Date: Sun, 25 Dec 1994 20:10:24 -0500 Reply-To: mikester@BIX.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Mike Breen Subject: TWO IF BY SEA - PART I This is the first in a series of stories featuring Immortal Patrick O'Brien. Series rules apply. E-mail me with comments. I apologize for any historical and/or HL universe innacuracies. I tried to make this fit as much as possible with existing HL series cannon. BOSTON, MA, UNITED STATES DECEMBER, 1994 Patrick O'Brien fastened his tie and put on his tuxedo jacket. This would be a special night for he and his... "girlfriend" was so inappropriate at this point since they had been together for five years now, and the term seemed rather juvenile. After all, she was in her early 30's and he was in his early 800's. In any event he and Michelle Taylor were off to dinner and the theater tonight to celebrate their fifth year together. He exited their bedroom, and asked her, "Ready to go?" "Of course," she said as he put her coat on her. After the play, they took a walk through Boston Common. It was lovely with all the Christmas lights on the trees. But Patrick tried to stifle a laugh. Whenever he walked through Boston Common, he was always reminded of Sundra Kastigere's party in 1783, when Connor MacLeod had a bit too much to drink and called some stuffy nobleman's wife a "bloated warthog." "That was wonderful," she said "A lovely anniversary present. You're such a romantic. Anyone ever tell you that?" "Oh, many times," he said. "And tomorrow, off to New York for the programmer's convention. I can't believe you gave your final early for me. And I can't wait to meet your friend Connor... Pat?" But Patrick wasn't listening. He had felt the telltale "buzz" that told him another Immortal was near. Not now! he thought, she doesn't know! "O'Brien," a voice said from behind them. Patrick whirled and was face-to-face with a man he hadn't seen in over 200 years. Rupert Highsmith. An Immortal gone wrong, with stories of the Prize buzzing about in his head, Highsmith was determined to force the Gathering and win the Prize for himself. And it was up to good Immortals like himself and the MacLeods to make sure he didn't. "Highsmith," he said. "Been a long time." Highsmith nodded. He was a big man, with chiseled features that spoke of hard centuries. He was a half head taller than O'Brien, who himself was six feet tall. O'Brien cursed inwardly his foolishness. He _knew_ that Highsmith was in town after his head and yet he _still_ made all the arrangements for his and Michelle's night on the town, and worse yet, left their apartment without his sword. Stupid fool! He _deserved_ to have his head taken. "Pat?" Michelle said. "Pat?" "There will be no fight here, Our fight is not for outsiders," Highsmith said, taking in Michelle. "But I _will_ find you, O'Brien. We _will_ face eachother. Soon." "Allright," Michelle said once they were back home. "Just what the _hell_ was that all about? Who was that 'Highsmith' character?" There was no putting it off any longer. She _had_ to know. And the sooner she knew, the sooner she would be able to make a choice, _her_ choice to either stay with him or get on with her life. "Michelle," he said. "We've talked about old magicks before, and what some ancient peoples believed. Fairies, elves..." "Uh-huh," Michelle said, not following his train of thought. "They were all creatures who could not die." "But that's all legend." "Not necessarily. All legends have some kernel of truth in them." He went over to the kitchen counter and found a two-edged knife. He returned to their bedroom. "The kernel of truth is that there are people who cannot die." He took the knife and stabbed himself in the heart... His breath caught. He coughed. He was alive. Again. "Pat! Pat speak to me!!" Michelle was yelling frantically. Patrick weakly lifted his hand, clutched the handle of the knife and pulled it out of his chest. "OhGHOD!!" he said. "Pat? Pat what _are_ you?" Michelle said, slightly frightened. Patrick sat up, the sweat soaking his brow, and looked Michelle straight in the eye and said, "I was born in Ireland, in county Cork 837 years ago. I cannot die." "You mean you're..." "A fairie, an elf, call it what you will, but I am Immortal. I fought in the American Revolution, the Nepoleonic Wars, I helped people in my homeland during the Potato Famine, I've fought in both World Wars..." "Why all this... why didn't you just tell me?" she said. "Because you never would have believed it if I just told you. I had to show you. I was _going_ to tell you when the moment was right. And seeing Highsmith tonight..." "Forced the issue," she said. "He's Immortal too, isn't he." Patrick nodded. "He wants to kill me, because in the end, There Can Be Only One. That last one will have the power of _all_ the Immortals who have ever lived, and could rule this planet and mankind. Forever." "And if Highsmith is this last one?" "Then mankind will plunge into a dark ages that would make the one _I_ knew seem like a summer afternoon. I do _not_ want to be that last one, Michelle, but I must prevent someone like Highsmith from winning the Prize." Michelle stared at Patrick. "In a way," she said, "This is a relief. I always _knew_ there was _something_ about