DISCLAIMER:
The concepts of Immortality, and the characters used in this work are from HIGHLANDER: THE SERIES which is the property of Davis/Panzer Productions, Inc., Rysher Entertainment and Gaumont Television, and are used without permission. This is an amateur publication intended solely for the entertainment of its readers. No copyright infringement is intended.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Some lyrics from LET THERE BE PEACE ON EARTH by Vince Gill have been quoted in this work. No copyright infringement is intended.
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
The story takes place in series time after the "The Colonel". I attempted to stay strictly within the confines of fact presented in all episodes prior to that one. However, events that occur later in the series and what I've done here don't mesh so I guess this an alternate universe.
One of my editors called this story 'touching', another called it heavy. A third said it was too depressing to finish, so be forewarned. There are no happy endings here. Life does not always have a happy ending - for either Immortals or mortals. I wrote this story on Christmas Eve, 1995 and it reflects my mood at the time. Although the story has been edited, revised, and re-written several times, only three 'incidents' were added after the initial marathon write of that night. I finished the first draft of this story about 5AM on Christmas morning.
The use of the song lyrics in here was completely unplanned. I had the television on a Christmas concert while writing. The words of LET THERE BE PEACE ON EARTH seemed to fit so well with what I was doing and what Duncan was feeling, I had to use it. It was one of those strange cosmic occurrences.
CREDITS AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:
I want to thank all the people who edited "Their Spirits Live On" and helped me with suggestions and technical advice. Those people are: Michele M, Todd A, Russet M, Helen K, Sonja E.
Their Spirits Live On
By: Desertgal
Copyright 1996
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Duncan MacLeod closed his book and placed it on the table. He couldn't concentrate and had been reading the same passage over and over for the last half hour. It was Christmas Eve and he was alone. Being alone wasn't unusual for him, but this year the holiday season seemed lonelier than any he had experienced in his whole long life.
MacLeod touched one of the speed-dial buttons on his phone. After several rings he again heard Connor's machine and he hung up without leaving another message. Connor often traveled, so Duncan wasn't really surprised when he got no response, but tonight Duncan wanted to talk to a friend and his elder kinsman had come to mind.
Picking up his personal phone directory to try another number, the letter fell out, landing on the floor. He stared at it, willing it and its message to disappear. As he retrieved the envelope, he studied the French postage stamps. How could such beauty bring such horrible news?
After Paolo's brother was arrested, Ceirdwyn had taken young Paolo under her wing. Duncan smiled to think of how maternal the Celtic warrior had become. She told him Paolo had resisted her attempts to help him at first, but they both needed someone and soon had a growing friendship. The child filled an empty spot in her heart and gave her the taste of life she needed to ease the pain of losing her mortal husband.
The letter from Paolo had arrived yesterday. It told how he had gone to Ceirdwyn's house for dinner and found the place in a shambles with broken glass everywhere. There was a large pool of blood at the base of the stairs, and Ceirdwyn had disappeared without a trace. The street smart kid found Duncan's address among Ceirdwyn's things and then cleared out. At the end of the letter Paolo said he was going to leave Paris and live with a distant cousin.
Duncan called Maurice as soon as he got the letter. The Frenchman told him that in the two weeks since Ceirdwyn's disappearance, the police had no clues about what happened. That didn't surprise MacLeod because Immortals were good at covering their tracks. But Duncan knew what it meant. If Ceirdwyn had taken a head, she would never have left the mess in her house for Paolo to find and she wouldn't have had to disappear. His friend was dead, and her Quickening had been taken.
MacLeod thumbed through the worn pages of the directory. He had tried finding Amanda off and on for several weeks with no success. He glanced at her trunk sitting against the wall and wondered why she had not called him. When she had left after the incident with Killian she told him she would send for her things when she got settled. Trying a couple of the numbers with no success, he threw the book on the table, picked up his coat and sword and headed out into the night.
The air was calm and cool, but not bitingly cold. MacLeod headed down the almost empty street with no destination in mind. He was startled when a young couple bumped into him as they rushed past. They ran up the steps of a Catholic church and as they opened the doors, MacLeod heard the uplifting sounds of a chant being sung.
MacLeod's eyes rested on the cross at the front of the church. He could still feel the scorched cross from the end of Paul's rosary in his hand. It had been less than a year since his friend, Brother Paul, and his choir of monks had come to the city for a performance at Vanderbilt Hall. MacLeod had met the friendly monk in Europe around the middle of the seventeenth century and was quite surprised he had ventured off holy ground for the singing engagement.
Paul was dead, killed by Kalas out of revenge and hatred. MacLeod shook his head to rid himself of the unhappy memory of Kalas, an Immortal who had so drastically changed his life. He left the church and the memories.
MacLeod had been walking about ten minutes when he realized it had begun to snow. Pausing to watch the snowfall that was a rarity in Seattle, MacLeod thought of the battlefield during the Napoleonic wars where he had first met Darius. The former warrior, who became a priest, had made MacLeod see that the wars of mortal man were not really something he should join. For the most part after his year with Darius, MacLeod had avoided getting directly involved in fighting mortal conflicts. There was no question his friendship with Darius had changed MacLeod forever.
Darius was dead now, killed on holy ground, in his own church, by mortals. He should have been safe. Instead, his two-thousand years of wisdom and knowledge were lost forever. MacLeod looked up into the snow and spoke softly. "You were so wise and you taught me so much. You weren't supposed to die."
MacLeod walked on.
The men who beheaded Darius were Watchers. No, Joe would tell him, not Watchers, Hunters. The radical splinter group of the ancient Watcher organization felt all Immortals were an inhuman evil that must be eradicated. But MacLeod knew they were wrong. His life might be longer, but it was no less human than the Hunters who wanted to kill him. He laughed and cried, felt joy and pain, made love and war, and had friends and enemies just like the next man.
Even though MacLeod had killed Horton, the leader of the Hunters, he wasn't convinced that was the end of them. Horton had threatened that if he was killed, others would come to continue what he had begun. MacLeod glanced over his shoulder. With an Immortal at least he could sense the potential danger. Now he had to think about mortals also coming after his head.
