Chapter Ten

Outside of Arnhem, Netherlands, late October 2023, two months ago:

The immortal now calling himself Ren Caulfield, a writer of historical romances, had returned without incident to the small village on Arnhem's outskirts and had resumed without comment his regular and mundane life.

At least to his Watcher Gladys Morgan that was how it seemed. She'd hidden herself within her identity as a Dutch woman who worked at the small inn in the village where Caulfield came everyday for meals. He evidently did little cooking of his own. Although he was never regular in his time of arrival or which meal he was there for, he would come each day.

Gladys had once heard him tell Old Klaus Van der Nört that sometimes he got so into his writing that he just didn't feel the passing of time until his body yelled, "Feed me!" At that point, he'd save what he'd written, and come to the inn not just for food, but also for conversation.

The regulars there knew he was a writer and was writing some novel about the area. He often asked questions of the old men who sat smoking in the dining room of the inn or of the old grandmothers who swept the walks. They often wondered what sort of book he was writing.

Gladys, using her Dutch great grandmother's name, Mjet Dörnhoff, could have told them, but she held her tongue, kept his coffee cup filled when he was there early in the day and his glass of beer if it were late, and smiled at him, chatting occasionally about nothing. She'd been greatly relieved that he'd returned in one piece from Paris. She'd done some additional research on her handheld computer with its secure link to the Watcher database on the "dark lady of Paris." She hadn't found much else except that she thought her dangerous… as did the Watcher Tribunal in general as well as in their mandates to leave her alone within the olde cite.

But Ren did seem changed. He would stare at nothing for long moments in the dining room, as if recalling some incident of his long past. Gladys had seen him look that way occasionally in the past, but now it would be everyday. She hoped it was the far past of his young immortal life that mesmerized him and not his recent meeting with Paris' "dark lady".

She also worried about his mental state. That had always been a red flag on his file… and something that his Watchers over the years had taken into consideration with him. He believed too strongly in the ideals of his youth, and in people who were close to his heart. He could strike out at friends suddenly if they belittled his fascinations; he could even kill a student at a moment's notice.

Yet for the most part, he was an unassuming and quiet man, not given to moving about the world as some of his kind tended to do. Gladys had loved becoming his Watcher when he moved here as it had given her the opportunity to use the Dutch she'd learned at her grandmother's knee and to honor her memory a bit by using her name and living in the land of her birth. Mjet Dörnhoff had married Corporal Terrence Morgan not long after Word War II and bid the Arnhem region goodbye as she'd moved with her soldier husband back to England.

Now, filling Caulfield's glass with beer, she wondered uneasily if his mind were slipping again… if all too soon he would begin killing those around him who tried to help. He stared back at her and blinked as a little of the beer slopped onto his hand.

"I am so sorry," she said to him and quickly dried his hand with her towel.

He continued to stare blankly at her and then at his glass. "I'm certain it was an accident. Don't give it another thought."

She curtsied her thanks and moved on to the next table, but her thoughts were still on him. Already Caulfield was back in his reverie and Gladys' worries grew. She'd have to let her supervisors know. Maybe she ought to wait a few more days though. Maybe she shouldn't worry quite so much.

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His romance novel set against the World War II battle for Arnhem Bridge had stalled. Every time Ren tried to write a love scene for his Scottish hero and the Dutch woman he loved, it turned into his night with the mysterious Ali. He knew this as the blonde Katya of the story became crowned with a head of dark curls that smelled of jasmine. His traditional heroine kept morphing into a slim, athletic, but well-endowed freedom fighter instead of the shy schoolteacher he'd envisioned for this story.

Day after day, thoughts of Ali, visions of Ali, and page after page of description of Ali filled his life. The Battle of Arnhem, in which he'd participated as part of a Scottish regiment, vanished in the mists of time, and the only reality he knew was in a Paris hotel room.

At least once each day he fingered the slight scar on his neck where her blade had rested and he longed for her like a man dying of thirst in the desert longed for water. It had been too long since he'd truly allowed himself to love. It hurt too much when they died or he left them. He wanted her back… despite the inherent dangers. He wanted her back! And then… what? Ren didn't know.

He paid for his dinner and his bar tab before leaving and stepping into the cold October night. He pulled his heavy jacket close, even as he realized it was not as cold as he thought. Nevertheless, Ren blew on his hands and rubbed them before stuffing them deeply into his pockets and setting off down the dark cobbled street of the village. He loved it here. It reminded him of life centuries ago before technology homogenized life in the world so that a McDonalds stood on every corner or a Blockbuster stood in every village square or the same rock songs blared from speakers throughout the world.

