========================================================================= Date: Fri, 29 Mar 1996 16:46:00 -0500 Reply-To: Sandra1012@AOL.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Sandra McDonald Subject: Lay Down Your Sword 6/8 The Gethsemani monastery, whose foundations and oldest structures dated back a thousand years, had endured harsher winter storms than the one which descended that February of 2435. The sixty four Trappist monks and their handful of unique visitors dealt with the foul weather, drafty halls, and freezing rooms with general stoicism. One Immortal, however, was quite vocal with her opinion. "You can't even get a hot bath around here!" Amanda fumed in the second floor hall of the novice house. Connor watched her with crossed arms. It was just past Sext, almost twelve-thirty in the afternoon. They'd come back from another fruitless search for Jason and their dripping coats hung on wooden pegs downstairs. "Sure you can," Connor said reasonably. "Go cut down enough firewood for your own fire, haul in ten or twenty gallons of water from the well, heat the water, dump it into a tub, and throw yourself in. After all, Amanda, you were born in the ninth century. You remember life before indoor plumbing." Amanda fixed him with an unflinching gaze and crossed to stand just inches away. He became acutely aware of the smell of her, the fine lines around her eyes, the silky look of her hair. Her chest rose and fell with breath very close to his own. "You need to learn respect for your elders, MacLeod," she said. Connor didn't move an inch, for fear she'd misinterpret his slightest gesture. At the same time, a slow and delightful awareness spread through the pit of his stomach. "And what are you going to teach me?" he asked. Amanda seriously considered the question. Connor MacLeod simultaneously reminded her of everything she loved and hated about Duncan. But he was his own man, older than Duncan if just by a few decades, with a wildness of the highlands that had never been tamed, and a look in his eye that matched what she felt in her suddenly increased pulse. A smile spread across her face. "I'm not sure where to start." Connor leaned forward. "Let me show you," he suggested. Their lips brushed with the faintest electrical tingle. They both imagined certain possibilities. Then someone slammed the door downstairs, and Gregor came up. "Almost time for dinner," he said. If he noticed anything unusual in the sudden pink of Amanda's cheek or Connor's shifted stance, he said nothing. Dark circles rimmed Gregor's eyes, and Connor wondered if the Immortal monk had gotten any sleep at all. Gregor nodded his head towards Duncan's door at the end of the hall. "Are they still sleeping? Dom Stephan wants to meet them after we eat." "They'll get up," Connor predicted. He went to the door and pounded on the ancient oak. "Wake up, Duncan! You can't sleep away the entire day!" They all heard a thump, as if someone had fallen on the floor, and then came the sound of Duncan fervently swearing in Gaelic. A few seconds later the door was yanked open, and Duncan's head came out to glare at Connor. Duncan saw Amanda and Gregor and hastily shut the door. When it re-opened, he had a sheet around his body and a sheepish look on his face. "Sorry," Duncan said to Gregor. "The blasphemy was meant for Connor." "Get your clothes on," Connor told him. "You've got an appointment." "We're busy," Duncan retorted, but a few minutes later he and Holland both came out. Dinner was the largest meal of the monks' day, served on pewter plates in the rectory. Holland followed Connor and Duncan to a large bench against the wall, and took a seat on the smooth bench across from Amanda and Minette. The long, low room seemed larger in the daylight, and the white habits of the monks reflected back the diffused light of the stormy afternoon outside. A man whom Amanda whispered was Dom Stephan gave the signal to begin eating, and although there were a few whispered words, they ate the meal of fruits, bread, and hot soup in near complete silence. Afterwards, Dom Stephan and Duncan disappeared into the abbot's office for what seemed like a very long time. Restlessly shifting on the smooth wooden bench just down the passage, Holland said, "Duncan can't possible have *that much* to confess." Connor smiled. "It's probably not confession at all. When novitiates come to the order, they have the choice of taking a new name or not. Gregor kept his, but Dom Stephan used to be Angus Scott MacIntyre." Holland laughed. "Wherever I go," she said, "I keep running into Scottish men." Connor studied her profile. "Duncan loves you very much, you know." "Not as much as I love him," she said softly. "How long have you known each other? Four hundred years?" "Four hundred and forty, almost. He was there the night I died, the night he and Felicia rescued Richie from one of her old students." Holland picked at the ends of her fingernails. "I went off to train with Felicia, and eventually went out on my own. Over the centuries Duncan and I would run into each other, but it wasn't until about fifty years ago in Greece that we realized what we really felt." "What happened in Greece?" "We'd met by