Date: Fri, 25 Mar 1994 16:22:39 -0800 Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Allen Marshall Lee The Sorrow of Loss The sun had just set. Romar sat back in his chair, sipping a cup of strong coffee. The view from his penthouse suite was so soothing. He had lived 342 years to this day, a veteran of numerous battles and lost loved ones. He had lost so many people that the hurt numbed his very soul. But at least right now, he felt at peace. As he stared at the dim red ball disappearing into the silent waters, his thoughts drifted back to 1760. Back to Venice. They had met in a small pastry shop along the streets. When he first saw her, he knew he was in love. Their eyes met, if not just for a second. As she started to turn away, he ran up to her, and asked "Little be it known my lady, that I am overwhelmed by your beauty." Such was the start of a relationship that lasted for 30 years, before the plague took her. Those 30 years.. they were his happiest times. And now she was gone. His life had always been torn by the losses of his loves. He just couldn't bear to love anymore. And for what? To live forever? To constantly wonder when someone better would come along, or catch him unaware? To live a life of constant paranoia, that any day another immortal would come for him? To die, to sleep, perchance to dream. Eternal rest. Eternal peace. He glanced at his sword which always hung on the mantel. To visitors the sword was an ancient artifact, a decoration.. But to him, it was his only friend. A friend that has always been at his side, and shared in his victories. Hopefully to the very end. As he watched the fireplace light dance off the shiny metal, he felt a familiar sensation he knew all to well. A tingling feeling deep in his soul that both exhilarated and scared him. Quickly, he got up and went over to the mantle. Lovingly, he took the hilt. "Old friend, again we must fight." The door opened. He was tall, wearing a black trench coat. With a flick of the wrist he pulled out a wicked looking saber from the depths of his coat. "I'm Galen. I've come to take your head" "Well, Galen, you make it sound too easy. Perhaps it is I who shall take yours." The two clashed with a loud clang of steel. Parry, thrust, parry, they were both evenly matched. Romar side stepped a lunge and delivered a kick to the shin, followed by a thrust with the hilt. Galen recovered quickly and kicked a nearby chair into Romar's path. The two circled each other, each trying to seize an opening. Galen struck with lightning speed, cutting Romar's arm. The blood started to seep out, causing a flowering red stain to run down his white chamois. Romar, oblivious to the pain, parried the next stroke and delivered a sharp blow to Galen's forehead, followed by a swipe at the head. Galen ducked and clashed with Romar's returning stroke. They battled down the stairs. Romar stabbed, but Galen was able to maneuver the blade away and knock it over the spiral hand rail. Romar quickly leapt over the hand rail but found Galen between him and his blade. Never had a saber looked so menacing. Feinting to the side, he threw a nearby vase at Galen and dived to the side. Galen shattered the projectile and quickly turned to meet the newly re-armed Romar. The two clashed again. This time, Romar switched to a different style of fighting. Galen thrust and almost lost his sword as Romar landed a square hit. The two separated again. "You may have won many battles Romar. But tonight will be your last." The word 'last' echoed and lingered through the recesses of Romar's memories. Death. Something he had seen too much of. Tired of the game. Tired of it all. "Good-bye, Galen. There can be only one" They charged at each other. The clanging of steel. The toppling of a head. Romar's limp body hit the floor with a faint thud. Galen laughed, a harsh evil laugh. Then came the quickening. ---()---------- Allen Lee March 22, 1994. Please Email me any comments or suggestions. =========================================================================