Long Road Home
By Story Slash DM/M
"Bloody hell, don't do ... Oh, I should ... Have you lost your mind?" Methos was completely unable to finish a sentence. He finally turned around and shouted at the fallen Highlander, "I'm leaving before I kill you myself." And stormed back to his car, almost shattering the windows as he violently slammed the door.
The Highlander was still lying dumfounded on the dusty road, staring after the old man. He was completely unable to understand what had happened. The explosion had been unexpected and Duncan simply couldn't defend himself from the furious attack and figure out what had made Methos so furious at the same time.
With a final poisonous look at the Highlander, Methos drove off, still muttering to himself under his breath.
Duncan finally stood up and dusted himself off. He walked over to his Thunderbird and got in, still looking after the retreating dust cloud Methos´ car left behind itself. The Highlander shook his head and started the car.
The car sputtered forward a few feet and then died. He tried to restart the car, but to no avail. Sighing, the Highlander got out of the
Thunderbird opened the hood and looked for the problem. When he found it, he let his head hang for a moment before closing the hood again.
Duncan tried his cell phone. "What the hell. ...Just what I needed," he cursed when the low power warning came up. What good were inventions when they never worked when you needed them the most? Sighing heavily he took his coat, gloves and katana, packed the most important items in his duffel bag, got out and locked the door firmly. This far off normal travel routes, waiting for another car to pass was out of question. Duncan figured he had at least a 20 mile walk on the abandoned road to reach the nearest town.
It was already getting colder on this late winter day. The sun was still shining, although it barely warmed the air.
The road ran in a seemingly endless straight line through the rough country, with its only twist at the horizon where the mountains began.
The brooding Highlander strode firmly ahead. His eyes never wavered from the darkening horizon. As he watched the heavy clouds form, his worst fear was realized as it began to snow.
His Gaelic curses were, in a way, reassuring to the Highlander as he looked for shelter for the long night ahead. About a quarter of a mile ahead he could make out some big rocks and trees. The immortal rushed to them before the snowstorm could increase. He was already shivering violently from the cold. His unfastened long hair at least gave his ears some protection.
In no time he made a shelter of pine needled branches inclining toward a large rock. He retrieved his sleeping bag, took some clothes out of the duffel and used it as pillow. Under another shelter he used all his ancient skills to build a fire with two piece of wood and a stick. The fire slowly came to life, almost went out because of the damp wood, but revived with the help of a page torn from his address book to send its steadying heat to warm the trembling Scot.
Placing his katana by his side, Duncan got into his sleeping bag, silently cursing his stomach as its grumbling reminded him that his last decent meal had been the night before. He focused his tired gaze on the flickering fire and slowly fell asleep.
The Highlander awoke with a gasp of pain when he felt himself pulled by his hair from his shelter. It was still dark, even though the snowstorm had blown itself out and left a peaceful, white landscape behind. He tried to struggle but the sleeping bag hampered his movement and he was soon overwhelmed by men in black leather jackets.
"Look what we have here. If it isn't the owner of that car back there," gasped a hoarse voice from behind Duncan. Its owner slowly came into the Highlander's field of view. The tall, bulky man was a match for Duncan in build, but the resemblance stopped there. An ugly, deep scar crossed the right side of the man's face, including his eye, which, by its white coloring, was blinded.
The Highlander cursed himself for being so careless and for forgetting that while the approach of another immortal would have awoken him, mortals wouldn't have. He observed movements of the leader and the group that held him captive. The scar-faced man gave a short order and Duncan was bound by strong ropes ( by the feel of them, of nylon or something similar), cutting off the circulation in his wrists. Even so his hands were bound in front of him, it would be impossible to move or try to free himself using his mouth, since his elbows were also tied tightly by another rope. He sought in vain for a way to escape.
"Search him," the leader ordered. One skinny man went through Duncan's jeans pockets and another through his coat.
The skinny one held up Duncan's wallet after looking through it and giggled joyfully. "Look at this guy. He has about $5,000 in his wallet."
The men looked greedily the skinny one handed the money and wallet to the leader.
"Duncan MacLeod. Antiques Dealer. Seacouver," said Scar-face with his soft, husky voice, while going through all the papers he found.
The highlander finally got to his feet with less difficulty than his bound hands would have given anyone else and spoke with his calm baritone, "If it's the money you want, you can take ..." Before he could finish the sentence the leader took a handful of the Highlander's hair and kicked his legs out under him, shoving him back to the cold, wet ground.
"I didn't say you could stand up," snarled the suddenly pissed-off leader. He pulled Duncan's face up in a painful angle - which became even more painful when he saw the light of rage in the Highlander's eyes. Neither man turned their eyes away but Duncan could see an unreasonable hatred in the leader's face.
Finally the scar-faced leader let go of him and turned to his men.
"Anything else?"
