Author's Note: I don't own Highlander: The Series or its darling characters. I simply abuse them and bend them to my will. Various other cameos are products of my evil mind.
The warm firelight flickered from the hearth, casting deep shadows into the tavern room's corners. Directly around it, though, all was bright and cheerful. A few odd-looking personages were gathered to one side, talking amongst themselves. Brightly colored clothing and scarves draped their forms and the fire reflected off rings on hands, belt buckles, bangle bracelets, and earrings. Every now and then, a voice rose over the group, loud enough to carry above the general murmur of the crowded tavern.
"No, no, no," a feminine alto broke in. "I think that the slapstick humor was necessary. Otherwise, Cory never would. . . have. . ." Her voice trailed off as the speaker noticed the sudden silence. She ducked her head guiltily and adjusted the emerald scarf covering her golden hair. "Sorry."
The brunette next to her touched her friend's arm with a musical clinking of the copper and purple bangles about her own wrist. "Calm down," she advised gently. "You have a big mouth."
The first young woman shrugged. "And this is new, how?" The others in the group laughed and their new conversation faded into the background noise again.
A large, mutty-looking dog wandered out of nowhere towards the fireplace and flopped down on the hearthstone. It just about sighed as the warm light struck at its brown and black coat. A small, dark-haired child broke away from the group of debaters and sat by the dog. "Pretty, pretty," she lisped as she stroked its side.
A few more children appeared near the fire, undoubtedly escaped from tired parents. They surrounded the dog, giggling and laughing. The dog bore it all with good humor as they tugged on its ears and kissed it and pulled at its tail. Finally, one of the boys, a small tow-headed 6-year-old with bright blue eyes, turned from the dog and looked around. He dismissed the knot of colorful strangers summarily; they were adults and they were talking. Yuck. Soon, though, his sharp eyes caught a shadowy figure sitting off to one side of the fireplace, seeming to create a black hole about itself. The boy tugged on one of his friend's arms and pointed at the figure. "Lookit him!" he whispered. "Whaddya think?"
His companion shook his head, setting his dark blond curls in motion. "Nope, I wouldn't," he answered. "Looks kinda scary."
"Wimp. I'm gonna go talk to him. Might be cool." Accordingly, the boy sauntered over the mysterious figure. "Hello, Mister!" He settled himself on a stool at the stranger's feet. "Whatcha doing?"
A low, female voice came from the depths of a black hood, gently correcting in the tones of a dream. "Miss."
The boy cocked his head curiously. "What?"
"Miss. . . I'm a miss."
"Oh." The boy shrugged. "Okay, ma'am. . . Whatcha doing?"
"Thinking."
"Why you wanna do that?"
The hood moved in a nod. "I like to think," she replied. "Don't you?"
The boy shook his head fervently. "Uh-uh," he said. "No fun." Restlessly, he shifted on the stool. After a moment, he looked up again and demanded, "Tell a story." He paused then and belatedly added, "Please."
Laughter shook the hooded figure and a surprised silence fell over the area directly around the fireplace at the unexpected noise. The silence caught and spread like wildfire, leaving the tavern quiet. "You are a bold one," the figure informed the boy with a shake of her head. "But you're cute. I'll tell you a story on one condition." She lifted an arm and the robe's long sleeve fell back to reveal a small, pale hand with the index finger raised.
He studied the hand suspiciously. "What's that?"
"You keep quiet for it."
"Okay, sure." Turning back to his watching friends, he motioned for them to come and listen. Within seconds, a dozen or so young children were gathered around the stranger's feet. The boy looked back at the new storyteller officiously and said, "We're ready."
The figure sighed. "Who are you, little boy?"
"Me?" He proudly pointed at himself. "I'm Ryan." Then he pointed at some of his friends, naming them as well. The boy with pale, mischievous eyes and a mop of curls was Hugh. The girl with solemn eyes and pale blond hair was Becky. He called the sober little boy with light brown hair Darry. The other names flew by. Mike, Bernie, Jimmy, May, Rene, Jake. . . "Okay," he announced when he was finished. "Tell the story."
The others nodded energetically, leaning forward with anticipation. Darry, however, cocked his head to one side, studied the mysterious woman with calm eyes, and added softly, "Please?"
"Very well, children," she replied. "Now listen carefully and remember that I'm going to hold you all to Ryan's promise." She adjusted the skirt of her dark robe about her, briefly showing a flash of white sneakers. "I hope you all like fairy tales 'cause that's all I can tell to you guys." She leaned towards her audience and the robe gaped about the neck to reveal a thin twist of green threads woven into a necklace. Suddenly, feeling the draft, her hand went up to refasten the opening. Her hand then dropped back into her lap, disappearing into the black robe's folds.
