Date: Mon, 20 Nov 1995 23:02:19 EST Reply-To: Vi Moreau Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Vi Moreau Subject: Elena Part Ishow personal This is Part II of Elena. Duncan MacLeod stood stiffly by the gravesite, hands clasped in front of him, paying very little attention to what Richie was saying. He had been pleasantly surprised by Richie's maturity and poise, and by his agreeing to speak at Charlie's funeral. Duncan himself had declined--he just didn't trust that he could get any words out safely, and besides, he was a low-profile type anyway. He was standing as far away as possible from Dawson and had refused to speak to him. He still blamed both Dawson and himself for Charlie's unnecessary death, and wished for the thousandth time that he had confided in Charlie earlier. Maybe it would have saved him. He had stood by so many graves in his life, starting all the way back in the Highlands... ******* ********************************************** Duncan looks up at the sad faces around him while the priest drones on in the background. Even though Malcolm had died well in battle, and all are proud of him, grief is the strongest emotion here--he feels it like a blanket covering them all. Malcolm's mother is openly weeping; his young brother, fingering the knife Malcolm had bequeathed him on his deathbed, is fighting a losing battle with tears himself. But the worst is Malcolm's young wife Anne. She hasn't said a word since her husband's death, and now she stands, ever quiet, staring into space with a dull, empty look. This is the worst tragedy for Duncan, because the bright vivacious girl was never to recover, never to speak or be a part of anything again. Even her children had to be taken from her and raised by others, because she couldn't take care of them or herself. Duncan looks down at the tartan on Malcolm's shoulder and wonders, for the first time but not the last, if it was all worthwhile. ************************************************* The idea of the MacLeod tartan lingered in his head. It was as if his own life had begun as a piece of brightly colored checked cloth, only by now it was torn and dirtied. Tessa's death had removed a large portion of it, leaving jagged, bloody edges. And at the death of every friend, mortal or immortal, he could feel a strand or several strands unraveling. There wasn't much cloth left, he thought, and wondered what he would do when it was all just strings of wool on the ground. He heard Richie falter in his speech at the same time he felt the buzz, and turned to his right. Standing about fifty meters away was a tall woman in black. There was nothing mysterious about this--it was a cemetery. She was looking in their direction, also easily explained, since she was an Immortal, but was making no move to approach. Richie had started speaking again, and Duncan, sighing, walked toward her. He had hoped for a few moments' respite from the Game so he could grieve by Charlie's grave, but apparently he was not going to get it right away. She was only slightly shorter than he, even without heels. The impression she gave was of passive strength. Dressed all in black, with shiny dark curls, as dark as his own hair, flowing down past her shoulders, she reminded Duncan of a mustang he had admired during his time with the Sioux, proud, self-confident, and dangerous. Her complexion was dark, both from the sun and, as he suspected from her high cheekbones, from Indian blood she might have. She stood her ground as he came up to her. "I'm Duncan Mac..." he paused. Her presence was palpable. She had taken off her dark glasses, and he was now close enough to look at her eyes. They were a smoky grey color he had never seen and they were shining with excitement. He noticed the pulse at the base of her neck slowly increasing as they stood staring at one another, and her lips parted every so slightly as her breathing also increased. He had seen this reaction before, and knew that he had had an immediate and similar effect in the past on women when they first saw him. What surprised him was the strength of his own sexual response, and he even felt slightly embarrased. He hadn't felt like this since... 