Shelter from the Storm
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
This story is rated "R" because of a few somewhat graphic hetero love scenes. It is NOT - repeat NOT - slash . If you're old enough to truck on down to your local Barnes and Noble or Borders, and solvent enough to plunk down 6 bucks for the latest Daniele Steel, you won't find anything shocking in my love scenes. The last time I was there, neither of these book stores was checking ID.
Shelter from the Storm is most definitely a Duncan story. A word of caution - this story takes place after Armageddon, and accepts the whole Ahriman concept. It has a flirting relationship with season 6, but it's not quite married to it, though it does have scenes in common.
Also another caution to the purists out there. I took a small liberty with the events of the season 6 episode, Black Tower, so the scenario would fit into my plot.
THE DISCLAIMERS:
All standard disclaimers apply. This story is mine, as are the characters of Leyza Berard, Ray Garcia, Phillippe and Marie Vachon, Francine, Solange Laperrier and Jeremy Cole. Please do not borrow them without asking.
The Highlander concepts and the characters of Duncan MacLeod, Joe Dawson and May Ling Shen are not. They belong to Gregory Widen, Davis/Panzer, Rysher, Gaumont and probably a few others I've forgotten. I've dared to use them without permission, and hope they'll forgive the transgression, because this story is merely a labor of love. I'm not making a cent from it.
Shelter from the Storm - Chapter 1
Suddenly I turned around and she was standin' there
With silver bracelets on her wrists and flowers in her hair.
She walked up to me so gracefully and took my crown of thorns.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm." - Bob Dylan
A heavy mist drifted down dampening his dark hair. It lifted the tendrils around his forehead and ears into short curls, but he barely noticed the cold discomfort. He gripped the iron bridge railing with both hands and stared into the river below him - lost in its swirling motion.
The night was quiet - as quiet as Paris can get in the hours before dawn. Most of its inhabitants still lay snug in their beds, dreaming their dreams. But he had no dreams to comfort him - this man who stood alone on the bridge with his shoulders slumped under the weight of his burdens. Duncan MacLeod only had nightmares.
Spirit-sucking nightmares that wouldn't let him rest. Nightmares that drove him awake with their horror. To escape them, he'd awake suddenly, covered in sweat, his heart pounding in his chest, then after a moment, reality would drop down to smother him once again. This was no outlandish fantasy - no horrific flight of his imagination. This was all real. All true. And it had happened just the way he'd dreamt it nearly every night for over a year.
Driven into a state of mad confusion by dark forces he still couldn't understand, he'd taken Richie Ryan's head. He'd killed his good friend, his student - the man who was as close to a son as he'd ever have.
Killing Richie hadn't been his intention, of course. Ahriman had used him as a weapon in an ancient battle between good and evil that had flared up again in modern times. He knew that now, but the knowledge couldn't assuage the overwhelming guilt, nor could it quiet the nagging notion that maybe - just maybe he could have done something to prevent what had happened.
He couldn't of course. Deep in his mind he knew that, as well. He knew the evil entity had been the irresistible force behind his hand. Knew that Richie had been killed to bring the champion of good to his knees. But that knowledge couldn't erase the deed - couldn't erase the helpless rage.
A year in a Malaysian monastery, hours spent pushing his body until it would be pushed no further and long periods of meditation had cooled his rage, helped him cope. He'd finally found a balance, a small core where he could live with the act, but the gut-twisting guilt remained. His Immortal body couldn't scar, but he now knew that his soul could ... and this trauma had left a scar that would remain for all eternity.
During the day he could find peace and the scar faded, but when he tried to sleep, the nightmares came and rubbed it raw. It ached and throbbed like poorly knit mortal flesh and he knew the pain of an old war wound.
He sighed as he watched the river pass beneath his feet. It gurgled softly as it swirled around the pillars of the bridge. At this moment, standing here alone, he could understand how the river might tempt a despondent soul. If he were mortal, it might be easy to answer its call. To step over the railing and drop down into the comfort of oblivion. But he was Immortal. If he chose to kill himself, chose to end it all, he'd have to surrender to the swing of a blade. And Duncan MacLeod could never do that.
Over 400 years of living as a warrior - even when there were no wars to wage - had strengthened his will to survive. Though it had been torn to shreds by Ahriman's evil powers, it still clung to him like a beggar's cloak. He'd wrapped the tattered rags around him and fled to save his sanity.
The will to survive had kept him warm through a year of cold torture. Kept him going when he thought he could go no further. And it gave him the strength to send evil back to the murky depths where it belonged. Where it would sleep for another thousand years.
