========================================================================= Date: Thu, 7 Mar 1996 21:41:58 -0500 Reply-To: Sandra1012@AOL.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Sandra McDonald Subject: Epicenter 4/4 *** Richie disappeared into the Tudor-style mansion on Mersey Drive. Methos had felt the beginning of the earthquake six blocks back. He and MacLeod had missed this neighborhood by only a dozen streets. He saw MacLeod's Thunderbird parked down the street, but saw no sign of the Highlander. He wasn't surprised. He hadn't rated Duncan's chances very high to begin with, but had to give him his chance. He took a deep breath and went to the gate. It was unlocked, but monitored by camera. He walked up the path to the main house and rang the door. Octavia answered. She showed no surprise. She wore a yellow dress that reminded him poignantly of the yellow robe she'd once worn as a Roman citizen in Constantinople. Her wrists and throat were encircled with diamonds. "I was wondering when you'd come," she said now, her face impassive. "You should have sent me the address," Methos said. "It would have been quicker." "But not as effective," she retorted, and led him inside the house. "I wanted the boy and the Highlander as well." "And now you have them," Methos prompted. "I have all of you." The house had been rented unfurnished. The dark, hollow rooms seemed to Methos to reflect the emptiness in Octavia's soul as well. Some part of her had died forever on the Thracian plains with her husband the general, and another part in the Forum with Alric's senseless death. He just hadn't realized it at the time. "Will you tell me everything before you try to kill me?" Methos asked. "Yes," she murmured. Through the house they wound, passing one empty room after another, halls without pictures or mirrors, and finally arrived at a large ballroom lit by a series of thick, fat candles against the beige walls. The mirrored ceiling reflected light down as soft golden glow. The Indian sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor, unarmed, dressed only in a loincloth and with skin painted ochre. From his fathomless eyes came the rumbling of the earth, the resonance of an Immortal too powerful for Methos to imagine ever battling successfully. He'd been doomed, as Thira had been domed, as the Roman forces at Adrianople had been doomed, as the Egyptian forces against the Hittites at the battle of Kadesh had been doomed, as all of mankind was doomed - Methos blinked. "I'm not that easy," he said. Octavia moved into his line of vision. Her dress billowed softly in the breeze. "Sometimes it is. Sometimes it takes force, but others can be persuaded without them even realizing it." "Why bother?" Methos asked the Indian. "He doesn't speak English. He only speaks through me." "You found him in Rondovia. The tribe of the Uearu-Wau-Wau." "I'm impressed," she said. "Not many people know about that tribe. There's only a few hundred of them left, and soon they'll all be gone to dust." "How old is he?" >From the Indian, through Octavia, came images of spinning moons and suns sprinting through blue skies above the trees. Xan was not nearly as old as Methos expected. Just a few centuries. His gifts came not from his age, but from some other source entirely. A nameless source, even to Xan. "It took me sixteen hundred years to find another Labarna," Octavia continued smoothly. "But I persisted, and succeeded. We've been honing in his skills. He gets better every day." "Better at controlling young Immortals? At forcing them to do your bidding?" "Yes," Octavia said. Richie stepped out of the shadows, his rapier glittering in the candlelight. "You didn't tell me the whole story," Methos said, drawing his own sword. "What's missing?" Octavia asked. "Why you let him control you, as well," Methos said, and then threw up his sword as Richie came at him. The last thing he wanted to do was kill MacLeod's protege for their amusement, but as Methos was forced to retreat across the ballroom he realized he might not have a choice. Richie's movements were quick, precise, and piercing. He had a vast reserve of talent, and had been taught well. The two slices he managed to cut into Methos' chest and arm reminded the older Immortal that to Richie, he was probably some other enemy - Martin Hyde again, or another nightmare dredged from the past. But that didn't stop him from trying to get through to him. "Richie, listen to me," he said. "You don't have to do this." Richie didn't