Date: Wed, 1 Mar 1995 20:53:00 -0800 Reply-To: Kelly Gibson Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Kelly Gibson Organization: Nitelog BBS - Monterey, CA - 408-655-1096 Subject: Resurrection-Part One *Resurrection-Part One April 30th, 1995. This date has always brought Duncan heartache. Sometimes it even teases him, letting him get halfway through day before it attacks. But not this morning. The instant he awoke, BAM, there it was, laughing and taunting him. Even though he is immortal, he still suffers from feelings of regret and missed opportunities. The losses he has suffered are as innumerable as the years he could live if he keeps his head. As he slowly moves through the loft, his eyes linger on certain paintings and objects. Memories of a lifetime assault his mind with vicious force. On most days, he can find pleasure in the simplest of these rememberances, but today there is no joy. Like the dark, cloudy day outside, he too is filled with a darkness bordering on despair. He tries to fight it as if it were an opponent after his head. If this were to be, however, then he would die today. He fights no longer but settles back into a comfortable chair, letting his mind take him back to that dark, secret place in his heart. He knows the journey is inevitable; like tradition it is made every year. Being an honorable warrior, he surrenders to his foe, going back, back to the past. . . Virginia, 1800's For three weeks he has travelled. Heading out from Richmond, Duncan McCleod, of the clan McCleod from the highlands of Scotland is determined to see every inch of the wild, untamed land of the Americas. He has time. He is an immortal. There are others like him, who cannot die unless you take their head. However, he has been without the company of his own for a long time. In fact, he hasn't seen hardly any people. Though the land is beautiful and bountiful, it is dangerous as well. Among the vast green expanse that lends itself to the terrain, predators await. From mother nature's own great black bear to Indians trying to protect what is rightfully theirs, the lush green forest serves as an excellent cover. This is why his heart warms at the sight of a small cluster of huts in the distance. The great steed beneath him, being attuned to his master's quirks, dutifully picks up the pace on his own. Duncan laughs at this, since this animal never ceases to amaze him. However, as draws near to the village, he realizes the few ramshackle huts are smoldering. Then it hits him. WHERE? Turning, looking, wait! There! There, on the western edge. A solitary figure standing over 3 fresh graves. *I am Duncan McCleod, of the clan Mcleod!*, he calls as he dismounts. The figure continues to stand over the graves paying him no heed. McCleod cautiously draws closer as he unsheaths his sword and repeats himself. *I am Duncan McCleod of the clan McCleod! Who are you?* Finally the figure turns and in a voice filled with regret says, *Good God, man! I've just buried 3 men! Can't you show a moment's respect for the dead or are you so convinced of your immortality that burials are nothing more than trivial pursuits to you?* Duncan is instantly taken aback at his own thoughtlessness. Stammering, he manages to reply, *I'm sorry. Please excuse my ignorance.* Not wanting to make unnecessary excuses for himself he leaves it at that. *Very well. And for heaven's sake relax. I've no interest in your head. That is unless you have an interest in mine?* Duncan, sensing no imminent danger, relaxes somewhat. He watches as the young man steps away slightly from his morbid chores. He silently appraises the man. Fair, slight of build, only five six or seven, and amazingly calm. He is not dealing with an inexperience immortal here, but in all probability a seasoned warrior. *To answer you question, my name is Ryan O'Malley. These men and I travelled here from Boston in order to establish some sort of village. Call it a lark, a dream, whatever you like. But they were good men with good hearts and I shall miss them. O'Malley walks over to his scattered belongings and begins salvaging what he can. The sun is beginning to wane in the afternoon sky. The bright orange glow tries in vain to overcome the bleakness surrounding the makeshift camp. However, the shadows from the sign of the crosses only grow longer, reaching toward some unknown destination perhaps like the spirits of the men themselves. O'Malley turns toward the graves once more, paying his final respects. He then turns to face Duncan. The sorrow and hopefulness contradict in his eyes. In the end sorrow triumphs as he begins his tale. *I was away most of the morning trying to hunt some game. Up until now we have had only minimal contact with the Indians of this area. While our contact has never been friendly, they were never overtly hostile, either. But when I returned from I saw the huts burning and then I found them. Each of them had been scalped and there were arrows all in them. I don't know why this happenend. All I know is that my friends are dead and I really have no desire to stay here without them.* For an instant he bows his head as he struggles internally not to let the depth of his emotions show. Raising his head in a small victory, he asks, *So. what's your story McCleod?* Duncan moving back toward his mount replies, *My ultimate desire is to go to California. I've just come from Richmond, and being in no particular hurry, I thought I'd make a journey across country. Guess you could call me a tourist in unchartered territory.* O'Malley manages a chuckle. *Sounds like a lark to me. Then again, I seem to have a strange affinity for larks. Would you mind some company?* Duncan once again appraises the man in front of him. There's a story behind that face. However, the alarms ringing in his head are more of curiosity than danger. He has been without someone he could be totally honest with for so long. Smiling he answers, *Sure, why not?* With those simple words, an adventure of a lifetime was begun. These two totally different comrades seen travelling across the country from town to town. Though they tried to pass themselves as brothers to curious townsfolk, it was impossible. They were as different as night and day. One dark, the other fair; one tall and muscled, the other small and lithe. Each had a fire burning in them though. Like two mosquitos drawn to irresistable flames, they pursued their hearts delight. Soon they would both make discoveries even beyond their wildest immortal dreams. What begun as a lark, ended as something entirely different. A friendship was forged. A friendship that both would hold onto in the centuries to come. --- ~ SLMR 2.1a ~ =========================================================================