The threesome snuck down the road in the dark. Several blocks down the
road, Rita stopped.
"See what trouble you cause?" she accused Tommy.
"Five combined years and that's all I am, trouble?" said the Irisher.
"And ten years of coming and going and lying and leaving! I told you, that I knew the truth, if you left me one more time, I would not let you back into my life. It's too many, Tommy! Five hundred years and all you do is run!"
"Hello, miss. I'm Tommy, I'm five hundred and forty-two," he mocked, introducing himself to the air, "Excuse me I have to go behead that sinister man over there...sorry, darling, not everyone's as mad as you."
"Believe me, your charm is working," she sneered.
The night was otherwise peaceful-save for the tension between the two ex- lovers-and the bar fight.
"Do you know Jack?" Tommy pulled the boy bodily in front of him.
"Hi..." cracked the young one.
"Is he one of you?" she asked, slightly curiosity and empathetic toward the baby-faced boy.
"Yes, but I'm but I'm a child, don't hurt me..."
"Oh, a student...you better pull off your head now, chico, if you're relying on him to teach you anything," she said.
"Tom," Jack said low to his teacher.
"Yes, Jackie."
"Remember when you asked me if I was comfortable?"
"Yeah."
"I'm not."
"Both of you, just go home," Rita said, half pleading. "You've done enough. I could lose my job because of tonight."
"You hate your job," Tommy reminded. She forgot he knew her better than anyone. Everyday for years she'd come home, threatening to quit. She never did.
"Just go home," she said, Jack started walking backwards, hoping Tommy would follow suit. They had switched places from a month ago. No wonder Tommy thought love was so illogical.
"Promise to see me tomorrow!" Tommy said, starting to follow his young friend.
"Go!" she said again, lacking in her earlier bitterness.
"Promise!"
Rita turned around and started walking home. She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to put all tender thoughts out of her head.
***
The next day, somewhere on the edge of town....
"Here," Tommy instructed, "don't put your weight there or you'll lose your balance." He adjusted Jack's position as the young man held out his sword, concentrating hard and squinting from the bright afternoon sun. They'd been there since the morning. After the encounter with Rita Tommy was determined to get his mind on other things. He also thought Jack's training would benefit from his bad mood. He pushed him harder.
"Get up! Come on, faster than that!" Tommy hit his sword down. Since when had he become a drill sergeant? At least he wasn't trying to kill him- like everyone else might be. Now that he was immortal, everyday he thought he'd die the next.
Jack, once the go-getter, groaned as he bent down to retrieve his sword. Tommy shouted again to go faster and harder. After the first two hours, Jack began to hate him a little.
"And thrust forward!" Tommy demonstrated, standing next to him. He repeated and Jack copied as best he could. "Again!" Everything ached, oh, how everything ached.
"Now," Tommy commanded, "come at me!" Jack came at him in the style he had been showed, doing his best to disarm his teacher. He did-and sliced his knee right open in the process. "Aarg! Shite!" Tommy collapsed to the ground, clutching his bloody knee.
"Shit! Shit! Sorry!" Jack dropped his weapon and dropped to his own knees to meet Tom.
"Ah..." Tom winced in terrible pain, adjusting himself, "don't worry, that," he said, waving his hand weakly, becoming more himself, "I think I'll be fine." He managed a smile at his youthful student, wiping away the boy's concern. He looked at him. If only he had a couple more years, he'd be a little bigger. Jack was just built scrawny, but he was barely twenty. It would have been helpful with a few more years to bulk up before entering the game, but that couldn't be helped now. He had the fire. He had that chance. Somewhere in the back of Tommy's mind, he wondered about Clement. If he ever found out about Jack's immortality he'd come for him. He knew enough by word of mouth, that Clement left nothing unfinished. Young Jack Dawson would be the last name to clear in the Ojima/Dan Patterson saga. He hoped Jack would have a few good decades-at least- before Clement found him.
