Note: I do not own Highlander, it's characters, situations, etc. No money is being made from this excursion - only a sense of fun.
Summary: Duncan faces off against the world's smartest Immortal. In a battle of Brains (with a little brawn) Vs. Brawn (with a little brains) can the Highlander emerge the victor?
"Steel will not bake bread for your table, write poetry or birth babies – but it has its uses."
-Hamza el Kahir (600A.D. to 1653A.D.), as translated from the Farsi
Prologue – 1927, the North Atlantic
Objects in motion. The shock shot up the length of the man's sword arm as metal struck metal. He quickly stepped back a few paces and shifted, somewhat clumsily, into a relaxed defensive stance on the rain-soaked foredeck of the steamship. The icy downpour, the wind, the pitching of the deck, the half-light of a thickly veiled moon – all these things were complications to the Game. He prepared to receive his rival's charge. At two and a half meters he began shifting his center of weight forward to feint a thrust; halfway into it he allowed his knees to buckle as he threw his upper body into a hard spin, angling his sabre's cutting edge to strike at the other's legs. If he could take her mobility the battle would be over. Metal struck metal. The man hesitated – somehow he'd been anticipated. Daniel, for this was his name, had studied the sword for more than sixty years and in that time had taken eight Quickenings, but this slight Portuguese senhorita was turning out to be his first real challenge. Dark and agile, the woman's eyes betrayed nothing – neither thought nor intent nor even feeling as she regarded her larger opponent.
A flash of steel and his left shoulder was opened. A peal of rolling thunder hid his yelp of pain and he scrambled back across the slick oak, wrestling with shades of panic. "I can do this", he thought fiercely to himself. "It's a matter of focus – I must focus! There is no pain. In an hour's time I'll have warm brandy in me, an unscarred shoulder and a new story to thrill Marie". He set his teeth and advanced toward his opponent. She took second blood almost immediately with a cunning riposte that took advantage of his bold, overextended thrust. He felt metal bite into his ribs. This was followed by a savage boot that sent him to ground. Daniel rolled with the fall and the pitch of the deck, eager to put some distance between him and the swordswoman. When he came out of the roll he found the mate of the boot that had struck him standing on his blade – the point of the other's sword describing a casual circle an inch from his Adam's apple.
"You're done Mr. Roundtree – well done", the woman shouted over the fury of the storm, her dark hair threatening to loose itself from it's practical, tightly wound knot in the violent play of the winds.
It would be another forty two years before the Kubler-Ross model would codify the five stages of grief experienced by people faced with their own mortality or that of a loved one. Daniel, being a pragmatist, skipped lightly over denial and anger, flirted briefly with depression then moved right on to acceptance, the very notion of bargaining made nonsensical by the nature of the Game. He raised his eyes to those of his killer and spoke, clear and strong. "In my cabin, amongst my clothes is an envelope addressed to a woman in Islington. You'll see to it that she receives it?" A moment of sober and courtly gravity passed between the two figures. Objects at rest.
"As you wish", she replied at last. With no more to be said the victor drew her sword arm back and followed through in a clean, quick arc. Old flesh, tendon and bone gave way to older steel and Daniel watched, briefly, as the world spun and spun – the cool caress of the deck against his cheek the last thing he knew. The woman, one Salera Braga of Lisbon and many other places besides, quickly resheathed her sword and lowered her frame into a wide, stable kneeling position on the deck. A pearlescent glow suffused Daniel's remains and they began to rise several inches into the troubled air. Salera tightly gripped her sword in its scabbard as if for support and drew in a deep breath. "I have won. I will continue to win. I have won. I will continue to win," she repeated quietly to herself, as though reciting a mantra. "Games are won by intellect – my intellect…my intellect".
The caressing glow left the body and seemed to evaporate into the turbulent air. The remains fell back to the deck with a thump and the winds died. Salera glanced about anxiously at the suddenly eerie tableau surrounding her. The rain still fell but the air was utterly still, the clouds halted in their progress, the sea calm except for the drops. In the silence the pattering of the rain seemed impossibly loud. Sweat and rainwater trickled down her throat as she felt the hair on the back of her neck, on her head, even on her arms begin to prickle and rise with a static energy that she knew was only prologue. A kind of awe colored by intense curiosity gripped her as she noticed that all of the clouds in the general vicinity were now slowly moving to a point directly above her head. In what seemed an achingly suspended moment between heartbeats she set her eyes on the horizon…and exhaled.
"…my intellect".
