========================================================================= Date: Tue, 16 Apr 1996 16:21:21 -0400 Reply-To: LC Krakowka Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: LC Krakowka Subject: Nothing Gold Can Stay 6/6 Nothing Gold Can Stay LC Krakowka hck1@cornell.edu copyright-1996. [part 6] "This is delicious, Sarah," Duncan said, finishing off his plate of grilled chicken. Richie wiped his chin on a napkin and bobbed his head in agreement. "Thanks," Sarah reclined in her chair and looked out over the porch railing and across the street. The leaves were beginning to turn and the nights were getting colder. She had already had two fires to warm up the apartment in the evening and it was barely mid September. Things just weren't the same under the down comforter. Six immortals had come looking for Petey in the past nine months. Duncan had taken care of the first two for her, while she was still reeling from having to clean out his apartment and pack away that part of her life. Two of the next three were women and she had defeated them easily. The fourth was a bit of a struggle, but he had told her that there were rumors of Methos in Egypt before she took his head. The last one most likely would have killed her, if Richie hadn't walked in at the right time. He had just returned from a week of tracking the Chinaman...victorious. Richie got up and pulled another piece of chicken off the grill. He recognized the look on Sarah's face. She had worn it for a week straight when they were sorting through Adam's things and deciding what to put in storage and what she would bring to her house. This Sarah was a stark contrast to the one he had known while Adam was around. For one thing, he had noticed a stack of Big Band CDs added to one of the boxes going into storage and a corresponding empty space in her CD rack. Her smile, which used to come so easily, was now quite rare and she often spent long periods of time in deep thought. Whether it was remembering days long past, or projecting into the future, he didn't know. He did know that she was training harder than ever and pushing him even harder than that. They often sparred to the bitter end. "So, rumors have it that the English Department wants to make you a full professor," Duncan said. Sarah nodded. "They want me to get a PhD so they can give me a seat," she chuckled suddenly. "Sometimes I wish I could just haul all my various diplomas in and tell them exactly how many doctorates I have." "How many is that?" Richie asked. She thought a moment. "Four. Medieval History, Renaissance Literature, um...Modern Lit and..." "Archeology," Duncan supplied the fourth. "Right," she said. "That one was a while ago." "So, are you going to get another one?" Richie asked, finishing his plate and shoving it toward the center of the table. Sarah shrugged, then waved as the mailman walked up the front steps. "Hey Jim." "Hello Sarah," the older man smiled. "Here you go," he handed her a stack of mail and turned to fill the boxes for the three lower apartments. Sarah waved again as he headed back down the walk and tossed the mail onto the table. She picked up her beer and swirled it around in the bottle. "Anything good?" Richie asked, pointing to the pile. "Have a look. I think I might have won the Publisher's Clearing House. They keep telling me I'm a finalist." Duncan chuckled, pleased to see her sense of humor returning. He had gone for about three months without seeing a smile at all after Methos left. There had been no word from him, not even through the Watchers, and Duncan was beginning to fear the worst. Certainly nine months was enough time to erase any trace of Adam Pierson and create a new identity, especially for someone who had as much practice at it as Methos did. Sarah had been pushing ahead, leaning on Richie occasionally, and wearing shirts that had come from Adam's closet about five out of every seven days. The one she had on now had paint on it from the day he and Duncan had worked on Anne's porch in the rain. "Car Insurance, Seacouver Gas and Electric, a bank statement," Richie muttered, sorting through the pile of envelopes. "Newsweek, The New Yorker...a letter from someone named Jason Green..." Duncan perked his ears up, that was not a name he recognized. Sarah shook her head. "A friend from Ottawa," she said. "Oh..." "Ed McMahon sends his regards...PETA wants money...God you get a lot of mail." Sarah chuckled. "Fill out one sweepstakes entry in a fit of boredom and suddenly you're on every mailing list in the world." "VISA bill...and a postcard from Fiji," Richie set the stack back on the table and picked up his beer. "If you win the lottery, can I have half?" "Sure," Sarah picked up the postcard and frowned at it. Who would send her a card with a picture of a naked woman walking away from the camera and a priest carrying a sign that said "The End is in Sight"? How bizarre. She flipped it over and just about did a backflip out of her chair. "Who's it from?" Duncan asked. Sarah handed it to him with a smile. No. It was a grin. And it lit up her face. Duncan looked at the picture and shook his head. Tacky didn't even begin to describe it. Only someone with a truly warped mind would find this amusing. Then it hit him. He flipped it over and read eagerly. "Mysterious Frenchman on my tail. This is getting tiresome. Heads will roll. Still waiting for your answer..." *** Six months later, precisely three days after Sarah's nine hundred and fifty sixth birthday, Duncan received a phone call on the dojo line. They had celebrated her birthday quietly, pizza and beer at Joe's and a movie afterwards. Joe had wanted to make a big deal of it, saying that it might do her good. But Richie had convinced him that it was best to keep things low key, as she had asked. "MacLeod," he said, out of habit. "Connor! How are you?" He was cut off by the sound of Connor's voice and listened numbly for a few moments, watching through the blinds as Sarah and Richie paced through a sparring match. With a mumbled thanks, he hung up the phone and stood in the doorway for a moment before crossing the floor slowly and catching their attention. "That was Connor." "How is the old coot?" Sarah asked with a smile. It faded quickly as she caught the expression on Duncan's face. Mac swallowed hard. "Methos is dead." "You're wrong," she said flatly. Duncan