Date: Tue, 25 Jul 1995 12:09:51 -0400 Reply-To: mikester@BIX.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Mike Breen Subject: HOMECOMING - Part 3 Ok, well, it seems I've been able to crowbar this story into the actual Finale timeline. So... it _doesn't_ take place over several weeks. Usual language & stuff. IRELAND, COUNTY CORK, JUNE 1995 "_Talk_ to me Connor," Patrick said after he closed the connection with Bernard. "We've known eachother longer than most of our other friends. _Talk_ to me." "What do you want me to say?" Connor stood and glared at Patrick. "Duncan's my Student, my Clansman, and most importantly, my friend! What do you _expect_ me to do?! Do you know what it's _like_? Knowing that any _second_ your friend and Student may sacrifice themselves? That they may _die_?" "Yes." "And now _so_ do _I_!" Connor sighed and sat down again and said, "And it's not a feeling I like. I'm sorry, Patrick. I didn't mean to take it out on you." "Don't worry about it," Patrick said. "What're friends for?" "Duncan was my first Student. I was practically a cub myself when I found him. I was fifty years old, and I hadn't even been out of Scotland yet. I honestly wasn't sure I knew what I was doing, but, I tried. I gave him enough knowledge to face another Immortal and win. And enough knowledge to know to seek out other Teachers. Often I wished Ramirez were still alive. I would have brought Duncan to him immediately. But..." "But you couldn't," Joe Ammamoto said. "And you did the best you could. And the best you could was enough to turn him into a fine warrior and an honorable man." "From what I know of him," Patrick said, "and from the few times I've met him, he'll do whatever it takes, and whatever is best for us. If Kalas can be killed and the disc recovered and destroyed, he'll do it." "I hope you're right," Connor said. "Good ghods, I wish I could start this week over again." Patrick stood on the cliff that night, looking out onto the rough sea. The moonlight reflected off of the waves, and the wind whipped around him. The atypical weather they were having would not hold. He could smell the rain in the air. The rains that Ireland was famous for were returning. Patrick thought of Boston, then. For the first time in twenty years, he would probably miss the Bunker Hill parade, which this year was marking the two hundred and twentieth anniversary of that battle. A battle that had been lost, but had cost the British far more lives than they had bargained for. A battle that had been fought on the wrong hill. He could remember it like it was yesterday. The smell of gunpowder, the famous "whites of their eyes," the ammunition running out. He had died towards the end of the battle, but his friend, Paul Summner, had assumed he had been merely knocked down by a graze when Patrick stood, alive again. Those memories could very well be gone soon. He also thought of another war he had fought, the Second World War. He had participated in the invasion of Normandy, and had been killed there as well. There was a white cross on the beach marking the place. After Normandy he had traveled on foot through France, signs of both liberation and destruction around him. It was in Paris, just after the Liberation that he had met Duncan MacLeod the second of only two times. Those memories could soon mean nothing. And the Roaring Twenties. The Jazz age. He had made quite a bit of money in the illegal bootlegging trade, like Kennedy (whom Patrick never actually liked), and even owned a speakeasy in Boston. He had traveled all over Europe as well, and spent quite a bit of time in New York. All that could very easily be washed away. His century in China came to mind, then. His marriage to the daughter of a powerful trader. How she had been captured by an evil Immortal, and how her father had revealed himself to be half Japanese, and entrusted him with his grandfather's sword, the katana he carried to this day. How after his wife had died a scant two years after the incident, he traveled to the Mongolian border, and found an Immortal martial arts master named Mei-Ling. She had taught him many of the forms he used, and convinced him to travel on eastward to Japan and seek out a samurai to teach him how to "swing that katana like a sword, not a club." He had found Yoshihiro Ammamoto soon after arriving in Japan, and stayed with him for several years, learning the ways of the samurai. Those memories could soon be torn from the world. And he thought of three of his closest friends. One he had known for the first half of his life, one for the second half, and one for all of it. Ramirez, Connor, and Rebecca. Ramirez, his first Teacher, who had found him before he had even become Immortal. Without whom Patrick's life would have turned out completely different. He was more than merely a Teacher to Patrick. He was guardian, surrogate father, spiritual guide, and more. Connor, perhaps his closest friend, who he had nearly killed for mistakenly assuming he had taken Ramirez's head. They had been through a _lot_ together. It was ironic that when they had met, Patrick had just returned from Japan, and Connor was just leaving _for_ Japan. Patrick had never met, with the exception of Ramirez, a more