Date: Mon, 25 Jul 1994 23:03:36 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Hobert@AOL.COM Subject: CIRCLES, Part 2 of 5 (2/2) > > > > > Saturday, May 13, 2000 > > > > > ...next to his dress shoes. Richie bent down to pick up his stubborn tie as Gregor yelled from the bathroom. "Which of this junk are you gonna need? I haven't seen such a collection of grooming items since Cleopatra gave up the ghost." "Throw it in a bag. Hey, you weren't old enough to know her, Augie." Richie yelled back as he removed his suit from the wardrobe. "Besides, she would have beheaded you because of your ugly mug." "Look, young one, didn't Duncan teach you to respect your elders? Or was that something else you conveniently ignored?" Gregor retaliated, flinging the little bag of toiletries onto the ever growing pile on the bed. "Hey, Joe," he called to Dawson, entering the room, "You know another Immortal that Richie here could study under? Duncan didn't do a very good job." Joe ambled up to Richie and gave him a quick once over. "There aren't that many good ones left. I say throw him back in the pond." "Richie was telling me about the Watchers getting smaller," Gregor said from the bathroom as he put out fresh towels for the guest. "Are we getting that close to the Prize?" Joe moved to the only chair in the room and settled in it before explaining. "I'd give it fifteen years. Since 1985, the Immortal population is about half what it has been for centuries. Even doubling up on the very active ones, that's a lot of Watchers we no longer need. We've retired the older ones and stopped recruiting any new ones." "Eradicating the Hunters should have helped," Richie spat, not caring about the memories bringing up Joe's brother-in-law caused. During the pause, Duncan walked in, chip bag in hand. In the silence he looked at each person. "I hope it wasn't something I did," he said, breaking the silence. "Chip, anyone?" he asked, waving the bag around. "We were talking about our beloved fan club and personal pruning service." Gregor informed him, plopping down on the large bed. "They're finally putting the old ones out to pasture." "You know, letting them have a real life," Dawson added from his seat. "So when do you get to rest, old friend," Duncan asked Dawson around a mouthful of chips. "When you finally take the Prize, older friend," Dawson answered. He calmly watched Duncan turn red, choking on the mouthful of chips. He looked at the other two startled stares and finished his bombshell. "If Richie doesn't receive Arthur's Quickening," nodding towards the redhead, "Duncan leads the pack at thirty one percent. Richie and Connor are next at around fifteen percent. Greg, sorry, you're around five, and Amanda..." "Yes?" she asked breezing into the bedroom and settling on the bed next to Gregor. "Augie, get Duncan a glass of water before he dies on us," Richie asked, trying to switch the subject. Gregor got up and went into the bathroom. "Augie? I've heard that name before. Richard use to call somebody that. Rebecca did too... It was some guy she slept with before I met her." Amanda looked perplexed as she tried to fit the many pieces together. "You're Augie?" she asked Gregor. When he finally nodded, she exclaimed "You're older than I am!" "That's impossible." Dawson said, leaning forward in his chair. "Gregor Pavalovich was born in 1287 in Siberia, long after you were born in England, my dear." Duncan leaned against the wall, questions overflowing his head, not reaching for the glass Gregor offered, just staring at him. Gregor looked pleadingly at Richie to stop the questions. Richie just shrugged his shoulders. Finding no help, the photographer spoke. "Pavalovich was an imbecile who lost his head in his first fight. I needed a new identity, and so I took his," he flatly stated, looking at the floor so he wouldn't see their faces. "Then who are you?" Amanda asked. "If Richard the Lionhearted was Arthur Pendragon, and Rebecca was Guinevere..." Dawson started, the wheels spinning in his mind. Amanda turned and faced Dawson, "Rebecca was who?" "...then the betrayer was..." Dawson continued. "...Lancelot." Richie finished, staring out the bedroom door at the sunken den... < < < < < Sunday, December 24, 1995 < < < < < ...as the two men, stripped to the waist, fought by, the clash of steel echoing in the spacious apartment. Richie was on the defensive as Gregor viciously attacked. The rain outside beat on the windows, sounding as an army of tiny feet. With a grunt, Richie executed a backflip over the couches to avoid a crippling sweep by Gregor, barely missing the coffee table when he landed. Gregor merely jumped. "Showoff!" he shouted above the sound of thunder. The flash of