Several more minutes of aimless walking brought MacLeod into a more lively section of town. He heard a raucous Christmas celebration going on inside a tavern. With sudden recognition, MacLeod realized he was outside "Joe's" bar. Only it wasn't "Joe's" anymore. The neon sign on the side of the building now said "The Blue Banjo". MacLeod wondered when Joe had sold out. Was he even still in the city? Had he asked to be re-assigned to another region to watch another Immortal?
Joe and MacLeod had become tentative friends after the incident with the Hunters. In the succeeding two years their friendship grew and they defied all the rules that said Watchers and Immortals could not be friends. But the arrival of an Immortal named Cord, a man to whom Joe owed his life, ultimately ended MacLeod's friendship with the Watcher. Joe had pleaded with MacLeod to let Cord live and that moment of compassion allowed Cord to kill Charlie DeSalvo.
During the time MacLeod and Charlie worked together in the dojo, Charlie began to realize there was something different about MacLeod. Now, MacLeod wondered if not telling Charlie about his immortality had cost the mortal his life. Even in the last days, MacLeod had not explained to Charlie why he couldn't kill Cord and why he shouldn't try. Maybe if MacLeod had said something sooner, he could have saved Charlie.
MacLeod walked away from this place where one friend died in his arms and another friendship was irrevocably broken. Amanda had tried to get him to reconcile with Joe, but it just hadn't been possible. After their one meeting in the bar, they agreed the separation was best and had no more contact. Under the circumstances, MacLeod understood why Joe left without even saying good-bye. This was another friendship lost because of his immortality.
MacLeod looked around trying to spot his Watcher but saw no one. That really didn't surprise him because they were good at hiding. MacLeod sighed. It was a night to be home with your family so maybe the Watcher was taking the night off.
The image of a family gathered around a Christmas tree made MacLeod think again why he was wandering the snowy streets. In his four-hundred years of life he had spent other Christmases alone, but more often he was with friends, sometimes other Immortals and sometimes mortals. The holiday celebration had changed throughout the centuries, but the feeling of love and companionship with friends was an eternal constant. This Christmas those feelings were missing. He was completely alone.
As he waited on the crosswalk light to change, MacLeod heard "The First Noel" coming from the radio of a car stopped at the intersection. Noel. That was her name, Tessa Noel. He and Tessa had lived together over thirteen years and those were some of the happiest he'd spent with any woman, mortal or Immortal. MacLeod almost smiled as he remembered Tessa's consternation at his ability to find perfect gifts for her. She never felt that what she gave him was good enough, but just being with her was a gift in itself. He treasured every Christmas, every moment, he had with her.
A stab of pain like being impaled on a sword gripped MacLeod. Tessa had been dead for almost two years but it felt like only yesterday that he had found her on the street, shot to death by a crazed junky. She would not have been in that neighborhood and become a victim of the random violence if she had not been kidnapped by a Hunter to be used as bait to draw MacLeod into a trap. Ultimately, it was his immortality that had caused her to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and she died because of it.
MacLeod closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. In his mind he saw Tessa when he first told her of his immortality. Instead of being frightened, she was concerned about how lonely he was because everyone around him died while he continued to live. The tears came unbidden and rolled down his cheeks. Several moments passed before MacLeod wiped his face with his hands and walked on.
The snow was getting heavier and a brisk wind was driving the icy flakes into his still moist skin. MacLeod decided it was time to return home but when he turned a corner, he found himself face to face with a scene that again stirred painful memories.
A flame burned and sputtered in an open barrel and several people stood around it trying to keep warm. During his lifetime, MacLeod had sat beside many campfires to ward off the chill of night, but as he stared into the flames he remembered sitting in front of a fire with Mei-Ling Chen.
Mei-Ling had been a teacher and very good friend. The news of her death had caused MacLeod to walk away from his life with the sword for a short period of meditation. But the pain of another companion dead stayed with him. Mei-Ling was not killed in battle. She had been unable to defend herself and her loss burned deeper because she was killed due to the direct interference by a mortal, one of the Watchers.
MacLeod backed away from the disturbing memory and stumbled against the large plate glass window of a motorcycle dealership. When he turned and saw the display of bikes inside, he immediately thought of Richie, the young, rambunctious Immortal he had taken in and trained. MacLeod had last seen his friend on Thanksgiving. They had spent the whole day together, training in the morning, eating a large dinner in the loft, then talking late into the night about women, life, women, immortality, women, bikes, women, death, and women. Richie's hormones always seemed to keep his mind on members of the opposite sex.
A fierce anger swelled in MacLeod's chest as he thought of one particular woman. Felicia Martins had been waiting for Richie to return home that night. MacLeod always wanted to believe that Richie had put up a good fight, but he couldn't help wondering if his own reluctance about killing women had tainted Richie's resolve to defend himself against the female Immortal. MacLeod placed his hand on a poster in the window. It was of a souped up Harley, the kind of bike Richie had talked about owning someday. "I miss you my young friend.". . . . . . . .
.
. . . . . . . .The searing memory of his last meeting with Felicia tore through MacLeod's brain. She had come to the empty dojo around noon on the day after Thanksgiving. When MacLeod sensed another Immortal he stopped his kata and turned expecting to see Richie. The sight that greeted him chilled him to the core of his soul.
"Well, Highlander," Felicia snarled and tossed Richie's rapier at MacLeod's feet, "your pup gave me a little jolt but his head was hardly worth taking."
"What have you done?" MacLeod asked as he picked up the Spanish sword.
As she unsheathed her own weapon, the cat-like woman grinned. "I did the same thing I always do. I cut away a man's support and watch him crumble. No Richie, no Amanda, not even that mortal, Tessa, is with you any longer. You're alone now, Highlander and I'm going to take your head."