you. Something that didn't quite add up. So... where does this leave us?" "It's up to you. Do you want to spend your life with me, never sure if when I leave to face the Highsmiths of the world that I'll never come back?" "Patrick, that's the reality we face every day. If you were mortal, what's to say you won't be run over by a bus in Harvard Square on your way to give history lecture? Death is something that any couple may have to face." "I also cannot have children," he said. "You'll never see your grandchildren." "We could always adopt." "You're taking this _extreamily_ well, Michelle." "This _isn't_ the Middle Ages anymore, Patrick. We'll deal with it. If you can deal with me growing old and dieing, then I can deal with you _not_ growing old and dieing..." BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS, BRITISH EMPIRE, JUNE 17TH, 1775 His breath caught. He coughed. He was alive. Again. Patrick O'Brien looked about him, and the bodies on the hill. So _many_, Minutemen _and_ Redcoats. But one thought crept into his mind, latched on, and would not let go... It was the WRONG bloody HILL!! What a waste. Breed's hill mistaken for Bunker hill. He had no idea who won, since he spent much time dead, but he did remember running out of ammunition and having to use gunpowder and nails. And he had also sensed another Immortal, somewhere on the hill. "Patrick! You're alive!" Patrick turned and saw his friend Paul Sumner tending to the wounded and dead. "We thought you were dead!" Paul said. Patrick decided this was _not_ the time _nor_ the place for a witty retort, and simply said, "I thought so, too, Paulie. 'oo won the bluddy battle?" "No one knows for sure," Sumner said. "Most of our men are dead, but we held out longer than we should of. I _think_ we lost." Patrick sat up, choked up from all the death around him. Not for the first time he wondered why it was _him_ who's body refused to die. There were far braver men that died on this hill, and ones who were far better tacticians. They _deserved_ Immortality. Someone like General Washington deserved Immortality, or the now deciesed Captain of the unit here. "Paul," he said. "I'm going home." He didn't. Instead he mounted his horse and rode over the bridge to the North Church. He needed to put some things in perspective. Patrick sat and mearly stared at the Cross, waiting for some divine message. "I am Colonel Rupert Highsmith of the British army. And you are?" Patrick was face-to-face with a British Soldier. Yes, he was Immortal, probably the same one who was at the Hill earlier that day. "Patrick O'Brien of the Colonial Militia," he said. "You're a long way from Ireland, O'Brien." Highsmith said. "Don't you realize that I could have you arrested and hanged for deserting the British Army?" "I never deserted, Colonel. I've been a citizen of the Colonies for twelve years. I _know_ these people. I _like_ them, and they're right. They deserve independence. What the King does isn't fair." "I could have you arrested," Highsmith said, "but I won't. Pity to see you hanged on the Common and be buried for a century or so when there's a much greater punishment _I_ could mete out." Highsmith fingered his sword. "You wouldn't _dare_," Patrick said. "Of course not." Highsmith said. "This is, after all, Holy Ground, however Paul Revere and your rebel friends defiled it with his warning lanterns. But I will have your head. I've been after your head for two years now, O'Brien, ever since I discovered you during that foolish tea protest." It was obvious now, Patrick thought. He _had_ felt Highsmith after the tea protest. And Highsmith must have also been the Immortal he sensed among the Redcoats in the harbor the night that Paul Revere rode off towards Lexington... BOSTON, MA, UNITED STATES DECEMBER, 1994 "The battle of Bunker Hill, huh?" Michelle said. "No wonder you insist we go to the parade every year and climb up that monument." Patrick nodded and said, "A _lot_ of good men died there. All for the wrong bloody hill." They were boarding the shuttle plane to head for New York. As they sat in their seats she said, "Did you fight in the entire revolution?" "The Boston parts, anyway." he said. "I moved to Boston in 1763. It's funny that there's some things that you can barely remember, but there's others that seem like yesterday." "Please fasten your safteybelts," came the flight attendant's voice, "and extinguish all smoking materials." Eventually the plane took off. Patrick always marveled at flight. He wondered what he would say to his pre-immortal self 837 years ago about some of the technological and social advances made to make him the man he was today. The plane turned over Boston, giving he and Michelle a spectacular view of the city. Michelle looked at Patrick and said, "There's the Old North Church's steeple. Seeing it, and knowing you were there to see the two lanterns warning the Colonists... well, it's amazing and wonderful. No wonder you became a history professor." "Except it was just the North Church at that time," he said. "It wasn't that old..." BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS, BRITISH EMPIRE, APRIL 19TH, 1775 Two lanterns hung in the steeple of the North Church. They were coming, and by sea. The British had had