Date: Wed, 18 Oct 1995 22:44:19 -0700 Reply-To: Greg Palmer Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Greg Palmer Subject: "Three of Hearts" Part 4 "Three of Hearts" Part 4 by Greg Palmer, Copyright (C) 1995 All Rights Reserved (Please forgive any historical inaccuracies. I lost a lot of my notes in the long break between parts 3 and 4. Oh, and my apologies to General Gage's descendants, in case you're reading this. ) BOSTON -- 8 August, 1774 "Gabriel O'Shea." His mouth was dry, despite the ale he'd drunk. "And no, I haven't come to cut off your head. I want nothing to do with you." He jerked his head away from her firm grip on his jaw. Maybe he could bluff his way through this. She took off her coat, and draped it over the chair across from Gabriel. "Damn thing," she muttered. "Does have its uses, though." Then, she sat down in the chair, and fixed him in her cool gaze. He suddenly realized she could be twenty-five, or twenty-five hundred; he had no way of knowing. She had an amount of self-possesion that only came with great age. They stared at each other for a moment, sizing each other up. Gabriel's fear increased a notch when he saw she was very far from wanting nothing to do with *him*. Finally, she spoke. "Out of the Game, Irishman? Or are you a coward?" She let the words hang. She was purposely antagonizing him, to see his reaction. "I'm no coward." He wondered if he was being one. "I'm... out of the game, for a while." If he only knew to what game she was referring. She laughed. "Well, you'd better get yourself to holy ground, then, Irishman," she said. "You can't say that to an Immortal who's after your head, and expect him to just... go away!" She looked like she was having a hard time controlling her laughter. Her laughing made Gabriel angry. He grabbed his bundled sword off the floor, pushed his chair back and stood. "I think I'll go do that, then!" He had no idea what he was talking about. Startled, she drew back. "Look, I was just having a little fun, O'Shea. Sure you don't want to chat a while?" She seemed to have dropped her pretenses, for some reason. Gabriel realized MacLeod might be a good source of information, if he finessed her properly. He brushed his long hair back from his face and replaced himself in the chair. They watched each other across the table for a few seconds. "So," Gabriel began, breaking the silence, "what shall we chat about, m'dear?" She instantly caught on to the flirtatiousness in his voice. Her small, strong hand slid across the table and touched his. Despite himself, Gabriel felt himself starting to respond. "Hmmmm," she breathed, slipping her fingertips across his palm, feeling for something. "Handle a sword much, Gabriel-dear?" Damn! He jerked his hand away and desposited it in his lap. "Finessing" MacLeod was obviously going to get him nowhere. Maybe the honest approach would work a little better; what did he have to lose? "Look, okay, you've figured me out. I know what an Immortal is, and I know I am one, but that's all. I'm a farmer and a sailor. I was killed about four months ago and dragged across the ocean and I just got off the boat and the captain let me go and here I am!" He saw the smirk his desperate rambling caused. "Laying your neck on the line, eh?" she smiled, but Gabriel didn't trust it. "Well, I'd figured as much." She sighed in an almost disappointed way. "I suppose I'd better fill you in..." *************** Rebecca sent her dozen soldiers (Gabriel still couldn't figure *that* one out) to their barracks along with her red coat and military insignia. Obviously, the locals here didn't care much for British soldiers. She was now dressed more inconspicuously (not that breeches on a woman were very inconspicuous), and Gabriel felt better at being halfway anonymous. But, still, the dominant emotion he felt was fear -- of losing his head! However, he had no choice but to follow the strange woman Immortal up to one of the rooms above the tavern. Once there, she locked the door and flopped wearily upon the clean bed. She linked her fingers behind her head, meshing them with her glossy black hair. "I've never done this before, you know," she commented. Hastily, she added, "I mean, teach one of us about himself." Gabriel took a chair across from her. "Why don't you just start at the beginning." He saw now he was being stupid to fear this woman. She came on strong and obnoxious -- and probably had the swordarm to back it up -- but she didn't seem the type to attack for no reason. And, he had to admit to himself that he was ecstatic at the prospect of finally getting some answers. Over the