The following is my first attempt at creating an original character in an established universe. If she shows any signs of being a Mary Sue, someone please throw things at me immediately.
All Highlander characters and situations belong to the people who created them. I own nothing and am writing as an homage to a show I really liked, and still kind of miss. And yes, I admit it, Adrian Paul is 'teh hawt'.
My grandfather moved in with my mom and me when I was six years old, right after he retired. Before then I'd seen him only briefly, as his job seemed to take him to all corners of the world, and he'd always been a rather imposing figure, sort of brave and mysterious. He would show up once or twice a year, bringing me gifts from odd places but never talking about why he went where he went, or did what he did. I was afraid at first that he wouldn't like me, but I needn't have worried. By the end of his first month with us, he and I were fast friends. Every night before I went to sleep, my grandfather would come to tuck me in and tell me stories of a man called Duncan Macleod. He would always start the story the same way. "Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod was a warrior who always strove to do what he thought was the right thing," and he would launch into a tale of sword battles, wars, rescuing fair maidens and the like,. The tales took place in different parts of the world, in different times, but I never gave it much thought. As a child it was enough to hear the thrilling stories, and spend time with my grandfather.
Duncan was my grandfather's hero, and soon he was mine as well. I wanted to be like him. I wanted to fight like he did, and rescue people, and travel the world learning different languages and different cultures. In my little neighborhood in New Jersey, however, there were few people who needed rescuing, and we didn't have enough money to travel, but I was able to convince my mother to let me take karate lessons. I started my lessons when I was seven, and to my mother's great surprise, was good at it. I'd quit both ballet and gymnastics weeks into the lessons, and she honestly didn't think I'd stick with this, but I did. It was what Duncan did, according to my grandfather, and I wanted to do it too. I got my first black belt by the time I was nine. My grandfather was very proud of me, and whenever I got impatient or wanted to quit, he would remind me of Duncan's struggles, and his patience in learning new things. It worked every time.
As I got older and began to develop my own life, the "Duncan stories" as I called them became more like morality tales, in which Duncan struggled to do what was right, to avoid a fight, to give up the woman's love because it was the proper thing to do. My grandfather would often caution me to think about my actions, and to hold Duncan up as a ruler by which to measure my behavior. "Is that what Duncan would do?" I he would say, and I would often find myself asking that same question. I have no doubt that it did keep me out of trouble in some cases. However, as I got older, and the constant reminders of doing right became downright annoying, I began questioning the existence of one Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod and his goody-two shoes attitudes toward duty and doing the right thing. I stopped listening to the stories, and, I'm ashamed to admit, started getting into trouble. I even stopped going to karate. When I look back on it now, I'm not really sure what I was rebelling from. I had a good life, mostly, my mother worked hard, but she loved me, and my grandfather was the only father figure I ever really needed, so I guess I can put it down to normal teenaged angst. Whatever the reasons, it did not sit well with my grandfather.
Not long before my fifteenth birthday, my grandfather picked me up from school, which was highly unusual and deeply suspicious. After receiving assurances that no one was dead, he told me he had a surprise for me. I sat next to him in his old car, my arms folded, feeling rebellious and more than a little embarrassed that my friends had seen me be collected after school like some grade school child and asked coldly what that surprise could possibly be. Grandfather smiled at me in his patient way, and took my hands in his, "Molly," he said, "I'm taking you to see Duncan Macleod."
We drove to New York City that afternoon, and Grandfather took me to an antique bookstore where he introduced me to a man called Joe Dawson. Joe was younger than my grandfather by at least a decade, from what I could see, but he walked with a cane, and his hair was gray. My grandfather greeted him warmly then pushed me forward to introduce me.
"This is my granddaughter, Molly Lewis, who I was telling you about, Joe. Thanks for doing this."
"It's a pleasure to meet you Molly," Joe said, shaking my hand formally. "Now, did your grandfather explain anything to you?"
"Just that he was going to show me Duncan MacLeod, which is I assume some way of teaching me a lesson, or something," I said, determined not to show how much my curiosity was piqued.
"First there is something you must understand, Molly, that what you are about to learn is top secret."
That got me. "Why?"
Joe lowered himself into a chair. "I am a Watcher, as was your grandfather before he retired." I raised my eyebrow at this, but refrained from making the snarky comment that was in my head. I wanted to hear what he had to say. "Our job is to watch the Immortals, to record what they do, but never interfere. Your grandfather was Duncan's watcher, and now I am."
They both stared at me, waiting, I suppose to say something like 'that's impossible', or 'you're nuts' and believe me I was going to but the look in Joe's eyes stopped me. He was serious. So I just nodded my head, waiting to hear what happens next.
Then my grandfather spoke. "I've brought you here, Molly, because I want you to know that everything I told you was true, that there is a person who walks in the world who upholds the qualities I've tried to give you. He doesn't always succeed, and I don't expect you always succeed, but I want you to try, like he does."
Then they gave me a bunch of rules about never letting anyone know about this secret society, and I was not to approach the Immortal, or talk to him, but simply, well, watch.
Duncan was in New York City on a brief vacation, visiting with someone who was also an immortal and according to Joe, Duncan's first teacher. Joe took us to a restaurant where Duncan and his friend Connor were supposedly meeting for dinner, and waited. It wasn't long before my grandfather nudged me, and pointed to the door, and I had my first glimpse of Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. He was wearing a white fisherman's sweater, and his dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, a look I despised on most men, but on him it worked. His companion, Connor, apparently said something amusing, and Duncan laughed, his face lighting up with a smile I swear I felt, right down to my toes. They took a table not to far from ours, and we were able to catch snatches of their conversation as we ate our own dinner. His voice was rich and deep, with just a trace of an accent about it. Every story, every moral tale, every swashbuckling fight I was ever told ran though my mind as I watched him, and I took my grandfather's lesson to heart. I would strive to be worthy of Duncan MacLeod, both for my grandfather's sake, and for my own.