"I wonder if I'll ever be able to do it," Jack interrupted his thoughts, "I mean, I know when it's my life or his I'm gonna chose mine, but I don't even think how I could take mortal war-even now." The two of them were sitting on the ground in peace. Tommy's knee was healing, but the training session was unofficially over.
"You won't get used to it, but you'll learn to live with it and losing people, too."
"But you were born a warrior."
"I was," Tommy no longer looked at his student, but stared off as if he were watching another scene.
"How do you handle war?"
"I don't anymore, I quit fighting in mortal battles fifty years ago. I avoid bloodshed where I can now."
***
Andersonville Prison, Geogia 1864
Tommy groaned inwardly as he made himself "comfortable" in the mud. He hated being captured, or any sort of imprisonment for that matter. Upon his capture he had lost three of his friends. One them was just sixteen and lied about his age to get into the army. Lot of good that did him now. But this time was different, he was no longer anxious for the fray. He knew at that moment, though he may never lose his life in mortal battle, he had already lost his spirit there. It was too much death for one lifetime.
Yet here was worse. Soldiers slept in ditches and lay dying as others hobbled past. He passed a full grown man that couldn't have been more than seventy pounds by the look of him. The place smelled of death, but not like bloody death on the battle field or like houses of the diseased-it smelled like both. Like a violent, rotting death, and hundreds of them. There was no place he wished to be less. He knew he would survive and move on. Perhaps that was worse. He did not want to keep the memory of it. He could not help but feel a nostalgia for every brother in arms and every war, but today was the day he'd had enough.
The man who ran the place, Col. William Everitt Culbraith was one of him. He couldn't understand it. Why take life where it is so fragile? But he didn't want to answer that, he'd been doing it himself for nearly five hundred years, in the name of country and cause and comrades. He felt the presence of another immortal. What was Culbraith doing out here, he wondered. Tom got to his feet and looked around for the other. Across the camp, maybe twenty yards stood another Union soldier, not Culbraith. He looked like his best friend had died. He probably had.
The other immortal approached slowly. This one wouldn't take his head under normal circumstances, but Tommy almost wished he would.
"I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he spoke. Ryan had heard of him, Connor's clansman and former student. Duncan MacLeod, he wasn't exactly low profile, but them again, neither was Tomás Ó Riain. Now here they stood together in the lowliest of places.
"Tommy Ryan," he said. There seemed to be recognition in MacLeod's eyes as well.
"New arrival I take it?" asked MacLeod with little enthusiasm, his mind was on someone else.
"Yeah, is there anyway out of here?"
"Haven't looked for one yet. Not unless you know of one already. Or you plan on breaking out."
"Not sure if I've the will anymore," Tommy lamented, "I think this is my last war. Once it's over I think I'm going to find a quiet place somewhere- and never leave," said the medieval soldier. Duncan MacLeod nodded.
The day was gray and wet and miserable. And much too cold for a Georgia summer. The two Celtic warriors stood side by side, looking at the death surrounding them. MacLeod had given up the soldier since he had met the priest Darius, as he told Tommy Ryan. He had been a spy and had now been in imprisoned as an abolitionist, assisting a black man in escaping to the North. His friend had died just days earlier.
Months later, after the war had ended. Duncan and Tommy made their way to New York, a taste of "good old, sweet Yankee soil" as Tommy had called it. Even in America he had his special loyalties. After a few months, Duncan left for Annapolis and Tommy for Paris to this priest for which his friend had so much praise. After five hundred years he felt lost. Anyone who could help would be much welcomed.
If there was anyone guilty of war crimes it had been this man, this goodly priest, once Darius the Great. Rumor had it, he killed a priest, the oldest living immortal at the time, and that he received the priest's goodness in the Quickening. Then he laid down his sword for the last time. Tommy didn't feel like joining the church anytime soon. He hadn't been a religious man in years though Darius's calming presence and strong friendship provided him with some foundation, he moved on and left Paris after three years and moved back to Ireland. The comfort of spending most of his time on the protection of Holy Ground left him with a painful home sickness.