"Once upon a time in a land not too different from this one, there lived a group of people," she began, her voice drawing them in. "They were special people and they had a secret that they kept from just about everybody. . ." She paused abruptly at the sight of a small hand waving frantically in the air. "Yes?" she asked with resignation.
Hugh dropped his hand and grinned infectiously. "What secret?"
"I. . ."
Another little voice broke in and the storyteller turned to look at the speaker, a dark-haired, wild-looking little boy. Jake, her mind supplied. "They shouldn't keep secrets!" he argued. "They must be bad people."
"No, they're. . ."
A quiet, red-haired boy, Bernie, interrupted her again. "Maybe the secret should have been told to an adult?"
"Children!. . "
"Or a p-sick. . . psychia. . . a shrink!" Mike, a blond, nervously thoughtful child, called.
The stranger raised both hands to stop the impending battle. "Quiet!" her voice rose a bit angrily. The squabbling children turned to look at her with wide eyes. "That's better." She let her hands fall as soon as she had their attention again. "I'll answer your questions if you let me finish the story," she continued.
"But. . ."
"No buts, Hugh. I'll answer." She sighed heavily. "These people had a secret and that secret was they were Immortal. . ."
"What's Imm?. . ."
"It means they lived forever, Ryan." The hood turned towards Jake. "And that doesn't mean they were bad, you little Gypsy. They were just careful. They didn't tell anyone because they were afraid of what the other people, the mortals, might do."
"So they lived forever and ever and ever?"
The stranger turned to meet the huge, dark eyes of Rene. "Almost," she answered the little girl. "Almost. You see, these people had to fight each other to the death. . ."
"I thought you said they couldn't die?!?" Ryan's voice was tinged with betrayal.
"Not normally." Her own voice sounded frayed as she coped with the rash of questions. "They couldn't die from poison or bullets or knife wounds. All of those healed. The only was that they could die was if someone cut their head off. That's why they fought with swords. . ."
"Cool!"
The stranger shook her head. "Not really, Ryan," she responded. "They may have called it the Game, but. . ."
"It was honor," a solemn voice interrupted. "A matter of honor." May, the silent, little Oriental girl sat on the hearth and poked at the fire. She looked up at the storyteller and shrugged. "Right?"
"Well, yes. For some of them." The stranger paused. "For the good ones."
"Would you tell us about the good ones?" Jimmy asked. "The ones who helped people?"
She seemed to stare at the boy, studying his broad, tanned face and dark eyes. "Yes, Jimmy," she answered after a moment. "If you all are quiet, I'll tell you about a truly good one named Duncan MacLeod."
The children nodded silently. Beneath her hood, the storyteller grinned. There were some names that everyone responded to. She noticed that some of the debaters had started and turned at the name. The group's conversation broken, the others gave up and they all gathered around the speaker. The storyteller decided to ignore them, though. The story was for the children.
"Duncan MacLeod was a good Immortal," she continued. "He was over 400 years old and had fought many battles, Immortal and mortal. He had many friends and lost just as many. He knew his kind. He played the Game, but he played it by an extra set of rules. He followed chivalry, kindness, fairness. . ." The stranger sighed. "Not only did he follow the basic rules, the time-honored ones that no one broke." She raised a hand and lifted a finger to indicate each rule as she said it. She was almost painfully aware of the intense study of the adults and it made her nervous. They made her nervous, especially the blonde one in green. Was there recognition there? She ignored it and continued, "They only fought one against one." The second finger rose and, for the first time, her audience noticed the green-painted nails. "Holy ground of any type was sacred and whoever sought sanctuary there was safe." The third finger straightened. "And, most importantly, there could be only one. . ."
"Why?" A strident young voice rang out.
The storyteller whipped around to find the speaker. The sudden movement jarred her hood and it began to fall but she grabbed it before it could reveal more than a golden curl. "What?" It was the first question for a full 10 minutes and she was startled.
A slightly older boy, maybe around 10 or 11, appeared from the shadows next to her. A little girl, dark hair and wide, dark eyes, followed him. He crossed to the storyteller and stood at her elbow, staring into the depths of her hood. "Why could there be only one?" His accented voice was heavy with the question.
"Because."
"Because why?" he urged.
She sighed. "What's your name, little boy?"
He grinned. "Adam." Then he pointed at the girl with him. "And this is Mandy."
"So you really want to know?" She motioned for him to come closer to her.
