CHAPTER 5:
Before dawn the following morning, Rochelle woke. She hadn't slept well in the first
place; she was too anxious. She returned the pillow and blanket to the closet, and dressed
quickly, silently. Rochelle placed the letter in a spot where it wouldn't be found until
later, she hoped. Shoes in hand, Shelly crept over Joe's sleeping body and off the barge;
her sword beneath her coat. On the deck of the barge, Shell tugged on her sneakers,
lacing them quickly as her eyes darted about. Walking through the labyrinth of Parisian
streets and boulevards, she heard two sentences, two voices ring over and over in her
mind. First, her own,
"'You go after him, you will die.'"; and MacLeod's, "'So will you.'"
Maybe she would, she thought. She had seven years of training, but little experience. She
had twenty-three years worth of back bone, but her courage was waning. She had had so
little to live for, now she had so much. She had had an hour to prepare as she walked
towards the Luxembourg Gardens, now she was there and had none. She sat on the edge
on a fountain and traced a pattern in the ice. "Oh why, oh why, oh why-o did I ever leave
Ohio," she murmured ruefully. Rochelle jumped at every noise, every sound, knowing
her advisary would find her, eventually. And in this, she derived some courage and
comfort; although she wasn't the hunter, she was no longer the prey.
* * *
Joe Dawson groaned as he woke. Shivering on the cold, hard wood floor, he opened his
eyes, noting two other sleeping bodies. He glanced over to the couch and found it
vacated. Confused, but none the less indifferent, Dawson dismissed Rochelle's absence.
Leaning on his cane, he pulled himself to his feet and walked over to MacLeod's antique
wooden stove; antique like so many things in MacLeod's life, antique like MacLeod.
Within moments, a crackling fire burned, the barge filling slowly with heat.
Next order of business, coffee. As he placed a filter in the top, his eyes fell on a piece of
paper stuck under the fruit bowl. Dawson sighed as he pulled it out. He didn't know what
Shelly's writing looked like, but he was willing to stake what remained of his legs on the
assumption that this letter, addressed to MacLeod, was from her.
"MacLeod!" Joe hissed, hoping to wake his friend. No luck; he tried again. "Mac." The
Immortal made no movement. Dawson saw an orange lying in the fruit bowl and picked
it up. He aimed at his friend; then, using his old, high school football precision, he threw
the citrus fruit at the unsuspecting Immortal, trying not to hit Amanda in the process. He
succeeded. MacLeod frowned and sat up, glaring at his mortal friend.
"What the hell was that for?" he whispered, so not to wake Amanda. He picked up the
orange and examined it groggily. Dawson waved the paper and MacLeod slid out of bed,
walking barefoot and noiselessly across the floor. He read the letter. As he read, he could
almost hear Rochelle's voice.
*MacLeod
I'm sorry, but I had to leave; I could not let him torture
you or me any longer. I hope you understand. I hope you
forgive me. But if you do not, if you cannot, I will
understand. But you and I both know that I'm ready as I'll
ever be. Just like Frank, you trained me well. Just like
Tessa, you offered your love and compassion to someone you
hardly knew. And just like Duncan MacLeod of the Clan
MacLeod, you were willing to risk your life for someone
whom you cared about, someone you believed in; now let me
do the same. Let me try to do the same, selfless thing you
have been doing for, what is it, four hundred years?
You and Amanda were so nice, so caring, so trusting, it
blew my mind. For all you knew, I could have been a
psychotic who was after the head of one of the legendary
Immortals; yes, whether you like it or not, you are a
living legend in your own right. Unlike so many others, You
love and care and show compassion, as where others would
merely step aside. You care about the Game and the
Gathering, but do not live by them. I hope Amanda realizes
how truly lucky she is.
In the days we've known each other, I mean really known
each other, you have been my father, my brother, my
confidant, my teacher, my friend. I will never forget you
as long as I live (we give new meaning to that, don't we?).