He had battled the ultimate evil ... and he had won. So why didn't he feel victorious? Why did the nightmares still come back to haunt him every night? Why couldn't he set it all to rest and return to the light?
Was this his reward, then? Had he been condemned to wander forever in the shadows between darkness and light, like this thin time before dawn? No wonder the last champion had gone insane.
He stood tall and shook his head. Through all his long life he had gathered a million questions that he couldn't find answers for - now he had a few more. He sighed faintly, then turned to walk back to the barge, but the droning presence of another Immortal stopped him. He whirled around to face the far end of the bridge.
When he turned, the other Immortal stopped walking toward him. She wore a long dark coat and a red beret. She hesitated a moment, then she eased her feet apart.
"I'm not looking for a fight," she called to him - still she drew her sword.
He smiled. "Neither am I."
Even as he tensed for battle, he held his arms out to show there was nothing in his hands, then he opened his coat slowly. Some deep-rooted instinct told him it was safe to let her know he wasn't carrying a sword.
"No sword?" she asked, then she tucked hers under her coat. She approached him with long graceful steps, placing her feet carefully like a cat checking out a strange creature that has dared to wander into its personal domain.
He answered her question with a casual shrug, but he didn't mention the Filipino kali stick he carried as a precaution. Though he wasn't looking for a fight, he was prepared if one came looking for him.
"No sword?" she repeated, lifting one dark eyebrow in disbelief. "That's a dangerous admission for an Immortal to make." She stopped again - a safe sword's length away. "Are you suicidal?"
"I gave up taking heads for Lent," he answered with a shrug and a smile, then he turned his gaze to the river. Recalling his earlier thoughts, he dared the dark water to mock him.
The woman took a few steps closer, then facing the river she stared down at the water as well. "It's mesmerizing, isn't it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
He turned his head to glance at her. "Pardon?"
A braid of dark hair trailed from her hat to the middle of her back, and the light from the street lamp outlined a finely sculpted profile. He caught himself staring, then shifted his gaze to his feet so she wouldn't catch him as well.
"The water," she answered, without turning to look at him. "Its seductive song ... the sinuous way it moves. It's hypnotic. I could stand here and watch it for hours."
He turned back to resume the posture, he'd taken earlier - hands resting on the railing, head bowed as he studied the water. Strangely, it took on a less ominous cast now that he no longer studied it alone. "I suppose it is," he answered.
"But isn't that why you've come here?" she asked. "To lose yourself in the water? Dump all your problems in the river, and let her carry them away to the sea?"
He considered himself skilled at placing people, but he couldn't identify the trace of accent in her voice. "What makes you think I have any problems to dump?" he asked.
Her laugh was soft - a violin concerto floating on a summer breeze. "Everyone has problems. Besides you're standing out here in this miserable weather when you could be snug in your bed asleep."
She turned to him then, a smile dancing at the edges of a generous mouth. He could see her eyes in the pale silver gleam of the street lamp. They were light-colored - blue or green - maybe grey - he couldn't tell for sure. But he was fairly certain now that the accent had a birthplace somewhere in eastern Europe.
She reached out to stroke his cheek with the tips of her fingers. "And you have more than your fair share," she said. "You carry far too much sorrow for one man. You keep it deep inside and it gnaws at your heart. If you don't let it go, it will eat you alive."
She withdrew her hand, rested one arm along the railing, then regarded him with a disturbingly analytical stare. It made him feel like a sliver of tissue on a slide. He lifted one eyebrow and returned her stare.
"Is that a professional opinion?" he asked, allowing a slightly snide tone to shade his voice. Perhaps it would get her to stop staring - he felt as though she could read his soul. "Are you a psychologist looking for someone to practice on?" Inwardly, he winced - that had come out sharper than he'd intended.
She didn't look the least bit offended, though, as she smiled. She watched him for a moment longer, then turned away to look at the river again. He'd won the staring contest, he decided, but he didn't feel much like a winner. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt like a winner.
"No," she answered. "Several lifetimes ago, I lived with a tribe of gypsies. Like many of the women, I told fortunes to earn my keep. Madame Martuska taught me everything she knew, but I learned more about how to read people than palms. Still Madame insisted that I had the gift." She laughed again, and Duncan savored the lyrical sound.
"Madame would roll her eyes, glance around, then lower her voice as a precaution whenever she uttered that word. But I had no idea what she was talking about. I never felt gifted. Each time I sat down before her crystal ball, I feared someone would point me out as a fraud."
