Date: Thu, 19 May 1994 01:27:01 -0600 Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Alejandro Melchor Lombardo Subject: FIREBORN_II[Part2] Sorry, for the delay; here concludes chapter II of the adventures of Jorge De Aragon. I'm on the verge of vacation, so I hope my mind will begin dedicating more time to writing. Specially now, that I have an idea kicking around with Michael Cunningham meeting Duncan MacLeod, and Jorge will meet Connor shortly, so, expect news from me (I hope) soon. Alejandro Melchor. ***************************************************************************** ----- CHRONICLES OF THE FIREBORN ----- II. VENI, VIDI... (Part 2) Henri Dupont was bored; sitting all morning in a rundown cafeteria in El Paso, Texas was not his idea of fun. But it was a rest from the Game, a brief respite before the hunt for another immortal's head began anew. He murmured an obscenity to the waitress, who looked at him as if he was the plague itself. He laughed softly as he extended his leg to trip her as she passed by, but his foot somehow stumbled on his chair's leg and never completed the movement. "That is not the way to treat a lady, my friend", Henri made a grab for the sabre he hid in his backpack when he glanced at the man who had talked with a slight hispanic accent: a beige trenchcoat that was often the telltale sign of another immortal fit this thin man as if it were a cloak. Henri eased himself when he remembered that he had not felt any Quickening. "Why should you care, stranger", he answered, meeting the newcomer's brown-amber eyes, something in those eyes... Jorge entered the cafeteria just in time to prevent the immortal from tripping a waitress, stupid oaf, he thought; attracting attention like that. But now, Jorge held the immortal with his gaze, delving into a mind that had witnessed the passing of centuries. A soft resistance to his probing was felt, but it was not enough to override his will. "What are you doing?", the immortal asked. "Nothing", De Aragon pulled his mind away from the cesspool of the immortal's consciousness; nothing useful was there, "just being disappointed". He sat next to the immortal and ordered a cup of coffee. "My name is Henri Dupont". "Mine is not". "That's a good one, smartass", the immortal assumed a menacing stand, "but if you know what's good for you, you'll apologize and tell me your name". Jorge looked at Dupont; the immortal certainly looked able to give a sound thrashing to any normal man, but he was not one, and had encountered enough bullies in his lifetime to learn to ignore them. Henri grabbed De Aragon by the collar of his coat. "Unhand me. Now", Jorge stared at Henri's face, putting the weight of centuries behind his eyes. "Yes...pardon me...", Henri felt strange, queasy under the once- dragon's gaze. "That's better. Waitress! Forget about the coffee; I'm leaving". And he left. On a window across the street, Michael watched the scene through his telescope, he still believed that De Aragon was an immortal, an Ancient at that, with access to powers the others of his kind did not even know about, a fact that made him the most dangerous of immortals since the Kurgan. More dangerous even. A strange thing was, that in all Watcher records there wasn't a single entry of his taking of a head; he was not in the Game, as the monk another hit squad had killed some months ago. De Aragon's existence predated all records, he had managed to survive despite the fierce predatory ways of all immortals and that is what puzzled the Watchers more; that an immortal would live millenia without ever fighting another immortal. Michael's beliefs were suffering a serious assault; he was now witnessing the first documented encounter of De Aragon with another immortal, and nothing was happening! He had read the file on Dupont, he was another hunter, dedicating his entire life to the Game without regard to the mortals aorund him; he did not blend with society, being basically a sociopath with violent tendencies and there he was, confonting De Aragon the Ancient without even reaching for his sword. Was De Aragon Quickening-dead or what? He claimed not to be human at all, but he had told Michael with utter sincerity that nor he nor his wife would be harmed by him. Against all common sense, the Hunter trusted De Aragon's word on that. Here he came, Cunningham saw, it didn't last long all right. Michael wished that he'd had the courage to ask De Aragon to wear a microphone. The door opened. Michael was still facing the window, but De Aragon's presence was so distinctive to be recognizable. "How did it go?", he asked. "Are they all like that?", the Ancient asked. Michael remained silent. "If they are, then I support your mission; they should be destroyed". "Why didn't you killed him then?" "What, in front of all those people? Besides, I don't care about him. He can get his head chopped off by another bloodthirsty, egomaniacal, sword-swinging madman. "My team will arrive tomorrow, do you want to witness his death?" De Aragon's dreaded eyes turned toward him. "Yes. It could be...illuminating". Henri stood unbelieving at the thin man's back as he departed, had he actually _apologized_ to him?! He felt anger swell and cloud his eyes and his judgement. A mortal!, a mere mortal had faced him down! He grabbed his pack and his coat and made for the door. "Mister, your check!", the waitress yelled. "Shove it!", he shouted, his voice equaling a bestial roar. No one dared to stop him. In the hotel room, Michael and Jorge sat at the edges of their beds; the silence was a heavy cloak that covered both men's thoughts. Michael