next two hours, she described Gabriel's peculiar destiny and laid out the rules of the game they played. Rebecca fielded his questions awkwardly, as if she'd never had to answer them before. She always refused to answer any about herself. Save the fact that she was from Scotland, and "about nine hundred" years old (she said that so off-handedly, he'd had to laugh), she stonewalled him constantly about her past. Nevertheless, he felt some of the pieces of the mystery begin to fill themselves in. On the other hand, Gabriel let his life story flow from his lips at her insistence. He left out his experience with the vampire, instead opting for the story that he'd died on Mallory's gallows. He sensed that she sensed his omission, but Rebecca didn't prod. "Why are our lives so filled with pain," she mused, after hearing his whole story. "Most mortals live their whole lives in anonymity, with only the trivial annoyances of life." Emotion choked her voice; her faraway, wet eyes stared up at the ceiling. "But we..." He knew she was reliving something, and he turned his eyes away in embarassment. Nine hundred years of experience had to weigh heavily on the soul in ways he couldn't even hope to imagine. And the realization that he himself might live to be Rebecca's age, or even older. Generations of mortals would live and die, but he would remain static, forever unchanging. Immortal. The word suddenly took on an infinity of connotations. He could live forever; he could see the future. The prospect exhilirated and frightened him equally. One look at Rebecca's grief-stricken face made him realize he was entirely unprepared to live his new life. "Penny for your thoughts," he murmured. Jerked back to reality, MacLeod quickly wiped her eyes and got off the bed. As if ashamed and embarassed at showing her emotions, she began to pace the wooden floor. "What to do with you, O'Shea," she muttered, not so much to Gabriel as to herself. It was still too soon for Gabriel to realize the attraction he felt to this raven-haired warrior, but still, something compelled him to speak. "Teach me," he said softly. "Please." That stopped her in her tracks. "*What*?" He fixed her in his amber eyes, his face pleading with her. "Please. I want to learn what you know. I want to learn to live as you live." She surprised herself by saying yes. Rebecca got Gabriel a room at the inn, but he couldn't find sleep for many hours. Instead, he lay in bed, replaying recent events in his mind. Increasingly, though, his thoughts gravitated to the enigma he knew as Rebecca MacLeod. Could he trust her? The answer was obvious. What choice did he have? If he couldn't find someone to teach him, he would lose his head to the first evil Immortal he encountered. MacLeod might betray him, but Gabriel's chances with her beat the odds of going it alone. That decided, he managed to sleep fitfully for a few hours. In his guilt-ridden dreams, he made love to Rebecca MacLeod. But quickly, the shame withered and his dream-self gave in to his subconscious desires. And the ecstasy he felt only increased when she drove her fangs into his throat. ************* 9 August, 1774 He awoke with a gentle throbbing sensation in his neck and with the tenuous details of his dream fading under the scrutiny of his conscious mind. Puzzled at the strange pulsing in his neck, his hand drifted up to to investigate. He felt nothing, and the feeling vanished as if to confirm what his fingers told him. Putting it out of his mind, he rose to shaky feet. Hastily, he washed his face and donned the clothes that had been left for him. Laying on the pile of clothes was a small note written in the blocky script of the under-educated. Gabriel, [the note began] Gone to headquarters to speak with General Gage. Go downstairs and get some breakfast. I will meet you at 8. R.M. Again, Gabriel wondered at her military affiliations. And one didn't simply go "to speak" with the most powerful man in the Colonies! It was almost as if she had him under her thumb, somehow... He smiled at the thought. Shrugging, he stuck the note in his pocket and went to get that breakfast. True to her word, she appeared in the almost-empty tavern at 8 o'clock. She pulled up a chair at his table and grinned at him. "Hello, O'Shea, or should I say... 