accident on Mykonos. He was there with a girlfriend from the University of Athens, where he was teaching. I was there with a boyfriend from London. We agreed to have lunch, just the two of us, by the water. When we got to the restaurant it was terrible crowded, and we got seated smack dab in the middle of a scorching terrace with no umbrella. The service couldn't have been any slower, and it was about ninety five degrees out. I could see Duncan getting madder and madder. Finally he stood up, picked up the table, carried it over the retaining wall into about twelve inches of Mediterranean, put the table down, fetched our chairs, and escorted me to our new seats. The waiter was incredibly mad, but the manager sent us champagne. All the other customers thought we were lovers. Later that night, we were." "What happened to his girlfriend and your boyfriend?" Holland smiled. "I guess it would be nice to say they hooked up together, but instead they didn't. I never knew what happened to them." The abbot's door opened. Dom Stephan and Duncan came out, sharing smiles. Dom Stephan was saying, "Stay out of trouble, Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod." "I will," Duncan promised. Holland went into her own interview with the abbot. Shaking his head, Duncan said, "I'm nearly nine hundred years old, and he's sixty, but sitting in there you would have sworn he thought he was my father." "Pity he's not one of us," Connor agreed. They went back to the novice house and practiced swords below the low rafters in Connor's attic space. The wind and rain still rattled the window and wooden eaves, but inside the two Highlanders quickly worked up a gleam of sweat beneath their loose shirts. Duncan thought Connor had grown more cautious with age. Connor thought Duncan was taking too many unnecessary risks. During a few minutes of rest, Connor remarked casually, "Did Dom Stephan tell you he thinks Jason is blessed?" Duncan gulped down some water. "He's not blessed." Connor shook his head. "I don't know. There's something about him. . . something different than any other Immortal I've ever seen. He never had it before he came here." Duncan sighed, his eyes focused on something Connor couldn't see. "A long time ago, when Richie was a young, he took a Quickening from a man who was unlike any other Immortal I'd ever met. The other Immortal was an Indian from somewhere in South America and I swear to you, Connor, he had the ability to control people's minds. He did it to Richie, and he did it to me." "A telepathic Immortal?" Connor snorted. "Try again." "I was there," Duncan said firmly. "You weren't. Listen to me. He could make young Immortals especially do what he wanted them to do. Only Methos seemed unaffected. Richie took Xan's head, but he's never showed any sign of having that same ability." "Is that why Methos values him so highly? Why he wants to take him to Sanctuary?" Duncan nodded. "If Richie has developed this new . . . talent, skill, curse, whatever. . . . Methos wants to know." "But he doesn't even remember who he is," Connor said. "Why does Methos believe he has this Xan person's ability?" "You'll think it's insane." "No more insane than the rest of it, Duncan. Trust me." "When we first found Richie, Methos and Ceirdwynn and I all felt . . . something. Something like an earthquake. Methos felt the same thing from Xan, all those centuries ago. And Richie was the epicenter." Connor waited until Duncan met his gaze. The older Immortal offered, "I haven't felt the ground shaking lately around here." Duncan shrugged. "Neither have I. But it was there, for a few seconds. And Methos believes whatever power Xan had, Richie has now." "But there's no Richie," Connor said, picking up his sword again. "Only Jason." They practiced until the bells of None at two p.m., and then stopped to listen to the monks' voices rise up into the churning storm. Gregor and Minette went out again, but came back empty handed. Amanda moped around, complaining of nothing to do in the monastery. Holland and Duncan lay in bed, side by side, but didn't make love. Connor cleaned his sword again. Gregor prayed. Vespers at five thirty brought no sign of Jason, and darkness came without any ease in the storm. Duncan didn't say anything, but Holland knew he was calculating, over and over in his head, exactly how long they could wait for Jason before they had to go on to their rendezvous with Methos. The storm wouldn't make their journey down the mountain any easier than the nightmare it had been coming up, and she could see the worry magnifying in his eyes. She decided to say a few prayers of her own, just in case God was listening. The last choir office of the day came at seven thirty p.m.. The Immortals took spots in the visitor's gallery in deference to Dom Stephan, whose wish it was they attend at least a few services. He was running an abbey, after all, not a hotel. Holland and Duncan stood with Connor, and Amanda and Minette stood behind them. Gregor helped them by laying out sheaves of paper that held that evening's psalms and readings. Duncan watched Gregor with pride. Whatever Gregor had made of his life, whatever choices he had made, his vocation obviously meant a