honorable man, mortal or Immortal. Rebecca, now his wife, who he had met on a "training journey" into France with Ramirez. Who he had wanted to marry a mere few weeks after meeting her. They had fallen in love immediatly, and had spent most of their Immortal lives together. He would miss her the most if the witch hunts began. Patrick felt the presence of another Immortal nearby. He expected Connor. Instead he turned and saw Nancy. "You can't sleep, either, can you?" she said. "Nope." "It's really over, isn't it? Eventually, that disk will be made public. If Duncan MacLeod sacrifices himself, won't Connor go after him?" "Probably." "Eternal life," she said. "I thought it would make me live longer." "Nancy, it's not over until it's over. Remember that." "Do you mind if I ask you something personal?" "Go right ahead." "Connor... he seems to desperately want to be mortal. But you..." "We all want to be mortal at various points in our lives," Patrick said. "We all want to live normal lives. Someday _you'll_ get that urge, like a knot of sadness in your gut. You'll take a mortal husband, maybe adopt a child. But there's _no_ running away from what you are. Eventually your husband will die and you'll feel naked and alone." "Is the answer then to have nothing to do with mortals other than friendships?" "Ramirez would have told you yes, but that's one of the few times he was wrong. You cannot live the richness of life without them. This is _their_ world we live in, after all." "You haven't answered my question, Patrick. Do _you_ want to be mortal?" Patrick sighed and stared at the sea. He said, "I used to. For about six hundred years. A few decades after Sarah, my last wife, died, I realized that Immortality isn't a curse, but a great gift. I have seen so _much_. I could give so much to mortal man if we're exposed, and _not_ persecuted. Once I realized things like that, I began to enjoy it more. I think, perhaps, most of us realize that eventually. Some realize that right away. Some take longer, like me. Some, never." "Like Connor." "Perhaps. In the grand scheme of Immortality, he's still young, yet." And so it went for another two days. Waiting. The rain came and kept them all in the small house. On the third day, the rain stopped and Joe took that opportunity to study Patrick's technique. They stood on the mat outside, clad in samurai garb. Joe handed Patrick his katana and said, "Just _hold_ this sword in a combat-ready stance." Patrick did, and Joe stood in front of him. Disgusted, he grabbed Patrick's elbows and slammed them together. Patrick dropped the sword and collapsed in pain. "Four hundred years ago I told you this," Joe said, "and it would seem four hundred years later I still have to tell you. Keep your elbows IN!" "Ghods damnit, Joe, did you _have_ to do that?" "Yes. If you are going to fight with a samurai's sword, you have to fight samurai style, or you dishonor the blade. I've also told you _that_ before. Now get up and let's see of you've forgotten everything else I taught you." They sparred, Patrick taking the offensive at first then Joe aggressively attacking him. Joe attacked harder and harder, until Patrick realized that this was no sparring match. Joe was fighting for real. Patrick took a more active defense then, but Joe was slightly too fast for him. Joe disarmed him and placed his blade at Patrick's neck. "Not bad, Irelander," he said. "I still think that one day you will best me. Do you yield?" "I yield," Patrick said. Joe lowered his blade and said, "Your elbows weren't _that_ bad, but I was afraid you had fallen into some bad habits. It would seem, though, that you have combined some European techniques with the Japanese ones. Very effective." "Not effective enough against you, it would seem," Patrick said. "On the contrary," Joe said. "There was one point where _I_ was in danger of losing my blade, once you began fighting for real." "You always said the fight was real." "It is. Never forget that. I have trained young Immortals who have attempted to take my head during a sparring match. Patrick," Joe said, changing the subject, "I think perhaps it was time I started a new life." "Why?" "People are beginning to notice that I still look young." Patrick laughed and said, "But didn't you tell me _all_ you Asian types age slowly?" "No, all you European types become decrepit before your time. But in all seriousness, it will not be long before someone puts the facts together. That is, _if_ the disks do not become public. I was thinking perhaps settling in the United States. Perhaps Boston." Patrick smiled and said, "You'd do me a great honor." "I was thinking of perhaps opening up a dojo somewhere. Just a small one. Since I joined Japanese Intelligence, I've had to train on my own. When I train with others, it's usually for a mission. The last time I actually trained with people was just before the last leave I took. This particular dojo had some... interesting characters." "How so?" "Well... there was this crazy red-haired girl. And I could have sworn I saw a panda." Patrick burst out laughing and said, "Panda? Joe, you can do better than _that_!" Rebecca called out the window and said, "Joe! Patrick! There's a call coming in." They put their