Date: Thu, 29 Sep 1994 02:43:05 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Hobert@AOL.COM Subject: CHOICES, Part 13 of 20 < < < < < May, 1630 < < < < < ... checking his leather headband. A swipe to brush a bit of dirt from his kilt, and he was ready, looking every bit the Highland warrior he was. Impressions counted at this moment, nervousness gone as he mounted the steps to the tavern. The horse he had been following whinnied behind him, his own mount answering. He opened the door... ...taking a look at the rough lot inside. There, in a corner, was the man he had chased this last fortnight. The Englishman. Confidently he strode across the room, low comments following him about his 'dress'. He expected as much here in Liverpool. He stood in front of the stranger's table, his presence already proclaimed by the annoying feeling of Immortals. "I am Duncan MacLeod, of the clan MacLeod. I think we need to go outside," he announced, placing a hand on the hilt of his sword, for added emphasis. "Hugh Fitzcairn, at your service, dear fellow," the Englishman replied. He gestured at the bench in front of Duncan. "I'd have thought you'd given up by now. I see I was mistaken." A small signal, and a mug appeared in front of Duncan, the wench gone before it had landed on the table. Duncan eyed the brew skeptically. "You were mistaken abou' a lo' of things." He pushed the offending offering away, opening his mouth to add more insults. He didn't have time to speak, a calloused hand on his shoulder stopping him. Putrid breath wafted across his face as the man behind him laughed. "It's one of them Scottish laddies, lost him mum, he did." The gathering crowd laughed as well. "Come on, boy. Show us what's under them skirts." Duncan growled, ramming his elbow in the gut of the farmer. The ugly lout went down with a huff, several others taking his place, pummeling the Highlander. Duncan felt himself pulled into their midst, blows coming from all around. In such close quarters he couldn't draw his sword, so he returned the favor with blows of his own. He felt several connect with soft places, two men going down. But the odds were definitely against him. Fitz calmly stood, using his bench to neutralize several of the younger ones, pushed to the outside of the mob by their aggressive elders. By now it was hard to tell who was fighting who, Duncan struggling with anyone in his way, releasing all the frustrations about Connor and Hyde on the hapless victims. At one point, he saw the English Immortal fly across the bar, using the plump cook for a landing place. Both went down behind the bar, not to be seen before Duncan was forcibly turned and punched, sending him reeling over the very same bar. He landed on Fitzcairn, flattening the Englishman. As they stood, mugs came flying in their general direction, forcing them to duck again. Fitz pointed behind Duncan, drawing his attention to the shuttered window at the end of the bar. Nodding his understanding, the Highlander ran toward it, raising his arms as he barreled through the shutters. With a crash, he was through, getting up as Fitz landed behind him. They dashed to their horses, mounting as quickly as possible. Already shouts were coming from the tavern, a few of the noncombatants running outside. With a "Hah!", the two were off, dashing through the foliage. They stopped momentarily, in a clearing of sorts, waiting for signs of pursuit. The horses were breathing hard, the Immortals gasping as well. Duncan turned his mount in a circle, thoughts whirling in his brain. For some ungodly reason, he liked this man. Something about him touched a chord, one silenced since he left Connor. He knew it was a risk, but the thought of living for eternity alone was more terrible than knowing an Englishman. "My friends call me Duncan," he said, quieting his horse. Already, sounds of the chase grew louder. "Fitz," the other replied, lifting the brim of his hat. With a yell, he struck his horse, plunging into the trees. Grinning, Duncan did likewise, already feeling better. The branches grabbed at his body, limbs raking his chest... > > > > > > > > > > ...as he slid the robe off his body, rummaging in the closet for sweatpants. Keying the lights to a low setting, he began a kata, hoping it would ease the pain for just once in his life. The angry sound of the com cut the stillness like a knife, sending another rush of anger through him. Sitting at his desk, he activated the monitor, a dark shape appearing on the screen. "Things didn't go so well, MacLeod," the soft voice hissed. James Horton stepped into the light, eyes glinting evilly. "He'll have to be punished for that. I hope the bomb in the control center works better, or I might finally learn how much pain will make an Immortal go insane. He's awfully close. Care to see for yourself?" The scene changed to an overhead shot of Connor's cell, the naked Immortal dancing spastically as his bare skin touched the metal floor and walls. Sometimes sparks occurred as the electricity was poured into the room, Connor wailing from the pain, sounding like an animal at times, echoing in the small cell. Duncan shut his eyes, aching to turn it off, but that would only add to the torture. He sat in darkness, hearing the screams of his kinsman, praying it would end soon. The sound suddenly stopped, replaced by the oily tones of Horton. "Remember, Highlander. No mistakes. I might forget to shut it off next time." The connection went dead, but the sound of the screaming continued to haunt Duncan, tormenting him as he sat at the desk for the rest of the night. