1992. Connor MacLeod stood silently in front of a tombstone, which read "RACHEL ELLINSTEIN JOHNSON" Emotion ran through him, scarring his heart. For 400 years, he had seen his loved ones age and die, or simply die in the flash of a blade. After winning the Game, he had dropped the identity of Russell Nash, married Brenda Wyatt and moved to Scotland. They had opened a small antique shop in Glasgow, where he hoped to enjoy the only prize he wanted: grow old with the woman he loved.
The Prize had been mere superstition. The winner would have the power of all the immortals, according to the legend. Having won, Connor was able to hear the thoughts of everybody in the world. But it was something transient. One day it was over. It probably had been a lasting side effect of the Quickening, or his brain had been damaged by it. After all, he was mortal now, and he was ageing.
But death followed him and took Rachel. His sweet Rachel, the Jewish orphan he had found in the War and taken in as his daughter. She had relinquished any social life to stand by him at the time of the Gathering. When it was over, and the MacLeods left for Scotland, Rachel suddenly found the centre of her life gone. In charge of the antique shop Connor had in New York, an elderly and kind customer interested in some silver from the sixteenth century soon courted her. They became husband and wife after six months of old-fashioned dates.
Bad news called in after a year of love between them. She had a growth in the head. It was too developed, and too deep within the brain mass to operate. There was almost no life expectancy for her. Donald - Rachel's spouse - almost begged Connor to come back. She wanted to see him. He returned too late. Donald was mourning in the lounge of the hospital, and gazed at him shatteringly. She had passed just an hour ago. Connor later learned that the man never got over her death and blew his brains in his apartment.
Brenda had been next to part. It was something different. Death did not call her. Their relation soured. Connor had been alone for too long, and a change in the habits was not occurring. He spent long hours in the shop, returning late, while she stayed at home all day taking care of the house. When they were together, he delved into her wife's mind, a quirk that disturbed her very much, and which usually led to a heated quarrel. Together with that, Connor's immortal sterility remained, and every effort to have children was futile. She dealt with the situation for three years. One day she said enough. The divorce suit was filed in 1989 and by 1990 she was no longer his wife.
She moved back to the States, where she gained some popularity writing a novel about immortals existing since the dawn of time, killing each other the only way they could: by decapitation. Connor did not find it appalling. He was the only immortal left, and he was not even immortal anymore. Besides, the critics considered it a one-off success of a second-rate fiction writer. However, she earned enough money to relinquish any financial support from her former husband...
Someone embraced Connor. A dark-haired woman with crystal blue eyes pecked his left cheek. He grinned and returned the kiss.
"Here we are, two years later." He mumbled.
"I remember, Connor. Are you ready to go home?" the woman replied.
"Yes, Lillian. Let's go home."
-----
"The man you killed had wife and two kids." The man let the comment slip slowly.
"It was my ass or his." Connor replied stiffly. "Who are you? What's going on?"
"You don't remember me. We met in 1985, in New York. I worked for Lt. Moran. Poor man, he died recently. Eric Garfield. I'm part of a secret organisation that has watched immortals since... for a long time." Connor's mind made out the image of a skinny arrogant cop. He hadn't changed much. His hair was grey and his face covered by the beard, but other than that, it was the same New York imbecile he had met twenty years ago.
"You missed the news: the Game is Over."
"Noticed. We'd dreaded the time of the Gathering since we learned about it. The fact that one immortal could have the power of all others... enough power to rule the world... led some of us to try and wipe you all out."
Connor laughed bitterly. "I took care of that for you."
"Yes, but now you are the last One. They fear you, MacLeod, and they want to kill you."
"Why don't you say 'we' instead of 'they'"? Connor didn't trust Garfield.
"Did you know how your clansman lost his head?"
"Duncan..." Connor said sadly. "Who? Where?"
"Duncan was in Paris with his woman. A visitor called in. Iman Fasil. He fought really hard, but it was not enough." Connor nodded, with some sort of subtle relief. Fasil had been too skilled a swordsman. Two times he had fought him, and it had been thoroughly difficult. He was to some extent glad Duncan had lost to such a warrior. "I read the report of the man who watched him. The man who brought me inside. A fine man really."
"Why are they still after me?"
"After you won, there was unrest within the organisation. You had the Prize, and could use the power to become the dictator of Earth. Vigilance was kept on you. When your wife left, some thought it was the right time to take you down."
"The Prize was a dung heap. Nothing really. I just began to age."
"I can see that. If you want to be free, you have to do something now. For how longer will you be able to cope?"
"Why are you telling me all this? Aren't you bound by some sort of duty to them?"
"The Watchers I joined are not the same they are now, since... "
Garfield stopped. His face stretched, then looked down at his stick. Connor realised something had startled him. He gulped the drink he had been bought to persuade him to stay.
"What is it?" he whispered.
"See that man in the corner?" Connor caught a glimpse of an African-American man in his mid-forties sipping a beer, staring intently at them through the mirror. Next to him, was a leather guitar case. When observed, the man put a hand on it. "His name is Robert Briggs. He is a dangerous man. When young, he was trained by your friend Kastagir."
"Ooh, how scary." Connor laughed. "Stand back. Things may get rough." He took the gun from under his shirt and fired twice at the rooftop. The barman, till then minding his own business, snapped at him, but found the Beretta aimed between his eyes. "Bug off, kid, or I'll put three of these in your skull."
The guy didn't think it twice. He was not paid well enough. He jumped over the bar and stormed away. Connor grinned and tossed the gun. Then faced Briggs. The man had opened the guitar case and drawn out a long scimitar.
"So you are an old-fashioned kind of fighter. I like that." Connor opened his coat and drew out a Japanese sword with a blade that was shorter than that of a standard katana. Garfield retreated. How come MacLeod still carried a wakizachi?
"My master told me so much about you, Highlander." Briggs commented, standing in position.
"Kastagir did not see things clearly." Connor mocked. "Too much boom-boom, if you ask me. That's why he died."
"MacLeod, what are you doing?" Garfield called from behind.
"What you suggested." With those words, Connor went forward. Steel touched steel. The clash was deafening. He retreated. His attacks had to be careful. Any unbalanced attack and he would be an easy target. Briggs lunged at him, trying to slice the Highlander's left arm. Connor moved his left side backwards and found a clear spot in Briggs's chest, in which he dug his blade, impaling his opponent fiercely. In the end, it had been a piece of cake.
"Damn!" Briggs cursed, spitting blood. Connor retired the sword and pulled it upwards. "There can be only one!"
"MACLEOD!" Garfield yelled from behind. Connor put down his weapon and beamed at the former cop. Briggs had fallen, all life of him gone.
"I was just kidding. Let's get out of here."