'What am I thinking?!' First things first! Getting distracted like this could be dangerous to your health! "Im Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he stated firmly, in what was almost a boast. She didn't reply. "Who are you, and why are you here?" he asked. Elena had felt the presence of an Immortal when she was within one hundred meters of the group. From her experience, this intense a buzz meant either a very strong or old (or both) Immortal, or more than one. But what would an Immortal be doing in the company of a Watcher? Did they know who each other were? Surely the Watcher knew. Maybe Dawson was setting up another Immortal for a kill. She looked nervously at the stand of trees beyond them, the only place around that could hide a group of men. Were there Watchers there even now, with rifles, or even machine guns, waiting to shoot down the whole party (who were certainly not all Immortals)? Elena knew that would not make much difference to their enemies. She stopped when she noticed two members of the graveside party looking in her direction. The first was a redheaded man who was speaking, and she recognized him from not too long ago. ****************************************** Sitting next to her, Maria nervously scans the crowds on all sides. 'She's still looking for him,' thinks Elena, and although she knows Antonio will not be after them today, she is extremely empathetic as her friend repeatedly glances all around. Maria had left Elena nearly a year before, saying she was simply too frightened of the swordplay and the constant threat of danger and the severed heads and the long hours of agonized waiting for a loved one to return--or not. Elena was heartbroken. She and Maria had been together for four years and was one of the few mortals she had ever confided her secret to. But she would not try to force her to stay. Now Maria is back, very pregnant and even more scared. Ironically, the man she had met, the father of her child, believes he has a God-given right to control the life, by violence if necessary, of everyone around him. Especially a mere woman. He had already put Maria in the hospital once, and he was not about to let her go. So when he found them in Buenos Aires and tried to attack them, Elena had to show him her version of the modern emancipated woman. Even though Elena explained that knees smashed with a sledgehammer take a very long time to heal, and in fact will never really heal fully, Maria is still nervous, and Elena is still empathetic. The warm-up band has not yet come to the stage when Elena feels the buzz. She puts on her glasses--her far vision has never been very good, even before her first death--and scans in the right direction. Finally, across the corner of the central stage, she sees a redheaded man who was apparently about to sit down but had paused and is looking toward her. Their eyes meet. He looks vaguely Irish, in good physical condition, and very young, but appearances can be deceiving. Elena shakes her head slightly at him. He nods at her in agreement, smiling a rather pleasant smile. Then he sits down. Unfortunately, the exchange is not lost on the very observant Maria, and they wind up leaving soon after, before the concert even begins. *************************************** As the second man turned and walked toward her, Elena realized that he, too, was an Immortal. What was this, a convention? She wondered briefly if the person in the coffin had been buried with or without her head, then turned to the matter at hand. He had long hair, as black as hers, drawn back at the nape of his neck, and walked with the assured ease that only dancers (and swordsmen) seemed to have. He was quite large, and looked strong. And exactly what was he doing here? As he closed the gap she removed her dark glasses--there was nothing wrong with her near vision--and noticed that he had the most beautiful dark eyes she had ever seen in her life. They were very dark and very sad. Maybe he was burying a friend, she thought, and felt a twinge of guilt at interrupting. But her strongest emotion was something else. He started to introduce himself formally, then stopped, and they stared at each other. There was such an animal sensuality about him that she felt her breath catch. She could see that he was attracted to her. His eyes became much too bright, and he even seemed to blush a little under her gaze. "I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he started firmly, in what was almost a boast. She didn't reply. "Who are you and what do you want?" he asked. Elena knew that what she was about to say was the wrong thing, but she felt a compulsion too strong to ignore. Besides, her instincts usually served her well, eventually, and keeping him surprised and off-balance seemed like a good idea. "You have the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen in my life!" She was rewarded with a very obvious blush. He even drew back slightly from her. Seizing the advantage, she leaned toward him. "But I am not for you, 'escoses'." Duncan was confused, and pleased, and embarassed, all at the same time. For a brief moment, he tried to think of what to say, and then he thought, 'Richie!' Duncan did not lie to himself, and what he felt was an unexpected pang of what he knew in his heart was jealousy! 