"No, Al."
Two men hauled Duncan to his feet and followed their leader. The others threw his duffel into the fire but let the rest of his things as they were to avoid leaving evidence behind. And they didn't notice the katana hidden by the sleeping bag beside the rock.
End of part one
Part two
"Where is that child? He should have been back by yesterday at the latest," hissed Methos, while pacing the Highlander's cold loft like a caged animal.
Nothing in Methos´ attitude reminded Joe Dawson of the oldest immortal's usual lazy sprawl. "Calm down. Do you ... do you think he's ...," he couldn't bring himself to end the sentence.
Methos stopped dead in his tracks and whirled. "No! I would have felt it."
"Felt it? Since when would you feel if Mac lost his head in a challenge?" sputtered Joe Dawson, finally getting the words out.
"Trust me I would," answered the old man, while continuing his pacing of the loft. Methos truly believed what he was saying. Since the shared Quickening i Bordeaux, he had felt a connection to the Highlander that, at least for him, was growing stronger every day. "Look Joe, I'll go after MacLeod. You stay here, or at the bar, or whatever... I'll call from time to time to see if Mac has come back." Methos took his coat from the hook and was gone before Joe could say a word.
No sound broke the silence of the long, deserted road Methos was driving on. The blinding white of the snow-capped mountains and snow-covered landscape reminded him all too well why he hated winter. If it wasn't for the Highlander he would have already been in a warmer climate, and not trying to survive another freezing winter, he mused, as he searched the road for any hint of the Highlander's presence - even though he admitted to himself that the chance of finding anything were vanishingly small. MacLeod had never arrived at his hotel two nights before. That left the 20 miles between the place they had parted and the nearest town in this god-forsake part of the country.
Methos felt his heart stop for a second when he saw the bulk by the road - unmistakably a snow covered car. Pulling over to the side of the road, he hurried to the buried car. Clearing as much snow as possible from the windshield, he peered into the Thunderbird. There was no sign of the Highlander. He straggled to the side and struggled to the car door through the snow, only to find that it, as well as the trunk, was locked.
Checking his surroundings, Methos realized that the car was almost precisely in the small spot where he had left the Highlander. The only thing out of the ordinary he could remember between then and now was the heavy snowstorm that had started that afternoon.
Where was Duncan? Methos wondered while looking around. The countryside was mostly flat and the road straight. Knowing the Highlander, Methos was sure he would have continued to the next town - but had the snowstorm caught him in the open? Methos could just imagine the Highlander frozen to death somewhere in the area - and when he found MacLeod Methos swore to himself that the Highlander would pay for scaring him like this. He had had just about enough of MacLeod and his attitude. Thinking he was indestructible - conceited brat that he was. If Methos was in his right mind, he would have left the Boy Scout to his own devices long ago.
The only thing left to try was driving slowly along the road and watching for any sign of MacLeod. Methos got back in his car and drove off. The only possible shelter was the small clump of rocks and trees on the left. It would be just like MacLeod to have marched straight into the storm rather than wait it out in the car.
The old man stopped at the small grove and waded through the knee-deep snow - muttering and cursing in every ancient language he could remember (not one of which was still even remotely in use). Gods! How he hated snow. Bloody Highlander and his "White Christmas". Methos would have much preferred a warm one somewhere in the South Seas. But leaving the Highlander was just a dream.
Reaching the rocks, Methos looked around over the scene. A snow-covered area that looked like it had a fireplace, and, near it, an improvised shelter - also covered in deep snow. He couldn't feel the presence of any immortal and was prepared to find a frozen Highlander in the shelter. Methos struggled through the snow with a new resolve and shoveled the snow away with his hands until he reached the pine-needled branches. With great force he pushed at the branches until they broke away from a layer of ice and snow.
"Bloody hell!" There was no Highlander in the shelter - but there was a sleeping bag. Moving the bag, Methos froze when he saw the katana. Disbelievingly he carefully picked up Duncan's sword. No force on earth could have made Duncan leave the sword behind willingly; therefore something must have happened to him first.
The old man searched the campsite again and even shoveled out the fireplace. All he found was Duncan's coat and the remains of a duffel bag.
"Where are you?" Methos asked the gray clouds forming in the sky.
The soft moaning distracted the woman from her daily task. She felt sorry - in a remote way - for the man hanging by his wrists in the corner. The handsome man had never made a sound during the beating Al had given him during the night. This, of course, only made Al more furious. She knew only too well how her brother loved to hurt and destroy others.
It was amazing how much the dark man could endure and how fast his wounds healed, she mused, as she give him water. The water glass was slapped out of her hand by her brother. "I told you not to touch or feed him."
"If you keep this up, Al, there'll be nothing left to ransom. Considering all the money he had on him, that would be a waste," said the woman, trying to reason with her brother - very carefully.
