Merciless 6: Rituals Vi Moreau and Suzanne Herring Write the authors c/o Bridget Mintz Testa, btesta@houston.rr.com. RATING: PG-15 for language and one sexually-suggestive scene Once again we owe special thanks to Michelle Wolfe for lending us the use of her Immortal character Henriette de Langeac. After the priest's words, after the casket had been lowered into the ground, after the flowers and the clods of dirt had been thrown in, after all of the women had left weeping, after the men and children had left without looking at anyone, after the anonymous Indian workmen had filled in the hole, after the dirt was mounded above the grave, and long after everyone was in bed, Connor found Elena in a large fencing/workout studio. Glancing around, he could tell it used to be an old-fashioned ballroom, with polished wooden floors, mirrors along one wall, French doors opposite, exercise and fencing equipment. She was sitting on her knees on a mat, rocking back and forth unsteadily, her head bowed, her, long, uncombed dark hair partially covering her face. In front of her, an open bottle of whisky. Next to her, sleeping bonelessly, snoring softly but still looking sensual enough to make Connor physically uncomfortable, was Maria Feliz Betancourt. The wall to Elena's right was a weapons display, mostly swords; but the sword that really counted was on the mat right next to her -- gleaming, sharp. And in spite of the fact that she was drunk and in despair, he knew he was right in never underestimating how dangerous she was, even now, and he was glad he'd come to make sure Duncan was safe from her. But also, in a way, he was glad that he'd come to be with her, despite Duncan's wishes and without his knowledge. Connor could feel waves of her pain, reaching across the room, pounding him like strong surf, scouring him raw, hurting him, too, reminding him of his own losses. Each one, like this one for her, a loss which couldn't be borne. He leaned against the doorframe, absorbing her pain and reliving his own, as she rocked back and forth, silently, for long moments, and he finally said, "Let it out, Elena. Let it go. It'll make you feel better." He knew, for a fact, it would make *her* feel better. She looked up at him. "What do you know about it, Connor? I thought you told me you had ice water in your veins." Her voice was slightly blurry, but her one grey eye was clear. For once, he shrugged off her implied insult. "As I recall," he answered, walking into the room, "you said that, not me." "Thas right. You're right, I did. But you've cried before, haven't you, Connor? You've lost people you loved. You just won't cry in front of anyone. Now, see, *I* don't care. This is my house, and I'll cry if I feel like it. Maria Feliz cried with me. She's so drunk ...." Elena said, looking at her friend. Then, holding the bottle up to him, Elena asked, "Would you like some Scoch, Connor?" "Yes, I would," he answered, sitting on his knees in front of her, trying to ignore Maria Feliz, taking a long pull on the bottle. At least Elena's association with the MacLeods had taught her about good single malts, he thought, ruefully. "I hate Scoch, you know." "I know. It brings you bad memories." Connor remembered New Year's Eve, 1996 or 1997, when Elena had told him this. Long before Alexander Caropoulos or Stephen Holz had entered the picture. And he smiled at her, hoping that the memories from that night -- which included several rounds of whisky -- were good ones for her. As if reading his mind, she smiled back. "But some good ones, too. Duncan and I...." She stopped abruptly, then said, "I've figured out what happened." He waited, being patient, being there for her, and she continued. "Stephen Holz died the day his father was killed right in front of him. His heart shriveled up, and his soul blew away. All these years, Stephen was a walking, talking corpse. Thas why our love, the love we poured into him, Duncan an' me, an' his friends, never reached him. Because he had no heart, no feelings. Maybe he pretended the whole time. And he was smart." She put one index finger to her temple, tapping it. "He figured it out. And when he himself became an Immortal, he thought maybe this was his chance, his only chance to feel again, to be human again, by doin' something drastic, something tragic, by killing Duncan, whom he always blamed for his father's death. Always." She was breathing hard, speaking rapidly. Then she paused and added, more slowly, "Or all his hatred, his anger at Duncan, all came back. Maybe when the time came he just couldn't forgive Duncan. Maybe he was angry because he'd been lied to, because we didn't tell him. Or maybe he thought he had no choice. Whatever." Or maybe Stephen wanted to kill *everybody* who had lied to him, not just Duncan, Connor thought. But this was obviously not an option she had considered, nor would she. And she wouldn't hear it from him. "Whatever," Connor echoed, taking another swallow. He had no real interest in Stephen Holz himself, only in how the boy's death was affecting those he did care about. He was glad he'd left Richie Ryan in Paris to keep Duncan company, to support him, to keep him from sinking any further into guilt and despair. And possibly to intercept any Immortals who might come after Duncan, looking for easy prey. But for the moment he put his clansman out of his mind. He couldn't help Duncan now, and he wanted to give Elena his full attention. "But I should have seen it, Connor!" she said suddenly, bitterly. "I should have known what he was like, what he was goin' to do when he became an Immortal! I should have felt it, I should have known it, I should have *smelled* it! Why didn't I see it?! Why didn't Duncan see it? What Stephen was really like? I looked into his green eyes and saw only innocence, only hurt. None of the hatred, the vengeance, the madness..." She took a deep, ragged breath. "He was destroyed because of my blindness!" she cried out, putting her hand on her chest. "I am so much to blame..." Connor said nothing, but he understood, God, yes, he understood the self-flagellation, the guilt she was feeling. He'd been there. And