========================================================================= Date: Thu, 28 Mar 1996 21:34:27 -0500 Reply-To: Sandra1012@AOL.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Sandra McDonald Subject: Lay Down Your Sword 2/8 Valery Constantine's only ambition in life, his only passion, his only concern, was a paradox even in his own mind. He wanted it, but he didn't know what it was. He'd killed for it, stood to be killed in turn, but couldn't be sure it was worth the price of a single life lost. He didn't know where it was, where to find it, what color it was, what shape it came in, what he would be able to do with it when he found it. But he wanted it, and that clear acknowledgment made everything possible and everything worthwhile. He wanted the Prize. The mysterious, awesome, undefinable Prize. Like Tao, the Prize that could be defined was not the Prize at all. For the first few centuries of his three thousand years he'd made it a habit to ask his victims what they thought the Prize was. The answers were usually so inane and desperate, so obviously ignorant, that he'd finally stopped asking. Of course, he rarely took heads anymore. His occupation made it nearly impossible, and he had his champions for the dirty work, anyway. His own trained Immortals, hand picked, forged of steel and pride, who did the killing for him and whittled down the field to the few true challengers. He gave them decades of training and education and money, and sent them off into the world to battle their fellow Immortals. Only one had ever tried to turn on him, and Valery had easily defeated the man. Instead of beheading him, however, he'd nailed the traitor to the stockade wall of their training camp in Africa and left him impaled, naked, burning in the sun, howling in agony, until someone defied Valery's direct order and cut off his head. The Immortal who'd defied Valery was named Goran Riswanathan, and he'd been a lawyer from Madras, India when he first achieved Immortality five hundred years before. Ris, now his most trusted and brilliant champion, who stood across from him in their hotel suite in New Lucerne, Switzerland with a glass of wine in his large, smooth hand. Their well-decorated suite came with only the finest furnishings - a rich blue carpet that seemed like an ocean, magnificent marble sculptures from the hands of geniuses, furniture almost too beautiful to sit on. Real flowers in crystal vases that caught the sunlight with prisms and rainbows. The cleverly disguised wall screens doubled as windows with stunning views of the valley and the Alps above. None of it mattered. They could have been in a filthy underground cell, blood and waste to their knees, oily torches flickering with light, and had the same focused attention on the only issues that mattered. Methos. Valery's arch-enemy. His plans to take a select handful of Immortals to Sanctuary. Ceirdwynn, Methos' lover, a woman who'd once spurned Valery by firelight in a muddy Celtic camp. Duncan MacLeod, that meddling Highlander who should have been dead centuries ago but who always bested Valery's champions. Connor MacLeod, who'd barely escaped Ris' sword a few months back and was probably hiding up in the Gethsemani monastery, along with Methos' most prized asset, Jason Sanger. A Prize in and of himself, although Valery couldn't define why. "A woman matching Amanda's description was seen in Zurich yesterday," Ris said now. "She's probably on her way up the mountain even as we speak." Valery knew all about Amanda. He'd made it a habit to always keep himself informed about other Immortals. Ris could beat her easily, probably with one hand tied. "She'll try to persuade Jason to leave," Ris said. Valery shook his head. "He won't go." "He might. He's said to be . . . changing his mind." Valery moved to the view of the valley, and raised his eyes towards the top of the Stanserhorn. The monastery truly was too small to be seen by normal eyes, but sometimes he thought he could distinguish its tiny silhouette against the limitless sky. "If he leaves with her, all the better," Valery said. "You take him from her. You bring him to me. Head intact." Ris smiled. He was a striking man with straight white teeth and luminous eyes, and had been born with a natural charm that won over almost everyone. "And MacLeod? If he's here too?" Valery paused in thought. Duncan MacLeod had always been a meddling annoyance. He'd taken Slan Quince, one of Valery's favorites, back at the end of the twentieth century. He'd killed another favorite three hundred years back, during the Ozone Wars. He was an excellent swordsman, and stood almost as good a shot at the Prize as his clansman Connor, who Valery hated with a vengeance. "Duncan MacLeod is all yours," Valery said. Quite unconsciously, his fingers twitched in search of his sword. "Connor MacLeod is all mine." *** The same night Amanda was getting her head clubbed in up at the monastery, Duncan MacLeod and Holland Greer made love as if it were their first time, all over again. Charged by a passion that seemed like a sensual Quickening of its own, bodies coming for each other with fire and hunger and bottomless need, they merged on the bed into one charged mass, hands and lips and legs in constant motion, few words, small laughter, sounds of passion. Then they merged on the carpet. Then in the shower. The bed again. Exhausted finally beyond anything