Shelter from the Storm Chapter 2

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.


By the time he returned to the barge, the rising sun had tinged the cloudy sky with a pink glow and the heavy mist had vanished. A strange buoyant spirit had him whistling a long-forgotten tune as he crossed the quay.

Still whistling, he descended the stairs with an unfamiliar spring in his step, and he smiled as he stripped off his damp clothes. There was no reason for him to smile - he was tired, cold and wet. But he simply felt like smiling. While he dragged on a pair of sweat pants and a loose-fitting shirt, he thought again about Leyza Berard.

Like crocuses tricked into bloom by a winter thaw, a hundred questions popped up in his mind. Where had she came from? How long had she lived in Paris? What did she know? Where had she been? What had she done? How good was she with a sword? How soft was her skin? Her hair? Her lips? And what would she look like lying beneath him, her naked body bathed in candlelight?

Don't go there, MacLeod, he scolded, then he chuckled as he willed away the stirring in his groin. It had been far too long since he last held a woman's supple body in his arms. Far too long since he'd even thought about it.

He'd never met Leyza before - he was certain of that. How could he forget a woman like her? When the light from the street lamp had touched her eyes for that brief moment, it had unveiled a quiet wisdom that glimmered deep within them. And he wondered how old she was.

She had appeared to be in her late twenties - thirty perhaps. It had been hard to tell in the dim light, but it didn't matter. Appearances meant nothing when you were Immortal - only experience counted. And Leyza Berard had radiated an air of calm confidence that comes only with age and experience.

When he finished changing his clothes, he set those thoughts aside until he could dwell on them with a clear mind, then he went up to the deck to greet the dawn with his regular exercise routine.

As usual, he blended several disciplines into one continuous flow, and he worked through the kata with slow deliberation. After a time, he lost track of all conscious thought. His surroundings - the barge, the river, the quay - all vanished into a hazy void and the only sound he heard was the steady thump of his heart and the whoosh of his deep breathing.

Finally his muscles balked as he pushed them beyond their limits. With some reluctance, he gave in to their groaning and dropped down onto the cabin roof. He tucked his feet into a half lotus, then sat for a moment with his eyes closed, drawing in slow deep breaths as he let his senses return. When he opened his eyes, strong sunlight danced along the rippled Seine, and a cool breeze drifted over his sweat-soaked shirt.

He shivered as a chill caught him off guard, but he didn't move to escape it. The grueling routine had left him, as it usually did, in a very tranquil state. Not happy, not joy-filled, merely in perfect balance. He was loath to disturb it.

Through his long life, he'd experienced both boundless joy and crushing sorrow. Lately though, life had brought him too much sorrow and not enough joy. It had taken him many months to attain his present halcyon state, and at this point, he was grateful for it. If he had to endure the sorrow to recapture the joy, he wasn't sure it was worth it. He could be satisfied with peace.

His stomach rumbled to remind him that he hadn't filled it in quite some time, so he clasped his hands behind his head and leaned into a deep stretch, then he stood. He watched the water flow past the stern of the barge for a moment, then he remembered that Leyza had come to the bridge to tell her problems to the river.

"Wanna listen to my problems?" he mumbled, smiling because he felt a little foolish.

The river simply gurgled as it rushed past the barge to keep its appointment with the sea. It had no time to listen to an Immortal's problems.

"Thought as much," he grumbled, then he shook his head. The concept had made perfect sense when she'd explained it last night. Now, it merely seemed silly.

He went below decks to shower and change, then he fixed some fruit and rice for his breakfast. As he ate, sitting on a floor cushion before a low table, he glanced around the barge.

To clear his mind of all distractions and the heartache that familiar surroundings had triggered, he'd stripped it completely when he returned from Malaysia. He'd packed away all his possessions, then replaced them with the table, a few cushions, a mandela and a thin futon for the platform bed. In the barren space of the one room - lit only by candlelight - he could maintain the peace. Nothing remained that would disturb the flow of tranquillity around him, and now with the defeat of Ahriman behind him, he kept it that way.

As he set the empty bowl on the table and reached for the teapot, a wave of inexplicable longing washed over him. It rose suddenly, unexpectedly, then it drifted away, leaving him restless and no longer content with the routine of his life. He shifted his shoulders to chase it as he poured steaming tea into a black porcelain cup, but the rumbling discontent remained.

He tapped his fingers against the cup as searched his mind for a cause. The only thing that had changed in the last few days was meeting Leyza Berard.

"You carry far too much sorrow for one man," she'd said. "You keep it deep inside and it gnaws at your heart. If you don't let it go, it will eat you alive."

She was a stranger - and a presumptuous one, at that. How could she know what was in his heart?

He thought he'd finally shed the sorrow, put the past behind him. Now he wasn't so sure. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he had merely buried it deep inside. Perhaps that's why the nightmares returned each night to torment him.

He shook his head as he stood, leaving the tea to cool. Somehow in the space of a few minutes conversation, Leyza Berard had sent ripples to mar the even surface of his tranquillity.