'Jealousy??!!' he thought frantically. He pointed behind him, not wanting to take his eyes off her, not even on holy ground. "Is it him?" he asked. She looked beyond him. The other Immortal had stopped speaking and was definitely looking at them. "No, I am not for him either." Her eyes drifted down to the tombstone beside her. It had the name Herrera, how convenient! Duncan glanced down, saw the Spanish name, and reached the conclusion Elena wanted him to reach. He thought of Charlie. "I guess we all have friends we have to bury," he murmured. Elena closed her eyes in shock and pain. She hadn't thought about Maria in such a long time, and now his words brought her memory back with as much pain as if he had slashed her with a sword. How could it still hurt so much, after so many months? As she turned away from him, she noticed that the redhead was now walking towards them. Her heart felt constricted--at the moment, fighting was the last thing on her mind. She had to get away from both of them. Duncan immediately saw the effect his words had and regretted them. She turned, apparently to leave, but he wanted desperately to keep her there. "Wait!" He reached for her arm, then decided against grabbing her. "Tell me your name!" Elena looked back at him. "Another time, 'escoses'." Then she quickly walked away. Duncan turned his head to make sure it was Richie and not someone else coming up behind him. By then she was moving and he called out after her. "Will I see you again?" He felt like a damn schoolboy with a crush on a pretty girl. She continued on her way. "Who was she?" asked Richie. "She didn't say." "Did she want one of us?" "She said not," he replied, still staring after her. "Well, this is holy ground. Maybe she expects to meet us later," Richie shrugged. " Maybe she lied." "I don't think so." Duncan was sure she hadn't come to fight either of them, but he wasn't so sure about the wanting part. "Do you believe in coincidences, Richie?" "Nope, especially since I've met her before." Duncan turned to him, greatly interested. "Tell me everything," he whispered. Elena had hurried away, wondering if there was going to be an attack by the Watchers, and if she should have warned the Immortals. She changed her plans to relax for the afternoon and found the nearest stable and a suitable horse. Riding 'like the wind' had always been a great stress reliever for her, as well as giving her time to think. She didn't spend much time in preparation for meeting Dawson tonight--that unpleasantness would soon be over--and she would certainly ask him what his connection was with the two Immortals. It was not inconceivable, of course, that the they were working with Dawson to hunt down other Immortals, although it was ultimately a self-defeating act. But she decided that the redhead was not the type. It was his friendly smile at the concert in Mexico City that decided her. It was not the arrogant predatory smile with which she was so familiar. No, going with her instincts, the redhead was not working with the Watchers. That left, of course, 'el escoses.' It was engraved in her mind, the picture of him gliding up and proudly stating, "I'm Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod," and that was pride, not arrogance. There was a difference, and she felt that anyone who was so proud of his heritage would not easily betray his own kind. Besides, she knew warrior clans lived by a strict code of honor which he had apparently not abandoned. And, ultimately, she just didn't want him to be a stooge for the Watchers. Elena had learned long ago, if she couldn't be honest with anyone else, to at least be honest with herself, and she knew that she was definitely wildly attracted to MacLeod. Even thinking about him... She cooled down the gelding, grooming him afterward, the long brush strokes stretching her tired muscles. She was rewarded by a friendly nuzzle and, after a shower and dinner, was ready for her night's work. She called to make sure Dawson was at Joe's and that no mass shooting had occurred at the cemetery that afternoon, then decided to give them a warning call after all. Duncan was tossing a salad and listening to music. Richie had told him everything he knew about the dark haired woman, and it wasn't much. His feelings were definitely quite clear--he absolutely wanted to see her again. Finding her would be a problem, but not an unsurmountable one, provided he hadn't spooked her into running. Somehow, she didn't seem to be the running type. He felt the buzz and looked toward his katana for reassurance. It was probably Richie, but with an unknown Immortal in town, one couldn't be too careful. And he had given her his name. He found himself fantasizing that it was her and was almost disappointed when Richie walked out