shoes on and went inside. Joe's fingers flew across the keyboard of his computer and he nodded for Patrick to pick the phone up. Connor came in at that moment from his own exercises, and Nancy had been in the kitchen with Rebecca. He put the speaker on and said, "Hello?" "Patrick," came Bernard's voice. "Bernard," Patrick said. "Great news," Bernard said. "Wonderful news. The disk has been destroyed, and Kalas is dead." Patrick and Nancy breathed a sigh of relief and Rebecca said, "Thank ghods." Connor closed his eyes. Only Joe was still. "So that's it," Patrick said. "It's _really_ over." "Yup." "Thank you, Bernard. Thanks for _everything_." "I'll be seeing you soon, then. I've got to get back to Boston before the tourist season is completely over." Patrick laughed and said "See you soon, Bernard." Joe closed the connection and said, "I think perhaps it would be a good idea to leave this equipment here, as it is. This _could_ have actually happened." "Good idea, Joe," Connor said. He then looked at Patrick, who nodded. Patrick said, "Rebecca as soon as we close up the cottage, take Nancy home. Connor and I have some things to finish up." "What?" "We're going to Paris to find this Peirson character, and to make sure this won't ever happen again." "Then I'm going with you." "Rebecca..." "Am I your wife or not?" Rebecca was right. He turned to Joe and said, "Could you stay with Nancy for a few days? Maybe show her a thing or two?" "Of course," Joe said. PARIS, FRANCE, JUNE 1995 "Paris is lovely in the springtime," they say. And even though it was practically summer, Paris was still lovely. Patrick, Connor, and Rebecca stepped out of the airport, into a taxi, and drove straight downtown to their hotel. They checked in, got their rooms and settled in. "I love Paris," Rebecca said, gazing out the window. "Hon," Patrick said, "the honeymoon can wait. Don't forget why we're here." "Come on, Patrick," Connor said, "relax. Pierson will probably still be here tomorrow." "And I know why _I'm_ here," Rebecca said. "I'm here to make sure that you don't decide to kill him." Somehow, Patrick had the feeling he'd have to wait in line behind the Watchers for that to happen. "Come in, Methos," Duncan said when he felt the powerful old Immortal on the deck of his barge. He untangled himself from Amanda and stood. Methos entered with Joe Dawson behind him. "What's up, Joe?" "Mac, your clansman Connor just arrived in Paris this morning." Duncan smiled and said, "Great! It's been a _while_ since we've seen eachother." "He's also here with your old Student, Amanda. Rebecca DeJeniere." "Really?" Amanda said. "It'll be like an old family reunion." Methos said, "They're also here with an Immortal named Patrick O'Brien. You know him?" "Rebecca's on-and-off lover," Amanda said. "I've met him on a couple of occasions," Duncan said. "Connor knows him far better than me. He's one of Connor's closest friends." "I've met him on several occasions," Amanda said. "He's a good man." "Why is he here?" Duncan said. Joe and Methos sat. Methos said, "If it was after any event besides what just happened, I'd say sightseeing with some friends." "But you don't think so," Duncan said. "No," Methos said. "He's probably come for me." "What??" "Or rather, Adam Pierson." "How... he knows about the Watchers, doesn't he?" Joe nodded. "DeJeniere found out and told him. He found his own Watcher. Then an old Student of his kidnapped the Watcher and he had to take his head." "Good ghods," Amanda said. "Yeah," Joe said. "He could have a grudge against Watchers now. What do you know about him?" Duncan said. "He's one of the best. He's at least as good as you. I met him during that incident. He's a good man, and I doubt he's about to kill any Watchers just out of hand." "How do you know that?" "Because... because his Watcher told him about you and Kalas, and the disk. He told him to leave his home in Boston for his own protection. They were friends for fifteen years before O'Brien even _knew_ he was a Watcher." "Duncan, you'd be doing yourself a favor if you got to know him," Methos said. "He _is_ a man of honor, and one of the best." "Still and all..." he turned to Methos and said, "I'll take him on if he's really come for you." "I doubt it will come to that," Methos said, "but thanks. Why don't we just wait and see? He'll probably come here. Once all the small talk is over, tell him where to find me." "What?" "You heard me, MacLeod. If he _is_ after my head, there's far worse people to give my Quickening too. You heard Amanda and Joe. He's a good man, and I doubt it will come to blows. He has a sence of honor that's almost as wide as yours. He _never_ takes on an opponent that's obviously weak, and never challenges without justification." "I'd say what just happened is justification enough for anyone," Amanda said. "Well... I can defend myself with words far better than with a blade." "Oh," Duncan said, "you plan on talking his head off? What the hell kind of strategy is _that_?" "Only one word will be enough," Methos said. "Oh, and what's that?" "Ramirez." <<>> (c) 1995 Mabnesswords e-mail mikester@bix.com or mikeb@usa1.com with comments! =========================================================================