As he walked, his footsteps on the stones echoed in the darkness against the façades of the dark or dimly lit houses. His rental house was on the outskirts, a good ten-minute walk from the inn and one he normally enjoyed. In recent days however, it had served mainly to give his mind idle time to let thoughts of Ali wash over him. Never in his seven hundred or so years had a woman so engaged his mind.

The echoing footsteps themselves had echoes now. Ren paused a moment. The echoes stopped. He looked up at the star-filled sky and then behind him, wondering if someone were there. He considered calling out to them. Likely it was just a neighbor also on his way home. But some inner alarm made him uneasy. Perhaps it was just that immortal inner sense that spoke of danger or perhaps it was nothing at all. Slowly he began walking again, but this time, he slipped a hand inside his coat and grasped the hilt of his shortened claymore. He would be ready… just in case.

He felt the unseen immortal's presence just short of his house. It was approaching quickly, the footfalls sounding in a swift staccato beat. Ren wheeled as he pulled the claymore. Their blades met.

"Hansen," Ren spit angrily.

"You are a hard man to find," the young immortal with the flowing locks of brown hair said. His basket-hilted, kris-edged rapier was longer than Ren's broadsword and the trim, muscular assailant had evidently been working out in recent years.

Ren managed to push him off and reset into a stance so that he slammed four blows in Hansen's direction, all easily and equally parried.

"You've learned a few things," Ren told him.

"And I never forget," Victor Hansen hissed.

"Thought you were more into thievery than revenge," Ren said, backing up and parrying off Hansen's blows.

"That depends. When someone upsets my plans and turns me into the police… I make allowances for revenge." He shifted to his right and lay on again. One blow sliced across Ren's arm. Ren saw red. With a sudden growl he furiously attacked… beating his opponent back, back, back, and then down to his knees even as he disarmed him. He rested his claymore against Hansen's throat.

"Say goodnight Gracie," he quoted grimly.

"Go to hell!" Hansen yelled.

"Been there; it's highly over-rated," Ren said grimly and swung his claymore. He nearly dropped it in the glory of the quickening as it rammed over and through him, letting him see things with a clearer eye, letting him see new perspectives of old encounters, letting him see again the faces of betraying friends and lost lovers. When it ended, he was on his knees sobbing.

He heard voices in the distance, looked around, grabbed his claymore, and then swiftly ran to his house to let himself in. They'd find the body. They'd come for him. Even now they were on their way. He rambled through the house grabbing a few changes of clothes and then staring without comprehension at them in his hands. Slowly he returned them, still in the bag, to the closet and entered the bathroom where he splashed cold water on his face and stared into the mirror. "Breathe," he said. He hid his sword in the air vent of his bedroom, checked the floor and his person for blood, threw off his coat and donned a sweater. Opening the door he stepped out, rubbing his arms. "What's happened?" he asked the crowd of villagers not far down the road.

"A dead man," one of them said.

Ren joined them to stare in horror at the headless corpse in the center of the road, the rapier lying near him.

"Damnedest thing," one man was saying. "I think he got hit by that freak lightning and it took his head off."

"Ja," said another pointing at Hansen. "But why does he have a sword."

No one knew… and Ren Caulfield held his tongue. But for the first time in weeks, he was ready to write again. The battle scenes around which his book was plotted were once more flowing through his mind.

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Paris, November 2023:

It had been three weeks since Alisaunne had sent Ren Caulfield packing, and the days had nearly blurred one into another. She'd yet to hear back from her parents on Niebos and, in truth, she wasn't even certain the message had gone through.

From what she'd read about the tsunami, wireless connections had been out sporadically in the area. She could always email them again… and yet she waited. Each day she'd open the account praying something would be there. They should call me! She insisted to herself, aware that she was letting bitter tears sting her eyes.

She had never known them growing up… they'd never known her. They were just two immortals who had known Darius. And yet… it hurt that Eleanor didn't call once a week to chat with her… that Methos didn't call to give her sage advice… that they seldom thought of her at all.

"Bastard stepchild," she muttered and switched to a news page, scanning the headlines for news of beheadings and or freak storms in the area. She saw nothing and shut the computer off with a snarl. Along one arm, scars bubbled up, itching and burning. She ignored them and they faded. Perhaps that was the way to defeat the omnipresence of Nestor in her mind… let him have small victories… let him wash over her without restraint, and then ignore him.

"I'm getting stronger you old pervert," she hissed as she rose and shoved a row of books onto the floor, grinning at the scattered mess they made. One book fell open to a Van Gogh painting… Starry Night. Idly she picked it up and smiled.

Paris 1991

"They don't look like stars, she insisted to Uncle Jacques. "They look like fireworks!"

