Date: Tue, 29 Nov 1994 12:02:38 EST Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Brian Macleod Subject: The Battle of Evermore, part one. [Note: this story is the continuation of the story begun in Descendants to the Prize and continued in Behind Blue Eyes] ************************************************************************* ************************************************************************* ******************* H I G H L A N D E R ************************ ************************************************************************* ************ T H E B A T T L E O F E V E R M O R E ************* ************************************************************************* BY BRIAN PROCOPIO, BASED UPON THE FILM OF THE SAME NAME. COPYRIGHTED 1994, CHAOS PICTURES, INC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. _______________________________________________________________________ CHAPTER ONE _______________________________________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________________________________ The Queen of Light took her bow, and then she turned to gold... The Prince of Peace embraced the gloom, and walked the night alone... _______________________________________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________________________________ The cold waters of the Atlantic swirled about his naked feet, the exposed flesh numbing to the touch. A massive flock of seagulls hovered about on the sands behind him, their shrill cries echoing about the empty beach, eclipsed every now and then by the raging surf. As he walked along the coastline he realized that the salty deposits which the ocean had left upon his rolled-up jeans were chaffing the skin on his shins, but he didn't pay it any attention. He continued walking along the early morning shoreline, the damp fog clinging and beading to his clothing. He ran his palm along the back of his forearm, slinging away a handful of moisture in the process. He heard someone off in the distance, calling his name, but he paid it no heed. A flash of red caught his attention a few feet away, a small child's toy shovel left in the sand months before, but the association in his mind caused MacKenzie to freeze in his tracks. The undertow pulled him into his past, the red of her hair framing her face... It wasn't fair anymore, he didn't want to live forever with this pain, the loss, the dull and empty ache inside. He almost wished he hadn't killed Cole right away, that he could have made the immortal suffer some, that he could have had a goal to work towards once more. He just wanted a release... _______________________________________________________________________________ MacKenzie's form materialized out of the mist about the same time the buzz hit him. He strided on towards his mentor, his friend. He adjusted the strap of the sword case slung over his shoulder as the pair of wooden bokken inside rattled slightly. It worried him, the behavior, the near-catatonic stares, the apathy towards all around him. The signs happened quickly, the first warning signal was the fact that Brian did not bother to clean his blade after the fight. David Macleod was unsure at first whether to take the task upon himself. It was MacKenzie's sword, after all, and he didn't want to risk bringing MacKenzie's wrath on him or anything of the sort, and he didn't want to alienate Brian and himself, possibly closing off his friend's only hope of redemption. He wished now that his actions had brought forth some reaction, anything at all would be better than the uncomfortable silence which had en- gulfed their interactions as of late. "Mac?" he inquired as he came up next to his teacher. Brian blinked several times and looked away, out to sea. He paused a moment before re- sponding laconicly, "What." He didn't really phrase it as a question. "Listen, I brought some bokken along, Bri, I thought we could, you know, spar a bit, you know, get the morning off to a energetic start," David ex- pained futilely. He knew it wasn't working, but, hell, he had to try and bring him around. "No," returned Brian as he stared into the distance, "maybe later." Dave stood there for several moments, trying to see something off in the distance. No, it was as he thought, there was nothing. Whatever MacKenzie saw he saw only in his mind's eye. Macleod looked at his teacher. It was almost scary sometimes, how similar they seemed. An outsider would have little clues to tell them that three hundred and twenty years seperated the pair. MacKenzie, who died his first death at age twenty-one, and Macleod's just a year before that age. The passerby would just see them as a couple more college students, especially when spring break hit this vacation town of Wildwood, New Jersey. They could even be brothers, actually, and have occaisionally been mistaken as such. Similar builds, similar likes and mannerisms, only their hair styles seemed to tell them apart, Brian's a bit shorter and traditionally styled, David's usually gelled back and curlier. Only their eyes gave away the differences within them. MacKenzie's blues were an observer's only portal to the three and a half centuries within, the pain of loss etched so deep into his soul. Brian spilled the whole story to Dave within the first day or two, but had since clammed up tightly about it all. David's brown eyes held more of a youthful exuberance about them, more of an excitment about life. There was still that twinge of experience, the slight darkening of his pupils that gave hint to the deeper story locked inside. "Allright, Bri, you'll know where I'll be if you feel like it," Dave encouraged. "Why don't you head back soon and grab a bite to eat?" "Yeah, maybe," Brian murmured quietly, his words practically lost among the rising tide. Macleod turned and made his way back up along the beach, the sun beginning to bite through the dense fog engulfing him. He worried for his teacher in this state, but not merely on a psychological level. He was practically de- fenseless there. He wasn't sure if MacKenzie would even bother to fight back in his condition... _______________________________________________________________________________ "Antonio, come," murmured the elder quietly yet forcefully, "Tis time to complete the next phase in your training." The student followed his teacher down through the wooded path. His short form was framed nicely in the sleeveless tank top and cotton pants he wore, exposing his bulging biceps and hairy chest. His curly hair flowed freely in the back, the dark locks not quite long so to say, but definately a far cry from military specification short as well, spilling forth just below his shoulder blades. He teacher spun and pulled his broadsword, mo- tioning Antonio to do the same. He withdrew his sharpened claymore from his back, its ornate hilt glistening in the sunlight. The form of the elder was taller, but of a thinner build. The cut of his musculature was not as large, but much more clean, centuries of work evident within his arms. His features were also well cut, but did not really have the weathered effect that usually comes with older age. His background, like his accent, were hard to place, possibly norse, but, do to his age, most likely he was of Mesopotanian descent. Antonio didn't really know much about his master's past, only that he predated most of the known immortals which he had encountered. He knew only what was given to him, the name, Cain, and the taint of ancient evil. Signs of great power, and skills which he had never even dreamed could be possible. Cain opened the day's festivities with a swipe at Antonio's neck, and his student deftly blocked it. Despite the seeming casuallness of the swing, it took most of Antonio's power to hold it. He countered with a stab of his own, which Cain lept out of the way of before diving in with his own riposte to the attack. As they fought on he began to lecture Antonio. "I have trained you for a mere half a year, my student," he remarked calmly. "Yes, Lord Cain," the younger immortal gasped out as he fought for what seemed to be his life. "I usually prefer to spend the greater part of a decade on training, but I have a special mission for you now." Antonio's eyes flared to life. A mission? For him? He owed the master his life, and so much more... The soft glow of pride came over his being. "Of course, my master." _______________________________________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________________________________ As always, e-mail with comments, Macleod@vm.temple.edu =========================================================================