Date: Thu, 23 Feb 1995 18:53:10 -0700 Reply-To: Greg Palmer Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Greg Palmer Subject: "Life's Blood" Part 1 I've *still* got butterflies in my stomach about posting stuff... :) *** Well, this is the sequel to "Birth's Blood". You should probably get a copy of it before you read... Anyway, comments, story requests go to: gpalmer@xroads.com. Also, I want to send out a big *THANK YOU* to everyone who liked the prologue, and thus, gave me the courage to write this! *** "Life's Blood" Part I by Greg Palmer, Copyright (C) 1995 (No profanity or sex, a couple bits of graphic violence) SINGAPORE, December 1995 Greg had Malik at his mercy. The Asian Immortal was on his knees, bleeding profusely from a multitude of gashes and cuts from the fight with the younger Immortal. Gregory raised the katana his Teacher had given him just three weeks ago. "So the cub has his claws," Malik observed. He tried to stand but his Quickening wasn't finished healing his severed hamstring. "I want you to take this to your grave, Malik," Greg spat the name out as if it tasted like poison, "I want you to know this before you die. I'm taking your head not because of any Rule, or that Bushido crap my Teacher crams down my throat. I'm killing you for just one reason..." "...YVETTE LILIANE!" The sword came down, parting the air with barely a whisper. Malik had time for one last strangled gasp before the ancient katana severed his head. The body collapsed to the dirt, the head following shortly after; landing neatly on the body. Gregory stood, exhausted, before the slain Immortal. His first battle, and he was victorious! Malik's Quickening rose in a white cloud from his corpse, the first tendrils of electricity caressing Greg's body... "There can be..." SEATTLE, March 1995 The alarm clock startled Greg from his fondest dream. "...only one," he whispered. He shut off the alarm clock and looked at it. Hard to see with it being so dark, he thought. From the faintly glowing dial, he was able to ascertain that it was 5:00AM. Too early, much too early. He rolled over and closed his eyes. The bokken struck him on the top of his head, made him see stars. "OW!" he shouted, suddenly wide awake. "Rise and shine, Student!" Duncan MacLeod's cheery voice cut through Greg's brains like a knife. A very dull knife. "OK, OK..." He got out of bed. Grabbing his practice gi from the rack next to the bed, he started putting it on. "Duncan, were you ever a drill sergeant? Ever thought about it?" "Eh, now that you mention it--" "Wait, don't tell me. Please, crack me over the head a few times with the bokken instead." Duncan had a story for every occasion, probably collected over his four hundred years of life. And he loved telling them to his Immortal friends. On the other hand, most of the stories bored the pants off the younger Immortal. He was only twenty- two, and didn't have many stories of his own, yet. Only one, written in his journal; locked up in the desk in his room. The two-year story of the events after his becoming an Immortal. It's the only part of my past I can remember any more, he thought. "Oh, don't worry, Greg," Duncan smiled good-naturedly, "I will. Now c'mon, let's get down to the dojo and start today's training. Richie'll be over at six to join us." He handed Greg a bokken, identical to the one in Duncan's hand. They left the small guest room and took the cranky, noisy lift down to the dojo below the apartment. Exiting the lift at the bottom, Duncan and Gregory walked to the practice mat in the center of the large room. "Alright, Student. Let me see if you learned anything from yesterday..." He swung his wooden sword at Greg's head; and taken by surprise, the young Immortal barely managed to duck it... Greg's training with Duncan had gotten into a routine over the past month since the much older Immortal had literally stumbled upon him in his apartment: Up at five, training with the evil wooden swords until seven, break for a light breakfast, more sword training until noon, lunch, and then hand-to-hand combat until whenever Duncan decided Greg had had enough. Only then was Greg allowed to shower; to wash off the blood and sweat. Later, Duncan and occasionally Richie would share their experiences with the new Immortal; tell him stories and