more than sweet kisses, MacLeod rested in her arms and watched Holland sleep only inches away. Centuries ago he'd realized there were no words to describe his love for her, only that it was the deepest, truest, most meaningful love he had ever known. He didn't believe in astrology, but it seemed as if all the stars and planets and constellations had finally aligned into perfection, and delivered Holland to him as a miracle. Not that they or their love were perfect. Not that they didn't disagree, or miscommunicate, or have bad days. Not that they hadn't had to work through several layers of trust and intimacy to reach the point they had. Not that other loves had mattered, or counted, or weren't still cherished in their separate hearts. He loved her so much he knew that he couldn't live without her. Holland said she felt the same way. Which was probably why it had been a hideous mistake to come to New Stans together, because the potential for tragedy was limitless. Even Methos had seen fit to warn them. But being separated held no greater appeal, and MacLeod had one last duty to hold true to before he followed Methos to whatever corner of the world the Sanctuary was in. He remembered Versailles with a shudder that woke Holland. "What is it?" she asked softly. "Richie and Felicia," he said. "Why them?" "Methos told you why," Holland answered. MacLeod allowed himself a bitter laugh. "Methos said, 'Why not them?'" "He's a practical man." "Too practical," MacLeod said. They lay in silence together, wondering how Amanda was doing. *** The other female Immortal, Minette, still had Amanda's sword. She wanted it back. But Connor said no, for now. "You won't need it here," Connor reminded her. "The whole place is holy ground." Amanda didn't answer. The cell was bare and small, maybe ten feet by ten feet. With the bed, the bench, a small desk, and a wooden clothes cabinet, there was barely enough room for the four of them. Connor sat on the edge of the bed, Amanda stood in the corner, Minette guarded the door, and the fourth Immortal, Gregor, stood by Connor. "Why did Methos send you?" Connor asked. Amanda eyed them suspiciously. "He's late with his Christmas presents and wanted me to make a special delivery. Sorry, but I left them on the roof." "He knows Jason doesn't want to leave," Connor said, ignoring her sarcasm. Amanda paused. "So where is this Jason?" Connor was staring at the floor, as if answers could be found in the smooth stone. "What were you going to do? Seduce him?" "The thought had crossed my mind," Amanda admitted. The look Minette shot her, of unbridled hostility, warned her that the small, lithe blonde claimed Jason Sanger for herself. Amanda moved to kneel by Connor's side and took his hands in hers. She turned on her best charm. "Are you mad at me, Connor? Did I do something wrong? Because all I wanted to do, really, is to convey a message to Jason." "What message?" Gregor asked. Connor didn't seem inclined to comment, so Amanda turned her attention to Gregor. He'd died in his late twenties or early thirties, had dark hair and eyes, an intensity that spoke of passion and intelligence. Unlike Connor or Minette, he wore the Trappist habit. He was a brother of the order. "It's not for anyone else to hear," Amanda said firmly. "Then you'll leave with it undelivered," Connor said, fixing his gaze on her. "Because he won't see you." Amanda was taken aback by the conviction in his eyes. Whatever Connor, Minette and Gregor were doing here - and she wasn't unconvinced that Duncan hadn't known they'd be here, the bastard - they clearly thought they were protecting Jason. Protecting him from what? What did he need protection from, here on holy ground, that he warranted his own cadre of bodyguards? "Ask him," Amanda said. "He won't," Connor repeated. "Duncan or Methos could have come up here themselves, but they knew it would be useless." "So they sent me?" Amanda asked, arching her eyebrows. "Thinking I'd be useless? You know I'm far from useless, Connor." She still had his hands. Connor managed a quirk of a smile and pulled them free. "Minette will show you to a room," he said. "Go with her. Don't cause trouble. Stay in your room until I consult with Dom Stephan and the others. Someone will bring you breakfast. You understand, Amanda?" "I understand," Amanda said dutifully. She looked as if she might want to say more, but instead followed Minette from the room. Connor sighed. Gregor patted his back in sympathy, and then sat down on the bed beside the older Immortal. "Quite a woman," Gregor said, stifling a yawn. "That's one way to put it," Connor agreed. "I see what Duncan and Methos are doing. If there's anyone who can tempt him, Amanda just might be the person to do it." "So what are we going to do?" "She's right. We can ask. And he'll say no, just like he said no when Duncan came, when Holland came, when Methos came, when Ceirdwynn came. This spot has become a regular pilgrimage, you know that?" "I know," Gregor said with a smile. "It's what brought you here, isn't it? And Minette? No one told you. You just came." Connor didn't answer. He often spent most of the choir offices singing with the brothers, and praying for guidance that rarely came. He couldn't define the vague, persistent draw that had brought him to the Stanserhorn and kept him, away from the world, away from the Gathering. "Get some sleep," Gregor advised, standing. "I'll