Date: Tue, 7 Mar 1995 18:16:30 -0700 Reply-To: Greg Palmer Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Greg Palmer Subject: "Life's Blood" Part 6 "It all felt so fresh and new, the real you, coming through, your True Voice. Clear as a bell, Warming me with radiance; plugging me into the world. Then you raped me stealthily and steadily, when your power waxed with the moon. Hopes shattered, mutely pleading, I stare into the reality of your True Voice. It is truly nothing but a mindless, beeping cacophony; full of sound and fury, and yet. Signifying Nothing. I heard a pin dropping... dropping, dropped. And it just didn't ring true." --"An Ode to AT&T" "Life's Blood" Part 6 by Greg Palmer, Copyright (C) 1995 (Violence.) Greg stared at the blank screen and silent telephone for a short moment and went to shower and change out of his bloodstained clothes. Someone had thoughtfully provided an ample supply of clean clothes in the antique wardrobe. He went back to the training room, stopping briefly to tie his hair back. Michael was there waiting for him, sharpening the longsword he was using before; the scraping of the whetstone on the sword set Greg's teeth on edge. The other blade leaned in the corner. "Ready?" Barnes asked. "I'm ready," Greg affirmed. "Good, good," Michael said hastily. "Let's go out on the veranda and I'll start you on your first lesson." Barnes looked at the sword in the corner. "Get your sword, you'll need it when I illustrate some points to you." With that, Michael walked out of the practice room. Greg grabbed his new sword and caught up with Barnes in a moment. They walked out onto the veranda at the back of the estate. It was open to the air, providing an excellent view of the gray Pacific. Close to the cliff, the carefully trimmed, soft- looking grass turned into hard rock. Strange for the time of year, the sky was blue, with only a few wispy clouds. The fresh ocean air coming in off the Pacific was cool, but not cold. They sat in padded white wicker chairs, a small table between them. Their swords sat on the table, crossed at the hilts. Barnes stared at the swords before speaking. "Your first lesson is balance," he said. "True skill does not lie in the strength of one's sword arm, but in one's equilibrium: physical as well as mental. You must stand firmly yet be able to move swiftly, to dodge an opponent's attacks." Seeing Greg's intent look, he said, "Come, I'll show you what I mean." He picked up both swords and walked out onto the grass. A bit of dew wet their shoes as they walked a few meters out onto the lawn. Michael handed Greg his sword. "Now attack me again." Thankful for the soft grass beneath his feet, Greg sent his sword whistling in an arc towards Barnes. The centuries-old Immortal parried easily, not moving an inch. "Again." This time, Greg thrust his sword towards Barnes' chest. The other blocked skillfully, deflecting the blade. Again, he hadn't moved any part of his body other than his arm. "Do you see?" he asked. "I think I do," Greg marveled, unable to tell how Michael had done it. Barnes raised his longsword. "I'll attack slowly, to let you learn the feel of it," he said. His sword moved languidly, in a path to Greg's right shoulder. Greg brought up his own sword and captured Barnes' on the pommel-guard. His left foot slid back as he did so. "Not bad," Barnes said. "But you've got a long way to go." He swung the sword in the same arc, this time a bit faster. Greg blocked it again, the same way he'd done before. He concentrated on keeping his feet glued to the ground, but still, he stepped back to intercept the attack. They continued to practice that way, Barnes alternating his attack patterns, and then repeating different attacks in patterns of two and three. The sword came faster and faster, until Greg was barely able to keep track of its flashing brilliance. He stepped back once, and then again as the sword battered his own, buffeting it back and forth with the power of Barnes' swings. The metal vibrated painfully in his hand. "Wait, let's start over!" Greg exclaimed as he lost control. The attacks didn't stop. Barnes seemed engrossed in the fighting, releasing some kind of pent-up emotion. His gray eyes glinted like slate and mica in the cold sun. Greg was really backing up now. He didn't know nine out of ten of the attacks Barnes was using. His feet left trails in the dewy grass. "Come on, Michael!" he pleaded, unwilling to accept what he knew was happening. Then, Barnes' blade lashed out, drawing blood from Greg's shoulder. His eyes widened and he gasped in surprise and pain. Without knowing quite how this had come to pass, he was suddenly fighting for his life... "Yessss," Barnes hissed as he slashed a shallow cut on Greg's shoulder. "Come on, fight!" He redoubled his efforts, driving Greg back further. Greg was barely even trying to block the incredible speed of Barnes' attacks. He was just trying to get away from the sharp, flashing blade. He broke into a backwards, stumbling run; away from the intent Immortal. Blood from the slight wound ran down his arm. Greg was dumbfounded by the sudden change in Michael. His face bore an ugly grimace as he battered his Student back, ever back. "Why? Why are you doing this to me?" he choked out amid