maybe this was the reason she wasn't going after Duncan, the reason she had said she didn't blame him. Because first of all, she blamed herself. "He's dead, Connor! [Mi nino...]" she drifted off. "I know, Elena." "Do you know what the wors' part is, Connor?" He waited silently again, watching her, knowing what she was going to say, and she finally said it: "I can't even go to Duncan for consolation. I threw him out. I told him I hated him. I told him ... I've lost them both, Connor. Both of them." With that she leaned forward, put her hand on his chest, looked into his eyes, and asked him the one question he wouldn't -- couldn't -- answer. "Why, Connor? Why did Duncan kill him? Why why not spare him? Why not let him live? You know Duncan better than anyone -- why? Can you tell me why?" Connor met her eyes steadily and lied. "I don't know," he answered. And after a long moment, considering his words carefully, he added, "You *know* that he must have felt he had no choice, Elena." Silently, he willed her to understand somehow without completely understanding, and to forgive Duncan -- and herself. Because in Connor's mind, the only person responsible for Stephen's acts was Stephen. Connor wished the boy were back again, alive -- if only so that Connor himself could beat some sense into the ungrateful, destructive little bastard. She closed her one eye and sobbed once. Then she put her face against his chest, and he pulled her into a rough embrace. For a long, painful moment, he held her, his eyes closed, feeling her rigidity, her anguish, sympathizing, empathizing. "Let it go, Elena," he repeated softly. And she finally sagged against him, finally began to cry. Her hot tears wet his shirt, and he bent his head to her hair, letting her empty out all her grief onto his shoulders, wishing there was something, anything, he could do to ease her pain. Knowing he was doing everything he could. Frustrated that it wasn't enough, that nothing he could do would really help. Her sobs shook her, and he held her tightly, remembering the night Heather had died in his arms, remembering his own tears. Remembering waking up in the smashed automobile, alive and whole, Brenda's broken body next to his. Remembering all the other deaths, all the people he'd loved. There was no end to it, ever, he thought wearily, holding Elena, grateful that she had chosen not to go after Duncan, to make it worse. And sorry that she had to go through this, this loss of a child. He vividly remembered the death of Henriette's adopted daughter, a child who'd been made Immortal as an infant for a perverted Immortal's pleasure. Connor had seen no alternative but to end the child's misery. He could still recall the mildness of the child's Quickening as it took him, the overwhelming rush of grief and remorse which had followed, which he felt even now ... even though he still believed it had been the right thing to do. Henriette, of course, had never forgiven him. And Duncan had been right to kill Stephen, although Elena would never forgive him. But it didn't matter, Connor thought numbly. You could do the right thing and still *feel* that it was utterly wrong. Because every death left behind it the same feeling of loss, of emptiness. And knowing that nothing he could do could fill that emptiness for Elena, still he wrapped his arms around her and rocked her softly, gently, snip until at last the sobs stilled and she grew quiet. She was limp, and he thought she had fallen asleep, but after a moment, she raised her tear-streaked face to him. "Ay, Connor," she said softly. "[Gracias, che.]" Then she gently disentangled herself from his embrace and said, "I'll try to get some sleep now." Using her sword to help pull herself to her feet, she headed, a little unsteadily, for the door. "What about her?" Connor asked, gesturing to Maria Feliz' sleeping body. Elena smiled, a little. "If you wan' to take her up to her bedroom, you can. Otherwise, she'll be fine there." Connor picked Maria Feliz up in his arms and followed Elena up the stairs. He put the Mexican blonde in her own bed, then turned slowly away, the feel and smell of her lingering, in spite of everything making him reluctant to go, and headed for his room. ///// Early the next morning Connor could tell from the dim light in the room that it wasn't too much after sunrise when the click of the door latch woke him. He sat up in bed abruptly, his eyes sliding quickly to his katana, resting against the night table, then immediately back to the door, to assess his Immortal visitor. She slipped inside the door and carefully locked it behind her, but she had obviously heard or seen his reaction, because she didn't come any closer. Instead, she pulled off her diaphanous gown, letting it puddle at her feet, and stepped out of it. Her arms were out at her sides, empty. She was naked. "No sword," she whispered, in a strong Spanish accent. He recognized her voice, and there was enough light that he could make out her body. It was magnificent, and Connor was immediately aroused. She approached his bed slowly. "[Debemos celebrar la vida, ?no es asi? Celebrar ... ] life. You unnerstan'?" she asked him. He found it difficult to tear his eyes away from her body to look up at her face. Connor knew how he looked and felt after excessive drinking, but Maria Feliz looked ... enthralling. He had to clear his throat to be able to answer. "Yes, I understand." After a moment, he added, "Si," forcefully, then felt a little foolish. She had to know what 'yes' meant. "[Te deseo. ?Me deseas a mi, escoces?]" she asked him, stepping closer. "Yes," he answered instantly, knowing what she meant. He could smell her. And her scent, which had affected him even at the funeral, swirled up into his brain, almost maddening him. Her smile made his blood feel like molten steel, and told him she had expected no other answer; nor, he knew, would she have accepted any other. Still smiling, she climbed into Connor's bed. Translations: (all Spanish) mi nino - my boy gracias, che - thank you, my friend debemos celebrar la vida - we should celebrate life te deseo; me deseas a mi - I desire you; do you desire me