Date: Sun, 8 Jan 1995 01:32:02 -0500 Reply-To: mikester@BIX.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Mike Breen Subject: TWO IF BY SEA - PART III Ok, I figure before finishing this up, I should say a few things about this story and my plans for "Patty O" from this point out. First off, I'd like to thank everyone who wrote with their words of encouragement and constructive criticizim. Since this is my first time writing in the Highlander universe (or writing in any historical period that actually happened) it may take a few posts to get the flow between one time period and another to be smooth and subtle. In this story I made it purposely obvious what was going on, since this is a learning experience for me more than anything. And now, on to the plans for my own personal Immortal. 8) Basically, I intend on having these stories happen consecutively. The parts of the stories set the present should flow from one story to the next. In other words, this story is now in early January of 1995. The next story will start either in late January or early February 1995, so as to kind of cover "A year in the life of an Immortal," or two, or three... As far as my treatment of the past, although not told in chronological order, it should (once I _really_ map it out) spell out Patrick's entire life in detail. I attempted to do some kind of rough outline in "TIBS II" when Patrick spoke of his previous wives. Also, being new at this (and having never picked up a sword in my life) I'm giving the swordfights my best shot, er, swing, um, you know what I mean. 8) Finally, when all is said and done, you should hopefully be able to read the Patrick O'Brien story from "TIBS I" to wherever it ends much like a novel. And lastly, I have a request. If anyone has any information on Katanas and/or 12th century Irish swords, or know of good books on the subject, please let me know via private e-mail (and please, _No_ "History of Ancient Sword-Making by Brenda J Wyatt" jokes! 8). I haven't been able to find much in my local library, and with Tax season around the corner (I'm an accountant by day) I have no idea when I'll be able to get to Boston Public. Thanks in advance. BOSTON MA, UNITED STATES, JANUARY 1995 Patrick once again went over in his mind what he was doing, and what he intended to do. He was putting someone he loved in danger once again in order to take the head of an evil Immortal. No! That's not how it was! Michelle was in danger, they _both_ agreed to play Highsmith's game and turn it against him. But it was a high price to pay to regain the peace of their lives. And _would_ they have that same peace ever again? BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS, UNITED STATES, MARCH 17th, 1776 Sarah O'Brien looked about her. It was near dawn, and she _shouldn't_ be out alone, but, tired as she was of being followed around the city by him, she would _not_ let the Redcoat Immortal take her husband's head. She fingered her knife as she walked down Kings street, past the South Meeting House, past the Colonial Seat, near to where, six years before, the British soldiers gunned down several Colonists. She walked until she was at the Common, and all the while she could feel that she was being followed. She knew that Patrick was nearby, he had told her the story of his last wife, Yi, and how he would not let her out of his protection, but she also knew that she was being followed by someone else. Rupert Highsmith stepped out of the shadows. "Well, well, well," he said. "I was thinking of using you to get to your husband, but here I see you've come of your own accord. Where is he?" Sarah stared at the Immortal and said, "He's home. In bed." Highsmith laughed, silkily, and said, "Come, my dear. Do you _really_ expect me to believe that? Any _respectable_ woman wouldn't be out alone at dawn. Oh, yes, I forgot. You're _not_ very respectable, are you? A radical, married to a deserter who can't die. Dear me." He drew his sword and took a step towards Sarah. And Patrick stepped out of his own shadows, Katana drawn. "Well, if it isn't the deserter himself," Highsmith said. "I was expecting this. Sloppy, O'Brien, very sloppy. You should have tried a different tactic than putting your wife in danger." "It worked, di'n' it?" Patrick said. Then he turned to Sarah and said, "Go to Revere's house, as we planned." Sarah nodded and ran in the direction of Paul Revere's house. Patrick removed his overcoat and waited for Highsmith to do the same. As Highsmith removed his coat he said, "So now it's the two of us. It comes down to this." Patrick said, "Yes. Two men and two swords," and lunged at Highsmith. The British officer was skilled at sword fighting, Patrick had to give him that. He blocked each of his attacks, and turned the offensive towards himself. Patrick parried and turned, blocking a blow to his midsection. "Good, very good," Highsmith said, "_almost_ good enough." Highsmith lunged at Patrick again, an attack that he skillfully blocked. Both Immortals could sense a growing commotion down the street, as people ran in the direction of the Common. But to give it their attention would be