The bolt of raw, searing energy and peal of thunder occurred simultaneously. Salera was caught up in a roiling dynamo of ecstasy, pain and nameless sensation that somehow brought with it the strength, the skill, the sum experience of the warrior who had fallen. The rigging of the vessel was awash in a gaudy display of St. Elmo's fire and the starboard bow anchor welded itself to its housing. The focus of all these energies screamed, laughed and wept all at the same time.
She would remain laughing long after the storm resumed its normal course.
Chapter One – 1996, Seacouver, WA
Duncan MacLeod was having a banner day. While shaving that morning he'd cut himself just under the jaw line – an unlikely lapse for a four hundred year old blade master, certainly, but even Immortals make mistakes. The nick was both healed and forgotten within forty seconds. This was not the source of the good humor that kept his reflection smiling back at him as he toweled off. After donning a coarsely knit turtleneck and trench coat against the November chill he'd set out on a pleasant, early morning stroll across town to a favored eatery for breakfast. There'd been a storm during the night and the air was crisp and had the scent of rain about it. A handful of gulls cried out a greeting to Duncan as they rode early morning updrafts against a cobalt sky. The beauty of the morning was not what put the extra bounce in his step. At the Elbow Room Diner Duncan ordered two eggs scrambled with diced red pepper, some fresh fruit and a large coffee – sugar, no cream. Simple fare for a palate schooled in the cuisine of a hundred cultures but it was pleasant and filling. The meal was not the cause of Duncan's cheer.
On his way back home he detoured over to Joe's Place, a blues-fueled eating and drinking establishment operated by Duncan's good friend Joe Dawson who, it happened, owed the Immortal twenty dollars from a sporting bet. The bar was closed at this hour but the odds were about 50/50 that Joe would be there, giving his old Gibson Hummingbird a workout. It was Duncan's lucky day – twenty minutes later and twenty dollars richer he continued his walk home.
Nope.
Splashing merrily through puddles, Duncan's smile broadened as his thoughts flashed back to Joe's impassioned greeting.
"We was robbed!" he'd hollered upon seeing the Scotsman enter his bar. Joe was a young forty-seven, with graying hair and beard, a face full of character and piercing eyes that, while often playful, didn't miss much. A useful trait as he was also Duncan's Watcher – an agent of an ancient mortal organization that secretly kept tabs on the comings and goings, killings and dyings of Immortals like Duncan. Only in Joe's case the "secretly" part had been kicked to the curb when his subject had found him out a couple years back. Oddly, this hadn't shaken up the paradigm much. Whatever else he was, and that could fill a book or two, Joe was also a damn good friend.
"Yeah, yeah – I've heard that song before", Duncan had replied through a lopsided grin. "Play something else". Joe had instead removed the guitar strap from around his neck and reverently lowered the instrument to lean against his stool, making sure that it rested safely on the inside of its case.
"Ha! I wish your guys would play something other than elbows! That three-pointer in the second half was ours!" Joe's voice adopted a bluesman's drawl as he'd smiled his way through the next accusation. "I bet the ref's underwear is Razorback red!"
"First off, they're not my guys", Duncan had replied, punctuating his remark with a mock lecturing finger in Joe's face. "I just bet by the numbers. Your problem is you bet with your heart, not your head."
"Yeah, well, Ole Miss'll come back strong soon enough – they're just in a dry spell, that's all".
"I hear a lot of talk, I don't see any action," the Immortal had observed, leaning his arm none-too-subtly on the bar's cash register. Joe had sighed heavily. Grimacing and making a show of searching all of his pockets he'd eventually produced a worn billfold and slapped a twenty down on the table beside him.
"Take it, you pirate – and I mean that literally – I'll have it back before the season's out!"
"What makes you think I'll bet you again?" Duncan had said casually, his hand clawing into a shallow wooden bowl of Beer Nuts.
"C'mon, Mac, you wouldn't begrudge a guy a chance to win back his money; there's got to be something in…Clan MacLeod honor about that, right?"
Duncan had responded with a long, and mostly fictional, list of things that were not covered by Scottish clan code, improvising increasingly bawdy details that soon had the two men howling with laughter. If the Immortal were to be honest, and that was second nature for Duncan, he would have to admit that his talks with Joe had become something he cherished. The Watcher's easy-going, self-possessed style had made conversation with him as comfortable and familiar as an old pair of slippers. Rarely had Duncan grown so fond of anyone, mortal or Immortal, in such a short amount of time.