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Chapter 4 ---------- Skean Dubh "Begin entry. March 13. On this day, we surrender our friend, Joe Dawson, to the ground. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Dear God, what am I suppose to do now?" - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - "Dearly beloved..." began the priest. Richie glanced across the casket, watching Harold and Lynn Floyd, Joe's only relatives. {Not counting the brother-in-law from Hell. Again!} Gilly stood next to Duncan, who was still not recovered from the double losses. Jeremiah, Lucas, and Wendy formed a threesome off to the side, both of the men holding umbrellas. Richie never minded the rain, always thinking it was God crying. {Now who told me that one? Emily Ryan?} Jonathan Davis and family were in the small crowd somewhere, lost among the other Camelot employees and still-living Watchers. Lynn had limited it to fifty people, according to her uncle's wishes. Platitudes were said, rituals observed, and Joe was lowered into the ground, a stunning reminder that Death would somehow take its due, even from Immortals. As the dirt was shoveled on the coffin, Lynn again broke out in hysterics, anguished wailing radiating across the cemetery. People came by to offer their condolences, leaving the six from Freedom last. Lucas and Wendy went first, meaningless words of sympathy uttered on both sides. Jeremiah said nothing, wordlessly handing Lynn a poem he had written for Joe in third grade. She silently slipped it into her purse before giving the young man a kiss on the cheek. Richie went next, knowing Duncan might not move for decades, offering anything Camelot could do for the family. Lynn nodded, promising to call in a few days. Richie walked away a few yards, turning to wait for Duncan. The Highlander said a few words to Gillian, who left him, walking to join Jeremiah as he left the grave site. Duncan meandered around the hole, stopping in front of Lynn. She also spoke to her husband, asking him to give the two a moment. Harold moved to the children, slowly walking the other direction to the limousines. "I am so terribly sorry..." Duncan began, clutching Lynn's hands in his own. He learned long ago, any words he said were useless, wasted energy. Knowing there were others on the planet, sharing the loss, was the only thing that really helped. And knowing a better place was waiting. Lynn looked into his eyes, tears streaming from hers. "I was there... when your father died. He saved Uncle Joe from... my father. I asked him why... Why do people have to die? I still don't have a good answer. Only questions..." Far away, the thunder rumbled, an echo of a night long ago. The night James Horton should have died. More words were exchanged, finally a hug. Then Lynn was running to her husband, leaving Duncan alone at the pit. He turned, looking down in the dark recess, pulling the boutonniere off his suit, dropping it into the grave. A farewell. Richie waited until Duncan had finished, walking with him to the shuttle. They were the last to board, taking seats in the back. Jeremiah's smooth piloting had them at Freedom in moments. The two Immortals waited in the corridor, watching the other four people make their way down the hall, off to find their own way to grieve. Richie spoke to Duncan, not taking his eyes off the younger generation. "I should box up Joe's things and give them to Lynn tomorrow at the reading. Feel like helping?" he asked, finally turning to look up into Duncan's face. The other Immortal silently nodded, the slack face not yet giving way to sorrow. He tried to speak, his voice not working. Clearing his throat, he tried again. "I'll bring... a bottle," he said. Richie agreed, knowing each of them needed time alone, before they made time to help each other. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - "I feel like... like a peeping Tom, Mac," Richie said, digging in the cabinets for two glasses. Duncan took the time to study the bookshelves, never really spending any time in a place Joe lived. He picked up a picture of Joe and his son, taken thirty or so years ago. Richie came, holding the glasses, looking at the photo in Duncan's hand. "Yeah. Joe and Jeremiah Dawson. What a pair." The redhead turned, crossing to the table and the bottle. Duncan looked from the picture to Richie, watching him open the bottle. "I never knew Jeremiah really well. You and Greg didn't talk about him much. Even after his death..." "Well, you and I weren't the closest of buddies back then. Living on separate coasts does that, I imagine. Besides, I don't remember you ever asking." Richie downed his first glass all at once, pouring himself a refill. "He was a... good man. They both were. A toast!" he suddenly said, raising his glass. "To the Dawsons, may God have mercy on their souls for knowing us!" And down the gullet went his second glass, the sharp sound of it being slammed on the table echoing in the quiet room. Duncan turned back to the shelves, returning the picture, not wanting to comment. Instead he moved along the shelf, finding a leather pouch, tied shut with a drawstring. Intrigued, he brought it to the table, showing it to Richie. "What have we here?" he rhetorically asked, knowing his friend probably wouldn't answer. Richie just leaned closer, empty glass still in his hand. "Not a clue. Joe was a sneaky little bastard. And full of secrets." Duncan's sober fingers pried the knot apart, allowing the small bag to open. Upending it on the wood surface, several small, flat stones fell out, scattering. Duncan began turning them over, each bearing a cryptic rune on one side. "Those look like the things Darius sent you that one time," Richie pointed out. Duncan moved them about, trying different combinations, until he had settle on the one that looked the best. He read them silently, over and over, wondering what the mystifying message meant. "Spill it, Mac," Richie ordered, nudging Duncan's arm. "What does it say? Is it from Darius?" "I believe so," Duncan replied, his voice so deep it was rumbling. "It roughly translates into 'the dark night is upon me. Prepare. Watch the intended.' And the symbol that represents lightning. I can't place that one." He tried again, moving the lone rune around, adding it here and there, no combination feeling definite. Richie had meanwhile dug a scrap of paper from the pouch, unfolding it on the table by the stones. It was a Federal Express slip, the writing almost faded. "It's an overnight form. From Paris to... looks like the address of the bookstore Joe owned. Dated..." Richie squinted, not able to puzzle out the numbers. Duncan reached for it, moving it around in the light. Suddenly he stopped, setting the paper down, looking absently into the air. "Dated the day before Darius died. He knew, damn it! He knew..." Duncan lost all control then, crumpling to the floor. Richie bent down, not knowing how to help. The com buzzed, drawing the redhead away from his old mentor. Stumbling over Duncan to the desk, punching the button harder than necessary, Richie spat a "What?", drinking straight from the bottle. Wendy's voice sounded upset, informing him that Lynn Floyd was on channel five, wanting to speak to Duncan. Richie had Wendy connect the call, turning and finding the Highlander right behind him. "What can we do for you, Lynn?" Duncan softly said, reaching around Richie to rotate the monitor so it faced the two Immortals. Richie, trapped between Duncan and the desk, turned back and sat in the chair, Duncan leaning in over his shoulder. A sad face appeared, even more red and puffy than that afternoon. Her voice shook, but underneath was strength. "I forgot to tell you something at the..." She took a moment to wipe her nose, the two men patiently waiting. "Uncle Joe wanted me to give you a message before the service. I was to tell you 'never teary'. He didn't explain what it meant, just that you would understand." Duncan leaned in closer, talking right in Richie's ear. "Never teary? That's it? I have no idea what it means. There was nothing else?" Lynn sniffed. "Oh, there was plenty of stuff like that in his instructions. Having the funeral exactly ninety-six hours after his death, the closed casket. He even refused to donate any organs or such, didn't want an autopsy, no matter how he died. Lots of weird stuff, but that was all that related to you." She thought a minute, adding, "I haven't seen the will, there could be more about it in there. You and Richie will be there tomorrow?" "Of course we will, Lynn," Richie replied, noticing Duncan had started pacing the room. He reached up to switch off the monitor, reflecting, "Joe was always one to make sure you eventually got the message. Good night, Lynn. Give my best to Harold and the kids." And with a touch, the communication was over, the questions multiplying instead of dividing. "Of all his bizarre stunts, this takes the cake." Duncan continued walking, getting angrier as he muttered 'never teary' under his breath. Richie was getting sick watching the movement, struck by a stray thought. How strange Joe could be sometimes. It came to him, a mental picture of Joe, back in his forties, cane and pepper hair. Commenting on the pigeons in Paris. The stupid pigeons... =========================================================================