see you at three." "Next time, I'm picking a place that lets you sleep in," Connor grumbled, turning down the lantern. Gregor went to the rectory and prayed for some time, then went upstairs to the fifth floor and the room where they'd moved Jason just a few days earlier. The younger Immortal was asleep, his face relaxed, his hands smooth on the blanket. His sword hung on the wall, and in the starlight Gregor could see that Jason had cleaned it again. He cleaned it every day, but would never raise it in practice. If he remembered how to heft it, how to thrust and parry and defend his life, he never showed it. Gregor said a prayer over the bed and went to sleep on the floor, an old habit he fell into whenever he or his charge were troubled. For the first eight months of his stay Jason hadn't been able to sleep alone, and Gregor had spent sleepless nights soothing him, listening to nightmares and inarticulate cries that had to hurt God as much as they hurt the Immortal tormented by them. In the bed above Jason stirred from the sleep he'd feigned for Gregor's sake, and stared at the gleaming sword on the wall until he could no longer keep his eyes open. *** Brother Gustaf was one of the oldest of the monks, but unfailing in his dedication to rise a half hour earlier than his brothers every day to make the ten gallons of hot coffee that were needed before Vigils. A man like that, Connor had long ago decided, was surely destined for sainthood. He made it to the refectory with bleary eyes, filled up a mug, and gulped down the hotness as much for warmth as for caffeine. The world might be warming up, but Switzerland nights still had a way to go. The order had over sixty monks, and the brothers filled up on coffee with a few sleepy words and yawns. Connor knew he could never live this way forever - every other sane person in Switzerland was just rolling over for the second half of their night's sleep - but there was something to be said about the quiet and stillness of the hour, the peacefulness of both the interior and exterior world. In the chapel, Connor automatically took his place in the tribune with Minette. They were still visitors, after all, although Dom Stephan allowed them most of the same activities as the monks. Minette's presence was not disturbing per se to the order - Trappistine nuns from other orders often came for extended periods of time - but aside from Amanda, she was the only woman currently at Gethsemani. And no one else but Gregor knew about Amanda, who Connor hoped had stuck to his admonition to stay in her room. But Amanda was unpredictable. The sooner Connor warned Dom Stephan, the better. The monks glided to their stalls, their white habits reflecting the slimmest of candlelight. Some knelt on the cold stone floor, others lowered themselves gently into the folding seats, others remained standing. The stalls were full long before the monastery bells began ringing. Connor's heart lurched as he realized Jason was late. He caught Gregor's gaze from across the gallery, and Gregor's alarm mirrored his own. If Amanda had gone to him - but, no. Jason was coming in now, only a few seconds late. As he came in, Connor felt a same ripple of confusion and awe that distinguished Jason's presence and set him outside of time and mere humanity. It wasn't just the song of his Immortality, which only other Immortals could sense. Something else emanated from him, touching almost every other monk at some point or another, a quiet shine that Dom Stephan had said marked him as touched by the grace of God. Gregor said the same thing. That Jason had been graced. Connor wasn't sure what exactly SIDI had done to him in the torture, agony and bloodbath at Versailles, but bestowing grace probably hadn't been part of the plan. Jason took his place beside Minette. They bowed their heads as Dom Stephan knocked sharply, and after the reading of the psalms the first voice lifted up in sung prayer. It was Brother Frederick, a sour-looking man whose heart was more full of love than any Connor had ever known. As visitors, they weren't required to sing. But Connor did anyway, and Minette followed in a softer version. Jason remained silent this morning, his attention turned inward. After Vigils the monks scattered to early morning tasks and the making of breakfast. Connor saw Gregor go to Dom Stephan and say a few words. Dom Stephan glanced up, his thick face furrowed in thought, and then nailed Connor with a gaze that clearly indicated the need for privacy. Dom Stephan's office was smaller than most of the monks' cells. The abbot himself, a tall man with thick arms and heavy shock of pure white hair, settled into his chair with coffee and crossed his long legs. His feet were too large for his sandals. "This woman, Amanda," he said. "I take it she's one of you?" "Yes," Connor said. "And would you say her intentions are honorable?" Gregor made a small sound but kept quiet. Connor studied the abbot in the light from his lantern. Gethsemani owned an electrical generator, but it hadn't worked in decades. Dom Stephan was a fair man, very intelligent, very wise. He'd been the one who allowed Jason to stay all these years. But he was a man who had to look after the safety of his order as well. "I believe her when she says she merely came to try and persuade him to leave," Connor admitted. "I believe our friends in the outside world are genuinely