I hope you will never forget me.
Now, in the slice and dice department (don't laugh), I'm
good, he's better, but you are better still; and in having
you as a teacher, I hope I have acquired a morsel of you
ability, your strength, and your talent. But most of all, I
hope to have taken away some of your courage, because, Lord
knows, I am the biggest wimp ever to walk the earth.
Thank you for being my friend; thank you for being you.
Love always, Shell-Belle*
MacLeod sighed and passed the letter to Dawson. "Dammit." He strode back across the
barge; in two strides he was at his dresser, in three, he was half dressed, and in four his
coat and katana were on his back and he was almost out the door. Duncan paused, looked
down on his sleeping lover, then up a Joe.
"I'll tell her you took Rochelle back to the embassy."
MacLeod smiled, "Make it sound convincing; you're a horrible liar."
"Go."
MacLeod half-smiled and left.
* * *
Rochelle felt it. Not just the disorienting vertigo MacLeod and Amanda felt. Her skin
prickled and her every sense was alert; she placed a hand over her queasy stomach.
Samuel Genova un-gracefully crashed through the bushes and stood before her. He
looked around, expecting this to be some kind of trap, expecting another Immortal to
come crashing through the trees, or police to come screeching around a corner. But to his
surprise, there was no one there but him and his prey.
"No one here," she told him. "No one to interfere." She knew that was only partially true.
Watchers were around.
"No one to see me kill you," Genova growled. They were circling each other, waiting for
one to make a move.
"My, aren't we sure of our self," Rochelle remarked dryly. Samuel lunged at her, sword
aimed directly for her abdomen. Effortlessly, Rochelle sidestepped him. He spun around,
sword directed towards her feet; she jumped and swung for his head. He ducked. Their
swords clashed, steel ringing, Immortals grunting. Genova brought his sword down,
slicing through her shoulder, to the bone. Rochelle fell to her knees, swearing audibly.
Her left arm now immobilized, at least for the time being, she only had her cunning and
right arm to rely on. Genova stood over her, leering, convinced he had won.
"There can be only one," he sneered, raising his sword over his head.
She frowned, "Oh, that is so cliché." As he brought his sword down, she swiftly raised
her own, blocking his scimitar. In one move, she tucked her sword against her body, and
rolled on her right side, through his legs. Before he had a chance to turn around, Rochelle
kicked her right leg out, hitting him in his most vulnerable area. Samuel Genova dropped
to his knees, gasping for breath.
Shelly leaned on her sword and pulled herself up, grateful that her shoulder was healing
rapidly. She stood behind him, watching with bizarre pleasure as the giant, who was so
cocky and persistent, remained on his knees, clutching his groin.
"I guess it's true what they say, a man's brain really is in his pants."
"Which is why Mamakos always protected your scrawny little ass," Paul Bunyan
retorted, struggling to get back on his feet.
Enraged, Rochelle released a warrior's cry and ran straight at the giant, wielding her
sword in an arc over her head. Just as Rochelle had done before, Sam Genova
sidestepped her, and pushed her to the ground. She landed on her left side and cried out in
pain, her shoulder not yet entirely healed. Watching as she lay on the ground, Goliath
raised his scimitar to end the battle.
* * *
As he sped through the still empty streets, MacLeod realized he had no idea where the
battle might be taking place. Annoyed, MacLeod stopped at a traffic light and pounded a
number into his cell phone. Back at the barge, his phone rang. Joe picked it up. "Yeah."
"It's me." Who else would it be? Shut up. "I don't know where I'm going. Are there any
spots where he takes people, or where she fights?"
The light turned green and MacLeod gunned through.
Rochelle had no favorite spots. She didn't have much of anything when it came to
fighting. Joe thought for a moment, "None that I can recall. But, if I remember correctly,
Shelly loves flowers and gardens."