fatal, since surely the other would gain the upper hand and take his head. But as they fought, the people ran _past_ the common in the direction of Beacon Hill. And with their blades locked, a British accented voice bellowed, "COLONEL!! Cease and desist!!!" Patrick was momentarily distracted, and Highsmith, ignoring the order, disarmed him. He pointed his sword at Patrick's neck and said, "So it ends, Yankee Doodle deserter." "COLONEL!! If you kill that man I shall have you brought up on charges! We're evacuating Boston, do you UNDERSTAND??" The British General in charge of all Massachusetts operations stood in front of Highsmith and O'Brien. He continued, "I don't know what argument you have with this man, but it has to stop. We're to leave Boston immediately. Generals Washington and Knox have stolen three of our cannons and have placed them around the city. They have threatened to destroy our barracks and our fleet in the harbor if we do not comply..." "But General, this man is a deserter!" Highsmith said. The General turned to O'Brien and said, "Is this true?" Patrick said, "I've been a citizen of the Colonies since 1763. I don' think tha' makes me a deserter, wha'e'er your Colonel Highsmith says." "I believe you. This man," the General indicated Highsmith, "does not know when he's been beaten. But know this. Your General Washington has won a victory tonight. But he hasn't won the war. And when revolutions are over, radicals are rounded up and hung. Come along, Colonel." The General walked away. Highsmith sheathed his sword and looked straight into O'Brien's eyes and said, "There will be _another_ time." Rupert Highsmith walked after his unit, leaving Boston. BOSTON MA, UNITED STATES, JANUARY 1995 "Pat," Michelle said that night, "I don't think you're being completely honest with me about Highsmith. This... this whole thing with putting someone you love in danger has happened before, hasn't it?" Patrick was silent. What could he tell her? That Sarah had acted as bait during his previous encounter with Rupert Highsmith? That he had lied about his stalking of her to be something new? That he was horribly, terribly afraid that the same thing would happen to her as happened to his third wife, Yi, daughter of a Chinese trader, who was captured by an evil Immortal in China in 1559, imprisoned for four days without food until the Immortal let Patrick know where he was holding her? Yi was quite possibly _the_ love of his long life. It was because of her that he had found his own inner strength. It was because of her that he all but forgot he was a European, becoming, in essence, Chinese in all but country of birth. She died barely two years after her ordeal with the evil Immortal. He knew that he would think of Sarah with Highsmith after him once more, but again and again, his thoughts turned to Yi... "Patrick? I can't have a relationship where things are hidden from me. I can understand keeping the not dying part from me for as long as you did, but I can't take _this_. This silence! It's killing us!" At that Patrick _did_ look up. He said, "And don't you think that's what he _want's_?? He WANTS us to be on-edge! He WANTS us to make mistakes! He WANTS us to snap at every little thing! What would you have me say? That I put Sarah in danger because of Highsmith? Yes. I did. That I lied to you about him not stalking her? You're right. I lied. That I knew the faxed information that Duncan MacLeod sent us was inaccurate? I knew the moment I read it that it was incomplete. I didn't want to worry you by telling you the truth! I love you and I DON'T want the same thing to happen to you that happened to Yi, for GHODS sake!!" Michelle stared at Patrick for a long moment, too stunned for words. Finally she said, "This isn't about you, or me, or Sarah, or _even_ Highsmith. This is about Yi, isn't it? You said you put her behind you when you met Sarah. But Highsmith stalking me, _and_ probably when he stalked Sarah brought it all back. My God what kind of emotional baggage do you people carry?" Patrick said nothing, knowing she was right, and hating her for it. He took out his Katana and began sharpening it. Michelle threw up her arms and said, "You're impossible!" She walked to the bedroom, gathered her coat, and left the apartment. As he watched her go, he thought back to another loved one _before_ Yi, and wise words his Mentor had said. ENGLAND, NEAR OXFORD, 1348 "Patrick? Patrick listen to me!" the Immortal who would one day be known as Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez said. "Patrick O'Brien of County Cork LISTEN TO ME!" Patrick looked up at his old teacher and friend, too worn with grief and too stunned by the death, the Black Death, to remember, or even care from which direction Ramirez came from or how long they had been traveling together. All he could see, whenever he closed his eyes was the horrible specter of entire villages wiped out in days. Of Katherine, his wife suffering tremendously. Of bodies untended, lying in the streets. And all the while, himself, untouched by the horrible disease. Him, standing alone amongst the dead. Immortal. Unchanging