Date: Mon, 23 Jan 1995 01:24:29 -0500 Reply-To: mikester@BIX.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Mike Breen Subject: THE CHANGELING - PART VII BOSTON, MASS, UNITED STATES, JANUARY 1995 "But _why_ does he want me?" Nancy said. "I told you," Patrick said, "To flush me out." "He called me 'little girl.' Talking to him, I felt that way," Nancy said. "I felt like I was five years old." Patrick didn't say anything. "How am I supposed to kill evil Immortals if I fall apart and feel like a child every time I see one?" "In a way," Patrick said, "You _are_ a child. Inexperienced, eager to learn, innocent..." "Dependent," Nancy said. "Not dependent." "Yes. I'm dependent on you, Patrick. I told you that you were the only family I had. I don't know what I'd do if this Riley took your head." "Yes you do." Nancy nodded and said, "I'd probably go to Connor. Then I'd become dependent on _him_. Patrick... is this..?" "Normal? Of course it is. When an experienced Immortal takes on a young one as a Student, not only is he teaching the young one, but he's protecting them as well. Shielding them from the outside world. Shielding them from other Immortals. I often felt like a very young child when I was with Ramirez. And he protected me, shielded me from other Immortals, watched me grow as an Immortal, and eventually, once I had taken my first Quickening, set me out on my own. And if it sounds like parents with children, perhaps it's because we cannot _have_ children that our students _become_ like our offspring. When you think of it, it's the _only_ way for us to pass something of ourselves down to a younger generation." Nancy smiled and hugged Patrick. "Thank you," she said. IRELAND, SEPTEMBER 1181 - OCTOBER 1196 They had settled in a house on the western coast of Ireland. It had taken them weeks to get there, but it was private. Ramirez and Patrick could practice their swordcraft without being disturbed by the outside world. Patrick was a quick study. His Irish iron blade though, was cumbersome. One day, Ramirez handed him his Oriental blade. "Here, hold that," he said. "It... it feels like a part of my arm," Patrick said. He gave the blade a few swings. "That is Japanese. Shikiko's father made it for me. It is the only one of its kind, a labor of love that was truly ahead of its time. But I hear that Japanese sword makers are catching up to his design. Brother, I would advise you to find yourself a similar blade as soon as you can. That blade of yours will not survive centuries of hard use." It was in April of 1186 that Aoife died. Ramirez and Patrick were sparring on the beach when Patrick felt it. It was a soul-wrenching feeling that knocked Patrick to his knees in pain. He questioningly looked at his Mentor, who had dropped his blade and had a far-away look in his eyes. Although his reaction was less violent, Patrick could tell that Ramirez had felt it as well. "What..?" was all Patrick could manage. "Aoife is dead," Ramirez said. "You could feel her go because you had a connection with her. She must have left Holy Ground briefly as she does from time to time to taste the outside world." "What do we do?" Patrick said. "_You_ do nothing. _I_ must find this Immortal." "I'm coming with you. As you said, we had a connection." Ramirez said, "Very well. We'll make preparations. Tell Gwenna that we'll be gone for most of the spring and summer." No one at the Pagan village had seen who had killed Aoife. As Ramirez said, she had left Holy Ground after the spring thaw the previous year to see the outside world. Apparently she had planned on visiting Ramirez and O'Brien over the summer before turning back. Her two companions had not seen the fight, nor the killer. She had sensed the presence of another Immortal and had ridden off. Two days later her companions had found her body, her head close to it. They had brought her home and laid her to rest, only a fortnight before the two Immortals had arrived. Patrick and Ramirez stared at the grave where Aoife rested. "She is with us always, Brother," Ramirez said, "and when I take the Quickening of her killer, she and I will be as one." Patrick looked at Ramirez for a long moment and said, "Let _me_, Brother." "You are ready," Ramirez said, "You've become a fine swordsman these past years. And I certainly know your reasons for wanting to avenge her." "Then you know that I owe it to her. You know _what_ I owe her." "But this fight is mine. Just as if it were you who's head was taken." They talked no more about it. They found the Immortal that September in the tavern of a small village. He felt them arrive and turned and saw them walk through the door. Ramirez and O'Brien walked over to his table. "I am Samuel Desmond of England." Ramirez told Desmond his current name, and Patrick paused before using the pronunciation Aoife had used, "Patrick O'Braoin of County Cork." "Have you come for me?" Desmond said. "That depends on you." Ramirez said. "Have you ever met a Priestess of the Old Faith named Aoife?" Desmond turned white, but did not answer. "Thank you," Ramirez said, "that's all we needed to know. We _have_ come for you, then. Shall we do this in private? Or shall mortals witness our Game?" "Outside," Desmond said, knowing that there was no escape, "ten minutes ride, there is a private spot." Ramirez and Patrick followed Desmond to the designated spot. As they dismounted and Ramirez unsheathed his blade, Patrick said, "Please, Brother. _Let_ me face him." Ramirez saw the pleading in his Student's eyes. He was ready, no doubt about that, and even though he had not known Aoife long, he owed her perhaps more than Ramirez ever did. "Very well," he said, "But _my_ blade must make the Kill. Use it well." He handed Patrick his samurai. Wide-eyed, Patrick took it from him and stood face to face with Desmond. Desmond attacked, and Patrick blocked it with skill. He had not realized just how he had absorbed Ramirez's training until that moment. And he _knew_ he would win. Their blades a blur of steel, Patrick skillfully blocked every attack Desmond used. Only once did Ramirez have any doubts about who would be the victor. That was when Patrick briefly let his guard down, and Desmond sliced his side. But instead of defeating Patrick, it