"Of course, I should have remembered." He hung up and made a sharp right, heading
south towards Paris's most famous botanical landmark. His imagination began to run
amuck. He envisioned Rochelle, bloody and helpless, pleading for mercy at the hands of
Sam Genova. He saw her head ripped from her body; another friend, gone. Angrily,
MacLeod scolded himself. Be positive; she's not dead. Another light turned red, and he
floored it.
* * *
Seeing him come running towards her like a maniac, Rochelle instinctively thrust her
weapon upward, piercing Sam's stomach. Surprised, he dropped his blade and fell to his
knees. Desperately, he tried to pull the sword from his abdominal area, but Rochelle did it
for him. She pressed it against his neck, taunting him.
"I'll see you in hell," he murmured.
"You know, somehow, I don't think so." Smiling wickedly, she separated his head from
his body, taking the prize. "I win." she whispered, watching as the Quickening rose to
take her, wondering what it would be like. But she didn't imagine, could never have
imagined what it felt like to have raw fire wrap around her bones, pump through her
veins, boiling her blood. She couldn't have dreamed how the power felt as it permeated
her brain, or blinded her as it flashed behind her eyes. She had never felt such pain before
and cried out, arms extended, sword puncturing the frozen earth. Wind whipping her hair,
Rochelle collapsed to her knees as the final portion of the Quickening absorbed her body.
Images passed before her; she saw her mother and the accident. She remembered Tessa
and MacLeod in Boston as though it were yesterday. The sight of rocks flying at her face
as she hurled herself off a bridge was forever seared into her mind. She almost laughed at
the memories of Frank endlessly laboring to prepare her; almost hurled as she recalled
Genova ripping Frank's head from his shoulders. She remembered the fear of her first
performance with NATT, and MacLeod's face as he recognized who she was.
The Quickening ended.
Shocked, stunned, physically drained, she remained there for what seemed like hours, but
in reality, were only a few minutes. "I did it Frank," she whispered. To her shock and
amazement, she felt her skin prickle as another Immortal approached. *Oh God*, she
thought. Friend or foe, there was going to be hell to pay.
Before dawn the following morning, Rochelle woke. She hadn't slept well in the first
place; she was too anxious. She returned the pillow and blanket to the closet, and dressed
quickly, silently. Rochelle placed the letter in a spot where it wouldn't be found until
later, she hoped. Shoes in hand, Shelly crept over Joe's sleeping body and off the barge;
her sword beneath her coat. On the deck of the barge, Shell tugged on her sneakers,
lacing them quickly as her eyes darted about. Walking through the labyrinth of Parisian
streets and boulevards, she heard two sentences, two voices ring over and over in her
mind. First, her own,
"'You go after him, you will die.'"; and MacLeod's, "'So will you.'"
Maybe she would, she thought. She had seven years of training, but little experience. She
had twenty-three years worth of back bone, but her courage was waning. She had had so
little to live for, now she had so much. She had had an hour to prepare as she walked
towards the Luxembourg Gardens, now she was there and had none. She sat on the edge
on a fountain and traced a pattern in the ice. "Oh why, oh why, oh why-o did I ever leave
Ohio," she murmured ruefully. Rochelle jumped at every noise, every sound, knowing
her advisary would find her, eventually. And in this, she derived some courage and
comfort; although she wasn't the hunter, she was no longer the prey.
* * *
Joe Dawson groaned as he woke. Shivering on the cold, hard wood floor, he opened his
eyes, noting two other sleeping bodies. He glanced over to the couch and found it
vacated. Confused, but none the less indifferent, Dawson dismissed Rochelle's absence.
Leaning on his cane, he pulled himself to his feet and walked over to MacLeod's antique
wooden stove; antique like so many things in MacLeod's life, antique like MacLeod.
Within moments, a crackling fire burned, the barge filling slowly with heat.
Next order of business, coffee. As he placed a filter in the top, his eyes fell on a piece of
paper stuck under the fruit bowl. Dawson sighed as he pulled it out. He didn't know what
Shelly's writing looked like, but he was willing to stake what remained of his legs on the
assumption that this letter, addressed to MacLeod, was from her.