couldn't resist the stillness of the scene and began to unpack his rifle, taking refuge on its presence as he cleaned the long black barrel. He turned to De Aragon, waiting for at least a rebuke that would break the quiet; but none came. Michael sighed. "What?", Jorge asked, he had really not been thinking of anything; he was just lost in thought, letting his eye wander through the ever changing shape of the steam coming out of the cup of coffee on his hands. "You are not really an immortal, are you?" "I told you once; I tell you again. No." "What are you then?" "You wouldn't believe me". Jorge fixed his eye closer to the steam... ...steam that rose from a lake as his fiery breath touched it. The rage had not subsided, and the pain didn't lessen it in any way. A fishing village only reminded him of the wizard that had tried to take his blood. Humans, he thought amidst the red haze of fury, insignificant, stinking humans! How dare they seek immortality! How dare they stand up against _him_!, one of the D'roc!, one of the Fireborn! Flames engulfed the houses, flames rendered flesh and bone to ashes, flames cleansed the face of the earth of its vermin. "Stop, WyrGynthas!", a powerful voice boomed in his mind, addressing him with the name of his Lair. "Why should I?!", he screamed as he bathed the ground with fire. "I command it!", a huge shadow came over the sun, Jorge arched his head and his mind was filled with terror and reverence. "Allfather!", Jorge didn't believe it; the Great One, Father of All Dragons was there. He landed immediatly, spreding his wings on the ground and lowering his head. Nothing happened. He dared raise his eyes. A man was there. "What?!". "Don't worry, young fireborn, the Allfather is more preocuppied with other things than the misadventures of a lairling". "Wizard!", Jorge narrowed his eyes and inhaled slowly. "I, on the other hand, am very concerned with the people you so kindly helped on their way to Eternity". Hate-spawned fire replaced the mage as Jorge emptied his rage. "Tsk, tsk", the old man was still there!, "bad move, firedrake, now I'm angry". "I can still kill you", Jorge hissed. "Oh, I don't think so", the wizard began weaving air with his arms. Pain shot through Jorge's leg as he lost hold of the cup and the hot coffee splashed his pants. "Are you all right?", Michael asked. "Argh!; shit no!", Jorge jumped and attempted to clean the embarrasingly placed stain. "You might like to change". Jorge's stare was furious, sending Michael into silence. "Once, I could have endured the heat by simply being what I was". "You never told me _what_ you were". "I _told_ you that you wouldn't believe me; you are not ready for the truth". Oh, man; the Hunter thought, De Aragon's words reminded him of the old Kung Fu series in wich the master spoke in riddles to his student. But he was no 'grasshoper': he was curious, not desperate, so he remained unmoved as De Aragon changed his pants. "I'm hungry", Jorge said, "I think I'll eat something across the street". And without another word, he departed. The night was cold and biting. Jorge pulled his trenchcoat close to him. He was about to cross the street when something hit his face hard. He fell reeling, the world spinning around him. As Jorge began to regain his bearings, another blow landed on the back of his head. Blackness embraced him. The pain. All his body was crying as muscles contracted and bent, bones shrivelled and filled. When Jorge woke up, he was naked, staring at his hands. "Hands...?" "Yes, young D'roc, hands", the old man's voice sounded regretful. Jorge rised, but quickly lost his balance, unused to standing on two legs without a tail to equilibrate his weight. "What...have you done to me?", he heard a squeak say the words, then realized it was his voice. "I'm not prone to killing, but your complete disregard for human life deserved a punishment", the wizard kneeled and helped him up, "so I weaved your Strands into a whole new Pattern". "You...you turned me into.." "Yes, dragon; into a human". The once-dragon tried to focus unto the Shapeshift, tried to regain his powerful body. He failed. "Your magic won't work; the new Pattern prevents it, you will bear this shape until the end of your days. Thus I curse you". The wizard left, walking slowly. Jorge's new face was crying, he looked at his sickly pink flesh, at his puny extremities, and he began tearing his skin with harmless fingernails. "Ah, you have spirit, man", a voice echoed in his brain, "I didn't think you would awaken so soon". Jorge opened his eyes to see the face of Henri Dupont, the immortal. "You are not like the other weaklings..., Jorge De Aragon", Henri mispronounced the name he read from the license in Jorge's wallet, "yes; I see bloodlust in your eyes". Jorge's hands were tied to his back. He looked around, he was in the middle of a desert, a huge lot for sale in the outskirts of the city. The lights from the highway were visible at a far distance. He saw Dupont draw a sabre from a pack lying in the floor. "You humilliated me at the cafeteria", the immortal put the tip of the blade at hairlength from his eyes. "You will, pay. But you are strong; I'll give you the honor of dying as one of my kind: I will cut your head". Jorge just smiled, he'd heard better threats. But his mind was intent on the knots that bound his hands, their Pattern was easy, he began to unwind it as he had done to the bolts that held the billboard he'd dropped on a pursuing Hunter. "There can be only one", Dupont said as he raised his sword. "That's a nice line", Jorge said, the knots were undone, "you should put music