served to focus him even more. Patrick took the offensive then, and battered Desmond's blade. He disarmed him and sank Ramirez's blade deep into his gut. Desmond screamed in pain and sank to his knees. "Finish it," he said. Patrick lifted Ramirez's blade high over his head and said, "There can be only One." He brought the blade down towards Desmond's neck, severing the head from the body. He turned towards Ramirez, triumphant, and grinning. But then he noticed the storm that he was rapidly becoming the focal point of. He turned towards Desmond's body, and saw that it glowed, just like Visillius' had when Ramirez killed him five summers before. And that's when the Quickening exploded from Desmond's body. Patrick screamed in pain or pleasure, he did not know which. He sank to his knees and dropped Ramirez's blade. And that's when the memories began flooding his brain. Memories of an Englishman who wanted nothing but the Quickening of others. A lonely life of centuries spent wandering Europe seeking only Immortals' heads. And other memories as well. Memories of the Immortal Priestess living in peace for nearly a millennium, being taught and loved. Teaching and loving. And finally meeting her death while on her way to visit her oldest and newest friends. And memories of all the others that Desmond had killed, all the ones that they killed, and on and on. So many that they threatened to engulf his identity... "Brother!" someone called to him. But he had no sense of self. He did not know who he was. So _many_... He opened his eyes and looked around. And suddenly, he was Patrick O'Brien again, his _own_ memories flooding back. He looked at Ramirez who helped him up to his feet. His Mentor smiled and said, "Congradulations." They returned to the house on the western coast in mid-October. Patrick dismounted and tied his horse, but Ramirez did not dismount. "Brother?" Patrick said. "Your training is finished, Brother," Ramirez said. "You have drunk of the Quickening, and are now a player in the Game. I cannot shield you any longer, since _other_ Immortals will undoubtably come looking for you. We are no longer Mentor and Student, but equals." "But, Brother, I have so much to learn from you. I'll _never_ be your equal!" At that Ramirez _did_ dismount. "I have no doubt that someday we will be equal, and that there _is_ much that I can teach you still. But you are no longer a cub. It is time for you to be on your own. We _will_ meet again, Irelander." Ramirez re-mounted his horse. "Ramirez, there's something... about Aoife that I have to tell you. Something that I know from her Quickening." Ramirez was silent, waiting for him to continue. "She loved you, you know." "I know." With that Ramirez turned his horse around and rode off. For ten years Gwenna and Patrick lived in peace. They were happy and filled their house with the village children. Gwenna became something similar to a schoolteacher to them (although neither she nor Patrick could read or write), and Patrick taught the older boys the ways of swordcraft. Eventually, though, their peace ended as Gwenna developed a consumption of the lungs. Over two months, from June to August, Gwenna became weaker and weaker until the day that she could no longer leave her bed. Patrick, ever devoted to her, attended her every need. Finally, one day he went into her room and he knew that her suffering was nearly done. "Patrick," she said. "I'm here, love," he said. "Hold me," she said. Patrick took her in his arms and held her. And he felt the life leave her. When Patrick arrived at the Pagan village in October of that year, it was empty. Deserted save for the stone temple itself. Deserted save for one other man. "I knew you'd come here, Brother," Ramirez said. "I knew, eventually, you'd come here." Patrick nodded, sadly. His entire world was being ripped away yet again. "What happened here?" he asked Ramirez. "Search Aoife's Quickening for the answer to that question, O'Brien. She told you that the Old Ways would survive another century. But she also knew that if she was to meet death, it would be only a matter of a few short years before this village would become deserted, its people succumbing to the pressures of Christianity around them." Patrick nodded again, Aoife's memories subconsciously bubbling to the surface. "What kind of God would allow this? What kind of God has no room for others?" "Brother, you must not blame that aspect of the Higher Power that manifests itself as Christ for what happened here. God didn't do this. Men did." Suddenly Ramirez changed the subject. "Gwenna died, didn't she?" "Yes. In August. Of a consumption." "I'm so sorry, Brother. She was a fine woman." "You were right," Patrick said. "I was?" Ramirez smiled and said, "About what?" "About not falling for them. I should have left her when I had the chance. I'll have nothing to do with mortals ever again." "That's not the right attitude, Patrick," Ramirez rarely, if ever, used Patrick's first name. It was enough to snap the young Immortal out of his depression. Ramirez continued, "If you forsake mortals completely, you will end up just like Desmond, or the Kurgan. Remember how I told you of him?" "Yes." "Cultivate your relations with them, care for them, but try to spare yourself pain. Of course," and Ramirez stared at Aoife's grave, "Every vow has the potential to be broken." With that he saddled up and turned to ride off. Then he turned to O'Brien and said, "Aren't you coming? Last time we met you said I had a lot to teach you." Patrick smiled, saddled up, and rode after his Mentor. His equal. BOSTON, MASS, UNITED STATES, JANUARY 1995 January had returned. After an unseasonable heat wave, with temperatures getting as high as the mid-sixties, January returned. It was a cold, rainy morning when Patrick and Nancy returned from their morning jog to find a message on their machine. "O'Brien, tell that cub of yours to watch her pretty little back. Soon, she'll be visiting me, and daddy will have to rescue her. If she's alive." <<>> (c) 1995 Mabnesswords Mike Breen That's it for now. Hopefully parts 8 through whatever will be done in a week or so. e-mail me with comments. mikester@bix.com =========================================================================