"The idea is that the stars are so enduring that they blot out all else."

She giggled. "That's silly. Stars are little tiny lights in the sky."

"Ah… but up close mon cher… they are enormous balls of light that would obliterate the world and blind one little girl." He tapped a finger on the end of her nose as he laughed. Alisaunne loved to hear Uncle Jacques laugh.

"Did he know that?" she asked thoughtfully staring at the painting.

"Well he must have if he painted them. Sometimes what we see with the naked eye is not the truth. Sometimes truth lies in dreams… or in memory."

She curled close to him while she contemplated the rendition of the artwork. "Then maybe he saw the future," she said thoughtfully.

"Perhaps he did," Uncle Jacques replied softly. "Perhaps he did."

"Silly Darius," Alisaunne remarked, snapping the book shut. "No one can see the future. He was just a crazy artist wigged out on drugs half the time." Slowly and methodically she set the books back on the shelf, carefully arranging them by subject. The picture had helped banish Nestor's thoughts and emotions once more and she was calm. Until she found and destroyed him… he'd always be with her and she would never know true peace or happiness. The problem was… if she killed his present form… beheaded it… he would live unchecked within her and she knew it. And therein lay the conundrum. How did she destroy an undying monster who refused to die? How did she free herself from him and what he'd done?

Thoughtfully she rose and tapped a finger on her computer. Perhaps she should send them another email. She chuckled. Maybe tomorrow… or the next day.

Grabbing her short black jacket with the funky fur collar, she skipped down the stairs of her apartment building and sauntered along the street. It was a brisk day in Paris and she felt like a long walk. Her arms swung back and forth and she grinned at babies in strollers and at young lovers hand in hand. It was great to be alive! And for the afternoon at least, Nestor was nowhere around.

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Joe Dawson cleared his throat before beginning his dictation and watched the cursor on the screen blink expectantly.

"Testing, one, two, three… testing," he said and chuckled to watch the words appear on the screen. He hit the erase key to start over.

"November 10, 2023, Joe Dawson, Watcher emeritus of Duncan MacLeod." He paused, suddenly uncertain where to begin. With friendship he thought. The cursor blinked accusingly… waiting. "Meeting Duncan MacLeod face-to-face was the pinnacle of my career. I'd watched him for just over twelve years when he walked into my bookstore in Seacouver, one of our lost Chronicles in hand. When that happened, my life was never going to be the same… and I do think I am the better man for it."

He hit pause at a knock on the door. "Yeah… come on in," and then sucked in his breath and grinned at Madeline LeSeur, elegant in that low-cut silk blend shirt and tight, black skirt. She was definitely a vision.

"Sorry, boss, I didn't want to disturb you, but someone's at the door and she wants to see you."

Joe motioned them in; his memoirs could wait. The real ones were his personal diaries and journals anyway… the ones no Watcher was ever supposed to keep. Amy had seen them, but had given them back to him unread once he'd recuperated.

"I'll read them when you're dead," shed whispered and kissed his brow. "Which, God willing, won't be for another fifty years."

Joe had chuckled at the thought of living so long, but medical science kept improving and people were living longer all the time. He just didn't want to be helpless. True he used this mobilized chair most of the day to ease his heart, but he also exercised with an in-house therapist three times a week. He could still walk and get around if he had to. In fact she'd recommended that he begin taking short walks to build up his residual leg muscles again.

He smiled to see the young Watcher he'd met two months ago. "Don't tell me," he said and tried to recall her name. "Gloria."

She smiled. "Gladys… Gladys Morgan."

Joe snapped his finger. "Yeah… I knew it was an old-fashioned 'G' name."

"So back in Paris?" He gestured her to take a seat.

"Evidently for reassignment, but I wanted to stop by and tell you what happened.

Joe waited patiently as she fumbled with the clutch on her purse.

"You lost him?"

"Yes… no… he's not dead. He killed another immortal about two weeks ago… Victor Hansen and then seemed to shake off the malaise of the previous six weeks and settle down to work again. Then one day… he didn't come in. He was regular about coming in once a day. Anyway… I waited and then called it in for a team to check his house. His manuscript was there… finished and ready to be mailed to his publisher. But he was gone… along with his bag, some of his clothes, his papers… his sword."

"Gave you the slip did he?"

"He didn't know about us. I'd stake my life on it. He just up and left."

"Is the book any good?"

Gladys smiled. "It's wonderful. I made certain the manuscript was mailed to his publisher after we copied it."

"He'll turn up. He always does."

Gladys nodded. "I know… it's just… I hated losing him and having to move on."

"Don't we all," Joe whispered. "Don't we all."

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