light, whiting out his face, turned the whole fight surreal. "If you've got it, flaunt it!" Richie replied, his lax attention while he talked leaving his off side completely defenseless, as usual. Gregor saw his opening and took it. "Stick it out, and I'll cut it off," he said, slicing into Richie's side with all his might. This wasn't the first time their sparring had gone a little bit farther then they planned. Blood gushed as Richie climbed the few steps, trying to keep the bronze statue between himself and Gregor. After a few seconds rest, his foot shot out, knocking Gregor off balance toward the stairs. Using all the adrenaline he could muster, Richie began a ferocious two handed attack, driving Gregor up the stairs. On the narrow steps, powerful swings were useless, and sparks erupted each time the metal bannister was cut into. Gregor saw something ignite in Richie's eyes, giving extra energy to match him, even with the injury. One of Phillipe's tricks pinned Gregor's sword momentarily to the floor, giving Richie an opening for a left hook, knocking him toward the elevator. Two more kicks disarmed him, and drove the photographer to his knees. Lighting flashed furiously outside as Richie drove his katana point first through Gregor's chest, impaling him. A burst of white, followed quickly by a crash of thunder and... ...Arthur stood standing, looking at Excaliber plunged completely into Lancelot's chest, only the hilt showing, the blade propping him up from the ground. He was on his knees, blood flowing in rivers down his shirt, mixing with the rain pouring from the sky. In each burst of lightning, he saw the bastard's eyes, watched their life slowly fade, wanting to pull out Excaliber and finish him off. Behead him for laying with Gwen. For betraying their friendship. He had trusted this knight, the faith dying as Lancelot did. He turned and walked back to his horse, riding for Camelot, not seeing the last gasp of breath from the dying knight, nor the look of shame. And then the eyes saw no more... ...as Gregor fell on his side, dead. In shock, Richie gently pulled out his sword, mindlessly cleaning it on his pants as he stumbled away, not wanting to see the results of what he had done. He stood at the railing, fighting the nausea, finally feeling the pain from the side wound. Within minutes, an eternity, Gregor gasped. Richie tried to walk over to him, but feet failing, he fell to the floor, katana clattering away. Crawling to his friend, he gently cradled Gregor's head as the chest wound stopped bleeding, healing itself. "Oh, Augie," he quietly whispered, stroking the black hair he remembered. The hair of his friend. The hair of Arthur's friend, lost these many years. "Yes... my lord," was all Gregor said before he fainted, the lighting and thunder and rain pounding on the windows, like the pounding in Richie's soul. Richie slowly rocked, rocking his friend to sleep, humming a wordless tune until Jeremiah returned home, the elevator creaking... > > > > > Saturday, May 13, 2000 > > > > > ...as Dawson leaned back in his chair. "The knight errant. Of course, how could we have been so stupid?" Duncan finally took the glass of water from Gregor's hand and sat beside Amanda on the bed. "God, I wish this were stronger," he said, gulping it all down before falling back prone. "Well, don't just stand there. Tell us all about Camelot!" Amanda urged, excitement making her bounce on the bed. Duncan just tossed and groaned. Dawson was furiously thinking and muttering, "Where's my damn tape recorder. I never can find it when I need it." Richie just stood and watched, leaning against the window. "What do you want to know?" Gregor finally asked Amanda. "How did you meet Richard...ah, Arthur?" she replied, using her prone lover as a back rest. Duncan groaned louder and rearranged himself into a more comfortable position. Dawson just relaxed, ready to enjoy the story. Richie never moved. "Let's see," Gregor began, "I was twenty-two, just knighted. I was searching for someone to defeat me." "Sounds dumb," Amanda injected. Duncan covered her mouth with his hand and pulled her down next to him. "Thanks. Seriously, no one could best me. So I traveled the countryside, fighting anyone who would lift a sword against me. I died several times, but kept coming back to life. Rather quickly. I never guessed what I was. I traveled and fought, until one day..." < < < < < Spring, 747 A.D. < < < < < ...the knight came to a stream, fast moving and clear. Over the tumult was an aged log, almost wide enough for his horse. From the forest surrounding him came the sounds of birds and the wind. As he dismounted, and prepared to cross, he saw the other knight approaching from across