great deal to him. Duncan whispered as much to Gregor. Gregor blushed, but Holland didn't miss the shy, pleased look in his eyes. Holland focused on the neatly arranged monks, ten rows of six men each, on the cross on the wall behind the alter, on the last traces of dusk out the narrow window. After a sharp knock by Dom Stephan they began singing in one perfectly harmonized voice, their words careful and precise. She realized they were not just singing, but instead talking. Talking to God, wherever he or she was, and expressing love more eloquently and tenderly than even Duncan did sometimes, in the sheets of the bed. She wasn't sure what they were singing about, but the blend of notes and words worked at something in her chest. She felt not an unpleasant jab but instead something softer, something dissolving, and as she pressed her eyes closed she thought of Felicia. Not the Felicia who'd suffered so badly at the hands of the SIDI in France. Not the Felicia who'd finally been beheaded by mortals who could never fathom the miracles of Quickenings. Not Felicia as she must have spent her last weeks, in agony and suffering, in a cell next to Richie, the two of them unable even to touch hands. But Felicia when she'd been young and strong and vibrant, teaching Holland the way of the world. Outside Phoenix, in the desert, as they studied the stars and the vastness of the Milky Way. In a filthy, snow-filled alley in Manhattan, as they went two against two with a pair of nasty European Immortals ought for rape and murder. Sailing around the Mediterranean, learning the language of rich sailors and exotic ports. The night Felicia had called her from Paris to say she and Richie were together again, for however long it lasted, because every once in awhile it was good to have an old lover to fall back on. Two weeks later, Richie and Felicia were in the hands of the SIDI. Weeks after that, Felicia was gone. But now she appeared before Holland, her face alight with laughter and strength, and there was no pain, no agony, no fear. "Hey, there," she seemed to be saying. "Come on, Holland, don't grieve for me. I had the best life I could ever have hoped for." Holland closed her eyes, feeling wetness leaking out. Duncan gripped her hand and whispered something, but she didn't answer. Then they felt the song of another Immortal. Jason. He stood in the back of the chapel, perfectly still in the archway, his hands loose by his sides, his eyes fixed on Dom Stephan. His clothes had been ripped and shredded in several places. His skin bore no bruises, but layers of dried blood and smeared dirt. He was still wet from the rain, and must have been freezing cold, but his body was perfectly still and relaxed. Duncan motioned urgently to Connor. Connor turned, and Amanda and Minette followed. Jason didn't even look at them. Instead he turned and left. Duncan made an instant move to follow, but Connor shook his head with a glance towards Dom Stephan. It would be disrespectful to tear out of the service. Connor's warning glance barely contained Amanda and Minette, but in the end the five Immortals kept their places until the very last word of the office. With Gregor barely keeping pace behind them, they followed the twisting passage behind the chapel to the rectory and found Jason sitting at a long table with three plates of food, two tankards of drink, and half a sandwich sticking out of his mouth. Duncan stopped short. As sharply as if he'd been kicked in the shins, he remembered the first time he and Tessa had taken seventeen year old Richie Ryan out to McDonald's for lunch, and the kid had wolfed down three Big Macs, two large fries, and an extra large soda. The kid was gone. But the four hundred and forty three year old man in front of them dislodged the sandwich from his mouth and waved apologetically at them with hands full of bread. "Sorry, I know it's against the rules, but I'm starving," he said. "If Dom Stephan wants to make me say forty Hail Marys, I'll take it. And I'll take another sandwich, too. The food here has never been really good, you know, but at least they have a lot of it." Duncan merely gaped. It was Connor who stepped forward and said, "Richie?" "Yeah," he said. Richie stood and took a step towards them. His clothes truly were a mess, and more than anything he needed a bath, but he stood in front of them like a ghost returned to human form. He gave a very small smile. "It was a close call, but yeah. I'm Richie." Then he focused exclusively on Duncan, who had been one of three who'd risked so much to drag him out of Versailles and give him a chance at life again. "Hey, Mac," he said. Duncan found that he couldn't breathe. That he couldn't really think, either. That the only thing he could do was take a step forward, and put his arms around his one-time student and ward, and hold him tightly against a rush of relief and joy. "Hey, tough guy," he managed, before tears blurred his vision. end of part six ************************************************************************** St Jerome - the patron saint of librarians and scholars. St. Jerome is probably the correct saint to pray to when your computer seems to have evaporated a 25,000-word manuscript.