The knowledge that Joe would all too quickly grow old and die, while not something that Duncan allowed himself to dwell upon, held a certain bittersweet fascination for the Immortal. In all his long life Duncan had never experienced that kind of loss. To hide his immortality he'd been forced to pull up roots time and again before anyone could notice that he wasn't aging, and while that meant saying a thousand goodbyes in any number of ways – sometimes to peoples faces, sometimes only in his heart – he'd quite simply never known any mortal for more than a dozen years or so, save only his adopted parents and clans-folk. That Joe knew of his nature was a rare, if sometimes awkward, gift. At least Duncan would never have to run away from him or fake his own death – that latter option had become damn near impossible in the Information Age.
As their laughter had threatened to subside into a companionable silence Dawson had steered the conversation in a new direction.
"What is it with you, Mac – you've looked like the cat who swallowed the canary from the moment you walked in here; you can't tell me that's on account'a twenty bucks!"
"I don't know what you're talking about", Duncan had replied around a mouthful of salty snacks.
"The hell you don't!" Dawson had considered the Immortal thoughtfully for a moment. "…that's not a 'something' look, it's a 'someone' look. It can't be Amanda – her perpetual holiday tour hit Brussels last week and they've still got some champagne and shiny things left." This had earned a warning look from the Scotsman.
"Now that's not fair. …Not entirely".
"Well then, who?"
"Somebody…who taught me everything I know about Scottish clan code". This had gotten a rise out of Dawson's eyebrows.
"Waaitaminnit – Connor? He's coming to Seacouver ?!"
Bingo.
Duncan's grin had been all the answer the Watcher needed.
"That's FANTASTIC!" he'd enthused, with an excitement that had almost rocked Duncan back on his heels.
"Well…yeah", Duncan had answered, a bit thrown. "I can't wait to catch up with him. Why are you so excited?" Dawson had hastily downed the remains of his Miller High Life – it had been a long night – and begun making his way to the back room.
"Our guys lost traction on him four months ago", he'd called over his shoulder. "Our best guesses put him somewhere between Honduras and Bolivia – I'm gonna get me a gold star for this!"
Duncan had watched Joe recede with no little astonishment. "…Elbows or no elbows - that's cheating", he'd muttered to himself.
Back in the present, Duncan's feet carried him through Seacouver's market district, still smiling at the exchange. Dawson was a character, all right. And Connor – he'd be a sight for sore eyes. It had been over four years since his mentor had drifted off on his own path, just after the Slan business. He'd receive a letter every now and again – always very brief, often biting, funny or cryptic. Once, Duncan got a postcard from Amsterdam with a night scene of the red light district. On the back were the words "not thinking of you…"
Presently Duncan arrived at DeSalvo's Gym and his loft above it. After buying the business and residence some two and a half years ago from martial artist and Gulf War vet Charlie DeSalvo he'd decided to keep the dojo's name, and now with Charlie gone – another mortal, all too soon – Duncan considered it something of a monument to his friend. Dust in the wind. As a business it wasn't exactly a golden goose. Memberships had been pretty flat for a while now and Duncan sometimes wondered if the place would pay for itself by his 450th birthday. Thank heavens for shrewd, very long-term investments and seven off-shore accounts.
Grabbing the rough railing, and noticing that it needed a coat of paint or two, Duncan pulled himself up the steps that led to the dojo's entrance.
Retrieving his mail from the lock-box in the entrance hall, Duncan passed through the gym itself. Nodding a greeting to the two dedicated members sparring on the center mat, he sorted the bills from the junk mail from the Items of Genuine Interest. Hmm…a disc from AOL promised 5,000 free minutes of internet access with membership. Stacked with other similar discs he'd been sent, they should just about take the pronounced wobble out of his 19th century rococo table upstairs. A bright yellow envelope addressing him as "resident" suggested that he could make all of his dreams come true simply by working out of his home. He'd sort of been doing that for the past decade or so; it hadn't made junk mail go away.
While fishing his elevator key out of an inside coat pocket he turned over a small, nondescript white envelope in his hands. No return address. His name was inscribed in an elegant, feminine cursive, clearly the fruits of a classical education. Without thinking, Duncan found himself sniffing the envelope. He silently chided himself – did he really expect to catch a waft of perfume deposited by a mysterious admirer? "Now I know I'm getting old", he muttered. Lumping the mail together in one hand he raised the hefty grating of the private freight elevator that would take him up to his apartment and stepped inside. Upon exiting into his spacious, tastefully appointed flat he grabbed an apple from the kitchen counter and dropped the pile of mail into the now empty fruit basket. He wouldn't give the mysterious envelope another thought until it was too late.