"MacLeod!" Joe hissed, hoping to wake his friend. No luck; he tried again. "Mac." The
Immortal made no movement. Dawson saw an orange lying in the fruit bowl and picked
it up. He aimed at his friend; then, using his old, high school football precision, he threw
the citrus fruit at the unsuspecting Immortal, trying not to hit Amanda in the process. He
succeeded. MacLeod frowned and sat up, glaring at his mortal friend.
"What the hell was that for?" he whispered, so not to wake Amanda. He picked up the
orange and examined it groggily. Dawson waved the paper and MacLeod slid out of bed,
walking barefoot and noiselessly across the floor. He read the letter. As he read, he could
almost hear Rochelle's voice.
*MacLeod
I'm sorry, but I had to leave; I could not let him torture
you or me any longer. I hope you understand. I hope you
forgive me. But if you do not, if you cannot, I will
understand. But you and I both know that I'm ready as I'll
ever be. Just like Frank, you trained me well. Just like
Tessa, you offered your love and compassion to someone you
hardly knew. And just like Duncan MacLeod of the Clan
MacLeod, you were willing to risk your life for someone
whom you cared about, someone you believed in; now let me
do the same. Let me try to do the same, selfless thing you
have been doing for, what is it, four hundred years?
You and Amanda were so nice, so caring, so trusting, it
blew my mind. For all you knew, I could have been a
psychotic who was after the head of one of the legendary
Immortals; yes, whether you like it or not, you are a
living legend in your own right. Unlike so many others, You
love and care and show compassion, as where others would
merely step aside. You care about the Game and the
Gathering, but do not live by them. I hope Amanda realizes
how truly lucky she is.
In the days we've known each other, I mean really known
each other, you have been my father, my brother, my
confidant, my teacher, my friend. I will never forget you
as long as I live (we give new meaning to that, don't we?).
I hope you will never forget me.
Now, in the slice and dice department (don't laugh), I'm
good, he's better, but you are better still; and in having
you as a teacher, I hope I have acquired a morsel of you
ability, your strength, and your talent. But most of all, I
hope to have taken away some of your courage, because, Lord
knows, I am the biggest wimp ever to walk the earth.
Thank you for being my friend; thank you for being you.
Love always, Shell-Belle*
MacLeod sighed and passed the letter to Dawson. "Dammit." He strode back across the
barge; in two strides he was at his dresser, in three, he was half dressed, and in four his
coat and katana were on his back and he was almost out the door. Duncan paused, looked
down on his sleeping lover, then up a Joe.
"I'll tell her you took Rochelle back to the embassy."
MacLeod smiled, "Make it sound convincing; you're a horrible liar."
"Go."
MacLeod half-smiled and left.
* * *
Rochelle felt it. Not just the disorienting vertigo MacLeod and Amanda felt. Her skin
prickled and her every sense was alert; she placed a hand over her queasy stomach.
Samuel Genova un-gracefully crashed through the bushes and stood before her. He
looked around, expecting this to be some kind of trap, expecting another Immortal to
come crashing through the trees, or police to come screeching around a corner. But to his
surprise, there was no one there but him and his prey.
"No one here," she told him. "No one to interfere." She knew that was only partially true.
Watchers were around.
"No one to see me kill you," Genova growled. They were circling each other, waiting for
one to make a move.
"My, aren't we sure of our self," Rochelle remarked dryly. Samuel lunged at her, sword
aimed directly for her abdomen. Effortlessly, Rochelle sidestepped him. He spun around,
sword directed towards her feet; she jumped and swung for his head. He ducked. Their
swords clashed, steel ringing, Immortals grunting. Genova brought his sword down,
slicing through her shoulder, to the bone. Rochelle fell to her knees, swearing audibly.
Her left arm now immobilized, at least for the time being, she only had her cunning and
right arm to rely on. Genova stood over her, leering, convinced he had won.