'Private O'Shea'." The grin broadened, and Gabriel didn't like it very much. His mind instantly put the pieces together. "Oh, no," he groaned. It appeared that now *he* was under her thumb as well! "Oh, yes," she replied, looking like the cat who just got the canary. "Look, I've been meaning to ask you... just how exactly does a woman become an Army officer?" "It's a long story," she answered, and he feared he wasn't going to get a straight answer, as usual. "Let's just say the General owes me his good reputation." That only served to pique Gabriel's curiousity even more, and he could tell she really wanted to tell him. "Come on, lass. Out with it!" "Well, all right," she began, her hesitation had been token. "My last job was in a brothel." Rebecca saw his eyebrows raise, and she scowled at him. "To throw out the unruly customers, you lout. It was a good situation for everyone; I had to show the manager I was a capable fighter, but he soon he realized I could hold my own against any man. The women felt more comfortable with another woman around. And the pay was excellent. "The brothel was an upscale place that catered to the cream of Boston society. Naturally, these fine lords (and ladies) couldn't have everyone know about their strange games." At this point, she shook her head and frowned. "I *used* to think I'd seen it all. "Well, to cut to the point, the place had a back door that the clients would use, after their servants had made the transaction up front. So I rarely got to see any of them, unless I was to escort them out, which wasn't terribly often. But one night, I heard some *really* strange sounds coming from one of the rooms, so I went up to investigate..." Her story dissolved into helpless laughter. "Go on," said Gabriel, feeling like a bit of a voyeur. His pale cheeks had begun to redden a bit at Rebecca's story. Where he was from, people didn't discuss such things! "'Scuse me," she said after she'd composed herself a bit. "Picture this: the commander of the British Army in petticoats, being buggered by a well-hung young stud!" She banged her fist on the table, rattling his breakfast plate, and began to laugh uncontrollably. Quite against his will, the mental picture formed in Gabriel's mind. His faint blush intensified into a bright crimson. This woman had no shame! And neither did the General, if her account was accurate... "I'm not going to say a word," said Gabriel, shaking his head in disbelief. Rebecca graciously ignored his embarrassment. "In return for my discretion, the General employed me. It's always been my desire to be a soldier, and I wouldn't dream of passing up the chance." Then something occurred to him that was horrifying and yet funny at the same time. "Does this mean I have to call you 'sir'?" She scowled good-naturedly at him. "Of course not. I'm not really a commissioned officer. The uniform just comes in handy now and again. My real function is to serve as a spy..." "A spy?" "Of course; the colonies are ripe for rebellion. A woman can put herself in the, er, position to learn many things that a man cannot." Gabriel's blush was back, and he realized she enjoyed toying with him. He didn't really mind it. "So what's my place in all this?" "You need to learn to fight. I've been 'granted' indefinite leave, so I'll be able to teach you to swing a sword. But part of your time will be spent with the regulars; you'll go to the front lines when the war comes." Despite the fact that he knew he couldn't die, he felt a twinge of fear at the prospect. "You sound so sure that it *is* coming." "It's only a matter of time," she replied. ************* She was right, he found. For the next year and a half, their lives settled into a predictable routine. He lived at the barracks, drilling with his company for most of the day. During their leave time when the other soldiers went off to drink, he was able to be with Rebecca. It surprised him to find he had an aptitude for swordplay. He was still no match for Rebecca, but at least she couldn't disarm him at will anymore! Spending as much time together as they did, they soon found their friendship blossoming. He gradually became aware of his affections for her, but couldn't reconcile the guilt he felt for feeling such things. Not a day passed when he didn't think of Shannon and their life together in Cobh. There were times when he caught her looking at him in a certain way... but she never expressed what he suspected (hoped?) she felt. It was just as well; he was determined to be true to his wife. As time passed, he became almost certain she was struggling with powerful emotions. They seemed to infuriate her, and she would sometimes attack him ferociously during their sparring. If he weren't immortal, he would have been covered in scars. But his body became lean and hard, and he began to acquire the graceful poise possessed only by dancers and swordsmen. When they weren't fighting, they spent much of their time