Date: Sat, 20 May 1995 15:37:51 -0400 Reply-To: mikester@BIX.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Mike Breen Subject: TO FORGIVE IS DIVINE - PART 1 TO FORGIVE IS DIVINE Part 1 Thanks _everyone_ for the encouragement during "Those Who Watch." It certainly helped seeing such positive reactions rolling in when I would go to write another part! Ok, I'm breaking one of my cardinal rules here. At the beginning of the O'Brien saga back in "Two If By Sea" I stated that all stories, while continuations, would be self-contained. This isn't. It's the direct sequel to "Those Who Watch." Anyone who _hasn't_ read "THW" may want to read it first, 'cause you may find yourself lost. If it isn't on the FTP site yet, it _is_ (I believe) in the archive. I can also ZIP and Uuencoded to anyone who needs it, and doesn't have access to these two resources. So, the usual violence & things. MAINE TURNPIKE, UNITED STATES, APRIL 1995 Memories... "SAM! PATRICK!" Nancy stared, wide-eyed, at her Teacher and her lover, locked in combat. "Stop!" she said. "Nancy!" Sam said, "This is what you have to look forward to! Your Teacher hasn't the balls to kill a weak Watcher." "Then you _did_ kill them." "Yes." "Sam..." "NO!" Sam said. "You're beginning to interfere here, Nancy. Remember the second most important rule of the Game. _None_ shall interfere." Sam pushed Patrick away from him, and attacked again. The madness in his eyes told Patrick that there was no way he could avoid the inevitable. If he spared Sam he would come after him again. It was Sam's head or his own... He thrust his blade deep into Sam's gut. As Sam sank to his knees, he lifted his sword above his head. "Patrick, no! There's gotta be another way!" Nancy said. "_Do_ it, Irelander," Sam said, almost pleadingly. The pain mixed with insanity in Sam's eyes was more than Patrick could bear. He swung his sword... Patrick closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to keep the memories away. Memories of killing one of his Students in front of another Student's eyes. And the two Students had been lovers... He had to keep his eyes on the road. Nancy had been silent the entire ride so far, two and a half hours. He was tempted to give her the you-can't-stay-mad-at-me-forever speech, followed by the we're-not-enemies speech, but decided against that. The entire purpose of their trip was for them to talk to _eachother_ about it. Talk about what happened. And to get out of the city. Boston had seemed like a prison ever since he discovered that Bernard had been Watching him. He had wanted to leave for a month now, get away from everything and everyone except for his "family," Rebecca and Nancy. He was ready to pick up and establish another life in another city. Perhaps even another country. Trouble was he loved Boston, where he had lived, with very few breaks, since 1763. Memories... GRANNERY BURIAL GROUND, BOSTON MASS, UNITED STATES, APRIL, 1995 The marker said "O'BRIEN" in large, weathered letters. On the left side was the name "Patrick" and the dates "1754-1800." On the right was the name "Sarah" and the dates "1759-1821." Long-lived for a colonial, many tourists thought, if they even noticed the marker amongst the more famous historical figures such as Paul Revere and Mother Goose, never knowing the small but vital role Sarah O'Brien had played in the birth of a nation. She had been the wife of one of the volunteer militia, and a shrewd thinker of plots against the British besides. But one person did know, and visited her regularly, though he had to come at night when the tourists had gone and no one could overhear his conversation. Patrick took one flower and placed the remainder of the bouquet on the grave bearing his name, one of the covers for his Immortality, the name that he didn't even notice. "It would have been perfect, Sarah," he said. "Sam would have had Nancy just as I have Rebecca now. And things would have been so _good_. But Sam was... you never knew him. He had been born a hundred years after you. He tried to kill a friend. I _had_ to take his head, I had no choice. If you were here now, you'd have something witty to say, I'm sure. I'll be back, Sarah, but I _have_ to leave here for a time." Walking towards Beacon Street and the exit of the burial ground, he came to Paul Revere's grave marker. "What are _you_ looking at?" he said smiling. "They now say you made obscene jesters to the British just before you got captured. I often wondered if you did. Big loud mouth. I'll lift a pint for you at the Warren Tavern when I get back." He placed the flower on the grave, exited the burial ground, and silently walked back to his house... SOMEWHERE IN THE MAINE WOODS, UNITED STATES, APRIL 1995 Patrick and Nancy wordlessly set up camp. It was sunset, the red light streaming through the trees, when Patrick built a fire out of wood he found around in the forest. He was glad that the wood was dry, for although no Immortal ever died of a chill, the cold could be _very_ uncomfortable. Patrick was dressed in his usual jeans sneakers and sweatshirt, but a thick leather jacket was worn in place of his trenchcoat. The woods here were all but deserted, and he did not think they would have to conceal their swords. They ate in silence, and when the meal was done, Patrick took out two long, narrow, boxes from his duffel bag. He walked over to where Nancy sat and