enough of the Colonists and were on their way to crush them. The three men all tended their horses. One had the obvious hands of a silversmith, the best in the Colonies. The other was young-ish, and slightly frightened. The third was tall, wiry, and had the build of a master swordsman. "Paul," the third one said, "please let _me_ go. If the Redcoats were to capture you..." "It's already been discussed, Patrick" said the first man, Paul Revere. "Aye," said the second, Paul Sumner. "But, Paul," Patrick O'Brien said, "You're one of the most upstanding citizens o' Boston. Yer more valuable to the Colonies alive than dead!" "Which is why," Revere said, "I have to go _myself_. If I am captured, the Redcoats will _know_ that there are _many_ fine, upstanding citizens who _aren't_ Tories. No, I admire your bravery, Patrick, but I must go." With that, Paul Revere mounted his horse and rode off towards Charlestown, warning, "To arms! To arms! The British are coming!" "Come, Patrick," Paul Sumner said, "we have much work to do." Patrick and Paul Sumner climbed the stairs leading up to the steeple to monitor the Redcoats progress in the harbor. Patrick had done all he could to prevent Revere from riding towards a sure death, short of telling him he was Immortal. If it was _he_ who shouted the warning and the Redcoats captured him, they _couldn't_ kill him. Or could they? As Patrick watched the Redcoats' boats in the harbor, he felt it, faint from the distance, but he felt it. There was an Immortal among them... NEW YORK CITY, UNITED STATES, DECEMBER, 1994 Connor MacLeod strolled through his antique shop looking at his collection. Suddenly, he felt it. The presence of another Immortal. He turned towards the elevator, and smiled. "Patrick! Good to see you!" he said. "Connor!" Patrick said as the two Immortals embraced. "You look good," Connor said. "Connor," Patrick said, "I'd like you to meet Michelle Taylor. Michelle, this is Connor MacLeod. We've known eachother for what seems like centuries." "It's _been_ centuries." Connor said as he took Michelle's hand and kissed it. "I'm very pleased to meet you." The three retired to Connor's private rooms off of the store. Michelle admired Connor's choice of decoration. "So," Connor said, "how have you been? Still teaching in the stuffy school of yours?" "Hey, Harvard is one of the finest institutions in the world, Highlander." Patrick said. Michelle changed the subject and said, "So just _how_ long have you guys known eachother?" Connor and Patrick looked at eachother. "Three centuries?" Patrick said. "Three and a half," Connor said, "although as I recall at our first meeting, you tried to take my head." Patrick blushed and explained for Michelle, "We had the same Teacher. He taught us what we need to know about being Immortal, and how to win. Told us all the Rules." Connor nodded and said, "Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez. One of the finest men, mortal or Immortal, that I have ever met." "Although when _I_ knew him," Patrick said, "he wasn't going by that name..." SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS, SUMMER, 1642 Patrick O'Brien was riding through the Scottish Highlands looking for something _anything_ to give him at least a small clue as to the demise of his teacher, last known as Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez. Details were sketchy at best, but there were two things that _were_ known. One was that Ramirez was teaching another new Immortal, the other was that he was dead. Rumors had flown, and Patrick himself only found out that Ramirez was dead recently. However, two stories became prevalent, the first was that Ramirez was killed by the Kurgan, currently the most powerful Immortal, and the second was that he was killed by his student, something that was unthinkable to Patrick. The stories told by the mortals in the area were wildly romanticized, for example, the one he was listening to now, sitting in this tavern, a fortnight's travel from Loch Shiel. "Aye, me gran'pappy seen 'im aroun' when _ee_ was a lad," said one burly man, his tongue loosened after Patrick's generosity with his ale and wallet. "'ee talked 'bout this man 'oo dressed like an overstuffed haggis. You know, I ne'er knew someone from 'yer island, lad. What's Erie like?" "Oh, it's beautiful," Patrick said. "Now, what abou' this haggis? 'Ow did 'ee die? Ya see, me own gran'pappy knew 'im. 'ee got o'er to Erie once or twice before 'ee died." "Now tha's the strange part. 'ee was living with a young man an' 'is wife. 