A psychic - great - just what he needed. "A fortune teller?" he asked, with more than a hint of skepticism.
"One of my many talents," she replied. The smile curving the edges of her lips told him she didn't take the comment seriously. "But I haven't read a palm in decades."
"Why don't you read mine?" he asked, holding his hand out, palm up. He had no idea why he'd done that. His hand was out, and so was the question before he even had a chance to think about it.
She took his hand and held it between her own for a moment. She stroked his palm, running long slender fingers gently over its contours. Her touch was soft and warm as it had been when she touched his cheek.
Remembering the last time he'd had his palm read, he fought off a strong spasm of anxiety. This was a bad idea. What had she found there? Why was she studying his hand so intently? He needed to see her eyes, but she had tipped her head down to examine his hand and they were hidden behind her bangs.
"It's been such a long time," she said, finally, then she curled his fingers to close his hand, leaving one of hers on top of his. She glanced up at him with an unreadable expression glimmering in her eyes. "I'm afraid I've let whatever skills I had get rusty, Mr.--"
"MacLeod," he responded, bowing his head slightly. He left his hand sandwiched between hers. "Duncan MacLeod ... of the Clan MacLeod."
Still regarding him with a curious expression, she smiled. "I'm Leyza ... Leyza Berard." She tightened her grip on his hand for a fleeting second, then let it go. "And I haven't felt connected to any clan or tribe for a long time, so I'm just me."
He returned her smile, then he stuffed his hand into the pocket of his coat. Now that she was no longer holding it, it felt suddenly cold.
Leyza raked another unreadable expression over him, then she turned back to look down at the river once more. Letting silence drift around them like the mist, she stared for a moment, then she sighed.
"You know," she said. "If I was a mortal considering suicide, I wouldn't do it this way. I think I'd wash down a bottle of sleeping pills with a magnum of Dom Perignon. I'd go out in style and comfort. What do you think?"
Concerned by the sudden note of despondency in her voice, he took a step closer. "You're not ..." He let the words trail off as he reached out to touch her.
When his hand met her arm, she turned to look at him again. A frown puckered her brow, then she lifted one corner of her mouth into a half smile. "Considering suicide? Me?" She shook her head. "No ... if I was, I would have offered you my head, wouldn't I? That's the only way out for us."
He didn't answer her question. He didn't even want to think about her question. He couldn't avoid taking heads forever, if he wanted to keep his own - but he didn't want to start tonight. And he certainly didn't want to start with hers.
Leyza turned away from him again. "No, I just came here to talk to my old pal, the Seine," she said. "She listens patiently, tirelessly. She doesn't judge, and she doesn't offer unwanted counsel. What more can you ask of a good friend?"
He had no answer for that question either. He hadn't felt like a good friend in a such long time, he'd forgotten what might be expected. He did, however, have a strong sense that Leyza wanted to be alone with her friend.
He took a step backwards. "I'd better be going, then," he said.
She waited a moment, then she turned to him. "Don't rush off on my account," she said, but her weak smile hinted that she was merely being polite. It hinted at something else too, an apology for chasing him off, perhaps.
"I've been here too long, already," he said, lifting the collar of his coat higher. "It's cold and I'm getting wetter by the minute."
"Better button up," she said. "You wouldn't want to catch a cold, now ... would you?" She grinned then, and the smile lit up her face with a tantalizing glow that made him reconsider leaving.
"No," he said, with a soft chuckle. "I guess not. Well, I'll say good night, then ... or maybe good morning since it's nearly dawn."
He tipped his head toward the east where a faint glow lightened the dusky sky. Suddenly he didn't want to leave, but having said good night, he couldn't think of an excuse to stay. He shuffled his feet for a moment, hoping she'd ask him to stay.
Leyza let her gaze follow his nod. "So it is," she said, letting her smile linger before she turned away. "Good morning then ... sweet dreams."
He paused to ponder her cryptic comment, then he shook his head as he walked away. Had she guessed that nightmares kept him awake or had she really read his mind? No - she couldn't have ... or could she? He didn't know what to believe about such things anymore.
He paused again at the end of the bridge, then glanced back over his shoulder. Leyza stood, as he had stood - her head bowed, hands gripping the railing. He watched her for a moment, then as though she had felt him watching, she turned toward him. She flexed her fingers in a wave. He waved back, then left her alone.
As he walked back to the barge, though, an odd sense of weightlessness lifted his spirits. He hadn't felt quite so content in a long time. He also felt a flickering desire to know more about Leyza Berard, and he wondered if fate would give him the chance.