"There can be only one," he sneered, raising his sword over his head.
She frowned, "Oh, that is so cliché." As he brought his sword down, she swiftly raised
her own, blocking his scimitar. In one move, she tucked her sword against her body, and
rolled on her right side, through his legs. Before he had a chance to turn around, Rochelle
kicked her right leg out, hitting him in his most vulnerable area. Samuel Genova dropped
to his knees, gasping for breath.
Shelly leaned on her sword and pulled herself up, grateful that her shoulder was healing
rapidly. She stood behind him, watching with bizarre pleasure as the giant, who was so
cocky and persistent, remained on his knees, clutching his groin.
"I guess it's true what they say, a man's brain really is in his pants."
"Which is why Mamakos always protected your scrawny little ass," Paul Bunyan
retorted, struggling to get back on his feet.
Enraged, Rochelle released a warrior's cry and ran straight at the giant, wielding her
sword in an arc over her head. Just as Rochelle had done before, Sam Genova
sidestepped her, and pushed her to the ground. She landed on her left side and cried out in
pain, her shoulder not yet entirely healed. Watching as she lay on the ground, Goliath
raised his scimitar to end the battle.
* * *
As he sped through the still empty streets, MacLeod realized he had no idea where the
battle might be taking place. Annoyed, MacLeod stopped at a traffic light and pounded a
number into his cell phone. Back at the barge, his phone rang. Joe picked it up. "Yeah."
"It's me." Who else would it be? Shut up. "I don't know where I'm going. Are there any
spots where he takes people, or where she fights?"
The light turned green and MacLeod gunned through.
Rochelle had no favorite spots. She didn't have much of anything when it came to
fighting. Joe thought for a moment, "None that I can recall. But, if I remember correctly,
Shelly loves flowers and gardens."
"Of course, I should have remembered." He hung up and made a sharp right, heading
south towards Paris's most famous botanical landmark. His imagination began to run
amuck. He envisioned Rochelle, bloody and helpless, pleading for mercy at the hands of
Sam Genova. He saw her head ripped from her body; another friend, gone. Angrily,
MacLeod scolded himself. Be positive; she's not dead. Another light turned red, and he
floored it.
* * *
Seeing him come running towards her like a maniac, Rochelle instinctively thrust her
weapon upward, piercing Sam's stomach. Surprised, he dropped his blade and fell to his
knees. Desperately, he tried to pull the sword from his abdominal area, but Rochelle did it
for him. She pressed it against his neck, taunting him.
"I'll see you in hell," he murmured.
"You know, somehow, I don't think so." Smiling wickedly, she separated his head from
his body, taking the prize. "I win." she whispered, watching as the Quickening rose to
take her, wondering what it would be like. But she didn't imagine, could never have
imagined what it felt like to have raw fire wrap around her bones, pump through her
veins, boiling her blood. She couldn't have dreamed how the power felt as it permeated
her brain, or blinded her as it flashed behind her eyes. She had never felt such pain before
and cried out, arms extended, sword puncturing the frozen earth. Wind whipping her hair,
Rochelle collapsed to her knees as the final portion of the Quickening absorbed her body.
Images passed before her; she saw her mother and the accident. She remembered Tessa
and MacLeod in Boston as though it were yesterday. The sight of rocks flying at her face
as she hurled herself off a bridge was forever seared into her mind. She almost laughed at
the memories of Frank endlessly laboring to prepare her; almost hurled as she recalled
Genova ripping Frank's head from his shoulders. She remembered the fear of her first
performance with NATT, and MacLeod's face as he recognized who she was.
The Quickening ended.
Shocked, stunned, physically drained, she remained there for what seemed like hours, but
in reality, were only a few minutes. "I did it Frank," she whispered. To her shock and
amazement, she felt her skin prickle as another Immortal approached. *Oh God*, she
thought. Friend or foe, there was going to be hell to pay.