concerned about his well being. They want to convince him rationally, not drag him out kicking and screaming." "Others might," Gregor put in, his eyes darkening. "Do you intend to give this Amanda her opportunity, then?" Dom Stephan asked. "That's up to Jason," Connor answered. Dom Stephan nodded. "Talk to him, then. Did you know he's fasting?" "No," Connor said. "If he were of the order, I would not mention it to you," Dom Stephan said. "And if he were, he would have had to seek my permission first. But he's not, no matter how warmly we'd welcome him. So I feel free in voicing my concerns." Connor knew through Gregor and through observation that the Trappists followed limited but not strict diets. They were vegetarians - well, who in the world wasn't, now, since it cost too much land to raise animals to feed thirty billion people? - and fasting was an accepted part of their life, although only for the highest purposes. Dom Stephan, himself, was known to always leave one food on his plate as part of his prayers. Gregor had once been sturdier than he now was. Jason had been on the thin side since they brought him in, and never regained lost weight. "How long?" Connor asked. "Since dinner yesterday," Dom Stephan said. Dinner in the monastery came at noon. Connor couldn't be sure, but that might have been about the time Amanda scaled the mountain top. After Lauds came breakfast, and Connor watched Jason as he sipped only from a tankard of hot water. The monks ate breakfast in traditional silence. Although they all had private mailboxes in the monastery's main office, it was not unheard of to leave notes under plates. Jason retrieved the note Gregor had left for him, but didn't read it. Connor went in search of Amanda. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, obviously impatient, her breakfast tray untouched. The morning sunrise outside her window held no interest for her. "You better eat that," he warned. "There's no snacking between meals here." Amanda picked up a pancake with her fingers and leveled him with a long, steady gaze. "I need to see Jason." "So you said before." Connor took the chair from her desk, turned it, straddled it. "Why is it so important to you?" "Maybe I should be asking the questions," Amanda said, "since you seemed to have had the upper hand since clubbing me in the head last night." "I still have the upper hand," he said. Her gaze narrowed. "Why the trap?" "Because you're not the first one to try and see Jason against his will." "Who else?" "Another Immortal came three weeks ago. He wasn't from the Swiss Welcome Wagon. We kicked him off the mountain." "Why did he come?" "The same reason Minette came," Connor said. "The same reason I did. Because he draws you. You haven't felt anything since you arrived?" "Like what?" Amanda asked blithely. But he'd seen the look in her eyes. "Methos didn't tell you everything, did he?" Connor asked, without reproach. "Or was it Duncan who sent you?" "I know enough." "You're gong to Sanctuary with Methos, aren't you?" Amanda finished off her pancake. "Maybe." "It won't work. It's the wrong decision. I know that Methos is only trying to keep safe, but withdrawing from the world doesn't help." "This, from a man whose locked himself up in a monastery." "The world is here," Connor said. "The world is what we carry with us and do to each other. People don't come here to hide from it." "You could have fooled me. Isn't that what Jason's doing?" "He's not hiding, he's healing." Amanda's eyes were bright. "Must have been a serious wound, to take four years to heal." Connor pushed back the chair and made for the door. Amanda caught him halfway to it. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean it." Connor didn't answer. "Look, I don't know this kid, but I know he means a lot to Duncan and that's why I'm here. Whatever happened in Versailles . . . whatever they did to him, and to Richie Ryan and Felicia Martins . . . I'm sorry. But all I'm supposed to do is convince him to leave. To join us." "In hiding from the world." "You've been out there, Connor, it's not the world we knew." "But it's the world we helped shape," Connor said. "Thirty million mortals, and how many of us?" Amanda snapped. "Hunting us, dissecting us, taking our Quickenings. You know what SIDI does. But all we need is time. They'll collapse, as all civilizations eventually do. And when it's safe, we'll be back." "And in the meantime, the mortals can fend for themselves?" Connor asked. "When has it been any other way?" Amanda asked. "Come on, Connor. Much more of this and I'll think you're a card-carrying, flag-waving member of Free Wave." Connor removed her hand from his arm. "Gregor went to tell Jason about your request," he said coldly. "If Jason will listen to me, I'm going to tell him not to meet with you." She cocked her head curiously. "Why?" "Because the world needs him here," Connor said angrily, without exactly knowing why. But as abruptly as the anger came it left, and he remembered what he'd been sent to do. "Come on," he said. "The abbot wants to see you." end of part two ****************************************************************************** * "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to the change the things I can, and the weaponry to make a difference." - coda from Immortals Anonymous ****************************************************************************** *