MacLeod's mind was reeling and he barely managed to block Felicia's first blow. Richie can't be dead, he thought. I saw him just last night. Though MacLeod's mind wasn't on the battle, his reflexes and natural skill kept Felicia at a distance, but she was gaining the advantage. A solid strike that opened a bloody gash in his side brought MacLeod out of his fog.
Felicia sensed the change in MacLeod. He was now fighting like a demon possessed. There was no question the man was good, but she knew she could take him. She'd done it before with larger and stronger opponents. Felicia saw the move coming that MacLeod had used against her before, and blocked it expertly. "That won't work a second time, MacLeod. I wasn't born yesterday."
"Maybe you weren't, but neither was I," MacLeod said as he locked his sword hilt against hers. With a swift upward pull, the weapon came out of her hand and flew across the room. MacLeod raised the rapier for the killing strike at her neck.
Felicia did a back-flip and ran towards the door. "Another time, MacLeod." With a glance at her sword and coat left on the floor, she slipped away.
MacLeod followed but stopped at the top of the landing when he saw her rush into a group of boisterous young men who were passing. She turned and smiled cunningly. "Thanks for the party, MacLeod. I'll be back." She said something to the young man who was holding her and they stopped as she walked back to stand at the bottom of the dojo steps. "I didn't get a chance to tell you earlier, but you won't be seeing Amanda again either."
Glancing at the group of mortals just a few feet away, MacLeod hissed his question in a loud whisper. "Did you kill her too?"
"No, but I know who did."
MacLeod started down the steps.
"Not in front of mortals, Macleod." Felicia ran back to the waiting young men and disappeared around the corner. . . . . . . . .
.
. . . . . . . .MacLeod let his hand drop from the glass. "Woman or not, if she ever crosses my path again I will take her head. That's a promise, Richie. Against my better judgment I let her live because you asked me to, and now you've paid the ultimate price." He took several deep breaths to control his emotions and walked on into the silent night.
As he continued on his solitary path, it wasn't visions of sugar-plums that danced in MacLeod's head, but visions of Amanda. He didn't know if Felicia had told the truth about her, but he was concerned at her absence. Sometimes he didn't hear from Amanda for decades, but in recent years she had been with him frequently and to suddenly disappear seemed odd.
Amanda had been a thorn in his side for almost as long as he had been Immortal. He didn't know why they were such good friends since she usually managed to get him in trouble, but Amanda always seemed to be there for him when he needed comfort. She could make him laugh when there wasn't much to laugh about. In an odd sort of way he knew they loved each other.
MacLeod stopped and stared at a child's snowman standing silent sentinel in a yard. The pipe stuck into the misshapen face of the statue of snow was just like the one Fitz smoked. Hugh Fitzcarin had been one of MacLeod's best friends and every time they were together, except the last, had been good times. MacLeod shut his eyes against the memory of Kalas taking Fitz's head. The one-on-one rule meant all MacLeod could do was stand by silently and watch his friend be killed.
The pent-up rage released itself as MacLeod slammed his fist into the mid-section of the snowman. Its head teetered for a moment, and then fell to the ground. MacLeod sank to his knees in the snow and then sat back on his heels. He looked at the snowman's head, shut his eyes, then threw his own head back and screamed, "No!" in an animal-like, primal voice. He didn't move for almost a minute.
When MacLeod finally opened his eyes, his gaze fell on the decapitated snowman. "Now you've started beheading defenseless snowmen," he mumbled to himself. "What does that say about you, Highlander?"
As MacLeod began trying to repair the damage he'd done and replace the head, he heard a woman's voice. "Are you all right mister?"
MacLeod saw a young Native American woman standing behind him with a blanket drawn around her shoulders. A boy of about six peaked out from behind her legs. In the dim light coming from the open door of the house, they looked a lot like Little Deer and Kahani.
It had been over a hundred and twenty years since his adopted family was massacred, but he still felt their loss. MacLeod had been at peace for the first time he could remember while living with the Lakota Sioux tribe. He was out of the Game, and he and Little Deer were happy together. Her son was the child MacLeod knew he could never have, and he loved the boy as his own. They had been killed and he had been unable to do anything to stop it.
"Mister, I heard you scream. Are you all right?"
The woman's voice brought MacLeod back to the present. "Yeah, yeah, I'm okay." MacLeod struggled to his feet, lifting the head at the same time. "Mr. Snowman here just had a little accident." He put the head in place, and then arranged the eyes, nose, and mouth. As he picked up the pipe and pushed it into the snow, he said quietly, "Good-bye, old friend."
"What did you say?" the woman asked.
MacLeod grinned at the boy who continued to stare silently from his hiding place. "I just said, 'Now you're okay, old friend.' He is your friend, isn't he?" he asked the child.
The little boy nodded and clutched his mother's leg tighter.
"Merry Christmas," MacLeod said, as he started down the street. After walking several more blocks, MacLeod felt the cold start to seep into his bones and he looked around for a place to get warm. Most businesses were closing early tonight, but he saw a tavern up ahead that still had its lights on.
He went inside, sat at the counter and ordered a drink. While waiting to be served, Duncan watched a group of young college age men laughing and joking. When one of them threw a can of beer at another, Duncan remembered the first time he met Adam Pierson. The man, a Watcher, was also the five-thousand year old Immortal, Methos.
The package arrived on Halloween and Duncan knew Kenny planned the timing intentionally. Inside was Methos' completely clean Ivanhoe sword and a note from the eight-hundred year old Immortal who was stuck in a ten year old body. The note said: 'Trick or treat, MacLeod. I have been taking all kinds of "treats" since I left you. Imagine my surprise when I found out Adam was a friend of yours. Adam was so trusting, and always had those headphones over his ears. He was easy. Kenny'
MacLeod had only known Methos for a short time, but they had become good friends. For him to have died at the hands of that conniving little bastard was obscene. Duncan turned away from the sight of the young men as the bartender placed the shot glass on the bar.
The man walked away, and MacLeod took a swallow of his drink. He knew immediately it wasn't the single malt he had ordered. It was a good, though not great, French cognac. MacLeod swirled the glass and remembered the last time he'd seen his friend, Segur.
