah said, raising the flag like a shield. Presented this way, the glow intensified, growing. Mordred looked as if he would split it asunder as the crone approached, the trench coated man following. "No matter what you think, my son, it still is Merlin's cloak. We are stymied," she said, pulling on his sleeve. "Perhaps, but this young pup is wielding it, and he is no more MacLeod than I. Its power is gone," Mordred replied, again readying the blow. Jeremiah gritted his teeth, trying to send all his energy into the flag. "MacLeod is a state of mind, you bastard." He was rewarded by a large burst of orange, a ghostly wall spreading out from the flag, separating the two groups. "You have determination, brother mine, but that won't save him in the end. Nor you." Mordred saluted at the father and son, turning and walking toward the transport. Jeremiah stood frozen until it took off, running lights disappearing into the storm. Only then did he drop his arms, relaxing. At that moment the pain caught up with him. And the blood loss. He was unconscious on the ground as Richie struggled to stand, first looking at his son, then Fitz, finally Gillian and Joe. Without a word, he walked over to the recovering Immortal he fought earlier, decapitating him with his own sword. "Rot in Hell, you miserable..." And again Richie accepted a Quickening, this one leaving him moaning in the mud, his body curled protectively into a ball. Around him, people were picking up the pieces. Dougal was standing over Fitz's body, Jeannie helping Jeremiah to stand, the Scottish lass holding a cloth torn from her skirt to his head. She helped him limp toward the shuttle, Dougal staggering over to help Richie. Shaking off his friend's assistance, the lone Immortal forced himself to stand, heading after his son, leaving Dougal behind. Richie caught up with his son, passing him. He jumped up the step into the DARIUS, almost tripping over the body of Lucas lying near the hatch. He caught himself, straightening as Jeremiah and Jeannie got there, his son's shout of concern echoing in the cabin. Richie found Duncan sprawled next to the co-pilot's chair, sword still in the sheath. A quick search revealed the tiny dart in his chest, the point still glistening with a drop of black moisture. A check for pulse was futile, the body already turning cold and clammy. Stepping back, he turned and found himself standing over Lucas, Jeremiah pulling a similar dart from the back of the blond's neck. A similar check found a weak pulse, and a slow, but steady breath. Relieved, Jeremiah dragged the scientist to a chair as Richie helped Dougal inside the shuttle. Richie asked his son if he could fly the DARIUS, Jeremiah shaking his head yes, quietly asking Jeannie to help. The pair sat, Richie manhandling Duncan's body into another seat. Two more trips in the rain, and the Immortal had the two bodies stowed in the cargo compartments. The thunder roared as they took off, Richie's mind slowly shutting down, numb, only one thought running over and over in his mind. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Richie sat alone in his darkened cabin, watching the file of Duncan's debriefing repeatedly. "Lucas had just undone my belts, then he turned and walked to the hatch. As I stood, he turned around, then collapsed on the floor. I looked up just in time to see a small object shoot at me, landing in my chest. I started for the com panel when I felt weak, falling down. That's all I remember." It was all Richie kept remembering. That and watching Mordred behead a good friend. He filled in the rest of the blanks, including Joe's death, from the other files. He had tried to get an accurate description of the mysterious man in the trench coat, but the weather made it impossible. The only other person who could positively identify him spent the battle lifeless in the DARIUS. Richie felt sure he was seeing things, his eyes playing tricks after receiving Fitz's Quickening. Besides, the man he thought he saw was dead. But then again, he had been dead before. The Immortal keyed a panel. "Freddie, get me everything in the databases about a James Horton. Thanks." His door chime rang again, an Immortal by the buzz. He didn't feel like speaking to either one left on the station. He slowly climbed into bed, pulling the covers to his chin, wishing desperately Grace was here. Or Connor. Or even the Gregor he knew. Anyone but Duncan. The MacLeod in question stood with his head resting on the door, silently praying his friend would open up. He was tempted to yell like Richie had many months ago. Softly cursing, he banged his fist on the door, turned and left. Walking the corridors, trying to find someone to beat up. Fighting Immortals was perfect as the damage never was permanent, but he didn't think Gregor in his current condition would take kindly to a trouncing. But there was a mortal who loved to fight. {Now if I can just find her.} - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Gillian was sitting on the sofa, leaning over to reach the glass of wine Duncan offered. He took the moment to gaze on her lycra clad form, always in top condition. Usually, his thoughts would turn more erotic, but the cloud of Fitz's death drove everything else away. Tonight, the lovely woman was not a possibility, just another of the Englishman's friends who needed to grieve. He noticed her appreciative look as he striped off his shirt, the shower his first. When he was finished, hair toweled dry, wrapped in a plush robe, she handed him his glass as she took over the bathroom. The vegetables were miraculously chopped, ready for his cooking expertise. Once clean, she found another robe, the sound of frying greeted her as she entered to living area. They ate off the coffee table, sitting on the floor, finally relaxed. She spoke of meeting Fitz, working at a television station in Montreal. How she learned of his Immortality. What they meant to each other. Duncan was surprised at how little of their relationship he knew. Lovers, friends, partners; all spread out over twenty odd years. The coldness was just an act, to help them stay professional while on the job. What they really wanted was to.... Duncan knew the story well. As her tale faded to silence, not an awkward one, but one of peace, Duncan refilled their glasses. They clinked them, toasting their departed friend, the alcohol... < < < < < May, 1630 < < < < < ...slammed in front of him by the wench. He angrily grabbed at it, almost missing in his drunken daze. The crowd around him was lively, exuberant at the birth of Nathan's little boy. On and on they sang, occasionally bumping into the hunched over Highlander. Once, when he had almost forgotten the emptiness, a careless arm hit his back, jostling the last of the ale on the table. He rose, turning, hand forming into a fist, wanting to FIGHT SOMEBODY. The other man easily grabbed Duncan's clenched fist as it flew unsteadily toward his face. It was simple to push the Highlander back on the bench. "What ho, my fine fellow?" the man asked in a decidedly English accent. Another mark causing Duncan's blood to boil. His drubbing at the hands of Hyde yesterday had given him the urge to hurt an Englishman. And lo, here was an English pig, ready for roasting. "Ye...Ye made me spill mah drink..." he sputtered angrily, saliva spewing as he spoke. The smile he received in return was not what he expected. The stranger swung him around so he was facing the table again, walking around to sit across from him. "Yah... owe me... a drink!" he spat, again running his hand over the wet surface. The stranger laughed, holding up two fingers to a passing wench, sparing his other hand for a pinch as she strode by. Then a wink, and he was talking to Duncan, the words barely making any sense. All Duncan cared about was the mug that was set in front of him. Killing this pig could wait. Somehow, they ended up toasting the King, the wench, the Duke of Kent, and Nathan and his wife. Duncan found himself standing in the almost empty room, the stranger trying to learn a jig from him. The Highlander stopped, setting the mug haphazardly on the table, turning to look in the stranger's eyes. "Have you seen Conno..." And then the lights went out. Duncan came around laying on a table, the morning light shining through the open doorway as the innkeeper brought in wood. The fat man rolled Duncan onto the floor, kicking him and yelling for him to get up. Moments later, he found himself thrown outside on the ground, his head pounding. He stumbled to the water trough, immersing his head in the cold water, holding a lungful of air. When he couldn't hold his breath any longer, he tried raising his head, but there suddenly was a gloved hand on his neck keeping it underwater. In a moment of panic, he began to struggle, unable to breathe. His lungs bursting, almost passing out, and the hand disappeared, Duncan's head shooting up out of the water, his long hair slinging huge droplets flying in all directions. It took a second for him to focus on the Englishman from last night. "You bloody..." Duncan stopped when he felt the sword point sticking in his throat. He slowly realized the pounding wasn't from the hangover, this man was an Immortal. The fop just smiled, reveling white teeth. "As a drunk, you certainly are entertaining. But in the morning, what a temper!" Duncan got angrier, mindlessly sneering, baring his teeth. "This young pup has a bite as well." In his anger, Duncan thoughtlessly grabbed the blade of the foil with his bare hand. "I will no' be called..." The stranger pulled the blade away, slicing into Duncan's hand as it was removed. He reacted instinctively and pulled the hand away, grimacing at the pain as blood freely flowed for a minute. "Then you are a fool, good sir. I pray you lose your pride before your head." With a mocking salute, the foil was sheathed, and the stranger walked to his horse, mounted, and rode off as Duncan watched. > > > > > > > > > > Gilly turned to him at the door as it opened. "Thank you, Duncan. You are a good friend," she told him, cupping her hands on his cheeks, feeling the tears from his eyes. He grabbed the hands in both of his, bringing them to his lips for a gently kiss. "Anytime, my dear. Anytime." She was gone, down the hall, Duncan left with the memory of Fitz still haunting his soul. Turning around, he caught sight of the pipe on the desk. Walking over, he picked it up, staring at it. Wondered if Fitz would think the same of him as Gillian did. Running his hand through his loose hair,... =========================================================================