'ee was apparently teaching the lad swordcraft. They say one night there was this giant of a man, came in, see, and fought wit' 'im. O'er what I never knew an' if me gran'pappy, rest 'is soul, knew, 'ee ne'er told. But," and the man's voice lowered, "they say tha' as they fought, the skies themselves did battle an' the wrath of God 'imself struck the 'ouse they were living in." "Tha's no' what I 'erd," said another man. "Me great-gran'mother lived in Glenfinnin. She said there was this man 'oo was killed in battle, but 'ad the Devil in 'im. Me mother said the story goes that _'ee_ killed this Ramirez." "Well," Patrick said, "Thanks for th' stories, lads. Seems th' answer in'nt as easy found as I 'oped." Eventually, Patrick decided to leave the Highlands and let the dead rest. He was no closer to finding out the fate of his old mentor than he was before he arrived. If anything, he was further from the truth. The "wrath of God himself" was obviously the Quickening, and if Kurgan _had_ killed Ramirez, he would now no doubt be near unstoppable. Currently, that was not his problem, nor he hoped would it be until the Gathering, if he lived that long. On the other hand, he could find this Immortal highlander, if he was even still _in_ Scotland, and ask him personally. Besides... There, behind the tavern, tending his own horse was another Immortal. Not three feet away from him, sword hanging at his side. It did not _look_ like a Highland blade. The hilt was too large. It looked... There was only one way to find out. Go and introduce himself to the man. He walked over and said, "I am Patrick O'Brien from County Cork." The other Immortal turned to him and said, "Connor MacLeod of the clan MacLeod. 'ave you come for my 'ead?" "No, I..." suddenly, as Connor MacLeod turned to him, Patrick got a good look at the hilt of his sword. It was... It was Ramirez's blade. "Yes," Patrick said, unsheathing his own blade, "I have." "Why?" Connor still hadn't unsheathed Ramirez's sword. "A moment ago you were all set to make friends, for God's sake!" "Tha' sword. _You_ killed my teacher! An' now I'm gonna take _your_ 'ead!" "Killed? Wait!" Connor said. "You were a student of Ramirez too?" "Aye," Patrick said. "Let me explain, please! I don' want to fight you o'oer a mistake!" Patrick lowered his sword, but did not sheath it. "Explain, then." "Ramirez was killed by the Kurgan. But I wasn't there at the time. I kept his sword, and took it up after my wife died." Patrick wasn't entirely convinced. "There's rumors about tha' you killed 'im. Mortals _and_ Immortals are saying that." "Ramirez was a great man. I would have been dead a century ago if it wasn't for 'im. 'Twould be like killing me own brother." Patrick was convinced. He sheathed his sword and extended his hand to Connor MacLeod. "I 'ope you can forgive me, and I 'ope we can be friends." Connor took it. "Nae, there's nothing _to_ forgive. You do Ramirez a great honor by wanting to kill for him. I, too, 'ope we can be friends..." NEW YORK CITY, UNITED STATES, DECEMBER, 1994 "Highsmith, eh?" Connor said handing Patrick and Michelle a brandy each. "I haven't seen or heard a peep from him in eighty years. Last _I_ heard he was working for the Bolsheviks. Then he disappeared. Before that he was supposedly working for Quenn Victoria in India, except he enjoyed playing both sides against the other. Before that he was fighting Napoleon. Before _that_..." "Before that," Patrick finished, "He was part of the British army in the American Colonies, where he came across an Immortal on the side of the Colonists, and watched his every move from the Boston Tea Party to Evacuation Day." "He used to be a good man," Connor said. "Then he decided he wanted the Prize and began killing indescriminatly. I wouldn't call him evil, just amoral." Patrick nodded and said, "He doesn't seem _completely_ amoral, Connor. He wouldn't fight in front of Michelle, and when I encountered him on Holy Ground two centuries ago he obeyed that rule. But if he was so good, what happened?" Connor paused and said, "I've known him almost as long as I've known you. He saw his wife get killed sencelessy by an evil Immortal. On that day he decided to hunt down and kill the evil ones of us. But somewhere along the line, something happened to him. Perhaps the Quickening of all those evil ones warped him somehow, and he began going after good Immortals as well as evil. The first good one was you, Patrick, and you eluded him. Now he's come back for you." Michelle said, "Connor how do you know so much about him?" "Because he was my friend once, Michelle. And I hope he can be again sometime. But Patrick, know this. He _was_ my friend. You _are_ my friend. If it's between you and him..." Patrick nodded. "I understand, Connor." The next day, Michelle went to her convention and Patrick and Connor went downtown. Patrick hadn't been to New York in a few years and was eager to re-aquaint himself with his second favorite city. That afternoon as they were eating in a restaurant in the Village, Patrick said, "I've been thinking about Highsmith. His story reminds me a lot of..." "Duncan's?" Connor answered. "I thought so too, at first, but Duncan is finding his own path. He has seemed a bit bloodthirsty since Tessa died, but the difference is that Highsmith shut out mortals _and_ Immortals. Duncan has many mortal friends, not the least among them, a man named Joe Dawson. And he also has a protege named Richie. So, Ramirez's knowledge is being passed on to another generation. I used to worry about Duncan. Not anymore." Rupert Highsmith stood on Hudson Street watching Connor MacLeod's antique shop across the road. He knew that O'Brien was there and that he was only in New York for a few days. Soon he would return to Boston. And _very_ soon, he'd implement his plan to bring O'Brien's head finally, after two centuries, to him... <<>> (c) 1994 Mabnesswords =========================================================================