the thrusts and swings from Barnes' sword. The twin blades clanged and scraped together. Sparks flew from the collisions. Both swords were now wet with Greg's blood. Barnes laughed as he swung again at Greg. "*You*! This was never about *you*!" he sneered. "I want *MacLeod*! My Teacher torments my dreams, calling for revenge!" he roared at the stricken young Immortal. Suddenly, the fight ended; the only way that it could. Barnes struck Greg's sword with the flat of his own, sending it flying out of his grasp. On the return stroke, Barnes skewered Greg on his sword. He let out a whistling breath of pain and shock as the blade impaled his flesh. Barnes advanced, forcing the sword in, until the pommel- guard was touching Greg's belly. The slick, bloody metal protruded from his back. He reached out to his Teacher, his hands touching the other's shoulders and then sliding off. He would have collapsed, but Barnes held him in place, the sharp blade holding him up. A rivulet of blood ran from the corner of Greg's open mouth, traveling a course down his chin and landing on the wet grass. The pain was worse than anything he'd felt, like a wild animal chewing its way through his guts. He stared into Michael's eyes, which bored into his own. They stood that way for an eternity, Barnes' face inches away from Greg's, the sword wracking Greg's body with pain. Barnes brought up his foot and shoved Greg backwards, withdrawing the sword. The removal of the sword lined the wound with a fiery pain as it cut into him again. Greg dropped to his knees, the twin gashes in his stomach and back gushing dark blood onto the carpet of grass. He was far from losing consciousness, in fact, his sight seemed hyperreal, everything standing out in sharp relief from everything else. A cool wind sprang up from the ocean, caressing Greg's face, cooling the hot blood which stained it. Barnes brought up his blood-stained sword for the killing strike. "There can--" The rest of the ancient epithet to a fallen foe was cut short as Greg curled his fist up into Barnes' groin. Bright pain exploded in Michael's belly. He dropped the sword and then fell, clutching his wounded testicles. The death stroke delayed for the time being, Greg staggered to his feet. The hole in his gut had not even begun to heal, yet Greg felt no pain from it anymore. The bloodstain grew and grew as the blood continued to rush out of the wound. Half out of his mind from the shock, Greg lurched towards the cliff. He clasped his tingling hands to the gaping wound, the blood running between his fingers. He held up his hands to his face and let out a small moan at the sight of so much blood, coming out of him. His vision was beginning to blur and dim at the edges, but he could hear the ocean at the bottom of the cliff like someone was holding a conch shell to his ear. He stopped at the rocky precipice and stared down. The cliff was immense, dropping about three hundred feet to the frothy water slapping up against the cliff's bottom. The jagged gray rocks at the bottom looked like broken teeth, sticking out of the water. He heard a soft, rustling noise with his strangely enhanced hearing. Turning, he saw Barnes coming for him, sword in one hand, half bent over with the pain of his injury. The vision blurred and doubled. He looked back at the cliff and then back to the quickly recovering Immortal. Whispering an inaudible prayer addressed to any god who cared, he let himself tumble off the edge of the cliff. The wind buffeted him, forcing his scream back into his throat. His torn shirt flapped violently in the ever- increasing, blasting gale of his descent. The ripping wind forced the blood pouring out his mouth to travel up over his face, tracing lines of it up his cheeks and lips. He fell and fell out of the sky, a Son of the Morning with long black hair trailing above him. He faced the water, racing towards it. Strangely, the sight comforted him. It doesn't...it's not...real, he thought. He slammed into the water, every bone in his body snapping and being crushed in tandem. Seeming to change its mind belatedly, the water cushioned him as he sunk down into it, and then floated his lifeless body up to the surface. The pain of his body being dashed, time and time again, upon the rocks by the tide, if he could have felt it, would have been nothing to the hopes and dreams dashed by the twin jagged rocks of despair and betrayal in his heart. ************ ENGLAND, 889 "Michael Barnes," the stranger's voice whispered as he entered the Duke's private chambers. Michael turned from his desk and parchment and stood up, challenging the invader. "And who art thou, sir?" The stranger's weathered face bore a strange expression. "Ah, but it is who *thou* art... my liege," he said sarcastically. He walked across the wide stones of the floor, the heels of his boots clicking on the stones. He faced the Duke. "Who thou art, indeed." His voice radiated an aura of menace. Quickly withdrawing a thin knife from his shirt, he plunged it into the beating heart of the Duke of Barnes. The stranger said, "You may call me... Grayson." Michael's eyes, open wide in shock, closed as he sunk to the hard floor. The stranger's name echoed in his mind as he died. Grayson wiped the stilleto on his sleeve