Date: Sat, 20 May 1995 15:38:14 -0400 Reply-To: mikester@BIX.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Mike Breen Subject: TO FORGIVE IS DIVINE - PART 2 SOMEWHERE IN THE MAINE WOODS, UNITED STATES, APRIL 1995 Nancy emerged from her tent, half-expecting to see Patrick still sprawled on the ground, dead. She had never seen an Immortal temporarily die before, and wasn't sure if she should have tried to revive him. But he stood in the middle of their campsite, now wearing a heavy sweatshirt and denim jacket, examining the bloodstained gash in the back of the leather jacket where Nancy's katana had broken through. "You do realize," he said looking at her through the gash, "that you ruined my favorite jacket." Nancy smiled and laughed once, but didn't say anything. Patrick smiled back at her. Yes, everything eventually would be ok. Later that day, as they ate a lunch that consisted of fish and coffee, Nancy spoke for the first time in a week. She said, "_Why_?" "Because there was no other way," Patrick said. "There's _always_ another way," Nancy said. "There _has_ to be another way. You didn't have to _kill_ him!" "Nancy, he had gone bad. I think you know that. His sickness was so ingrained that he couldn't have _not_ eventually gone bad. I wish I could share his Quickening with you and make you see that it's so, but, I cannot, unless you take my head." Nancy was silent at that. "I don't expect you to forgive me, but I would like you to _eventually_ understand what I was up against. It was either him or me. I had trained Sam so well that if I had let my guard down for a _second_ Sam would have had my head. _That's_ the kind of Game it is." Nancy sighed and said, "I didn't ask if I wanted to play." "Neither did I." GLENFINNIN, SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS - 1229 AD Patrick stood on a cliff looking down at the Loch below. If he were mortal, it would be so _easy_ to just end it. No more Game, no more waiting for the Gathering, no more Rebecca, nothing. While the cliff bottom was inviting, oblivion was not, would never be. At that moment, he felt the telltale tug on his soul that warned him of the presence of another Immortal. "We both know that won't work, Brother. That's not the answer." "I know," Patrick said, not turning towards Ramirez, "but it's still _there_. Gnawing at the back of my mind. I'm hoping that someone takes my head soon, as I've had quite enough of the Game." Ramirez said, "That's normal. You've gone through quite a bit since you became Immortal. You were banished from your village, one of your Teachers lost her head, your second home vanished, your wife died... now the one thing that you could hold on to for eternity is gone." "My first home is gone too," Patrick said, turning towards Ramirez. "And my most recent." "What? The village where I found you is gone?" Patrick nodded and said, "Apparently Donal O'Rourke and his sons and grandsons would not stop fighting. The grandsons were fierce. Too fierce. They killed Norman soldiers, raped Norman women... finally the Normans saw it as if they had no choice but to burn the village and everyone in it." "And your most recent home... the Pagan village you had found, I take it?" "Aye. The 'missionaries' came. Who they couldn't convert they killed. Who they couldn't kill... they were arguing about weather or not to burn us or behead us. They had an Immortal with them, and _he_ wanted us burned, no doubt so that he could take our heads easily. Finally one of the lords grew tired of arguing and killed us. We _stayed_ dead, long enough for one of the few remaining villagers to smuggle us out of Ireland." "I am truly sorry, Brother." "You think," Patrick said as a single tear slid down his cheek, "that _everything_ will live forever. That everything will remain the same. But it doesn't." "It can't," Ramirez said. "Change is at the heart of mortal man. They constantly strive for newer and greater things. And war and inquisition are too often the by-product of this striving. The world is changing, Patrick, it _has_ to. I have seen countless civilizations come and go, and I've changed with them all." He spread his arms wide for Patrick to take in his Scottish garb, complete with tartan, not unlike Patrick's own Irish clothing. "I don't _look_ Egyptian, do I?" Patrick smiled and said, "No." "Who knows what either of us will be in a generation," Ramirez said. "When we meet in another century, I may be Spanish! You may be Italian, or French, or even Chinese!" Patrick smiled again. "The point is, Brother, that we either have to change _with_ the world, or hide from it. Either live among mortals, or become like the Kurgan and live only for the Game. Now come on, let's get some ale at the local tavern." SOMEWHERE IN THE MAINE WOODS, UNITED STATES, MAY 1995 Two weeks past. They had settled into a routine of jogging, breakfast, sword-training, lunch, relaxation, martial arts training, and exploration of the woods until dinner. After dinner, they would engage in "therapy sessions," something that Patrick needed at least as much as Nancy. Then they would retire and begin the routine again the next morning. "The point