the like. The rest of the time, Greg would work out in the dojo, usually alone. He barely did anything else. Immortal healing abilities or no, there was a constant ache in Greg's body from the abuses Duncan piled upon him; and the ones he piled on himself. "You're weak, Student," Duncan mocked as he circled the practice mat, "Come on! Do you want to learn to fight or not?" Gregory's green eyes flashed with anger as he rushed at the other. Blinded by rage and frustration, he swung his clumsy wooden sword at his Teacher's head... ...and landed on his ass when Duncan hooked his ankle behind his Student's and pushed him backwards. Greg flopped back and stewed in his pain and humiliation. "Duncan, do you realize, in the month I've been training, I've *never* been able to hit you with this thing?" He gestured at the bokken on the mat next to him. "Once, just once, I'd like to hear the sound of it cracking against *your* skull! No offense; just for some variety, you understand." He raised his hand towards the smirking Immortal. Duncan reached down and helped Greg to his feet. "Someday, maybe, if you're good enough," he taunted. "Now, let's try that move I showed you Monday..." They sparred with the polished wooden swords, Duncan teaching Greg just one of the innumerable strategies of swordfighting. The swords whirled, flashed, and clacked together loudly as they practiced their moves. Surprisingly, Gregory was able to hold his own much easier than before, only being struck with his Teacher's bokken half a dozen times in the sixty minutes they sparred. Indeed, Duncan noticed each time he managed to hit his Student, the younger man would shrug off the pain, and seem to gain strength and skill from it. Suddenly, Duncan stopped fighting and turned to the windowed door; the entrance to the dojo. "Wha-- What is it?" Greg panted, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Then he felt it too, the feeling of *presence* that signified the approach of another Immortal. "Mac! Greg!" Richie Ryan said as he entered the dojo. The teenage Immortal smiled broadly at his fellows. "You're late, Richie," Duncan scolded. "Sorry, Mac. I met a girl at this cafe downtown on the way over. You should *see* her, Mac. What a *babe*!" Met a girl...this cafe... Greg's mind whirled as Richie's words caused him to involuntarily plunge deeply into the memories... PARIS, August 1993 "Uh, sorry, miss," Greg apologized. He was bringing a coffee to her, and he'd just spilled it all over this blonde's table and newspaper. Only his second week on the job, he was beginning to wonder if he was too clumsy to be a waiter. She shrieked at the unexpected deluge. "You stupid American!" she pouted. "Really, miss, I'm sorry. I was distracted by..." :The Quickening: "...something..." He looked at her for a second. "...by your beauty," he finished lamely. She looked surprised, and then blushed. "Merci, monsieur... You are far from home, n'est-ce pas?..." SEATTLE, March 1995 Richie whistled, snapped his fingers in front of Greg's face. "Earth to Greg. Come in, space cadet." "Wha--" Greg started, and slapped Richie's hand out of his face. "What're you doing?" Duncan, a knowing look on his face, said, "C'mon, Richie, leave him alone. And get over here, it's been a while since we last sparred. I want to see if you've been practicing your sword katas." He looked at Gregory. "Go on up and take a break." Without a word, Greg got on the lift and rode it up to the apartment. Duncan could tell that he was still remembering. Best not to interfere, he thought. Richie groaned. "Don't you ever get sick of beating up on us newbies?" he asked Duncan rhetorically. "No," he answered matter-of-factly. He picked up Greg's bokken and handed it to Richie. "No more stalling, Richie. Get on the mat," he said, sternly, to the wisecracking redhead. Richie sighed as he accepted his fate. "Ok, but be gentle, Mac. Mac!" Richie yelped as Duncan cracked him smartly over the head. As they fought, it was evident that Richie was the more skilled of Duncan's two proteges. He danced around the mat, nimbly evading and ducking most of Duncan's attacks, and even getting a few in himself. Eventually, though, Duncan managed to envelop Richie's practice sword with his own and send it flying across the room, where it clattered to the