and set it on the desk. Turning the chair around and sitting on it, he silently began waiting for Michael to awaken to his Immortality. He stared intently at the other man, waiting to see exactly when the light life would back come into his eyes. His new life. Three hours later, Michael coughed and opened his eyes. He sat up and saw the man who stabbed him. In shock, he stared at the small spot of blood on his chest and felt that the wound was gone. "Yes, my friend..." Grayson whispered from the chair where he sat, close to Michael. Michael looked back at his chest and then to Grayson again. He stared at the other man in mute uncomprehension, but also he looked at him with something like love... ************ SEATTLE, December 1992 "Yes, MacLeod," Barnes hissed at the Highlander. They fought in an unlighted alley, piles of refuse scattered along the edges of the dirty buildings. Duncan's katana and Michael's longsword beat each other with immense power. Blue and gold sparks leaped from the blades as they fought. "Tonight you die, MacLeod!" cried Barnes as he thrust his blade at MacLeod. Duncan blocked, barely, the tip of Barnes' sword slicing a gash in his trenchcoat. MacLeod was silent as he intently concentrated on each parry and swing. He knew he was outmatched. "Ah," Michael sighed when his blade enveloped MacLeod's and sent it to the ground. Duncan punched the momentarily distracted Immortal in the face and leaped for a fire escape ladder dangling close to the dark asphalt of the alley. Pulling himself up, he now stood on the iron railings of the fire escape. Hands outstretched, he jumped for the next section of ladder, but was unable to reach it. Part of it was gone; where the ladder should have been, only an abrupt piece of twisted metal hung ten feet above him. Intending to break the window, he turned and saw Barnes had already joined him on the fire escape. His sword glinted in the small bit of light from gap in the curtains of the closed window. He started to jump back down to the alley, but his trenchcoat restrained him. Tugging on it, he realized it was caught on a piece of metal sticking out from the twisted railing. While Duncan was furiously trying to release himself, Barnes kicked him in the chest. He went down, retching, to his knees. Barnes laughed and raised his sword, relishing the moment. Grayson's Quickening would soon join his, and they would be together again. MacLeod knelt there, not accepting defeat yet facing it. Duncan waited, and waited, for the strike that would end his four centuries of life. It didn't come. "*Damn* you, MacLeod!" Barnes roared. When Duncan looked up a moment later, Michael Barnes was gone. ************ WEST WASHINGTON STATE, March 1995 Greg choked as a spray of cold salt water ran up his nose. Another wave washed up on the beach, but Greg had already raised his head out of the way. Coughing up the briny water, he suddenly vomited on the wet sand. It was night. Greg was freezing; the cold, wet clothes leached the heat from his body as he lay there in the damp, brown sand. Pushing himself back from the foulness, he managed to stand. How long, he wondered. How long? His watch, which amazingly survived the long soak in the Pacific, told him it had been two days since he plummeted into the water, and it was now three in the morning. He unsteadily raced for a row of houses near the beach and onto a small street. The cars parked alongside the road told him he was still in Washington. He found a payphone at a place called Pine Hill Mall, shoved coins into it, and stabbed Duncan's number onto the keypad. Feeling a surge of relief as he heard MacLeod's voice, he started to speak, but it was only Duncan's answering machine. He spun the whole tale into the tape, and hung up. Neither Anne nor Richie picked up, either. He told an abbreviated version of the story to Richie's machine, but hung up before Anne's machine beeped. He called Joe's, but got the answering machine. He knew the place was closed for the night, but he had hoped Dawson would still be around, playing blues to the empty seats as he often did late at night. Greg slammed the phone back into the handset in frustration, and scanned the attached phonebook for the mall's name. He was in a small town in southwestern Washington, two hundred miles from Seattle. There was a bus station two miles away; his soggy wallet had enough cash in it to get to Seattle, thanks to Michael Barnes. He started to call a cab, but decided against it. Despite the soaking in the Pacific, his shirt and jeans were still discolored from the blood, and huge rips in his shirt gaped in the front and back. There was a Dumpster nearby, and Greg rummaged through it for something, anything, to wear. He was surprised to find a large jacket. It stunk, was pink, and had a large rip in the lining, but it was warm. He trudged in the direction of the bus depot, hoping he was not too late. [End part 6] (Part 7 will be the conclusion) +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ The Vampire Chronicles Home Page -- fanfics, gifs+sounds, Anne Rice stuff ***http://www.xroads.com/pages/gpalmer/gpalmer.html*** +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ =========================================================================