is," Patrick said one night as he handed Nancy a beer (Guiness Stout that he had imported directly from Ireland so as to not have to deal with "watered down dishwater," as he has put it), "that over, above, _and_ beyond being a history professor, businessman, warrior, and everything else I've been these past eight centuries, I'm a trained _killer_. I wish I didn't have to be, and in fact there have been times where I've gone years, even _decades_, without taking a head. But killing is what we _do_. It's what we _are_. Sam knew that. He used all of his training in that fight. The only reason I won is because I'm a better swordsman than he was, _not_ because of good verses evil." Nancy nodded and said, "Suddenly I understand. It's taken me two weeks to come this far, and I honestly don't know if I can forgive you, but I do understand." "Nancy," Patrick said, "that's all I ask. I don't ask for your forgiveness, and I don't expect it. Hell, I don't expect to be able to forgive _myself_, but if you understand, _really_ understand, then this trip was worthwhile." She smiled weakly and said, "I do understand, and we can get on with our lives now." She sipped at her beer and carefully thought about what she was going to say next. Finally, she said, "The Gathering is happening now, isn't it?" "What gave you that idea?" "It's something that I've been thinking of. Since I became Immortal in February, I've seen you take two heads, and you've told me you took a third back in January. That's quite an average. And I just want to know if Immortality is going to cut my life short or not." Patrick was quiet. He had been thinking much the same thing himself. He took a sip of beer and said, "Nancy, I honestly don't know. Before I took Highsmith's head in January, I had faced only one Immortal in ten years, and _that_ was seven years ago. If this _is_ the Gathering, it's only beginning, and may not end for years, decades, or even centuries. No one knows." "Somehow that _doesn't_ make me feel better," Nancy said. "Then this may. Over eight centuries, I've come up with a theory about the Gathering. I think there are, for lack of a better term, 'micro-Gatherings, where you face many Immortals in a short span of years, _and_ new Immortals are made. I've seen that the discovery of new Immortals seems to co-incide with these micro-Gatherings. After the micro-Gathering, there is a long period of peace, then the cycle repeats until the final Gathering, when the few who remain will battle to the last." "And you think this is one of those micro-Gatherings?" Patrick nodded and said, "It certainly _feels_ like it. I've faced three Immortals in as many months, yet I've felt no irresistible pull towards a far-away land." "And what if there _never_ is a Gathering?" "That's not something I enjoy contemplating, Nancy." "Why?" "Because..." and Patrick was at a loss for words. He did not know precisely _why_ the thought of the Gathering being a mere legend frightened him so. After all, many people, mortal and Immortal were perfectly content to look upon the apocalypse as a myth. But it was more than that. Patrick took a long pull from his beer and said, "Because the battle between Good and Evil _has_ to have an end, Nancy. Good, eventually, _must_ triumph." "And the Prize?" Nancy said. "You've said on many occasions that you don't want it." "That certainly hasn't changed," Patrick said, "but neither has my determination to keep it from falling into the hands of an evil one. You haven't seen a _truly_ evil Immortal yet, Nancy. The ones I've faced recently have all been evil, but with scruples and morals. I have faced Immortals that were completely amoral. Immortals that you can find no _real_ reason to allow to them to live..." "Like the Kurgan?" "I never met the Kurgan," Patrick said. "Thank ghods, because I wouldn't have my head if I did. Connor did us _all_ a favor by destroying him. From what I've heard and what Connor told me, the Kurgan was a pure warrior, living only for the Game. When there were no Immortals to face, he would start a war and sit back and watch. He had no friends, mortal or Immortal. Even evil ones steered clear of him. He did not discriminate about _who's_ head he took. If you were Immortal and faced him, your head was his. It's been ten years, and _still_ I don't know how Connor beat him. Ramirez faced him, and failed." "Would _you_ have faced him if Connor had failed?" "Absolutely. Connor and I share a bond, similar to the one I share with Rebecca. We were taught by the same Teacher. We had an unspoken agreement that if one of us faced the Kurgan and failed, the other would then actively seek him out and destroy him. So, while I would have faced the Kurgan if the time had come, Connor used Ramirez's sword to take his head, which I always thought was rather poetic. But beyond that, Connor _did_ have more at stake." "How so?" "He faced his first death at the hands of the Kurgan on the battlefield. The Kurgan killed him, then attempted to take his head for the easy Quickening. He took Ramirez's head before Connor's training was completed, and he raped his wife, though he did not know that until he faced him