together. She seemed more at ease as she told him of long-ago battles, and stories of other ancient Immortals she had known down through the ages. He found himself fascinated by her stories, and they often talked late into the night. Many times he tried to bring himself to tell her about the vampire Sylvie, but he couldn't figure a way to bring it up without sounding foolish. One day in January 1776, he finished his morning drills, buckled on the fine sword she'd given him, and headed to meet Rebecca at her small house. It was shaping up to be a fairly normal day. The drills were boring as usual, and he looked forward to spending some time with her, even at the price of countless nicks and slashes from her sword. As he entered her home, he experienced the familiar feeling of her presence. She was in the study, scribbling some letters when he came in. She motioned at a chair. "Sit, Gabriel, we need to talk." She sounded particularly somber. "What's wrong?" he asked, sitting. She finished putting away her letters and swiveled around to face him. "There's another Immortal in Boston," she said simply. Gabriel had never encountered another of his kind besides Rebecca, and he wondered if that was by her design, or just blind luck. "Do you know him?" "Yes. He's a Spaniard, name of Antonio Saldivar." She fairly spat out the name. "Has he come for us?" "I'm not sure, and I don't intend to find out." "You can't mean--" "Have all my lessons been lost on you, you Irish dolt?" she snapped, and he drew back in surprise. "I could handle Saldivar easily, and he knows it. But if he challenges *you*, I can't interfere. You know that!" "So we just turn tail and run. Is that it?" Gabriel realized she was only trying to protect him, yet he felt angry at her for doing it. "Boston is our *home*, and I meant it when I told you I was no coward! If it comes down to it, I'll face him. And you're right, you shouldn't interfere!" At this, Rebecca flew into a rage. She leapt up from her desk, the chair toppling back onto the floor. A swipe of her arm sent inkpots and papers flying off the desk into the wall. He cringed at the pure anger that contorted her face, and felt shame for having caused it. "Can you think about anything other than yourself?" she screamed at him. "Rebecca--" "Shut up, you bastard! Go face him, if that's what you want. Go off to your death. I don't--" He saw the hot tears flowing down her cheeks, they made her blue eyes impossibly bright. And then, her anger burned itself out as suddenly as it had come upon her. Her body seemed to sag, and he instinctively reached out to catch her in his arms. They were finally holding each other, and that made things better. They stood that way in her study for a long time, Gabriel feeling the barely controlled sobs which wracked her body, and the own tears rising in his eyes. "I just couldn't stand to lose you, Gabriel," she muttered into his shoulder. "We both knew this would happen eventually," he whispered. "You can't protect me forever." They eventually disentangled themselves and she brushed his mouth with her lips; he tasted the salt of her tears. "Go, then," she murmured, turning her back to him. ************* He walked the city streets for hours before he felt the Quickening of Antonio Saldivar. Because he was so familiar with Rebecca's, he was unprepared for the force the strange Quickening had upon him. It made him want to throw up, and he wondered how much of that had to do with fear. Thankfully, the feeling passed quickly. He spotted the Spaniard at a market stall, and the other Immortal oriented on him also. They approached each other swiftly but warily. "I am Gabriel O'Shea of Cobh," he said firmly, the fear having entirely evaporated. "Antonio Saldivar," the other man replied, his accent thick and somehow greasy to Gabriel's Irish ears. He looked Gabriel over. "Hah. I see the oldest MacLeod is now sending her students to fight her battles." Oldest MacLeod? "She didn't consider you worthy enough to soil her blade. I volunteered." Saldivar nodded. "You seem eager to die, O'Shea. I shall be happy to oblige you, once we retire to somewhere more... private." His thin lips curved in a smile. My God, Gabriel thought, realizing that soon one or the other of them would be dead, for a reason neither of them understood. Is this what my life has become? The two Immortals walked to a large house not far away. They didn't look at or talk to each other. Gabriel, completely numb to any emotion, followed Saldivar into his large, wood-paneled fencing room. Without preamble, Saldivar drew his rapier. "En garde." Gabriel drew his own