Date: Sat, 2 Dec 1995 10:40:24 -0700 Reply-To: WOLFEM@CGS.EDU Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Michelle Wolfe Subject: my so-called immortality 4b/? From: CGSVAX::WOLFEM 1-DEC-1995 15:48:44.84 To: WOLFEM CC: Subj: my so-called immortality 4b/? My so-called immortality Part IV-B: Pillow-talk... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "I don't know what to say," she told him quietly. "You don't have to." He tried to catch her eye. "Do you still want to hear about Ramirez?" "Yeah. But can I tell you one more thing?" Connor sighed, with mock frustration. Then he smiled at her. "Oh, these children of the 20th Century. Microwaves. T.V. Instant gratification. Okay, one more thing. Tell me." "The night you pulled me out of the morgue, I think I felt so scared because at that moment you were _nothing_ like the person I thought I knew. Remember Russell Nash-- that gentle, lonely widower? Who for some inexplicable reason decided to cultivate a platonic friendship with this confused, stressed-out college kid? Inviting her over for the occasional chess-board massacre or dragging her out of the library for the odd foreign film? Throwing some extra money her way to set up and program the computers in his antique shop-- even though the one time she saw him in front of a PC it was obvious to her that he knew a helluva alot more about computers than she did? Plying her with bagels and lox on Saturday mornings and getting her talk about everything-- should she go to med school or do classics and archeology? should she ask out Jason or Matt? did God exist? Would she ever stop getting mad at her mother? Should she look for her birth parents? did it matter?" She shook her head, "'Russell Nash': boy, was he convincing. I really thought you were _that_ person." She sighed, "God, I _wanted_ you to be that person-- and it was so artful-- the perfect blend of older brother and mysterious stranger..." "Granted, when I first saw you watching me in the John Jay archives I assumed" she said, counting on her fingers, "that you were either one: a serial killer, two: getting up the nerve to hit on me, or three: both at the same time." He laughed. "Well, in New York City, 'both' is pretty likely." "Yeah...But within a couple weeks you were just 'Russell', and it was like I'd always known you-- known him. The irony being, of course, that I didn't know you-- him-- at all. I opened myself up to a mask. And behind that lie was a person I couldn't even imagine, acting out of motivations I still don't quite believe, listening to my secrets, watching me trust him, waiting unsuspected and unseen..." Her faced tensed, drawing inward. She pulled her eyes away from his gaze-- to the floor, to the fire, to anywhere else. "And then one night I'm in a car with friends, driving through the Jersey Tunnel after a party in Princeton, and some- thing goes wrong. We swerve, everything goes black, and then I wake up, naked, on a steel slab with a sheet over my head and a tag on my toe. And there's Russell, standing there. And I'm thinking, what I am doing here? What is he doing here?" "I had a police radio," Connor volunteered, helplessly. Ignoring him, she continued, "Except that it isn't Russell, its somebody else. Somebody whose presence is somehow making my ears ring and my guts churn. And he's telling me over the roaring in my head that if I want to stay alive I have to trust him. Completely. "How utterly bizarre. He looked just like Russell Nash, but he wasn't. My friend, the gentle, almost unbelievably young- looking 35 year-old antique dealer from Upstate had been replaced by this stranger, a warrior with a 500 year-old Scottish accent and the oldest eyes I had ever seen. This guy wasn't Russell. This man was hard and cold and terrifying." "And then I watched him 'save my life' by tearing me away from everything I had ever had-- my name, my home, my life, my plans. But I don't think I hated him much for that, really. I think I hated him mostly for lying to me. For pretending to be Russell." By the time she had finished her voice was hoarse. She might have been crying, he couldn't tell. She had turned her face away from him. "I wasn't pretending to be that person," he whispered, "I just didn't show you the whole picture." Staring at her back, he had to fight the urge to put his hands on her shoulders, to stroke her hair. He wasn't sure how it would be interpreted. Or maybe he wasn't sure how it was intended. She didn't answer. "When Ramirez found me," he said, "I hated him too. When he rode up to my cottage--I think a farmer in Iowa would have been less startled by a flying saucer crash landing his cornfield. I had never left Scotland in my life. Never known anything but farming and fighting, hunting and clans. And out of nowhere," he said, sorting through the Gaelic expletives that went with this memory, looking for more genteel equivalents in 20th Century English, "...this effeminate-looking, overdressed courtier wearing silk doublets and an earring prances up on a white horse, calling my name. And telling me we were 'brothers!' This presumptuous dandy! I was shocked. Repelled. Horrified. "Then he outfought me, outran me, looked me up and down like a tailor calculating whether a ragged shirt could be mended, telling himself how much work he had on his hands... "And then I was humiliated." Still no response. Maybe she was trying to sleep. Maybe he should do the same. But once talking, he couldn't stop, he had to say these things to her, even if she wasn't listening. After two months of sullen silences, spiteful retorts, endless arguments-- she had approached him. And he couldn't let her back away. "*Emma*, we are born human, and we become immortal. And becoming immortal always means giving up some of the things that being human meant to us, and giving up some of the dreams we have about what our lives will be like. I was born in a different time and place than you--my way of life, my expectations, my dreams-- they were very different from yours. But I had them, and like you, I went through the painful process of stripping them away and letting them go. Ramirez was the person who taught me what I was, who told me my true name. Because learning who I was cost me so much of what it meant to me to be human, for a while I hated him. But when he taught me who I was, he also taught me the exhilaration of the quickening, the strength of the bond between immortals, and that I had power and potential of which I had never dreamed. And for that, I came to love him." She turned back over, facing him. Her cheeks were damp, and her eyes were distant. "You know, in many ways you are the best student I have ever had. You started from nothing--had never fought anyone, had never seen a sword outside a glass case in a museum. And you have worked harder and learned faster than anyone I have ever seen. To every task I set you, to every lesson I teach you-- you give your mind and body completely. But your heart resists...more than anyone I have ever taught." Cupping his hands around her face, he pulled her gaze toward him until her eyes met his. "Do you feel better when you fight me? Do you feel like you're striking a blow for your lost humanity every time you start an argument?" Unable to look away, to refuse to answer, she simply said: "I don't know." Holding her head more tightly, he pulled her close to him, until their eyes were only inches away and his breath brushed against her face. "Not knowing isn't good enough, Emma. I'm a dangerous enemy. Don't make me yours." She was shaking. He was scaring her. He wanted to stop, but he couldn't. He had spent two months of overlooking her hostility, of holding back the force of his anger. "I don't want you to be my enemy," she whispered. "Then stop fighting me. I am trying to help you. I knew from the first time I saw you that there was within you tremendous potential-- potential for good. That's why I befriended you, and prepared myself to train you. But to develop that potential you have to learn who you are-- meet the woman you are becoming and accept her. If you don't, you will either turn your power against yourself or against other people. And if you do the latter, I will come after you." He realized he had been holding her so tightly that bruises were forming on her neck. He relaxed his hands. But she didn't move. She simply stared at him. The absurdity of situation struck him. To an outsider, they would look like lovers, lying in front of the fire, their bodies just inches apart. But he felt as if he was crossing thousands of miles, trying to reach her. He said quietly, "I miss our friendship too. But you, Emma, are the one who won't meet me half-way." Turning away, he closed his eyes. For hours, the rain pummeled the earth. Neither of them slept. _____________________________ Comments and criticisms at: I have papers due, and rewrites piling up, so I'll post more in a couple of weeks. =========================================================================