in 1985." Patrick yawned and said, "All this talk... I didn't realize how late it was. Tomorrow we're hiking into town to get some more supplies." Though Nancy saw that Patrick was ready to retire, she wasn't finished with the conversation yet. She said, "Is there some Immortal that owes you a debt like that?" Patrick was silent for a long time. He deposited the beer bottles into the case for recycling, re-kindled the fire, and began setting up his sleeping bag before he said, "Yes. A man called VonHoffer. He was a 'missionary' sent to Ireland while Rebecca and I were living in a pagan village. I haven't seen him in eight hundred years, and he may even be dead. But he _owes_ me." The town was a "typical" backwoods village. The first time they went into town a week ago, Nancy remarked on how it reminded her of the fictitious Cicely, Alaska. They bought their supplies in the general store and settled into the local tavern for some lunch. "Mmm boy," Patrick said after the waitress placed a burger, fries, and beer in front of him, "Nothing like good grease to clear the sinuses." Nancy laughed and nibbled on her chicken salad. Suddenly they both felt it. The presence of another Immortal. He walked directly over to their table and said, "Looking for me?" "Probably not," Patrick said. "I have no argument with you, friend. I don't challenge someone unless I have reason to." "Joshua Nabbis," the other Immortal said. He was a big man, well over six feet and two hundred fifty pounds. He had long brown hair and a beard that touched his chest. He was dressed in clothing that marked him for either a hunter, trapper, or logger. Large overalls, muddy workboots and a flannel shirt. "Patrick O'Brien, from County Cork, Ireland." He indicated Nancy and said, "My Student, Nancy Peters." "Ah, the Irelander," Nabbis said, as he sat at their table. "I've heard of you." He signaled the waitress who brought him a beer. "You live in the city, don't you?" "Boston, yes," Patrick said, raising an eyebrow at his presumption of joining them. "Why?" "Jus' curious. Personally, I never seen no need for civilization. I've been a loner for almost two centuries, I come here once a month to resupply, and tha's it." "To each his own," Patrick said, "but I need human contact." Nabbis took a long pull from his beer and said, "I've also heard you're one of the old ones. That yer oldern' spit." He laughed a big, hearty laugh. Patrick smiled. Nabbis' comment and laugh did a lot towards disbursing the tension at the table. Patrick said, "That'd depend on how old the spit is you're talking about. I'll be eight hundred and forty in another three years. I wouldn't exactly call me one of the _old_ ones. My teacher was well over two thousand when he died." Nabbis said, "Huh. Tha's funny. Basically yer saying yer a civilized barbarian." "I guess," Patrick said, suddenly wondering where the hell this conversation was going. "What were those days like, Irelander?" "Bad, mostly. I spent centuries fighting in wars that were over nothing. Look, I know you're curious, but I don't like to talk about it." He stood and placed a twenty on the table. "The beer's on me. Let's go, Nancy." They walked towards the door. "Be careful, Irelander," Nabbis said. "There ain't much difference 'tween me and you." Patrick turned back and said, "What the hell's that supposed to mean?" "Jus' a fact. 'Neath that squeaky-clean cityfied outside is a barbarian. I bet it wouldn't take much to bring that out." Patrick grabbed Nabbis by the throat and said through clenched teeth, "You wanna _test_ that theory, Nabbis?" "HEY!" the bartender said. "No fighting in my place!" Patrick released Nabbis and whispered, "Any time you want to face me, _challenge_ me." "We have no argument, Irelander, as you said. I was jus' tellin' you a fact." BOSTON, MASS, UNITED STATES, MAY 1995 The phone rang. Rebecca placed her paintbrush down and picked it up. "Hello?" she said. "Hi," Patrick said. "It's me." "How are you doing," Rebecca said, "How's Nancy?" "We're both fine. She only had to kill me once to get it out of her system." Rebecca laughed and sat. "Sounds like you're making progress." "Yeah. Everything's going as I planned. We'll probably be here for another week or so and then come back. How're you?" "Could be better." "Wanna talk about it?" "There's an Immortal here who's after me." "Oh..." Patrick was silent and said, "Be careful." "I can handle him, Patrick, no problem." "I know, but that doesn't mean that I'm not gonna worry. I've lost too many people lately, and I don't wanna loose you." "I know. Small talk isn't the reason you called, is it?" "No," Patrick said. "I need a favor from Bernard." "What?" "I need him to give me information about Joshua Nabbis." "Is he after you?" "I don't know. We met him in a local tavern, and he told me that I was a barbarian beneath the surface." "Sounds like a challenge to me," Rebecca said. "That's what I want to find out. I'll call again at this time tomorrow. Watch yourself." "You too." <<>> (c) 1995 Mabnesswords E-mail mikester@bix.com or mikeb@usa1.com with comments. =========================================================================