He took the empty bowl over to the bar that served as his kitchen. He washed it out, then glanced at a small brass clock that sat on the end of the bar against the wall. He was surprised to find the hands positioned at a little past nine.

He tapped it, then listened to make sure it was still ticking. It had to be later than that. The whole day stretched out before him - a vast empty plain. Well, that was easy to fix - he'd simply fill it.

He tided up the kitchen, plumped up the cushions, folded the blanket he'd left on the bed, then he finished his tea. He washed the pot and cup, then put them away. Once again, he glanced at the clock. It was half past nine.

He strode across the room to the bookshelf he'd recently added to the room's sparse furnishings, then he skimmed his fingers along the spines of his books. He could always read away his discontent. Lose himself in a book for a few hours. That had worked before. But today, none of the titles peaked his interest.

A long walk might do the trick. He could stop by the bookstore, pick up a new volume or two that would prove more interesting than the ones he had. Or perhaps he could wander through the Louvre. Yes, a long walk was definitely the answer.

Basking in the golden sunshine, he strode away from the barge. The unusually warm day promised to be a treasure worth savoring - a good day to stay outside and enjoy Mother Nature's unexpected gift. With merely a moment's hesitation, he turned, then set his feet in the direction of the Luxembourg Garden.

He'd fill the long hours with the simple pleasures he'd find in the park. The song of birds. The sensual touch of a gentle breeze sifting through his hair. The heady scent of pines and sun-roasted earth. The melange of shadows and light that the sun would paint over the bare trees. The trees themselves, dark sculptures reaching for the sky.

He hummed as he strolled along Boulevard Saint Germaine. Yes, the balance was back. The day no longer appeared empty, and life was good.

Inside the park, however, things didn't go quite according to plan. With no reason to keep track of the days of the week, he'd forgotten it was Saturday. After a week of rainy weather, it seemed as though half the population of Paris had come to the park to enjoy a day in the sun.

Children scampered, squealing with delight as they raced away from their mothers. They chased one another, weaving through pairs of young lovers who held hands and stared into each other's eyes - totally missing the fact that they were being used as obstacles in a game of tag.

An old man and an old woman sat close to one another on a bench while they fed a flock of bobbing pigeons. And not one of them even cast a glance at the only man who strolled among them - alone - with his hands tucked into his pockets.

He stopped, then slumped down onto a vacant bench. He rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands before him. This wasn't working. For over a year, he'd been engrossed to the point of obsession with defeating Ahriman. Afterward he'd been content with his solitude. It was safer that way. No one could get hurt ... or killed by being his friend. But as he swept a glance around him, he couldn't help noticing that everyone in the park seemed to be with someone else - everyone except him.

He'd been alone before, but always with a purpose - to think, to clear his mind or to lick his wounds. Now his aimless solitude weighed as much as a millstone. He sat up and straightened his shoulders as if the gesture alone could chase this unexpected weight. As he suspected, it didn't help.

He stared down at his hands, then he suddenly realized that the nameless longing he'd felt this morning had a name - loneliness.

Raised as a cherished member of a closely knit clan, he'd come to accept a large extended family as a norm - the level by which he measured every relationship of his long life. He'd spent most of that life surrounded by family, then by good friends. But many of his friends had died ... some even by his own hand, then in the last year - after Richie's death - he'd let misguided self-denial drive the rest away.

Amanda and Methos had both left messages on his answering machine. He'd listened to them the night he returned to Paris, then he'd thrown the answering machine and the telephone in the river so it wouldn't distract him from his mission. He'd never returned the calls. He had no idea where either of them were, and he hadn't attempted to find them. Better to leave things as they were, then no one could get hurt.

There was, of course, Joe Dawson.

He couldn't ask for a better friend, then the steadfast Watcher, but he no longer knew how to talk to the man who had stuck with him through it all. The ordeal should have brought them closer, but it hadn't. He, not Joe, had let guilt erect a wall between them, because he owed Joe Dawson more than he could ever repay. Though Joe asked for nothing more than friendship, Duncan had let the debt grow until it left awkward lapses in their conversation. Silences he couldn't seem to fill, because the right words refused to show themselves.

So now he had no one. No one to turn to. No one to talk to. No one to hold him in the middle of the night.

"Och," he said, shaking his head in disgust. "Ye sound like a sickly old woman, MacLeod."

He took a deep breath and glanced around, hoping to find something to remind him that he was still Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Still the Highland warrior.

Across the way a mime amused a small knot of people by pretending he was trapped in a glass box. He moved his feet in a small square space and pressed his hands against invisible walls.

Duncan watched him for a moment, then realized that was exactly the way he felt - trapped in a glass box - able to see life, yet isolated - cut off from its simple pleasures. And he also realized that it was a prison of his own making.

"Stop feelin' sorry for yerself," he grumbled as he dragged himself to his feet.

He turned away from the mime, away from the reminders of what he could have, if he only could break free. Then he began to walk with no clear destination. He simply let his feet take him wherever they had a mind to go.