hardwood floor. "Damn!" Richie yelled in disappointment. "Thought I had you that time." That'll be the day, Duncan thought with an inward grin. He said, "Better luck next time, Richie. C'mon, let's go up and check on Greg." *********** Eyes closed, Greg sat on a chair in the living room, the barrel of Duncan's pearl-handled revolver touching his forehead, lightly. Why, he thought, why? He just wanted to forget; his mind swam with images of his Yvette and the sound of her voice; he was blind and deaf to anything else. Revenge didn't matter any more. He just wanted to forget the pain, finally forget the pain. His finger began to flutter on the trigger... "You've got to keep your left hand up more, Richie...NO!" Duncan finished his sentence in a shout as he yanked up the gate and leapt off the elevator. In a flash, the gun was in MacLeod's hand. Richie just stood there in the elevator, a look of shock still on his face. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Duncan demanded of his Student. Gregory started to stand up, and slumped back into the chair, dejectedly. "Trying to kill myself, isn't it obvious?" he snapped. "Just for a while, at least. I felt like I could use the break. What, are you afraid of getting my brains all over your stuff?" he asked derisively. "Had you pulled that trigger, you'd have suffered a fate far worse than death," Duncan told him... LYONS, 1789 "Alain!" Duncan called to his friend from the other side of the grassy meadow. "Wait!" "Leave me alone, Duncan!" cried Alain des Anges as he knelt at the edge of the clearing, yards away from the forest. "It doesn't matter any more, Duncan! No more! The Revolution's guillotine has already taken my wife. I won't let it take me!" the French nobleman declared. His long gray hair began to flutter in the evening breeze... The shrill trumpeting of the approaching troops reached their ears as Duncan caught up to his Immortal friend. "You're *Immortal*, Alain! This canna do any good! We must escape; there be soldiers comin' this way! They canna see us yet, but we must hide, ye fool!" He turned anxiously, back and forth from his friend to the direction of the advancing regiment. "I will not leave France, Duncan. Au revoir, mon ami..." the suddenly peaceful sound of Alain's voice made Duncan turn his attention back to him. He was too late. Alain pulled a small musket out of his jerkin, pointed it at his temple, and pulled the trigger. Duncan averted his eyes as the musket ball tore a path through Alain's head, spraying blood and chunks of brain out the other side. The body swayed for a moment and then collapsed. "Ye bloody fool, Alain!" cried Duncan as he bolted for the cover of the trees. Duncan hid in an abandoned farm house, where the soldiers would not find him. He was only able to return to the clearing the next morning, and Alain was gone... LYONS, 1790 "Ach, noo, it's all right, lassie!" Duncan protested as the concerned nurse tried to guide him to the hospice by the side of the road, "just a flesh wound, mind ye!" "But, monsieur, you are bleeding!" the nurse exclaimed, looking at the blood running down Duncan's arm from a nasty wound by his shoulder. "Aye, but I'll be..all..right!" Duncan wrenched himself halfway free from the grip of the nurse. "Joost a minor fracas wit' some bandits, `tis all!" The nurse reclaimed her grip on Duncan's arm and dragged him a bit closer to the building. Duncan quieted and tensed up as he felt the Quickening of another Immortal in the area. He shook the nurse off him and reached for his katana. "Where are ye? Come oot an' show yeself!" The nurse, thinking she was dealing with a lunatic, called for the doctor. "Doctor Guichard, Doctor Guichard! Come here!" The old, wrinkled doctor stuck his head out the door, "Qu'est-ce que c'est ca, Marie?" he asked. "What's this?" Marie the nurse ran up to him, leaving Duncan, who was much too busy to notice. "This man is wounded! He refuses to be helped!" The doctor went back inside the hospice and came out with a length of stove-wood. He walked over to Duncan and, catching the preoccupied Immortal unawares, knocked him unconscious with the heavy piece of wood. Dragging Duncan into the building, he looked at the nurse and said, "This, is the way you deal with lunatics, no?" Duncan awoke in a dirty hospital