MacLeod hadn't been much over a hundred when the two of them were last together. They had just buried a friend, a man MacLeod had known from his birth until he was old and gray, and the death was pressing in on MacLeod. Segur told him the loss of the people close to them was the price they paid for their immortality.
MacLeod stared into his glass and spoke to himself. "Segur, old friend, you told me I'd have a long time to get used to losing people. Well, it's been another three-hundred years and it hurts just as bad now as it did the first time."
As he swallowed the last of his drink, MacLeod shut his eyes against the memory of the bottle of cognac Richie and he had shared. When Segur gave it to him he said it was the finest cognac in all of France and they would drink it together. But Segur hadn't returned from his battle with Martin Hyde. And now they were both gone, the old friend and the new friend, and MacLeod was drinking alone. He got up and almost ran from the tavern. Once outside he drew in a long, deep breath of the cold air.
MacLeod started across the street without looking. The sound of a bus horn caused him to jump back onto the sidewalk. As the vehicle passed within inches of him, he glanced at the billboard on its side. On one end was a picture of two identical young women and on the other end was a picture of two identical young men. In the middle it said "Double Your Pleasure, Double Your Fun with DoubleMint Gum".
Doubles, two that are the same, yet different, two sides to the same coin. The two faces of MacLeod's good friend Michael Moore and his evil alter ego, Quentin Barnes leaped into MacLeod's mind like the twins on the billboard. As he watched the bus disappear into the night, MacLeod remembered the last time he had seen his friend.
Michael was dead now...killed by MacLeod's own hand. MacLeod had promised Michael he would stop Quentin Barnes and he had kept that promise but he would forever live with the sight of Michael dead at his feet. Facing the death of a friend was always difficult, but to kill a friend caused a deep pain that never disappeared.
MacLeod knew the pain all too well, for there had been others. The image of Brian Cullen, the way he had been before the drugs, came into focus for a moment. The deaths of Gabriel Piton and Tommy Sullivan had also been hard. Even though the men had changed, MacLeod still considered them friends and felt their loss. Killing someone evil like a Kern or a Kalas was easier than taking the life of someone you knew for centuries and called friend.
Shaking off this latest memory, MacLeod decided to head back to his loft when he felt another Immortal. Looking around, he located the man coming out of the park. They soon stood face to face under a street lamp. "I'm Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod. I have no fight with you tonight."
The other man held up his hands to show he bore no weapon, and then slowly put one of them into his coat pocket. He pulled out a small crystal on a necklace chain and held it so the light reflected off the stone. "My name is Pierre LaSalle, and I think you'll recognize this."
MacLeod put his hand on the hilt of his sword. "That belongs to Amanda." Even though he knew the answer, MacLeod had to ask, "How did you get it?"
LaSalle placed the crystal back into his pocket as he pulled his sword. "She didn't let go of it without a fight, I'll tell you that. Her Quickening was quite powerful – for a woman."
MacLeod had the katana out and blocked the first move made by his opponent. The two men circled warily, exchanging blows faster than the eye could follow, with neither man gaining any advantage. MacLeod thought about how he'd never see Amanda's mischievous smile again, and attacked with a renewed vigor. His relentless advance pushed the man back into the darkened park.
MacLeod's blade struck home against LaSalle's upper thigh, opening a large wound. MacLeod ducked and rolled just as the other man's sword swished through the air where his head had been. MacLeod was back on his feet quickly and raised the katana to strike at his opponent's neck. LaSalle twisted to the side and partially blocked the swing so the katana only sliced his arm from shoulder to wrist. The force of the blow knocked LaSalle to his knees, but he kept a grip on his sword. He held it in both hands with the point upwards staring into the face of the man above him.
MacLeod advanced again and swung. LaSalle thrust upwards with his sword, but his attempt at stopping the blow fell short of its mark. Just before MacLeod brought the katana down, removing LaSalle's head from his body, the other man's sword impaled MacLeod's chest.
MacLeod stared at LaSalle's sword, and then pulled it out of his body as the Quickening struck him with its full intensity. Several of the street lights burst, some of the trees in the park caught fire, and the Christmas lights strung along the park buildings popped one at a time. Finally all was still as the energy transfer was complete.
MacLeod searched LaSalle's pockets until he found Amanda's necklace, placed it in his own pocket and staggered to his feet. MacLeod knew the wound in his chest was bad, probably fatal, and he didn't want to be in the park, dead or alive, when the police showed up. He made his way into an alley a few blocks away before he collapsed into some empty boxes and died.
%%%
"Hey, Sammy, look here."
"What?"
"There's a guy in the alley."
"So. There's always some drunk passed out along here. You're supposed to be looking for a house to knock off. We need something to sell really bad."
"But Sammy, this guy's not a drunk. See those clothes and that watch. He's a rich dude."
Sammy stopped and looked at the man lying among the boxes. He pulled his gun from his belt, and then kicked the man's foot. When nothing happened, he motioned to his younger brother. "You get his wallet and watch. See if he has any rings, too."
Billy opened the man's coat then stepped back in surprise.
"What's wrong now," Sammy snarled.
"Look...look at that."
Sammy moved so he could see better and saw the dim light reflect off from a sword.
"What is it?" Billy asked.
"It's a sword, stupid. Don't you know anything?" Sammy used his gun as a pointer. "Take it too. We should be able to get a few dollars for it."
Just as Billy leaned over the still form again, MacLeod took a deep breath and opened his eyes. He reached up and put his hand around the boy's neck. "I don't think you want to do that."
"Let go of my brother!" Sammy shouted.
MacLeod looked around the boy he held, who couldn't be more than ten, and saw a boy of about fourteen pointing a gun at him. "You two just leave me alone and no one will get hurt."
Billy struggled in MacLeod's grasp.
"Let him go I said!" Sammy waved the gun defiantly.
MacLeod released the boy, and started to get up.