"Yes," he replied earnestly as he claimed the empty stool beside her.
"Are you sure?" she teased. "Do you really, really want to know?"
Adam was practically jumping out of his skin with anticipation. "Yes, oh, yes!"
The storyteller calmly reached into the sleeve of her robe and withdrew a small red book. Keeping it face down in her lap, she adjusted her hood and her lower face, a rounded chin and full mouth, came into view. This revelation didn't distract the boy, however, and he cried, "Tell!"
The mouth curved into a gentle smile. Then she picked the book up and opened it to a marked page. "Now this is on good authority, children," she said. Pausing she found the proper section and began reading, "'So now that you are Immortal, there are a few rules that you must adhere to during your new life. Firstly, all fights must be one on one, mano y mano. It is the only fair way to do this thing. Secondly, holy ground is off-limits for fighting purposes. This includes, but is not limited to, your basic Christian church, Hindu temple, Shinto shrine, Native American sacred land, and other assorted altars. These are convenient places for vacations. A complete list of holy grounds worldwide can be found in the companion book, I'm OK, You're OK, We're on Holy Ground. The third and perhaps most important rule that you had better get used to is: THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE. At the end of the Gathering (see Chapter 4: How to Meet and Greet), only one Immortal will be left alive. Not 2 or 3. One. Why? It's very simple really. Your new life is a plot thread for a television show. That is why. Who would tune in every week to see you get up, go to work, come home, etc.? Ratings would plummet. Be consoled, though. Whichever one of you is left will get the Prize'. . ."
"With a capital P?" Ryan asked.
"What is it?" Hugh chimed in.
The stranger smiled and closed the book. "What is it?" she echoed as she made the book disappear into her sleeve again. "Well, children, I can't really tell you. . . But I just bet he could." She pointed and all heads swiveled in the direction of the door. A tall man stood there, sword in hand, looking around dazedly. "He's the last one. You all may call him Unca Dunkie. Now go and give him a hug," she urged. "He'll be entertaining you for the next millenium or so."
Immediately, the children sprang to their feet with cries of delight and jetted towards Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod. A few of them paused just long enough to thank the storyteller and she collected hugs from Ryan, Adam, and Mandy before they ran to join the others.
"Unca Dunkie! Tell us a story!"
"Wanna see my pet frog?"
"Unca Dunkie! Jake hit me!"
"Hugh pinched me!"
"He kissed me!"
"Mandy took my water gun!"
Duncan backpedaled at the onrush of children. They all looked so familiar. "This?" he gasped. "This is the Prize?"
"Looks that way," the stranger answered. "Meet your new charges. Ryan, Mandy, Adam, Darry, Becky, Hugh, Mike, Bernie, Jimmy, May, Jake, and Rene. Don't worry. They'll grow up eventually."
A brief smile lit Duncan's face. "They look so much like. . . The Prize? . . I can have my friends? . ." His wandering stutters were interrupted as the children reached him. Mandy promptly latched onto his coat sleeve and looked up at him in awe.
"A story, Unca Dunkie? A story, please?" Ryan begged, tugging on Duncan's other sleeve.
Jake demanded Duncan's attention next as he appeared, dragging Hugh behind by his hair. "Unca Dunkie! Hugh kissed Rene!"
Slowly, Duncan's smile faded to a look of dawning fright. The exact nature of his hard-won Prize became clear. . . 12 children. . . Between the ages of 6 and 10. . . "Oh, boy," he breathed.
While all eyes were focused on the last Immortal and his new Prize, the mysterious, hooded figure squelched a giggle, rose to her feet, and turned to leave unobtrusively. A sudden voice called out, though, and halted her. "Hey, you!" She froze for a second and then spun slowly to face the speaker. It was the blond debater and her brown-haired friend. The woman stood with her hands balled up on her hips in challenge.
"Me?"
"Yes, you. Who are you?" The woman paused. "As if I haven't figured it out already."
The brunette frowned. "You know her, MH?" she asked.
"Of course, she does," the stranger replied as she moved closer. Pale hands went up to the robe's fastenings and began working. "How could she not?" The robe fell away to reveal a short, blond woman dressed in jeans and a green T-shirt.
The brunette looked back and forth in amazement and confusion. "She. . . Hatter, she looks exactly like you!" she cried.
"Of course, she does," the Mad Hatter replied. "She is me, March." Suddenly, she grinned and linked arms with her double, leading her back into the shadows. "So you're spinning tales again, huh, Sappho?"
Their voices faded away as they disappeared, but the last thing March Hare heard was, "Well, someone's gonna have to. After all, this is the end of syndication. . ."