of the elevator. "Hi," said the younger man. "What's cookin'?" "If you mean that literally, it's spaghetti marinara." "Actually, I meant about this girl. You know, I haven't been able to get my mind off her. There's just something about her..." "I know what you mean," Duncan said noncommitally. There was no reason Richie couldn't be attracted to her too. "But offhand, I'd say she's not your type." "Me? No. She's a little too...intense for me I think. But now, you, Mac..." Duncan stopped to stare when Richie didn't continue. "What?" "Well, Mac, come on, when I came up on the two of you...I mean, I was afraid if I walked between you I'd catch fire!" "You're exaggerating, Richie. Sure, she's very..." he searched for a word, "attractive..." "Attractive! Mac, she's a knockout! All that black hair! Damn! And let's face it--in the immortal words of the Mask, the two of you were 'smokin'!" Richie smiled at the memory. "Well," Duncan tossed the lettuce with some agitation. "It's none of your business, anyway," he glared at Richie. "Alright, alright!" Richie held up his hands in mock surrender. "I'm just really curious about what she wanted." "Yeah, me too. Maybe we'll find out." "You going hunting?" "Maybe." "But, not for fighting, right? I mean, you're not going to challenge her or anything, right?" "Richie!" Duncan growled. "I know, I know, it's none of my business." He picked up a breadstick and crunched on it. "How are you going to find her, Mac?" "I don't know, Richie. But I always seem to find the Immortals I'm looking for, don't I?" Richie opened his mouth to reply just as the phone rang. Since he was closer, he picked up the receiver. "Dojo." There was a pause while he listened. "Yeah, the name's Richie Ryan, and hey, it was nice seeing you again." Another pause. "Well, you're kind of unforgettable." Pause. "It was meant as a compliment. Listen, I know it's too late, but I'm sorry if I scared your friend there at the concert. She knows about us, doesn't she?" Duncan realized who Richie was talking to and barely kept himself from tearing the telephone out of Richie's hand. But the younger man seemed to be settling into a nice conversation. "So, was it a boy or a girl?" Duncan couldn't see Richie's face, but he noticed how Richie suddenly stiffened, and his voice changed. "Hey, I'm sorry. That's really a bummer. But listen, you...didn't call to talk to me." There was a reply, and Richie handed the phone to Duncan. "A nice lady with a Spanish accent wants to talk to 'el escoses.' I guess that's you." "Duncan MacLeod here." He gripped the receiver. Her voice was low and unanimated. "Do you know who the Hunters are?" Duncan shifted the weight on his feet, slightly alarmed. This woman seemed to always come up with a surprise. "Yes, but I don't know who you are." Elena sighed. "They may be closer than you think." "Why are you telling me this?" "Because you and I, we are warriors, and we deserve to die fighting another Immortal with a sword in our hands, not shot in the back by some fanatic bastard pack of hounds who believe they are ridding the world of vermin." She didn't bother to hide the bitterness in her voice. In fact, she hoped he would take her seriously. He did. "I agree. But I think we should discuss this further. Can we meet just to talk?" "No. I'm busy. Just warn Richie as well." "At least tell me your name." Elena thought it over. With her name, it would be easier for him to find her. "Elena Conchita Duran y Agramonte," she said with as much pride as he had, and hung up. Duncan looked at the receiver for a moment before hanging up. Now that he had her name... "Well?" asked Richie. "What did she say?" "She said to be careful of Hunters." "Hunters?! Dammit, I thought those guys were gone!" "And she also gave me her name." "She did? Well, what is it? Maybe Dawson knows something about her." Ducan was thinking the same thing, but he simply would not call Dawson. He went back to the salad. "I wouldn't know, and I won't ask him." "Why not, Mac? You two have been friends for years! You've helped each other in the past! What happened between you two?" Richie moved closer to Duncan, pressing for an answer. "Charlie happened. Charlie. And I don't want to discuss it." Duncan said this with finality, hoping Richie would drop the subject. He did. "Alright. Let's try some of that spaghetti." They were subdued during the meal, each consumed by his own thoughts, until dessert. "So, what is her name?" "Elena Conchita Duran y Agramonte." It was a name Duncan was not likely to forget. Assuming she was from out of town, he was already planning calls to local hotels. Richie seemed to file it away. "Right." copyright by Vivian Moreau, 1995 =========================================================================