Horribly alive. Forever. Patrick wept again for all the dead, but especially for Katherine. Simple, beautiful Katherine who could see the beauty in the sunrise or in a beehive. Who knew the joys of something as tedious as milking a cow or as magnificent as the miracle of life. Katherine, who wanted so much to see Oxford and London in her lifetime, but knew that she would probably never leave the village. Gone. Forever. Ramirez grabbed Patrick's face between his hands and said, "Brother, LISTEN to me! You can't keep this from happening! You can't. All you can do is remember them." Something in that phrase clicked in Patrick's mind. It pulled him out of the mire of dispair and enabled him to _see_ his mentor. Really see him. The look of concern on Ramirez's face was enough to frighten him out of his depression. If his Mentor was _that_ concerned for him, he must be in a great state indeed. Ramirez went on, "You can't keep them from dying. And maybe that's what we're _really_ here for. Maybe the Divine Power put us here to remember them, always. And maybe _that_ is the Prize. Remembrance..." BOSTON MA, UNITED STATES, JANUARY 1995 Michelle Taylor walked down Beacon Hill to get a Taxi. She just wanted to get away from _everything_. Highsmith, Patrick, _especially_ Patrick. He was going to drive her crazy before this was over. She told the Taxi to head to Cambridge. Rupert Highsmith followed Michelle Taylor's cab in his own car. He followed her over the Harvard Bridge into Central Square where she got off. He illegally parked his car and followed her over to Brookline Street. Patrick followed Highsmith as well, not content to let Michelle walk into a trap, _however_ much trouble their relationship was in. He saw Highsmith park his car illegally and did the same. Ticket be damned, he could afford it. He walked down Brookline Street to the music club Michelle _and_ Highsmith had gone into. He entered, paid the cover charge and walked in. The club was dingy and dark. On stage was a three-piece band singing a song about a girl named Judy and her "personal" problems. As he scanned for either Michelle or Highsmith, he noticed the band's harmonies were quite good. Highsmith was here, he could feel the buzz. But _where_? He walked into the pool room but didn't see him. He snuck backstage, and there was Highsmith, standing all alone, his blade ready. Patrick took his Katana out from where it was hidden in his long overcoat and waited. "You haven't changed, O'Brien." Highsmith said. "You're still a scared little deserter." "Where's Michelle?" Patrick said. "If I told you I _didn't_ have her you wouldn't believe me, would you?" "No." "Then I won't tell you that she isn't here. I don't know where she is. You simply _must_ stop caring so much for these mortals. They're so much trouble to keep track of. You can't _feel_ them. They're barely real. Fit only as pawns. Fit only to die." Patrick screamed and lunged at Highsmith. Highsmith blocked the attack skillfully, just as the band began a song about love lost. Highsmith indicated the stage door and said, "Now of course no one will hear our fight since the band is so damn loud, but what will happen during the Quickening? There's at least a hundred people out there. I think they'll notice _that_. I think we should adjourn for now." With that, Highsmith turned and walked back into the club, and outside. Patrick stood there a long time. He had played Highsmith's game _exactily_ as Highsmith wanted him to. He had been careless, angry and had nearly made a fatal mistake. When the band began a song about wasted youth he returned his sword to it's spot beneath his coat and returned to the club, and left. Michelle saw both Hightmith and Patrick leave. She decided to come out of hiding, enjoy the band for a bit and then go home, Patrick's mind would then be thoroughly on _present_ day America rather than on Ming-Dynasty China or Colonial Boston. Michelle return to their apartment early the next morning. Patrick had been up all night waiting for her to return or at least call. He turned to her and said, "Do you realize I almost LOST MY HEAD because of your foolishness?" Now it was Michelle's turn to say nothing. "Do you even _know_ what's going on here? In case you don't know, there's an Immortal out there who's after me 'ead." In his anger, Patrick's voice had slipped into a slight Brogue. "And he's _not_ gonna give up. 'Ee's gonna keep comin' until one of us is without a 'ead. "Highsmith followed you, and I followed him. If the club hadn't been so packed I'm sure Highsmith and I would have fought. And 'ee would have _won_. I wasn't ready. I was too angry and sick with worry. I made mistakes. Mistakes that could have cost me my 'ead." Michelle still said nothing. Patrick drew a deep breath and got himself back under control. "I've made up my mind. I can't fight him and worry about you at the same time. You'll go to Seattle and stay with Duncan MacLeod until Highsmith's gone. I booked a seat on the 10:00 flight." "I'm not going _anywhere_!" Michelle said. "I'm staying..." "You do what _I_ SAY!!" Michelle said, "I'll pretend I didn't hear that. I'll pretend it's because you're 800 years old and this is the way you were brought up. I'll pretend that you're actually a nice guy. A guy I once fell in love with, and not someone prone to ordering me around." Patrick let his breath out slowly. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't know what got into me. It _was_ because of an 800 years old upbringing. I promisee it won't happen again." But a cloud hung over their apartment, and an invisible wall had sprung up between them. And that wall had Rupert Highsmith's name scrawled on it. Michelle _didn't_ leave on the 10:00 flight to Seattle after all. Insisting she stayed, _and_ insisting on being used as bait, she and Patrick drew up battle plans for that night. "This worked before, and if it wasn't for those damn cannons," Patrick said, attempting and failing to bring a little levity to the situation, "We wouldn't be talking about this right now. What you'll do is walk alone through the Common. He'll try for you there." "And if he knows that you're repeating the same trap again?" Michelle said. "He'll know. But I think he'll try anyway. If not he'll try later." The day went by uneventfully. Michelle and Patrick barely spoke to eachother. Finally, at midnight, she left the apartment. Highsmith's man watching their apartment called in. "She's just leaving," he said. "Right," Highsmith said, and left his office. Michelle wasn't going to kid herself. She wasn't nervous, she was petrified. She knew that Patrick was there, ready, somewhere behind her, hidden from view. This was suicide, walking alone in the Common after dark. Almost as bad as Central Park. Even _with_ the Christmas lights still lit she was frightened. Knowing that she was being guarded by a man with a Katana wasn't at all re-assuring. She _knew_ that Highsmith was out there, following her. Once this was over... She didn't know what would happen once this was over. They _both_ had said some pretty rotten things to eachother that morning, things that couldn't be taken back. And what was frustrating was that they were _both_ right. _She_ shouldn't be here, baiting a trap to catch an extremely dangerous man that cannot be killed, and _he_ shouldn't be ordering her around like she was some tavern wench in the Middle Ages. But one thing was for certain. She loved him dearly, despite _everything_. If he wanted to, she would do everything she could to make things better again. Not the same, things would _never_ be the same. Not after knowing what he is. But better than they currently were. Deep in thought, she didn't see Highsmith step out of the shadows and place his hand across her mouth. Patrick would _not_ let it happen again. The fight with Highsmith _had_ to end now. Then they could get on with their lives. He couldn't take back what he said, but he could work to make things better, if she wanted to. They could... He saw Highsmith step out of the shadows and place his hand across Michelle's mouth. "My my my," Highsmith said. "What a pretty picture we make. Ok, I confess, I fell for it again. Two centuries, and I still haven't learned. Oh well." Then he turned to the shadows and said, "O'BRIEN!! COME OUT!! I FELL FOR IT AGAIN!" Patrick stepped out of the shadows, Katana ready. "It ends tonight, Highsmith." His voice was calm. There was no trace of the anger he had the night before at the bar. "How right you are, deserter." Patrick turned to Michelle and said, "Go to the bar like we planned. Wait for me there. If I'm not there in an hour..." Michelle said, "Don't _say_ that. You'll be there." She kissed him and ran off. But as she heard Highsmith's blade and Patrick's Katana clash, curiosity got the better of her and she turned to watch... Blades locked, Highsmith and Patrick stared at eachother, neither giving an inch. Then both men began to back off, sparks emitting from where the metal touched. Once the blades were unlocked again, Highsmith attacked. He lunged, but Patrick parried skillfully and turned his attack away. "You can't win, Irishman," Highsmith said. "We'll see about that." Patrick said and mounted his own attack. Highsmith managed to envelope Patrick's blade and send it flying behind the Irish Immortal. He then slashed Patrick's chest. Weakened, Patrick nearly sank to his knees. "And here it ends," Highsmith said. "There Can Be Only One." He brought his sword down towards Patrick's neck. "NO!!" Michelle screamed. But just as the blade was about to connect, Patrick's strength returned and he executed a backflip worthy of an Olympic Gymnast. He recovered his sword and noticed Michelle standing there. "Get OUT of here!" He said. But Michelle refused to go. She was transfixed. When he faced Highsmith again, Patrick was a renewed man. His strength flowed from his body down into his sword. And it _always_ came down to two men and two swords. Highsmith, dodging Patrick's renewed attacks, knew the battle was lost, but tried, however in vain, to turn the tables again. He failed. Patrick slashed Highsmith's _own_ chest, leg, and sword arm. Then, extending his arm and aiming his sword along it in a manner taught to him by Ramirez, Patrick waited for