placed one of the boxes next to her and unpacked the other. Nancy looked at Patrick and placed her hand into the box. She pulled out her sheathed katana, the sword given to her by Connor MacLeod because Patrick had no combat-ready katanas to give her. His last one had been given to Sam... Wordlessly, she looked at Patrick who had his unsheathed and ready. "Well?" he said. Still, she said nothing. "Come after me. Isn't that what you want? I killed your lover. Come after me!" With a scream of anger, Nancy unsheathed her katana and lunged at Patrick. He blocked it skillfully, but far below his usual fighting standards. The fury in her eyes was frightening to behold, and her hacking attack had little to do with style and skill and everything to do with anger and frustration. But Patrick did not flinch. Yet he did not attack, either, and barely defended himself. Finally, Nancy ran Patrick through the gut with her sword, and Patrick fell to his knees. "Feel better now?" he said. Nancy said nothing, but flung her sword onto the ground and stormed off to her tent, tears streaming down her face. If there was a door, Patrick was sure she would have slammed it. Staring at his own blood, Patrick waited for the inevitable temporary death. He collapsed face-forward onto the ground. And before death took him for a brief ride, he thought that Nancy had a perfect opportunity to take his head, yet hadn't. It was a start, to be sure. And then the darkness took him. GLENFINNIN, SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS - 1229 AD Patrick turned away from the Scott he was teaching swordcraft to when he felt the presence of another Immortal nearby. "Colin," he said to the young man, "go. We'll finish your lesson tomorrow." "Aye, Irelander. But what's wrong?" "Nothing I can't handle. Now go, lad." The young warrior turned and walked towards the stables. "These Highlanders seem to be benefiting from your swordcraft, Brother," the Immortal who would one day be known as Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez said. Patrick turned towards his Teacher, who he hadn't seen in forty years and smiled. He walked over and embraced him. He said, "What are you doing here?" "Looking for you," Ramirez said. "I came to talk, but ended up admiring your skill as a teacher to these men." "Yes," Patrick said. "The men of the Clan MacLeod _are_ frighteningly fierce fighters, yet they have very little finesse." "Not unlike an Irelander who I once took under my wing." Patrick smiled at the thought. Then he thought of Rebecca, traveling without him towards Wales. He frowned. "I also hear," Ramirez said, breaking Patrick out of his reverie, "that they don't take kindly to outlanders telling them what to do." "But we're not that different," Patrick said. "We share common ancestors in the Celts. We cling to the old ways in the face of the new Church..." "Quite a statement from one who, half a century ago, wanted nothing to do with the old ways." "Things change, old Teacher. You know that." "Really?" Ramirez said, his interest piqued. "In what way?" "When you left us a dozen or so years after you introduced us," Patrick noticed that he had a far better sense of time since his Immortality awakening, "Rebecca and I went back to Ireland and traveled around for a few years. We found a shrine of the Old Religion still inhabited. We stayed there among their people for twenty years. Often I wish I had been born in my grandfather's time." "I know," Ramirez said. "So you've told me on more than a few occasions." Then he turned somber and said, "I am truly sorry about Rebecca." "How do you know?" Ramirez paused before answering. Then he said, "Because I told her to go." "What??" "Aye," Ramirez said. "I told her she should leave you." Patrick could only manage a stunned "But why, in ghods' names, _why_?" "I think you know the answer to that. After half a century together, your relationship had grown stagnant. Remember what I had said when you first met? About being together for more than a few decades? You'd be tired to the death of eachother. I'm surprised your relationship with her has lasted _this_ long." "But why did _you_ tell her to go?" "She confided in me, I told her what I thought. The same as if it were you who confided in me." But Patrick heard none of that. Nor did he hear the small voice in his head saying that Ramirez was right, that their relationship _had_ grown stale. That he had been thinking of leaving her. He heard none of that. All he heard was that the woman he loved was sent away from him by a man he looked upon as almost his father. He turned and stormed off. A week went by, during which Patrick said not a word to Ramirez. His anger and feelings of betrayal were overwhelming. And he wasn't sure he could keep his sword sheathed in front of the Egyptian. Then, on the eighth day since his arrival in Glenfinnin, Ramirez decided he'd had enough. He went to where Patrick was teaching young Colin MacLeod the ways of swordcraft that Patrick had learned from Ramirez himself. As Patrick raised his practice blade, Ramirez caught his arm and stopped him. Patrick turned and glared at him. "Walk with me, Brother," Ramirez said. Patrick gave Colin MacLeod his practice sword, and strapped on his combat blade. Wordlessly, they walked to the shore of Loch Shiel. Ramirez said, "Unsheathe your sword." Patrick did so, still not