Billy backed away and stood behind Sammy. "What are we going to do?"
"I think we're still going to take this dude's money."
MacLeod hadn't made it all the way to his feet when the three bullets tore into his body. His reflexes caused him to grasp the hilt of his sword just before he fell back against the wall.
Billy screamed, "Why did you do that?"
"I don't know!" Sammy was scared now. As he stuffed the gun into his belt he heard sirens in the distance. "Grab his wallet and let's go."
Billy did as he was told then followed his brother out of the alley and down the street.
%%%
MacLeod awoke in a cold, smelly place. He was naked and his body was covered with a sheet. He recognized a morgue instantly. Listening carefully, he decided there was no one in the room, and pulled the sheet off his head and sat up. Fortunately, he was on an exam table and not in a body locker. He scanned the room for any kind of clothing but didn't see anything useful. Wrapping the sheet around himself, he went to the door and looked out. He saw no one in the hall, so he left as quietly as he could.
Once in the hall MacLeod knew where he was because it hadn't been that long ago he had helped Michelle escape from this same morgue. MacLeod slipped into the linen supply room and found some physician's scrubs that fit him. In another supply room he found some paper footies and a mask.
Listening at the door, MacLeod heard no one outside. He went into the hall and started towards the staircase. He was thinking about how he could find out about his sword and other things when the elevator door opened. MacLeod quickened his pace, but stopped dead in his tracks when he heard a woman's voice.
"Doctor, are you lost? The surgery wing is the other way."
He turned to face the woman, pulled down his mask and smiled. "No, I'm not lost."
"Duncan!" Anne exclaimed as she rushed to where he stood. "What are you doing here?"
Tilting his head towards the morgue, he said, "I died."
Even though she knew the facts about Immortality, Anne was still somewhat in awe of a man who kept coming back from the dead. "So that's why you're dressed like that." Anne forced a smile as she examined his clothing. "You're going to become another missing body from this hospital, aren't you?"
MacLeod shrugged sheepishly. "Yeah. Can we go somewhere and talk?"
"Sure. I just got off duty and was going to check some things about one I lost tonight before heading home." Anne led Duncan to the doctor's lounge, but found it occupied. "Come on, let's go to the chapel."
As they waited on the elevator, Anne looked at the man standing next to her. "I wonder why I didn't see you come in."
"I imagine I was DOA and they brought me directly down here."
"What happened to you?"
Before MacLeod could answer the elevator opened and they stepped inside.
"Wait! Hold the door!" a nurse shouted as she ran to catch the elevator before it started up.
Because of the other passenger, they rode in silence to the first floor. The chapel was deserted at this hour and they took seats near the back. For several seconds the only sound was the Christmas music playing quietly through the sound system of the hospital. Finally, Anne said, "Well, I'm waiting."
"For what?"
"You said you wanted to talk."
MacLeod had only meant to ask for Anne's help in getting his clothes and sword, but now, sitting next to her in this place of sanctuary, he couldn't seem to focus on that.
"Tell me how you ended up in the morgue," Anne asked gently.
Pulling the mask off his head and running his fingers through his loose hair, MacLeod explained, "The last thing I remember was being shot by a street punk who wanted to take my wallet."
"So you were mugged."
"Yeah, I guess so."
Anne studied the haggard look on the face she knew so well. "There's more to it than that, isn't there? A street punk could never get the better of you under normal circumstances."
Duncan steepled his fingers under his chin and stared at the altar in front of the chapel. A recording of a children's choir began to play and the words of the song haunted Duncan...
Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me.
"Christmas is a time for peace, joy, and goodwill to your fellow man," he said.
"Yes," Anne agreed quietly.
The song played softly in the background...
With God as my Father, brothers all are we.
"I collapsed in that alley because I'd been run through with a sword earlier tonight."
"An Immortal came after you?"
The words of the song mingled with Duncan's story...
Let me walk with my brother in perfect harmony.
"One of my kind, a brother if you will, tried to take my head."
The song continued...
Take each moment and live each moment in peace eternally.
"I am Immortal. I have eternal life but at what price? Everyone around me dies."
The song ended...
Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me.
"I killed a man tonight. What kind of peace is that?"
Anne placed her hand on Duncan's arm and wished she could see his face, but he continued to stare straight ahead. "You do what you have to do to survive."
For several seconds he didn't move as memories of so many dead friends, so much death and killing crowded his mind. "But does that make the killing right?"
This didn't sound like the Duncan Anne knew. He'd lived by the sword all his life and the death of one Immortal shouldn't affect him like this. "What made this guy different?"
MacLeod didn't answer right away and was grateful Anne didn't press. Finally he spoke quietly. "He boasted that he had killed Amanda."
Anne drew in a sharp breath. She had become friends with the brash Immortal and enjoyed her frequent visits. "Do you think it's true?"
Almost inaudibly, he said, "Yes." MacLeod turned to face Anne. "I heard about a month ago that Amanda might be dead and I've tried to contact her every way I could think of with no results."
"But don't you Immortals often disappear?"
"We do," Duncan reached for his coat pocket then realized he was still dressed in hospital greens, "but he had her necklace and Amanda never would have parted with it willingly."
MacLeod dropped his head into his hands. After several seconds he continued, "I've seen a lot of people die in my life, and I've killed many of them myself. I felt justified in taking LaSalle's head tonight, but what gives me the right to be judge, jury and executioner?"
"But isn't that what the Game is all about? There can be only one?"
"Yeah, but I've walked away from it before. The senseless, mindless killing..." Duncan stopped, unable to complete the thought.
Anne watched the man seated beside her for a few seconds and she could almost feel his pain.
"What makes me so different from the kid who shot me in the alley?"
Placing her hand on Duncan's face, Anne said, "You worry about what is right and wrong. You don't take a life easily and you don't kill for sport or gain." When Duncan remained quiet, Anne continued, "The very fact you're talking about this makes you different."
"Does it?" MacLeod asked wearily.
"Yes. You're a good, honest man whose fate puts him into this position. You kill only when you have to and you don't kill mortals."
