Date: Sat, 2 Dec 1995 10:42:24 -0700 Reply-To: WOLFEM@CGS.EDU Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Michelle Wolfe Subject: my so-called immortality 5b/? From: CGSVAX::WOLFEM 2-DEC-1995 10:34:29.45 To: WOLFEM CC: Subj: my so-called immortality 5b/? My so-called immortality Gimme Shelter: Part V-b continued.... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Duncan glanced at the hallway, toward the sound of running water. He looked at his watch, suppressing a smile. Still in the shower, fifty minutes later. She should meet Amanda. They had at least two things in common: immortality and a belief that time stopped once they passed through the magic portals of the bathroom. Joe had left-- "Watcher business." Richie was up above, staring at the Seine, seemingly too preoccupied to talk. Maybe...he'd been too hard on him. Or maybe it was the girl. She seemed to spread uneasiness around. They'd obviously met before-- she and Richie. And been on friendly terms... Lovers? She wasn't unattractive, if a little bony, underneath all that dirt. But neither of them were volunteering anything. And something was clearly wrong: her appearance, her attitude. At once terrified and hostile. Brooding and evasive when he asked her anything about herself, answering his questions with questions... He looked down at the stack of papers in front of him. For the last half-hour he'd been skimming pages of financial statements, portfolio analyses, auction catalogues, and found that he couldn't remember a thing he'd read. His attention seemed bent on wandering. His eyes paced the room, finally falling on Emma's things, a small dirty pile shoved into the corner of the room. No, he told himself. (..."I didn't have a teacher." ..."Come on now, Emma. Who told about beheadings and the Game? About the quickening? About what you are? There must have been someone. It didn't all just come to you in a dream, did it?") He picked up the paper, began reading the headlines. Within a minute he found his gaze pulled back to that corner. She'd laid her coat, carefully folded, on top of her pack. Folded and draped a particular way, as if something of a specific shape and length was concealed inside. (..."You don't trust me, do you?" ..."Trust, Emma, is a two-way street.") He got up from the desk. (..."Well, Socrates, since I'm obviously seeking understanding, tell me why would an immortal take me in and teach me? What advantage would they gain? Why would they want to?" ..."Well, Phaedrus-- try pity. Charity. Fair play. Friendship. Connection.") As he picked-up her trench he felt it immediately, the long leather sheath sewn into the lining. (..."I could accept that answer if we were discussing Mother Teresa. But we're talking about immortals-- whatever that *really* means... And as far as I can tell from other immortals I've met, that isn't how the relationship works. We don't do things _for_ each other; we do things _to_ each other. My need is your advantage. Not your responsibility." ..."But we all need connections, Emma. Ties to others. To share and pass on the knowledge and understanding we've gained. To show someone the kindness someone showed once to us. We're not so different from mortals in that way. We don't have families the way they do-- we don't pass on our genes or our names. But we form other bonds. Comrade to comrade. Mentor to student. And they mean as much to us as the ties of blood mean to them. We don't simply destroy each other. We reach out to our own kind. I find it hard to believe that nobody reached out to you.") He listened for a moment, checking to see if the shower were still running. Then with a single fluid motion he reached into the lining of the coat and withdrew its contents. He looked at it carefully, the nondescript flash of metal and light of any sword unsheathed becoming detailed and specific. A Viking sword, an almost millenium-old blade of folded steel, a slight bit smaller and lighter than traditional Viking designs. From the ornamentation and inscription on the hilt, one could ascertain that the sword was forged specially for a shield-maiden of royal descent. One could-- that is-- if one so needed. Duncan, however, had seen this sword before. Several times before. The last time had been a decade ago, in Manhattan. He had taken it out of its display case and had held it just for a moment. For old time's sake. To draw forth a few memories, memories he had wanted to sort through; to sate that endless urge to distinguish the Duncan present from the Duncan past. It was the same sword, he thought, weighing it in his palm. At once the same sword, and a different one. Duncan's hands were practiced instruments of perception. With the faint brushing of a finger-tip they could read layers of invisible information, recalling years of silent history from the curve of a lover's rib or the terrain of her spine. They were as intimate with steel as they were with flesh; in his hands a sword would whisper all the memories of its metal, revealing its personality, its past, recognizing a previous acquaintance... This sword remembered him, but it had changed. In Manhattan, as always before, it had felt vacant and blank, unmarked by use-- despite its age. A weapon frozen in its infancy for centuries. But not anymore. Now it resonated with a certain character. Holding it in his hand, he felt the difference: this was no longer the sword which had spent centuries hanging decoratively on walls and in cases. This was a weapon that had been used to kill, which had been touched and cleaned and carried everyday, a weapon which had had the sparks of a quickening travel along the length of its blade, a sword which had bonded to the flesh of its owner. Had someone taken her in? Trained her, taught her who she was, what she shared in, the skills she needed to survive? Yes, the sword answered. But that answer left more questions in its wake than Duncan could ever have anticipated... ___________________ Comments and critique welcome at =========================================================================