the bridge. "Another challanger. I pray this will be the one," was all the searcher spoke. Lancelot was surprised when the other knight dismounted, almost as if he expected the challenge. The stranger removed his helm, reveling a shock of fiery red hair. "I am Arthur. Shall we get on with it?" he announced, tossing the helm into the grass. Lancelot quickly crossed the log, keenly aware that the ache in his skull increased. The stranger waited, removing more of his armor. "My name is Lancelot. Why, pray tell, art thou removing thy armor?" the youth asked, drawing his broadsword. He circled the madman, who finally finished disrobing. Arthur stood before Lancelot in tunic and tights, drawing a much smaller sword from a sheath on the horse. Lancelot was taken aback by the grace and speed the man possessed, once he doffed the heavy metal. "Come, my good man, is it not better to fight without such hassles?" the redhead prodded, waving his sword at Lancelot's shining armor. "We would just stand there and bash each other until one of us tired. Steel to skin much more civilized. And challenging." Lancelot could only agree, taking his time removing his own protection. He covertly stole glances, sizing up his opponent. Arthur's finely muscled form was evident through the clothing. The practice slices were fast and accurate, artfully managed. (If this man is not the one, there can be no other. I will lose today, or not at all.) Lancelot stood before the challenger, his muscled form stretching in its new freedom. Rarely had the youth fought unarmored, but Arthur was right. Knights used no skill, just stamina. This would be a true test of talent. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - They fought most of the afternoon, with Lancelot delivering the first killing blow. Arthur crumpled to the ground like a sack of grain. Lancelot stumbled to the stream, washing his face in the cold water. The stranger had fought admirably, but still died. He lost any remaining hope of completing his quest. He was also upset that the nagging pain remained. Shaking the water from his eyes, he glanced at his face reflected in the stream, seeing a grinning Arthur behind him, sword raised. "I'm not through with you, yet, young knight." Lancelot had a rougher time, fighting without sword and from his knees. He managed to win his sword and again they fought. By dusk, they had managed to kill each other several times, Lancelot getting angered at the stalemate. When Arthur drove him to his knees, and prepared another killing blow, he calmly accepted the fact, waiting. Arthur froze, and spoke again. "We are Immortal, you and I. Brothers. We cannot be killed, save our head being removed from our body." The cold steel rested on Lancelot's bare neck. He shivered, knowing Arthur spoke the truth. "Yield, and live. Or die forever. Your choice." Lancelot yielded, knowing this man could end his life. Intrigued by the stranger, he had no wish to leave his conqueror's presence. Arthur bade him kneel, ordering him to serve as a knight of the Round Table, touching the sword on his shoulders and head. "I do pledge... my lord." > > > > > Saturday, May 13, 2000 > > > > > "I thought Lancelot defeated Arthur," Amanda finally said, breaking the silence. Joe Dawson just smiled. "Who do you think writes the histories and tell the stories?" he asked. At Amanda's questioning look, he answered it, pointing at the knight called Lancelot. Amanda turned back. "We tried to remove all the parts about Immortals and such, but sometimes things got through. I was undefeatable. The Green Knight. The stories never stayed the same, changing almost as much as we did. I defeated Arthur, he defeated me. I've heard both, and many more variations. A thousand years later, it didn't matter anymore." Gregor still didn't look up, not wanting to see their faces. Duncan didn't move. Richie silently left the room, not caring to share the feelings the story brought out of him. Not even with these, his closest friends. Epilogue - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - To Richie's left, a smaller man joins them. Lithe and pale, only recently finding emotion again, he is sorrow and loss, knowing his duty and his failure. "I am Gregor Powers, born Lancelot the Brave, defender of honor, the undefeatable knight who searched for a conqueror and found a friend. My life pledged to my king, guardian of Arthur's true treasure, betrayer of his trust. So do I pledge my life anew, to a new king. I am friend and confidant. I am loyalty." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Continued Tomorrow... Comments, as always, to hobert@aol.com =========================================================================