"But I have, in war and...at other times."
"All right, but your Game, isn't it like a war? It's a fight to the death until only one remains. In war, even good and decent men do things they otherwise wouldn't." Anne paused for a moment and studied Duncan's brooding face. "What would have happened tonight if you hadn't killed LaSalle?"
"He would have taken my head."
"And would that have been better for the world? Would your death, the death of an Immortal who cares about people, both mortals and Immortals, have been better than getting rid of one who doesn't care who he kills?"
When Duncan didn't respond, Anne placed her hand on his arm. "There is more to this than the one death, isn't there?"
He turned to face her. Duncan felt good talking to Anne. She knew what he was, so he didn't have to hide his true feelings, but Duncan also knew it couldn't last. She hadn't been able to deal with all that his Immortality meant. "For some reason, tonight I can't escape the memories. There have been so many people I've lost, so many I've killed. Everyone close to me dies or leaves."
Anne knew she was one of those guilty of hurting him. She had given him hope of being a father to her child, and then she left him. When Duncan had explained what his life was like Anne thought she would be able to adjust, but seeing him kill and wanting him to kill had been harder than she realized.
"The one constant in my life is death, kill or be killed. But the price I pay for the life I lead is being alone. You would think after all these years I would be used to it, but it still hurts just as much now to lose a friend as it did the first time."
"Memories are a part of the healing process everybody goes through when they lose someone close. You need to let yourself grieve, Duncan. You keep too many things bottled up inside and try to tell yourself the death that is so much a part of your life is normal. It's not normal, not even for you." Not knowing what more to say, Anne put her arms around Duncan and held him close.
After several minutes Duncan said, "You didn't have to hit me."
Anne placed her hand on her very large abdomen. "I didn't hit you, she kicked."
Putting his hand beside Anne's, Duncan felt the baby gently moving. "Does she do that often?"
"Sometimes more than others."
The tension now broken, Duncan looked down at his flimsy attire. "I don't suppose you could find my sword, clothes and other things, do you?"
Grinning, Anne said, "I'll see what I can do."
It was almost an hour later when Anne returned and she found Duncan asleep. She looked into the serene face and wished she didn't have to wake him. "You really are a man of peace, Duncan MacLeod," she whispered. Anne pulled the sword out of the bundle of clothing and examined it in the dim light of the chapel. "But your lifestyle won't let you live that life of peace." Anne shuddered involuntarily at the sight of the dried blood and bits of flesh on the blade. She was a doctor and saw such things every day, but thinking about how she was holding a weapon that had killed so many unnerved her.
She touched Duncan's arm. "Wake up, sleepy head."
MacLeod opened his eyes and was momentarily disorientated. He focused on the sword in Anne's hand and remembered where he was. "You got it."
"Yeah, finally."
"What do you mean?"
"Since you came in as a gunshot victim and because of the blood on this, your things were secured for the police detectives to pick up. However, it seems they are short handed because of the holiday and they haven't arrived yet."
"Lucky for me since this blood would be linked to LaSalle when his body is found. I didn't have time to dispose of it."
Anne paused to reflect on how calmly Duncan talked about the man he'd killed tonight, as if he'd just left him sleeping in the park. She knew Duncan had to kill to survive, but all the death still bothered her. She shook her head ever so slightly to rid it of such thoughts. "I got most of your stuff but I couldn't find your wallet anywhere. That seems really odd because the hospital staff is very good about keeping track of a patient's identification, even one who is DOA."
Duncan stood and took the katana from Anne. "This is what really matters. Don't worry about the wallet. The punks who killed me probably took it."
"But you'll have to replace everything that was in it."
"It's no big deal. I've done it before."
Anne stared at him for a second then turned away. "Yes, I suppose you have."
As Duncan dressed he continued, "Actually, since I didn't have any identification on me when I was brought in, it makes me a John Doe. That means Duncan MacLeod doesn't have to die."
"I guess you're right," Anne agreed. She wrinkled her nose as she looked at the man before her. "You'll make quite a spectacle of yourself if you walk out looking like that."
MacLeod followed her gaze to his very bloody and torn shirt. "True." He picked up his coat. "This isn't too bad and should hide most of the evidence." He began to put it on when he felt Anne's hand on his arm.
"Can you stay and talk?"
"Why?"
"I've missed you, and even if I can't be a part of your life, you are my friend." She paused. "And tonight I think you need a friend."
MacLeod did feel the need to talk, but long years of life had made him draw into himself when he was hurting. Tonight's walk was supposed to be a time to allow him to forget the painful memories that haunted him in the loft, but it had only accentuated them. He felt worse now than when he'd started out so many hours before.
"I suppose I can stay for a while."
Duncan and Anne sat in the chapel for a couple hours talking about the things they had done since they had separated. Anne told him of her plans for the baby and how she would arrange her schedule to mesh her life as a single parent and an emergency room doctor. MacLeod told Anne some of the things that had happened since she had left Paris. He left out most of his battles and temporary deaths, but told her about Richie and Felicia.
"I'll miss Richie, too," Anne agreed. "He was a real comfort to me after I saw you die. The boy cared for you like a father."
"I know. Nurturing a young Immortal is probably as close to being a parent as I'll ever get. I've done..."
"Ohhh!" Anne exclaimed.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing, just a really strong contraction."
"You mean the baby is coming?"
"No, she's not due for another two weeks. I've been having these pains off and on for the last several days, and quite a few today. It's a normal part of pre-labor. That last one was just a little stronger than most."
The two friends had talked for another hour when Anne said, "Well, I think I was wrong."
"Wrong about what?"
"This baby is ready to be born."
"How can you tell? Are the contractions closer together?"
"They have been getting a little stronger all night, but the reason I'm sure now is because my water just broke." Anne tried to stand, but was hit with another strong contraction as she moved.
Duncan jumped up. "What can I do?"
"Go get a nurse and have her bring a wheelchair for me."