answer. His sword cut across Methos' cheek, and blood welled. Methos retaliated with a sharp jab into Richie's midriff. The young imp deserved a lesson in respecting his elders. He'd taken Jorgen's Quickening, and for that Methos should demand a just revenge. "No," Methos growled at Octavia. "You're not getting me as well!" "I don't have a great deal of hope to," Octavia called from the sidelines. She watched with a keen interest, but seemed to have already decided on the outcome. "But I try." Richie caught Methos in a opening, and plunged forward into Methos' side. Methos fell, his strength running away like water down a drain, but managed to block the next blow. He thrust upward and then sideways, catching Richie in the leg and sending him sprawling away. Methos staggered upright and brought his sword down. Richie blocked at the last possible minute, then rolled away. Crimson marked a wide streak on the floor. Methos had hit an artery in the leg, and pain had broken through the mask on Richie's face. Methos hoped it was an opening of a different kind as well. "Richie, fight it," Methos urged even as their weapons clashed back and forth in deadly arcs. Richie shook his head violently. "No," he choked out. "I can't." "The arrow," Methos said, seizing on Richie's earlier words. "What's important about the arrow?" Richie retreated back towards Octavia and Xan. "There's no arrow," he panted. "Listen to me, Richie. What is so important about the arrow?" Richie abruptly stopped fighting. He stood motionless, his rapier falling to his side, his face ashen white, face soaked with sweat, leg pumping blood. The breeze through the windows and doors seemed to stop, and the candles all stilled. "The arrow can be turned back," Richie whispered. Then plunged his rapier into his own chest. "No!" Octavia shouted. Methos swung and chopped off her head. The candlelight became a storm. Methos saw Xan rise and flee the ballroom, saw Richie fall motionless to the floor, but all he could do was stand transfixed as shafts of equal parts ecstasy and agony shot down the length of his arms and spine, into the essence of his being, out his legs, back again in a dreadful circle. Octavia's Quickening ripped into his soul, sending him spiraling into a white hot acid bath of memories and emotions, then kicking him out to fall helplessly to his knees on the floor. The candles had all gone out, but in the blue and ethereal moonlight he raised his head and saw Xan standing with his new champion. MacLeod. "Duncan, no," Methos protested. Octavia's Quickening had left him shaken and trembling, even though it had healed the wounds Richie had inflicted. His hand shook as he picked up his sword again. Fighting MacLeod on a good day was enough of a challenge, and this was not a good day. "Duncan, please. Fight him." "I'm Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod," was the response he got. "And you, Kern, are dead." MacLeod advanced. Kern had killed MacLeod's Sioux lover, Little Deer. Methos had no doubt that MacLeod would make every effort to kill whoever he believed to be Kern, even though the real Kern was dead. "Duncan, you can't let him control you," Methos said desperately, falling back under a dozen carefully delivered blows. MacLeod was just warming up. He would play with him for awhile, tire him out, weaken his defenses, and then go for the kill. "Duncan, I'm not Kern," he said, retreating, throwing in a few thrusts for good measure. MacLeod easily blocked him. "You're dead, that's what you are." Methos had hoped it wouldn't come to it, but he pulled out his concealed 9mm pistol, and fired four rounds into his friend's chest. He had eleven more bullets to use on Xan. It was cheating, but then again, this had never been a fair fight. MacLeod fell backward, blood bubbling through his darkening shirt. His hands clawed at the hardwood floor, and soundless words shaped from his mouth. Then he died. Methos turned to the doorway. Three other Immortals stood between him and Xan. A woman in Arab dress, a tall black man, a portly red haired man. All with swords, all with the look of Xan's will stamped on their features. Methos shot the first two. Then the gun jammed. The tall black man came after him a with little skill but a driving determination. It took half a minute for Methos to lure him into a feint and then run him through. MacLeod stirred on the floor behind Methos, and rose with sword in hand. "Oh, no, not again," Methos panted. His vision was swimming with sweat, and his