Date: Mon, 14 Aug 1995 21:17:15 EDT Reply-To: Russ McMillan Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Russ McMillan Subject: Hold Fast, Part 2 of 7 This installment is pretty short (despite the addition of a totally gratuitous scene (no, not a shirtless scene -- the shirtless scene is important to the plot!)), so I'll send out two today. Hold Fast, Part 2 by Russet McMillan mcmillan@astro.psu.edu Duncan was still sitting motionless, staring at the mess on the table, when he felt a telltale buzz at the edge of his awareness. Dawson must have called Richie, he thought sourly. After a few decades of spying on him, the man should be able to guess that Duncan didn't want company now. But the buzz came no closer. And now that he was paying attention, Duncan realized that it felt very different from Richie's quickening. This was someone far more powerful; he was outside the building, yet the prickle of his presence came clear as a bell. The package had been postmarked Seattle. Perhaps Dawson had been wrong that no Immortal could have taken Connor. Duncan rose to his feet, lifting Connor's katana smoothly from the table. This was one fight that he would enjoy. He emerged from the dojo with all his senses alert, the blade held ready. There was no one in the street. He followed the buzz around the corner of the building into the alley. A figure waited there in the shadows. "Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod," Duncan said slowly, dangerously. "Show yourself." "Only if you promise not to do anything stupid," said a familiar voice. Duncan's jaw dropped, but not his sword. "Connor?" "In the flesh -- what's left of it." The figure moved forward into the light. Duncan bounded forward to embrace him. "My God, man, I thought you were dead!" Then he felt the difference, saw his kinsman flinch away from the touch. "What --" "I'm in trouble, Duncan," said Connor with a wry twist of his lip. "Think you can put me up?" "Of course! Come in." He led the way to the dojo and paused in the door. "I'm flattered that you came to me, but wouldn't holy ground be better?" "The swine that are after me don't pay any attention to the rules." Duncan couldn't get a good look at him as they moved through the darkened dojo and into the elevator; Connor kept his right side turned away. But Duncan had felt the limp sleeve, and seen that half of his kinsman's face was covered with a scarf. He also noticed that Connor's quickening was distinctly stronger than when they had last met; he must have been quite active over the past few years. Duncan supposed his own quickening must have changed noticeably when he beat Grayson. When they reached the loft he set the katana down and went to get a drink for Connor, a bowl of water and some gauze. "My sword," said Connor softly. "I didn't think I would see it again." "Someone wanted me to think you were dead," Duncan said. "Actually, they were planning to mail you my head." Duncan froze, appalled. Connor sipped the very old vintage and raised his brows in appreciation. "I could really use some food to go with this," he said. "I know, but you're not eating anything until I've seen to those wounds. I don't want you throwing up all over my couch." When his old friend didn't move, Duncan urged, "Come on, let me see the damage." With a sigh and a wince, Connor began to shrug off his coat. Seeing that he was in pain, Duncan helped. His breath ended in a gasp as Connor's right shoulder came free. He pushed the loose shirt aside to get a better look. Connor's right arm was gone, along with several inches of shoulder. The skin had healed over, pink and new, but the flesh and bone were gone. "Have you ever lost a limb?" Connor asked. "No," said Duncan, appalled. "Well, don't. It hurts like hell." "Will it grow back?" "I don't know. I thought the shoulder was growing, the first couple of days, but then it stopped." Duncan frowned. "I cut off Xavier St. Cloud's hand, and it didn't grow back at all." He studied the angle of the cut. "You lifted your arm to block the blow?" "Yeah." The left half of Connor's mouth curled upwards. "Silly of me, I know how sharp that blade is." "It probably saved your head." "Half of it, anyway." Duncan's eyes followed the line of the blow up to Connor's face. "Let me see," he said, beginning to unwind the scarf. Connor sat motionless. Head and neck wounds tended to heal more slowly for Immortals, especially if they were severe. Sometimes they left scars. Connor was clearly going to have a souvenir of his latest encounter. The blade had contacted his ribs below the right arm and sheared away the shoulder, then struck the neck a few inches below his ear, continued through his jaw and right up his cheek to his brow. The wound was still red and angry, and Connor mumbled as if the jaw was still painful. Duncan wiped the cuts clean with moist gauze, probing the scar up the back of the neck to the base of the skull. Connor could very easily have lost half of his head, if the strike had continued just a few inches further on. Duncan had no idea what the effect of that might have been. He lifted Connor's drooping right eyelid. "Can you see through this eye?" "No. Not yet," Connor amended. "It has been getting better. I don't know if it will heal all the way or not." "Maybe it's just been slow because so much had to heal at the same time." "Maybe." Connor looked away. "You've always healed well. Give it time and see how far it goes. How long were you dead, after that?" "I have no idea. At least a day. I fell into a river and woke up thirty miles away." Duncan whistled. "Lucky. You always were damned lucky." "Except with women." An uncomfortable silence fell. "I'm sorry, Duncan. I didn't mean . . . I heard about Tessa." Duncan looked away. "I remember how I felt when Brenda was -- anyway, I'm sorry." "Don't worry about it." "If Tessa had still been here, I wouldn't have come to you." Connor's remaining eye flicked about the loft. "I might be putting you in danger." His gazed fixed on Duncan. "How am I going to fight, with only one arm?" "Practice," said Duncan firmly. He rose to his feet. "We'll worry about that later. Now I'd better get you some food." ========================== "Connor." Duncan laid a hand on his kinsman's shoulder. "Ungh!" Connor started up in alarm, looking around the loft dazedly. "What?" "It's bedtime. Don't sleep sitting up, you'll get a crick in your neck." Connor lifted his hand to his neck as if surprised to find it still attached to his shoulders. "I was just having the strangest dream." "Oh?" "I was an old man -- I'd won the Prize years before, and I was aging like a mortal. But then more Immortals came forward in time from the past, and I became Immortal again, and I had to fight them. And there was something else -- the sky was the wrong color, or something. It was red, and that was my fault, somehow, and I had to try to make it blue again." Connor rubbed at the scars on his face. "Ramirez was there." "Hmmm. And who was the woman?" "What makes you think there was a woman?" "Connor, I know you. There's always a woman in your dreams." Connor grinned. "There was a woman. She was a terrorist." "Well, you always had strange tastes." "It was the most amazing dream," he said reflectively. "If it was that good, call Steven Spielberg and make a movie out of it." "Ah, no, it wasn't that good." "Come on, then. Here are your blankets. Lie down and sleep properly." "I have to eat something first. Weren't you making sandwiches or something?" Connor stumbled into the kitchen while Duncan, shaking his head, went to his own bed. ================= =========================================================================