MacLeod started out the door, then remembered his bloody clothes and grabbed his coat. He returned in a few minutes with a floor nurse.
"Hello, Dr. Lindsey, I didn't know you were in here."
Anne smiled weakly, "I think I'm about to have my baby – just a little early."
The nurse helped Anne into the chair and wheeled her to the elevator.
MacLeod followed behind. As the doors opened, he grasped Anne's hand. "I better be going now. Thanks for the talk." A brief smile touched his lips. "It helped." He didn't want to leave her, to be alone again, but knew it was time. Sharing the life of this child was something Anne had taken away from him months ago in Paris.
Anne looked into MacLeod's eyes and tried to judge how he was feeling. "Do you want to stay with me during the delivery?"
Looking at the impatient nurse who was holding the doors, MacLeod stammered, "I'm not sure if I should."
Another contraction caused Anne to catch her breath and double over in pain.
"Well, hurry up and make up your mind, mister," the nurse said. "This woman is about to have a baby."
MacLeod stepped into the elevator and held Anne's hand all the way to the maternity ward. When they gave MacLeod a gown and mask to put on, it simplified his problem of hiding his bloody clothes. As he waited in the anteroom while they prepared Anne for the labor and delivery, he thumbed through a magazine and a picture caught his eye.
It was Grace Chandler, or Isabelle Pontand as the caption stated. MacLeod had not heard from this old friend since she had left Paris a couple years earlier with a new name and the freedom to start a new life. MacLeod read the article with interest. It discussed the positive direction of Grace's research into the development of an anti-viral vaccine. There was great promise in her work and hope it would lead to a break-though in the search for a way to curb the spread of the HIV virus.
MacLeod's heart sank and his eyes misted over as he came to the end of the article. There he saw a small box edged in black with the following text: 'Doctor Isabelle Pontand was found brutally murdered in her home just two days before we went to press. There are no suspects and the police have no motive and very little evidence. Doctor Pontand's colleagues are attempting to continue her work, but according to her chief assistant, "The doctor's talent was unmatched by anyone on staff. She seemed to have wisdom far beyond her years". Doctor Pontand will be greatly missed by all who knew her.'
MacLeod wanted to believe it was only a temporary death and Grace had voluntarily left her life for another place. But he knew she had no reason to leave her work, especially now that she was making progress. The article didn't say she'd been beheaded, but 'brutally' implied that to him. He stifled the cry that rose in his chest, 'Will this night of loss and memory never end?' He was still clutching the magazine when he realized a nurse was calling.
Following the woman into the delivery room, MacLeod couldn't help remembering the first time he'd seen Grace. It had also been the first time he'd seen a baby born. Things had changed a lot in 330 years, yet some things remained the same. Anne looked very uncomfortable as she paced the floor. "Are you all right, Anne?"
She stopped. "I'm fine...ohhhh... I just feel like I'm being torn in the middle."
"Well, it has been said that women are the stronger sex and if it were left up to men to have the babies, the human race would soon die out because we can't stand the pain."
Anne smiled. This man had been stabbed and shot tonight, he'd died at least once and probably twice, and he was telling her men couldn't take pain. "I don't think that is true of all men."
Before Duncan could say anything more a nurse came in to check on Anne's condition. All the monitoring and frequent interruptions made having a meaningful conversation impossible so he and Anne just made small talk for the next couple of hours until it was finally time for the delivery. MacLeod watched the miracle of birth happening. A new life was brought into the world, on Christmas day.
The tiny little girl screamed at the top of her lungs and everyone felt that even though she was slightly premature, she would be a healthy child. The baby was placed on Anne's chest while they waited for the delivery of the placenta. Duncan caressed the baby's tiny hand with his, looked down at Anne's sweat drenched face and said, "She's beautiful, just like you."
Anne was too weak to say anything so she just smiled.
When the baby was taken away to be examined and bathed, Duncan asked, "What are you going to name her?"
"Debra Anne, after my grandmother."
"Debra, that's a pretty name." Duncan looked over to where the baby was being weighed and measured but he didn't see that activity. Instead, he saw a lovely red-headed lass named Debra Campbell. She had been dead since 1618 but he could still hear her voice and feel her touch. Two people died because of his love for Debra. If he hadn't been so stubborn in wanting to leave the village after he had killed Robert, maybe Debra wouldn't have died. They wouldn't have been arguing and she wouldn't have fallen from the cliff. Duncan's mind returned to the present as he realized Anne was still talking.
"... named after her too. She's the one who encouraged me to pursue my dream of being a doctor."
The nurse brought the baby back and gave her to Anne. "She sure has a lot of pretty red hair."
"She got that from her father," Anne said.
The nurse glanced up at Duncan's long black hair and raised an eyebrow slightly. She patted Anne on the hand and said, "You get some rest now, honey."
As the nurse walked away Duncan and Anne exchanged a look and they both giggled. "She doesn't know I'm not exactly the fathering type."
"I'm not so sure. Creating a child isn't necessarily what makes one a good father. Would you like to hold her?"
"I...I don't know if I should." Duncan felt a pang of loss he didn't want Anne to see. For a very short time he had thought he would finally have a family with this child, but Anne's decision to leave him made that impossible. Even though he understood her reasons, it still hurt.
Anne saw the pain in Duncan's face and realized she was the cause of it. It had been selfish of her to ask him to stay with her during the birth of her baby. She wanted to share the experience with him because she really did care for him, but now knew it had been wrong. She thought of the sword he carried under his coat and knew nothing had changed. She still couldn't live with the killing.
"I'm sorry, Duncan. I shouldn't have put you through this. I know it must be..."
"I'm here because I want to be, Anne." Duncan reached out and picked up Debra. Cradling the infant against his chest he looked into her face. "The birth of a baby is what gives mankind a future. Children are the hope of the human race because within them is the hope that the new generation will make the world a better place." Gently rocking the child who would never be his, Duncan knew that hope was for the mortals of the world. For him, and all Immortals, there was only more death, darkness and killing.
"You've seen a lot of changes in your lifetime, haven't you?"