saying a word. He looked at Ramirez, who had his Japanese sword at the ready. "Well?" Ramirez said. Still, Patrick said nothing. "Come after me. Isn't that what you want? I sent your lover away. Come after me!" With a scream of anger, Patrick lunged at Ramirez, murderous fury in his eyes. He hacked away at Ramirez, who barely defended himself. Ramirez spread his hands wide, inviting Patrick to run him though. Still shouting, Patrick plunged his sword straight through Ramirez's heart, piercing a lung at the same time. Ramirez sank to his knees, coughing blood. "Feel... better... now?" he gasped. Patrick hurled his sword behind his Teacher and stormed off, unarmed, in the direction of the village. And as the darkness of the temporary death began to engulf Ramirez, he thought that this was a good start... BOSTON, MASS, UNITED STATES, APRIL 1995 The sun streamed down upon the city, spring in full bloom. As Rebecca strode through the Common, art supplies in hand, it was easy to imagine that nothing had happened. Easy to pretend that Patrick _hadn't_ killed a student of _both_ of their's. Easy to pretend that Nancy hadn't withdrawn into herself in anger and depression. However, all that had happened, and she couldn't even pretend that it hadn't. For the cause of all those happenings was sitting in his usual spot, playing his saxophone. Despite it all, neither Rebecca, Patrick nor Nancy could bring themselves to hate Bernard for being a Watcher. That was what he _was_. It would be like a mortal hating one of them for being Immortal. And it was that hate that had started the whole mess in the first place. She stopped in front of him, placed her bag of art supplies down and tossed a bill into his sax case. Bernard stopped playing and said, "Afternoon, Rebecca." "Afternoon Bernard." Bernard looked around to make sure they were alone and said, "I have to tell you something." "What?" "There's an Immortal after you." Rebecca raised an eyebrow. This wasn't something that was exactly new to her. "Why are you telling me this, Bernard?" "Because I owe Patrick my life. I know how hard it was for him to do what he did. I want to do whatever I can to repay that. And if it means breaking Watcher rules, I will." Rebecca sat beside him and said, "Thanks for the warning, Bernard, but I can take care of myself." "I _really_ think you should hear me out," Bernard said. "Ok, shoot." "The man's name is Seth Rightman. You won't see him until he's ready to fight you. I've noticed that you rarely go out with your sword." "How..?" Bernard smiled and said, "Because you wear those flowered ankle skirts and denim jackets. I've never seen you in a trenchcoat since you moved here in January. And those skirts can't give you very good manuverability in a swordfight." "You'd be surprised," she said. "But you're right, you can't really hide a sword in my usual wardrobe." Bernard went on, "In any event, Rightman is probably watching you and knows that you rarely carry your sword outside of your house. He may take you for an easy target." "Which I'm not," she said. "Of course not. But there are a _lot_ of beheadings going on now all over the world. Until Rupert Highsmith showed up, Patrick rarely carried his sword out of his house too. Before he and Nancy left he told me he had been out of the Game for a decade." "You think you are," Rebecca said, "but you never _are_ out of it, really." Rebecca searched her closet for an appropriate long coat. She had none. She also couldn't very well go around in her winter coat with her sword concealed in that in the middle of April. She would have to buy another one. She went to the practice room and took out her sword. It was a European shortsword, perfectly suited for her build. Though she was tall and in shape, she wasn't physically powerful. However, Ramirez had tailored her lessons with that in mind, and Amanda had continued along that route. What Rebecca lacked in strength, she more than made up for in agility. She could have been an Olympic gymnast if she wasn't Immortal with the risk of a public life. She could even "out agile" (as she called it) Patrick. She sat with her sword and whetstone and began to sharpen it, while thinking of an appropriate way to hide it while she looked for a coat in Neiman Marcus or Filene's. She concaled the sword in her shopping bag full of art supplies, and went shopping. She found a light raincoat, cream in color. She took it home and modified it to house the sword. She changed into jeans and sneakers, and looking at herself in the mirror, she thought that hiding a sword on yourself is quite a bit like riding a bike. You never _really_ forget. She left the townhouse again at sunset and walked towards the common. She stopped in front of Bernard's bench and said, "Better?" Bernard smiled and said, "Yup." "Thanks," she said. "It's the least I can do." She walked until the sun went down, feeling more secure with the weight of her sword in her coat. As she walked through the common back towards the townhouse, she felt it. The presence of another Immortal. She stopped and looked around, seeing no one. Then it was gone, the Immortal moving out of range. If she had doubted Bernard's information before, she didn't any longer. <<>> (c) 1995 Mabnesswords E-mail mikester@bix.com or mikeb@usa1.com with comments. =========================================================================