"That doesn't mean I can't play with this fucking bastard." And, to prove the point, Al threw a knife at the Highlander.
"Al!" cried the short woman when she saw the knife stick in the bound man's side. She rushed to the silent man, but Al shoved her aside and pulled his knife out, pleased at the flinch from MacLeod.
His sister's gasp alerted him and he whirled in time to see sparking blue light swirl around the wound. He watched in disbelief as the cut closed before his eyes.
"It's a fucking freak," shouted one of his men from the doorway, where he had watched the entire scene. Several of the other men pulled the first one aside to find out what was going on.
Totally transfixed the leader approached the bound man carefully and searched his side. There wasn't even a scar on the flesh where the drying blood stood as testimony to what should have been a deep slash. Reflexively he cut the Highlander again with his knife - with the same result.
"What the hell ARE you?" muttered Al, while inflicting another, more savage, cut and fingering his own scar all the while.
"Al, stop it!" cried the woman when she saw the pain cross the bound man's face. Her brother ignored her and cut again, more savagely. "Please!"
"Why doesn't he least fucking scar?" he screamed. "Shut the fuck up Claire." Al rammed his knife into the defenseless Highlander's heart. To his enjoyment the light in the infuriating (and handsome) man's dark eyes faded. Al cut MacLeod down and stepped back to look at the body at his feet
With a sharp inhalation the Highlander came back to life. He could still feel the pain burning through him. His sight was blurry, but it slowly came into focus. He forced himself to look up into the leader's disbelieving face.
The crazy gleam in the other's eyes made MacLeod realize he was caught in the worst nightmare of any immortal - he was a prisoner of a madman who knew his secret.
End of part two
Long Road Home 3
Part 3
Methos had systematically searched the rough countryside but there was no sign of the Highlander. He ran his hand through his short hair pacing Duncan's loft again. Dawson had discreetly sent some men out in search of the Highlander and if any Immortal was nearby.
It was almost midnight when Methos left the loft with a sigh of pure frustration. He would search the countryside again and if he had to turn each stone in the way. It was just like the Highlander to vanish in a snow-covered, abandoned road.
Lost in thought the old man stood by the front door deciding what he would need to find the Highlander when he saw a white envelope being shoved into Duncan's mailbox.
"What the bloody hell!" He thought and carefully looked out from a small side door window. His eyes were like small slits, his gaze dangerous when he saw the figure of a man in a leather jacket. He pulled the door open and manhandled the gasping man into the Dojo, holding him with a hand like steel by the throat.
The man winced in agony by any movement he tried. He couldn't get away of the tall, pale guy who had appeared like a ghost. It felt like a hot knife was being shoved through him from head to toe, although the guy was tall he wasn't built at all to give him that much agony by a single hand holding him. "Oh Shit!" He thought when he saw the man calmly pull out the letter from the mailbox.
Methos read the small message with his semblance turning ghostly white in the deem light of the street lamps coming through the windows. Slowly he turned his gaze back to the trembling man, now kneeling before him and hissed with his rich voice almost murmuring his eyes bright for a moment before turning dark in a face clouded and threatening like a heavy storm coming out. "Where is he?" Three syllables all distinct with no emotion but nevertheless sipping of it.
The man in the leather jacket gasped with fear, sweat running down his face, watching the achingly young and oddly so old face, the eyes burning through him in a deadly unleashed fierce, demanding an answer he could not deny.
Later on he sat frozen to the cold floor bound at a reeling with no way to escape watching the slim man shrugging into a coat not unlike the one of their captive. His eyes grew wide when he glimpsed a sword, ancient looking and another one like the ones in these Japanese movies he watched from time to time. Had they taken their toll on those Ninjas he saw so many movies? His sweat broke out anew just thinking about the vengeance of a Ninja. Without any protest, he let the pale stranger gag him.
With a final turn to the bound man, Methos murmured, "If you lied to me, remember I will be back." and like a hunting panther left the wide eyed man behind.
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Duncan awoke anew with agony from another death experience by the madman. His endurance was getting worse and he couldn't help himself but shout out in pain. His healing from wound to wound the madman inflicted to him took more time out. The leader's men watched with splintered emotions, some even tried their own share to inflict more agony to the Highlander, but the biggest part felt like an icy hand was running down their spine.
Claire sat in the farthest part of the room holding her ears to shut down the shouts of agony from the handsome man, but she still murmured to please end this animalesque behavior of the men and her brother. She saw that the stranger was weaker from death to death, his handsome face greyer and his cheek hollow. After his awakening had been almost instantly in the beginning now it took longer and at this last one he was still out cold after almost three hours. But nevertheless the wounds were healing but in an agonizingly slower speed. One wound though was still gaping open and no sparkle of the blue lightning had reached it yet. The sparkling and whirling was less intense.
End part three