hands reeked of too much blood. Duncan rising up with the same murderous gleam in his eyes seemed like a nightmare that refused to end. He could imagine the other three rising too, like zombie puppets controlled by Xan, and knew he would eventually fall under their onslaught. Methos needed help. He looked to Richie, but the young Immortal had disappeared. A horrible premonition made him turn barely in time to see Richie cut off Xan's head from behind. And then the earthquake in the back of Methos' mind turned into a full fledged shattering of the earth. *** Thira had gone up in the year 1500 B.C., during a beautiful summer's afternoon. Methos and Arete had drunk too much wine for lunch, interspersed with olives and cheese, and in drunken delight had sought out each other's bodies in their open-aired bedroom above a garden of wild flowers. Methos was in the middle of entirely different kind of eruption when he realized the bed shaking and the house rocking were not the product of Arete's skills or his own passion. The volcano's first thrust from dormancy blew the top off the island. Slabs of the house began falling in, and the foundation cracked open like thunder. Methos grabbed Arete and dashed for the sea, but scorching streams of blood-red lava gushing down the streets blocked their way. The whole island pitched and tossed beneath their bare feet. The air turned black and solid in his chest. Arete's screams rose with thousands of others. When Methos awoke next he was in the sea, burned over most of his body, in a constant agony as the salt and sunlight soaked into his searing flesh. He'd floated for three days before fisherman pulled him in from the ash-layered sea. He'd fought them. In a fever of pain and grief, he'd thought he might die if left in the water long enough. But they persisted. His sorrow had stayed with him a dozen years. The dreams had faded since, but sometimes he thought a part of his brain would forever shake with that horrible day, that he could never again trust the earth he stood on. Now the mansion was shaking apart as Xan's Quickening struck at Richie like a miniature volcano, thrusting red light and flame up the walls, flinging bolts of white-hot light in random arcs. The mirrored ceiling which had withstood Octavia's Quickening shattered, sending down a million splinters of glass. The hardwood floor buckled and broke. MacLeod plunged through the wood towards the basement, but Methos grabbed his wrist and hauled him up in the shaking, rocking, shuddering ballroom. They huddled together beneath the Quickening's onslaught and Richie's screams. Then the Quickening passed, and Methos cautiously raised his head. The ballroom was unscathed. The destruction had all been a hallucination, the last mental projection of Xan's mind. "Are you all right?" MacLeod whispered beside him. "Are you yourself?" Methos whispered back. Richie was slumped in the doorway, too shaken and drained to even talk to them. He made no protest as MacLeod pried his rapier from his hand and then draped his coat over him. The three young Immortals revived within minutes, with confusion and pestering questions that Methos was too tired to answer. MacLeod took care of everything. With stoic efficiency he herded them all outside into the Cadillac. He piled Octavia and Xan into the middle of the ballroom and then set the house on fire twice - first to the pit of Immortal bodies in the basement, and then to Octavia's yellow dress. MacLeod took everyone back to the dojo, where Methos helped him haul out blankets and sheets for the young ones to use on the floor. Richie also helped, but his actions were wooden and robotic, and he'd said nothing since leaving the mansion. MacLeod went back to retrieve the Thunderbird. The young ones slid to sleep. Richie stayed awake on his half of the pull-out sofabed, and in concern Methos asked him what was troubling him. "That was the most powerful Quickening I've ever taken," Richie said. "It was one of the most powerful I've ever seen," Methos admitted. "Do you think . . . " "Think what?" Methos asked. "Do you think he's in me now, and I'll become like he was? That I'll have his power?" Methos rose up on one elbow. "Do you want his power, Richie?" "No." Richie's answer was quick and firm. "I don't want anything to do with that pain. It was like . . . having a lightning bolt in your brain." MacLeod had said like napalm. Methos was glad that of all the pains that night, at least he'd been spared that particular one. He leaned back