the proper moment. Highsmith sank to his knees. He looked up at the man who was about to vanquish him and said nothing. Patrick brought the sword up and swiftly sliced down to Highsmith's neck, severing the head. "There Can Be Only One!" The Quickening exploded from Highsmith's body, the semi-electrical energies binding themselves to Patrick's body. It worked its way into his body, into his eyes, ears, very pores. Patrick screamed in pain and screamed in delight. And still the Quickening came, arcing from Highsmith's body, shattering windows and lights, and showering Patrick O'Brien with sparks and electricity. It was wonderful. It was horrible. And in one final burst of energy, it was over. Rupert Highsmith's Quickening was absorbed by Patrick O'Brien, the Irishman. He collapsed on the hard frozen ground, out of breath. And Michelle Taylor could only stare at the man she thought she knew. Classes began that next day. As Patrick handed out his syllabi to hislast class of the day, he felt something from someone, somewhere in that classroom. It was very faint, but it was the unmistakable Buzz that all Immortals emit, and that all Immortals can sense. This one was so faint that he may have missed it. But it was there. Someone in this class was a pre-Immortal, their Immortality just waiting to bloom. Patrick told his students the standard, "Here's what I expect from you and here's what you should expect from me" speech. He dismissed the class and began packing his belongings so he could head home when he felt the faint Buzz again. He turned and was fact-to-face with a beautiful young girl of about twenty-two, tall, with honey-blond hair and bright blue eyes full of intelligence and laughter. She was dressed in typical student garb of torn jeans and Harvard sweatshirt. "Doctor O'Brien, is there something wrong?" she said. "No, not at all," Patrick said. "Is there something you'd like to speak to me about?" "Not really," the pre-Immortal said. She giggled and said "I just wanted to tell you how much I'm looking forward to your class. A friend of mine had you last semester, and recommended you. I'm a History major, you see, and I hope to teach Renaissance history someday." She blushed and said, "I don't know what's come over me, but _something_ told me to talk to you privately." Patrick grinned, and the girl visibly relaxed. "Don't worry," he said. "Sometimes you should follow your instincts. What's your name?" "Nancy. Nancy Peters." "Well Nancy Peters, I can tell we're off to a great start, and that this class will change your life in ways you can't imagine." Nancy Peters smiled shyly and said, "Thank you, Doctor O'Brien." She turned and left. Patrick came home to find Michelle packing a suitcase. She turned and said, "I was really hoping you'd still be in school when I left." "You're leaving?" he said. She nodded and said, "It's not you at _all_. _Please_ understand that. I just..." she turned away from him and said, "I could love an 800 year old man who can't die. I could even love him if part of that life was killing other Immortals in swordfights. And despite _everything_ that was said the other night, I still love you and was ready to fix whatever had gone wrong and make it right again. But last night... that... that energy that came from Highsmith and went into you..." "The Quickening," Patrick said. "Yes. The Quickening. I can't... I _really_ can't... It _frightened_ me, Patrick. I can't tell you how much. It frightened me more than the thought of either of us being killed by Highsmith. And then when you got up, there was a look in your eyes... like you _enjoyed_ it. And I can't..." her voice broke. Patrick made no move to comfort her. She had made up her mind. And she was right. The Quickening _was_ horrible. And wonderful. And how would he explain that to her? It wasn't something that a mortal could _ever_ understand, unless they too became Immortal and basked in the fire of the Quickening. How could he explain that to her except in vague terms like "It's a kind of magic?" She turned back to him, tears streaming and said, "Microsoft has been after me to take a job there for months now. I took it this morning. I'll be leaving for Seattle tonight. I love you dearly, Patrick, but..." Patrick said, "I understand." Patrick stood in the apartment full of his possessions, yet so empty without the presence of mortal Michelle Taylor. He thought of the past, but not Sarah, Yi, or any of the others. He thought of Ramirez, dead for over four and a half centuries now. And those words, spoken to him half a world and six hundred years away came back to him, "Brother, you can't keep this from happening. All you can do is remember them. You can't keep them from dying. And maybe that's what we're _really_ here for. Maybe the Divine Power put us here to remember them, always. And maybe _that_ is the Prize. Remembrance..." No, he couldn't keep them from dying. Or from leaving. But he would remember... <<>> (c) 1995 Mabnesswords As usual, e-mail milester@bix.com with any comments. And they're greatly appreciated! =========================================================================