Date: Thu, 19 Oct 1995 17:42:01 EDT Reply-To: Lord Brian MacKenzie of the Clan MacKenzie Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Lord Brian MacKenzie of the Clan MacKenzie Organization: TEMPLE UNIVERSITY Subject: The MacKenzie Chronicles, Introduction (1/1) (REVISED) (fwd) Hopefully, this is the final final revision of this one, new story soon! The only real changes in this chapter and the next are in the way of dates... sync, brian Before I begin, a moment or two of your time, please, for explanations, revisions, and the like. Over the past year some of you have kept up with my stories involving the characters of Brian MacKenzie and David Macleod, and my sincerest thanks for staying with me and the story, as well as for the most helpfull criticism. (The stories in question were Descendants to the Prize, Behind Blue Eyes, the Battle of Evermore, and the Night Is Still Young). Well, over the summer break I attempted to begin Red Rain, the next in- stallment of the story (followed by In the Air Tonight, the final portion). I started and stopped the story several times over the past month or two. In the end, I realized that my earlier style just didn't *feel* right for the type of story I was attempting to tell in Red Rain. Then, I tried again to begin it, but the difference in style between the earlier installments and this latest one were too great, in my mind. In addition to this is the simple fact that, looking back, I think the first few portions could use a hell of alot of work, and there's much more I had wanted to develop in them as well. So, in the end, I decided to step back a bit and begin the MacKenzie Chronicles anew. To the new readers, I hope you enjoy. To the old, please take the time to read them again. Much has been changed, and, overall, I think you'll like them better. Thanks for the moment of your time, the author and now, without further adieu.... The MacKenzie Chronicles (revised) by Brian Procopio, of the clan MacKenzie Copyrighted 1995 Kaos Pictures, Inc. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Feburary 18, 1998 Scotland. I know not whose eyes these words will reach, other than my own, so let me begin this tale with an explanation of sorts as to who I am, what I am, and why I write this here, the rest will make itself known in time. My Christian name is Brian, given to me by my mother, who was Irish, af- ter the legendary king of said Emerald Isle. My family name and gift of my father is MacKenzie, at one time one of the four largest clans in my beloved Scotland, where I reside today (most of the time, at least, but that's later). I am the youngest of two brothers and one sister. In the time of my birth our clan numbered several thousand strong, and here I speak only of our fighting strength as we were required to report, so the actual numbers are closer to twice that, once the women, children, and elderly are added into the tally. Oh, and I am immortal, have I mentioned that small facet of information yet? Well, perhaps I should explain that, yes... but first let me finish telling you about myself. I stand roughly five foot eleven, which isn't all that impressive nowadays, but I was among the taller third or so of our men in my time. When I refer to my time I mean the time of my birth, childhood, adolesence, life, death, and so forth some four hundred and fifty-odd years ago. Hmmm... there's that immortality thing again. I guess I'll have to deal with that sooner or later, but, where was I? Oh yes. My hair, which I usually keep functionally short, is a dark brown, almost a black, especially in rescent years, since I am outside in sunlight less now than then. My eyes, which are often the one feature most people remember about me, are a light blue in hue, with small streaks of brown and gold thrown in there if you look hard enough. The rest of my face is... well, I don't want to say common, but perhaps "normal." No, that wouldn't work either. Let's just put it this way; you can see my heritage in there, but my face is often the type that blends well into a crowd, a trait which I have exploited quite often in my days. The rest of my body is the same way, a roughly-medium-looking build that is honed enough through centuries of swordwork and military experience, but at the same time does not draw gaping stares like the chemically-enhanced weightlifters of today's age. For a Highlander my build was quite on the small side, at least in the time before my death. *sigh* Okay, I've put it off this long, I might as well address the issue now. Yes, I am immortal. Completely? No. If one were to sever my head from my torso I would die, forever. Other things will harm me, but I will recover from any other form of mortal death. Of course, now one wonders how or why I am what I am, and that is definately a most tricky question. For, you see, I really do not know, but more on that later. By the time I had reached my twentieth year, I had run away from home in the hopes of becoming an actor, and lived for three years in the slums of London, struggling hard to attain that dream (and not doing an altogether bad job of it either, may I add...). One night, however, fate caught up to me in the form of a backstabbing purse-snatcher in an English alleyway, and life as I had known it was ended. Fortunately for me, a guardian angel well out of heaven came upon me at that point, and it was then that I began my training under the venerable Connor Macleod, bless his dammed soul. He was like me, I was to learn, immort- al until a sword's stroke took a head. Even then, in an odd little way, we live on, as all of the loser's memories and experience would flow