shook his head, "Connor..." "Connor's wrong." Richie set his sword down and moved close to her, ready to lend whatever support she would accept. "Sarah...I'm sorry," Duncan said. She shook her head emphatically. "No. You're wrong." Duncan thought his heart would break as he saw her shoulders began to shake. She stared at him defiantly, daring him to repeat the offensive phrase. Nearby, Richie reached for her rapier, which she let fall from her rapidly numbing hand. "Connor bumped into him in Rio," Duncan began. "He said...Methos went out to fight and didn't come back. There was a quickening." He would never tell her that Connor had said the skinny Englishman had been preparing to come home. That would only make things harder. Sarah almost physically leapt at the statement. "The same thing happened in Germany. He's fine. He's not dead. He's *not* dead." "There was a fire from the quickening, but Connor saw the body. And...he has Methos' sword. It's broken." Sarah backed away from him, still shaking her head, and came up short against Richie's chest. "Come on Sarah, let's sit down," Richie said, guiding her to the floor with an arm around her waist. Duncan knelt in front of them and took her face in his hands. "I'm so sorry, Sarah." She sat there, half in Richie's lap and surrounded by four very strong arms, trying to keep her chest from exploding. Richie's tears were wet on her shoulder and Duncan was rocking her gently, murmuring soothing words that she only half heard. Sarah was thousands of miles and hundreds of years away. Standing on the shores of Loch Lomand with Petey's arm tentatively draped around her shoulder as they stood by the graves of her husband and family. And then, on the shores of Lake Constance some three hundred years later, looking out over the water and trying to block out the image of a quickening that she had been certain was his. She never should have come to Seacouver. If she had stayed in Ottawa the pain of that great loss would still be six hundred years old. Not fresh and raw and searing through her soul. Sarah found herself murmuring as well. Alan. Or was she saying Adam? Methos. Mother. Petey. No. Both sets of arms tightened gently as she began to weep great heaving sobs that tore from her soul with ragged cries. "Go ahead and cry, Sarie," Duncan said quietly. Sarah's head snapped up and she kicked out reflexively, back pedaling away from both of them. "Don't call me that. Don't you *ever* call me that!" Duncan hung his head. He hadn't meant to say that aloud. It was what he had imagined Methos would say. Methos. Who would never flash another enigmatic smile or toss him another beer. "I'm sorry." Sarah scrambled to her feet, but Richie caught her by the wrist and drew her back down. His arms were too bulky. His cologne was too pungent. His hair was the wrong texture against her neck. This was not the man she wanted to be holding her. The phone rang again. Duncan let the machine pick it up, but dashed for the receiver as Connor's voice drifted through the room. Maybe there had been a mistake. He'd give just about anything to spare Sarah the pain of this. He listened quietly as his kinsman told him the flight schedule. Gurgled out a No when Connor asked if Sarah was all right. Grunted a Yes at the query of whether or not she would want the broken sword. Then he hung up the phone and sank into his chair, his own face wet with tears. Joe Dawson would want to know about this, but that could wait. No mortal could understand what they were going through. On the floor in the outer room, Sarah was struggling to regain her composure. She was fighting back the anger and the urge to yell and scream and carry on; stamping down the small voice in the back of her head that kept suggesting that Connor might be wrong. There was no use in entertaining false hopes--they would only be dashed again. Live by the sword, die by the sword. Who was she to wish for anything else? Richie was saying something. Asking her if there was anything he could do, anything he could bring her. Yes. He could bring her Petey. Alive and well. She shook her head and stood up, looking around the dojo like she had the first time she had arrived there. They had been in a similar position then, her and Richie. Only he was at arm's length because he had challenged her and lost. Then, Duncan and Petey had walked in, laughing from an evening of carousing at Joe's. No, that night had been nothing like this. And a little over a year ago, she and Duncan were standing in this very spot. He was telling her that Richie and Methos had just left. Telling her that Petey would be okay and would come back to her soon. She looked to the door. Nothing. They were forever missing each other by minutes and lifetimes. Richie was talking again. "What?" She asked absently. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "That's a lame thing to say, but it's true." Sarah nodded. "I know you are. I am too. Thanks." "Where are you going?" She hadn't even realized she was heading for the door. Sarah stopped and looked down at herself. There was a hole in the knee of her leggings from a slide she took in the spar, before...before Duncan had taken that phone call. The tape on her wrists was fraying at the edges. A faded bloodstain marred her sweatshirt--Petey's actually--from the day they had sparred and he had accidentally sliced into her leg. She clutched her not so newly red hair and pushed it out of her eyes. "I need to walk for a while," she said. "Do you want me to come with you?" She thought about that for a moment, then nodded. Richie dashed into the office and grabbed their coats. "She wants to walk," he said to Duncan. Mac nodded. Richie looked from Mac to Sarah and back, uncertain of who needed him more and unaccustomed to playing the paternal role. He wondered what he should do. The answer came as he saw Sarah pull off the sweatshirt and let it fall to a heap at her feet. "I'll take care of her, Mac," he said. "Methos would have wanted that." [end pt 6] there's still an epilogue folks -- LC Krakowka/ hck1@cornell.edu |CIT Lab WebMistress/LTC Team ***MFW Cavalry--We're tougher than we look.*** The host is riding from Knocknarea /And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare; Caoilte tossing his burning hair, /And Niamh calling Away, come away: Empty your heart of its mortal dream. -Yeats