on his pillow and stared at the dark ceiling. He was tired, but Richie needed to talk. "Tell me about the arrow." "That was weird. From the first time Xan came after me, I saw an image of an arrow shooting into a cave. But it wasn't until we were in that ballroom and you cut my leg that I realized, way down deep, that the arrow was Xan, and the cave was my mind. And it was even weirder, but because I could see the arrow, I felt like I could touch it. And I did. And I turned it back." "You were the only one Xan encountered who could do that," Methos offered. "I think." "What makes me so special?" "I don't know," Methos admitted. He didn't say that perhaps taking Xan's Quickening had been a very unfortunate thing for Richie to do. Richie might not have inherited the power, but it might dormant within him. And he didn't know if Richie were strong enough to handle it on his own. He would worry about it later. Methos wished him a good night Richie asked, "What?" "I said, 'Good night, Richie.'" "You said Alric." "I did not," Methos retorted. "You said, "Good night, Alric.'" They argued about it for a few minutes more until one of the young Immortals, the woman, rose from her pillow and told them to stop bickering like children. Richie giggled. After a moment, Methos did too. Then they went to sleep. *** MacGuyver was building a raft out of cardboard, telephone wire, and a Boston Celtics towel. The contraption might have worked on some studio backlot pond, but it would never have crossed the Nile. Methos sighed. The day marked the Celtic holiday of Lughnasa, August 1st, which the Christians had changed it to Lammas, the First Fruits Festival. He had no plans. He was tired of celebrating holidays no one else even knew about. When his bell rang he was surprised to find Richie Ryan at his door, holding a pizza. "I was in the neighborhood," Richie said. "Hungry?" Methos eyed the box. "Did you get anchovies?" "No anchovies. Extra pepperoni." "I can live with extra pepperoni." Methos retrieved napkins and beer from the kitchen. They opened the pizza on the coffee table, and watched MacGuyver win over the bad guys again. Methos turned off the television and said, "How are the dreams?" Richie shrugged. "Every now and again. The same old stuff. The arrow. The jungle. The ballroom, going to pieces. But they're fading." "They always do," Methos said. "You can keep calling me if they trouble you." "Thanks," Richie said. "Mac's a grouch to wake up in the middle of the night." Then he brightened. "But that's not why I came by." Methos lifted a slice of pizza. "So why did you?" he asked curiously. "I was wondering if you'd tell me more about those Visigoths. Alric's people. The Huns, the Vandals, stuff like that." "Is this for class?" "No. School doesn't start until the end of the month," Richie grinned. "I was just kinda . . . I don't know. Interested." The grin faded, and a shade of awkwardness came over his face. "But if you don't want to talk about it . . . " Methos surprised himself. "I want to talk about it. I do. But before I launch into the invasion of the Huns, tell me one thing." "Sure." The ancient Immortal smiled. "What do you know about the Celts?" THE END **************************************************** End notes: This is an alternate universe story in that Richie knows Adam Pierson's true identity, and Methos remembers more of his history than he usually seems to. The timeline is sometime late season three/early season four or in a time of its own. I deliberately left out information about the lovely mortal girlfriend; it's okay, she doesn't last long. I did research Babylon, Thira, the Celts, the Hittites, and Adrianople. I'm a bit fuzzy on fjords. The Ureau-Wau-Wau really do exist. If you spot any historical errors then - congratulations! You're obviously far more educated than I am about ancient history, which is not surprising. If you noticed that little part about Methos not remembering his mentor, it's because I'm setting the stage for an epoch series of three stories that may leap frog into the future and into (gulp) the final Gathering. There's a battle-scarred plain, and there is a promise made. That's also why Richie gets to take the Quickening. It becomes important later. I think. I haven't actually composed anything yet, but sometimes Duncan, Methos, Richie, Amanda, Joe and the others materialize on top of my computer desk and tell me stories. sandra1012@aol.com "All experience is an arch wherethrough/gleams that untravl'd world" - Tennyson