into the victor in an often violent and exhausting occurance known as the Quickening. It is rare for the victor to acknowledge all of this power, however, since the "soul" of the deposed immortal could, in certain cases, influence the living immortal to large degrees, a most unpleasant experience. The battle between members of our kind is what drives us on, for, in the end, only one will remain, and he will have the power and knowledge of all who came before him or her. And other members of our kind there are, I was to learn quickly, befriending some, learning from several, ending the life of too many, and loving very few. Many of them you will meet as you read these pages before you, but all too many will remain unknown, their deaths a footnote in the timelines of immortality, remembered only by those whose conciousness is troubled by them. Why we are what we are, none of us truly knows. It is the second worst dilemna of our immortal nature, the lack of reason. The first is death. Not our own, mind you, but that of others, both mortal and immortal, and of the world itself. How difficult it is time and time again to reach out, to find companionship, friendship, and sometimes, albiet rarely, love, knowing that, in a few years time, one will be forced to either reveal the secret of one's immortality or move on, as the passing of time leaves no marks on one's face. Many of us have searched for a meaning behind it all, a beginning back in the mists that led to the first immortals. Indeed, few have searched harder or deeper than David Macleod, my last, best student, closest living friend, and eventual enemy all rolled into one, and myself, who spent several years searching throughout the Middle East for clues (but again, I digress, that tale will be told soon enough). Over the centuries I've lived several lives and played many parts, both upon the stage of life and that of the theatre. It is only a fine line that differentiates them at all, in the end, isn't it? I've been an actor, a sol- dier, chieftain, officer, criminal, lover, and, as of the past several hours, a writer as well, and many of these lives will come into play in the story ahead. Ah yes, the story ahead, I almost forgot about that. Why do I write this tale, for I know it will force me to remember, that the heartache will well up in me and threaten to engulf me, and that I will sit for hours before this tome with a matchbook in hand, ready to eliminate this story, to lock it inside of me forever? I write so the story will be known. What is man, really, once he dies, but the sum of his experiences? It's what we're all really afraid of, isn't it, death and anonymousity. What value is one's life if no one else has any memories of it, good or bad? But this is not the only reason of which I write. I want not only my events to be known, but the reasons *why* I set those events in motion as well. When this work is finished, one of four parties will be reading it, I don't know which. One is the immortal who ended my life. If this is so then this really has no actual value now, does it? The second is David, my protege. I know and he knows that I've done some truely uncharacteristic things in the year past, but I want him to know why I did these things. This is my final gift to you, David, learn from it and remember me. Of course 'tis possible that these two parties could be one and the same, in which case I implore you, David, to shut out my memories and experiences and very essence from your mind, lest you suffer through the hells I have known. I pray that we never did lift arms against each other. These leaves two, both of which are more than just individuals. One is the Watchers. I'll spare you the long story (it will appear in the following pages, no doubt), but in short the Watchers are an organization devoted to following immortals, recording the events of their lifetimes. They've been doing it for centuries, but their time may soon be done with, I'm afraid. Less than a dozen of us are left in the world today, most of which I've met, all of which I know of by reputation, and when the Gathering ends, so do the Watchers, I would imagine. [Oh, I knew I forgot something. The Gathering. It is now. When those few remaining immortals draw together to battle until the last...] Ahem. Anyway, this seems like the type of record of events that they would just thrive on, so enjoy, Joe. [*sigh* So many tidbits. Joe Dawson= the head of the Watchers who I was once friends with, more on that later...] Lastly, it's possible that this work may one day be published, God forbid the thought, and you, the public, could be reading these very words in a novel labled "fiction" and trying very hard to escape the boundaries of everyday ex- istance and believe that such events could actually come to pass. To you, I ask only to believe, to remember, and to live. I have been gifted with an overly-long life, you have not. Live each day to its fullest, learn, inquire, and, most of all, love. Hmmm, I guess that is it, then, isn't it? What is left for me to do but begin the tale? And don't worry, I won't start off from day one and lead you hand and foot through my life, I'll only tell the relevent parts, the rest can be told to fill in the gaps. *chuckle* Oh, and I may not necessarily narrate the whole tale either. Many a section will be told in third person, as I draw upon both the memories of those deceased immortals involved or in the version of the tale told to me by others. Anyway, now that you have been properly forewarned, I leave you to your reading. Brian MacKenzie =========================================================================