to it". The sabre fell, but it's target had leaped out of reach. "What?! Amazing, Jorge De Aragon, you would have made a fine immortal, your Quickening would have been strong". "Ha!, I've lived longer than you, human trash!", Jorge laughed, directing the battle madness he felt rising within into a sort of sick joy. Henri was confused for a moment, then decided Jorge was teasing and made a long slash. Jorge ducked and lunged with his arms in front. His fist hit the immortal's stomach. Henri backed a few steps while catching his breath. "In fact", Jorge added, "I have learned more than you could ever forget". The lust for blood was in him again, he ran toward Henri, and managed to dodge a clumsy stab, hitting the immortal's face with a sidelong punch. "What are you?!", Henri shouted while swinging madly, he'd never encountered someone crazy enough to fight him barehanded, and that scared him. "What am I?, what am I?", Jorge taunted, dancing in circles, "I am the stuff of your dreams and nightmares!" He lunged again, but the sabre connected and pierced his arm, but Jorge didn't feel the pain as he saw in the immortal everything he despised of humanity, and what he despised of himself. But the wound slowed him somehow, and Henri produced a flesh wound in his chest and managed to trip De Aragon. Henri was not one to lose an oportunity, and he prepared to behead the fallen man. But something flashed and he was pushed backwards as thunder was heard from a distance, a gunshot. He fell and lost his grip on his sword. Crawling, he tried to retrieve it, but someone beat him to it. "So, there can be only one, eh?", De Aragon held the sword, juggled with it, and poised himself on guard position. "You've handled a sword before", was all that Henri could say as he began a jump that would overbear Jorge. He never reached his target. In one piece, that is. Jorge anticipated the move, and spun the sword vertically, his timing was perfect and the blade cut swiftly through the immortal's neck. "So much for the powerful immortal", Jorge said. He kicked the headless corpse. Small wisps of light began to ooze from the bloody stump; Jorge kneeled closer, curious at this phenomenon. "The Quickening!", he heard Michael shout from afar, for it was Michael who had shot, saving his life. The wisps turned to bolts of lightning that raised the body from the ground. Jorge felt the energy coursing around him, and shielded his eyes with his hand to see better. Then it happened. A loose bolt hit him square in the chest and sent him upwards, where other lightnings joined the first one and kept him there. The pain was unbearable; Jorge didn't understand; why is this happening? why does the Quickening come to me?. With the pain came the memories, thoughts of other lives, of other immortals, of other humans. "There can be..." "Hold that sword steady!" "..are the Rules.." "...Holy Ground.." "AAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHH!!", Jorge fought the onslaught of minds with all his might, "I WILL _NOT_ BE HUMAN!!", but the weight was great, and it was taxing his mind, his body...his Pattern. As lightning coursed and twist, he felt the chains of the Curse weaken, the Threads of the Pattern changing; changing back. Claws, scales, wings; the lightning of the Quickening mingled with the Fire of the D'roc, Jorge felt himself grow larger, stronger; and he laughed as his draconian mind effortlessly threw the collective minds off, he raised his head and spit fire into the night. Then it ended. Pain wretched him again, as the Quickening ended so did it's hold on the chains of the Curse, and the Pattern trapped Jorge again inside a human shape. He fell to his knees; his clothes laid in taters around him and every inch of his skin burned. He felt a hand helping him up. "I...I saw", Michael Cunningham said with his voice shaking. "Then you know what I am". "How?" "I was cursed into this shape until the end of my days, but there were loopholes in the magician's Curse; he meant me to die human, but the Pattern read the end of my days as my _draconic_ days". "And that means..." "Forever". They reached Michael's car parked on a nearby street; Jorge had picked the immortal's sabre and he held it with both hands as he seated himself. Michael looked at the blade. "You saved my life, Michael", Jorge said as a whole new meaning revealed itself behind his eyes. "He was going to kill you". "And you would have been free of me. Tomorrow you would have killed the immortal anyway". "It seemed...right". Jorge held Michael's gaze, reached with his hand and touched the Hunter's temples. "Listen to me, Michael Cunningham; you gave me back my life, I am honor bound to you; and so...", Michael felt a probing force in his mind, "the link between us now runs both ways". Michael felt an intangible weight over him as he became aware of the dragon's mind. "Your name isn't Jorge De Aragon", Michael whispered in awe, "It's..." "Hush! Never speak a dragon's true Name out loud". "You _are_ a dragon". "I _was_ a dragon, Michael", Jorge caressed the sabre's blade, "and I will be one again when I gain enough Quickening to break the Curse permanently; there is another loophole the old man never thought about". "So, you enter the Game". "Yes". Michael started the car; the mechanical purr eased both men. "Then", the Hunter added as a salute, "there will be only one". "No, Michael; there will be only me". The car jumped to movement, and lost itself in the city's sea of lights. THE END Alejandro Melchor al168214@academ01.mty.itesm.mx =========================================================================