longsword, the one Rebecca had given him. It was perfectly weighted in his hand. He had practiced long hours with this sword. And he had made it a part of him. Immediately, he felt himself pass into a zone of total concentration; he completely trusted his instincts to carry him through. Nothing existed for him but this battle. They crossed swords, and it begun. Saldivar immediately slashed at Gabriel's neck, but he parried the attack easily. He countered, and he found himself pressing Saldivar backwards with a flurry of swift attacks. Small blue and gold sparks flew up from the clashing weapons. Saldivar slipped through Gabriel's defenses and pricked his left shoulder. He felt the warm blood slip down his bicep, but not the pain of the wound. Immediately, he recovered and began to press Saldivar back again. He felt the slight wound knit and close. Soon, Saldivar found himself backed up against the wall, and Gabriel used the other Immortal's moment of confusion to strike the killing blow. But the Spaniard ducked, and spun around behind Gabriel. His enemy was suddenly behind him. Somehow sensing Saldivar's attack, Gabriel managed to dodge sideways, with only a slight slash along his back. He extended his sword, and spun himself around, feeling the momentum pass from his body into the sword. It took Saldivar completely by surprise. The huge, unbalanced swing was something Rebecca would have chastised him for, but it found its mark. The blade slipped through muscle, tendons, and bone, detaching Saldivar's head and sending it spinning into the air. It came to the wood floor with a dull thunk, and Gabriel saw the look of surprise still stamped on the features. The body dropped the sword, toppled backwards, and a sickened Gabriel watched it spew arterial blood across the floor in long jets. He felt disgust at what he'd just done, but it changed to wonder when he felt the buildup of power in the room. The hair on the back of his neck stood up and he felt all his teeth buzzing. He had not really thought about what it would be like to receive a Quickening. An eldritch white glow enveloped the body and it began to rise from the blood-soaked floor. The arms and legs flopped bonelessly, the fingertips barely brushing the wood. For a long moment, Gabriel watched in fascination and fear. The first bolt of power flew from the light with immense speed and crackled across his chest. It was like no pain he had ever felt before, and he screamed in agony. Then, he felt the power absorb into his body and spread through his limbs. A full-length mirror across the room shattered and exploded small shards of glass across the floor. A powerful wind ripped across his hair and clothes. More agonizing bolts of power rippled and crackled across his face, chest, arms, legs. The pain was unbearable, and he felt himself become lost in it. ************ He was nowhere, everywhere. He floated in blackness, dimly aware that his body was out there somewhere, shaking and screaming. Below him glowed a vast network of lights. Some barely flickered, and others shined with a powerful white light. It looked like stars. But not really. His strangely detached mind saw strange gossamer filaments connecting every point of light. Even as he watched, some flickered and died as others grew brighter. Some flared to life from the darkness. He understood that the lights represented every Immortal on earth. It was beautiful. His view broadened, and he found himself become aware of another, smaller constellation of lights at the edge of his perception. Before he had time to ponder the meaning of what he saw, he returned to himself. ************ Gabriel collapsed to the floor, completely incapacitated. He tried to hold on to the memory of the lights, but it faded as quickly as a dream. He remembered only that he had seen something indescribably beautiful. He grabbed his sword and hauled himself to his feet. Somehow, he found the strength to drag himself back to Rebecca's. The people on the street saw an anguished, lurching man with bloodstained clothes carrying a naked sword, but he only received a few curious stares. People had war on their minds. By the time he reached her house, he felt more himself. He was anxious to see her again, let her know he was alive, and that it was all right. And, of course, that he loved her. She wasn't there. [End Part 4] (Stay tuned for part 5... coming soon.) --Greg Palmer (gpalmer@xroads.com) [Secondary address]: 51035@ef.pvc.maricopa.edu [World Wide Web]: http://www.xroads.com/pages/gpalmer/gpalmer.html =========================================================================