Duncan sighed. "Changes yes, but some things never seem to change." He placed Debra into Anne's arms. "Last night I took a life. Today you gave one back." Duncan watched as Anne caressed the baby. He knew the reason he was staying here was because he didn't want to be alone. But it was time to move on. Duncan bent over Anne and whispered, "I have to go now. Thank you for the conversation and for letting me share in the birth of this new little person." He kissed Anne gently on the cheek and then stood up. "Maybe someday we can talk again."
"When?"
"I think I'll come to her college graduation." He tilted his head slightly and smiled, "or maybe medical school."
Understanding this was his way of saying good-bye and telling her he was going to stay out of her life, Anne grasped his hand. "You're a good man, Duncan MacLeod. If you live to be a thousand, don't you ever forget it."
MacLeod gave her a little squeeze, and turned to leave. He placed his hand in his coat pocket and felt Amanda's necklace. Pulling it out, he returned to Anne's bed. "I'd like you to keep this. I think Amanda would want it worn by someone she called friend."
"Oh, Duncan, I couldn't. You knew her for so much longer than I did, you should keep it."
"No." Duncan placed the necklace around Anne's neck. "I have other ways to remember Amanda. I want you to keep this."
Anne touched the sparkling crystal. "This will be my memory stone as it will always remind me of both of you."
The smile faded from MacLeod's face as he turned and left the hospital room. He called a cab and rode in silence back to his loft. It was Christmas morning and the world would soon be alive with the holiday spirit. During the ride home, MacLeod made a decision.
Entering his loft, he pulled out his computer and sent an email message to the Realtor who had recently sold him the Edgar Estate. He asked her to sell it and the dojo. The proceeds were to be put into a bank account he provided in the message.
Next MacLeod sent another email message to his attorney. This man had been engaged many years ago to take care of MacLeod's estate in the event of his death. The message told the lawyer that circumstances made it imperative that MacLeod liquidate all his holdings in the Seattle area as he wasn't planning to be back for a while. The lawyer already had specific instructions about which things were to be sold and which were to be put into storage. MacLeod also asked the lawyer to set up a trust fund in the name of Debra Anne Lindsey. Even if he couldn't share in the little girl's life, he wanted to help provide for her future.
Shutting down his computer, MacLeod next pulled out his duffel bag. He packed some clothes, his various passports, and made sure he had the permit to carry his sword onto the plane. He called a cab and then picked up his computer and other luggage. With one final look around this place that had been his home for the last couple years, he entered the lift and went to the ground floor.
MacLeod was standing at the bottom of the landing waiting on the cab when the US Postal service truck pulled up. "Hello," the man from the truck said, "I'm looking for Mr. Duncan MacLeod."
"That's me."
"I have a priority mail package for you from a Connor MacLeod." He handed over the thick red, white, and blue envelope, and continued a light-hearted banter. "I guess your family is a little slow about getting things sent for the holidays."
As he wondered where Connor was and what might be in this package, MacLeod absentmindedly said, "Yeah, sometimes we're out of touch for centuries."
"What?" the postman asked with puzzlement in his voice.
MacLeod laughed to cover his slip. "Or at least it seems like it sometimes."
"Well, Merry Christmas, Mr. MacLeod."
"Merry Christmas to you to, and I hope you don't have to work all day."
MacLeod only had a moment to glance at the return address below Connor's name before the cab arrived. It came from a lawyer's office in New York. As he settled in the back seat of the car for the ride to the airport, MacLeod opened the envelope. Most of the contents were contracts, and other legal documents. He found two letters, one from a partner in the law firm and another hand-written one from Connor:
.
"Dear Duncan,
If you are reading this it is because I'm no longer in the Game. I hope you continue to have all the fun and most of the good women for many years to come. I was proud to call you kinsman, and happy to have you as a friend. But we both knew, in the end there could be only one, and I was not destined to be that one. Maybe it will be you. In life we never said good-bye. With this letter I bid you final farewell.
Good-bye my old friend.
Connor MacLeod of the clan MacLeod."
.
The package slid off MacLeod's lap as he shut his eyes and his head fell back against the car seat. He crumpled the letter in his hand and took several slow, deep breaths. He didn't move for a long time. In the last twenty-four hours he had walked into a nightmare of recollections and revelations and he just wanted it all to end.
Connor dead. Amanda dead. Ceirdwyn dead. Methos and Richie too. Learning of so many deaths so close together was more than MacLeod wanted to face. But he knew he had to go on. He knew he would go on. Death was a part of his life and losing friends was a part of that life. He didn't like the killing, but he couldn't change what he was.
His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival at the airport. MacLeod rode the subway out to the International concourse and found the first flight out of the country that he could make. His computer wizardry allowed him to come up with the proper paperwork. It was so easy to manipulate the system with just a little bit of hacking.
Within a very short time MacLeod was on a plane bound for New Zealand. It would be good to spend the cold winter months of the northern hemisphere down where it was warm and summer was just starting. In six months or so when the weather started to change, he would decide what he wanted to do next. But for a while, all MacLeod wanted to do was rest and remember the good times with the friends who were now gone. As hard as it was to go on, he wanted to live for several more centuries so the spirit of those now gone would live on in him.
While talking with Anne, MacLeod had come to realize that even though his physical body heals with amazing speed, the healing of his mind and soul takes much longer. He suspected it would take just as long as it would for a mortal man.
THE END
Author's end notes:
The title is taken from a line Duncan speaks in "Through a Glass, Darkly" written by Alan Swayze. He told Methos at Alexa's grave, "The Navaho have a saying, 'The spirit lives as long as someone who lives remembers you'." The spirits of all those Duncan has lost live on because he continues to survive and he will never forget the joy they brought into his life. May we all find comfort in this thought as we remember those we've lost.
While I do admit the story is sad, even depressing, I did mean there to be a sense of hope to it. Maybe I'm too subtle with it, for none of my editors commented. I intended the birth of Anne's baby to signify that life goes on.