bed. "Ooo, me head," he said, wincing. Suddenly, he realized the buzzing in his head was not completely due to the head injury! The Immortal he felt before, was still near... "Ah, so you are awake," a voice said from the other side of the room. Duncan turned and saw a wizened old man; hunchbacked, with stained whiskers. "I am Doctor Guichard, and you are in my hospital, outside Lyons." Duncan reached for his sword that wasn't there and got out of bed. "There, there, monsieur!" the doctor exclaimed. "I have bandaged your wound. You must be still, to avoid reopening it." The doctor was almost having a fit, trying to keep Duncan from moving. "Thank ye kindly," Duncan said sarcastically. He gently pushed the old man off him and examined his surroundings. The `hospital' was little better than a shack, about ten beds in all; the other nine were empty. An old rocking chair sat beside a window and... "Alain!" cried Duncan as he went to greet his friend. "Thank God ye're here, me friend!" He stopped, puzzled by the lack of response in Alain. "Alain! `Tis me, Duncan!" The doctor made a disapproving little sound and put his hand on Duncan's shoulder. "That man, his mind is gone. He is fou, insane. Marie and I have taken care of him for the past two years." Guichard looked sad. "He sits at the window, rocking in that chair and staring out the window, all day long." "Are ye daft, man?" Duncan asked, bewildered. "Alain is na' crazy! He's an old friend a' mine!" He shook Alain's arm. Alain looked up at Duncan, eyes uncomprehending. A string of drool slipped out of his slack mouth and dripped down his chin. Marie came over and wiped at the spittle with a cloth. "I do not know what you expected, but he has been this way since I found him, in a clearing not far from here." she said. "It was after a battle. There were many dead piled around him. He was the only one still alive." This can't be right, Duncan thought. Duncan had never seen an Immortal with such catastrophic damage to the head, but Alain's Quickening should have repaired it! "An' there's been no progress in his condition?" he asked the doctor. "A little, a precious little," the doctor replied. "He'll feed himself occasionally. Sometimes he will make sounds, as if trying to speak." He shook his head. "He makes no sense. I tell you, he is a lunatic!" "Well, he is still me friend," Duncan told the doctor. "I'm taking him from this place immediately!" he said, as if challenging the doctor to dispute the fact. He lifted Alain; angling his body so he could take support from Duncan's shoulder. "We're leaving, me friend," he said gently to the other Immortal... SEATTLE, March 1995 Duncan finished his story and said to Greg, "Now, do you see why?" "Yeah..." Gregory's words trailed off as he stared at the gun in Duncan's hand. "His brain healed, but the *mind* was destroyed...," he whispered. Richie took the moment of silence as an invitation to interrupt. "What happened to him?" he asked MacLeod. Duncan looked away, and then back at his Student. "A... headhunter got him, soon after. I just couldn't be with him twenty-four hours a day! It was like caring for an infant." He obviously blamed himself for Alain's fate. "But his mind wasn't destroyed, you see. He was with me for six months, and I know. I could *tell* he was starting to learn. Starting to learn back all the things he'd lost." Now Duncan really looked forlorn. "That's all in the past," Duncan said with finality. "The important thing here is you, Greg." He thought for a moment. "I could call Anne. I'm sure she knows someone you can talk to about this...problem you're having." Anne and Greg had met soon after he moved into Duncan's apartment. Duncan had told her Greg was his "other" nephew, from Phoenix. At first, Anne had looked at Greg suspiciously, why, he had no idea. After she got to know him, however, she became more friendly and polite. Normally quiet, Greg's voice rose in anger. "I don't need a shrink! Do you hear me, Duncan?" Duncan raised his own voice. "I'll be the judge of what *you need*, Student! I'm calling Anne and that's final!" [end part 1] (...stay tuned for part 2...where Greg faces the most fearsome foe imaginable...THE PSYCHIATRIST!...nah, just kidding...) =========================================================================