He went back to Tullow, drawn back to the land of his birth and mortal life. He stayed there for over a decade never moving to far from the place he was raised. But he was at a loss. It had been nearly a century since his last return home. His childhood friends were all dead. They married and had children and aged and died. His mother and father, who had loved him in spite of his "curse" had grown old and died without their younger son. His older brother, Áed had a large family with many sons and retired a great warrior. Just as Tomás remembered him, brave and strong like his father. His younger sister, Máire, died in childbirth just a few years after he left, around the time he met Rebecca. She was barely a woman last he left her. He would always remember her as a sweet and innocent child, like his mother only without the edge of woman who'd seen life and loss. But he was not like any of them. By blood, they were not his real family. His mother found him one day in a field. A lone infant, "sleeping perfectly among the lilies" as she had often described. He belonged to nothing and no one, though had they been alive, they would have argued that. Upon his first return, there were those who still knew them and he passed as his own son. But after long no one knew of any of them. Their memories had died in all but him.
He spent the most of the latter half of the nineteenth century wandering around Africa. Then he returned to America, his second home, early in the new century. Two years later he crossed the border, set on heading south until he hit the city of Durango and a beautiful and strong-willed eighteen year old, Rita Alvarez. He hadn't been truly in love in over a century. The first time he left her and promised to return. The next time he came he almost married her. He came back again early in the spring of 1907 and told her everything, even stabbing himself to prove it. And still she stayed with him, knowing she would grow old and die and that he would move on, knowing she would never be a mother, knowing that her own life might be in danger if anybody came for him, and that in the unusual case of his death, it would be violent and sudden. Three years later, Tommy left her, unable to stand the thought of losing her or giving her that pain. He wanted more for her than he could give her.
"See what trouble you cause?" she accused Tommy.
"Five combined years and that's all I am, trouble?" said the Irisher.
"And ten years of coming and going and lying and leaving! I told you, that I knew the truth, if you left me one more time, I would not let you back into my life. It's too many, Tommy! Five hundred years and all you do is run!"
"Hello, miss. I'm Tommy, I'm five hundred and forty-two," he mocked, introducing himself to the air, "Excuse me I have to go behead that sinister man over there...sorry, darling, not everyone's as mad as you."
"Believe me, your charm is working," she sneered.
The night was otherwise peaceful-save for the tension between the two ex- lovers-and the bar fight.
"Do you know Jack?" Tommy pulled the boy bodily in front of him.
"Hi..." cracked the young one.
"Is he one of you?" she asked, slightly curiosity and empathetic toward the baby-faced boy.
"Yes, but I'm but I'm a child, don't hurt me..."
"Oh, a student...you better pull off your head now, chico, if you're relying on him to teach you anything," she said.
"Tom," Jack said low to his teacher.
"Yes, Jackie."
"Remember when you asked me if I was comfortable?"
"Yeah."
"I'm not."
"Both of you, just go home," Rita said, half pleading. "You've done enough. I could lose my job because of tonight."
"You hate your job," Tommy reminded. She forgot he knew her better than anyone. Everyday for years she'd come home, threatening to quit. She never did.
"Just go home," she said, Jack started walking backwards, hoping Tommy would follow suit. They had switched places from a month ago. No wonder Tommy thought love was so illogical.
"Promise to see me tomorrow!" Tommy said, starting to follow his young friend.
"Go!" she said again, lacking in her earlier bitterness.
"Promise!"
Rita turned around and started walking home. She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to put all tender thoughts out of her head.
***
The next day, somewhere on the edge of town....
"Here," Tommy instructed, "don't put your weight there or you'll lose your balance." He adjusted Jack's position as the young man held out his sword, concentrating hard and squinting from the bright afternoon sun. They'd been there since the morning. After the encounter with Rita Tommy was determined to get his mind on other things. He also thought Jack's training would benefit from his bad mood. He pushed him harder.
"Get up! Come on, faster than that!" Tommy hit his sword down. Since when had he become a drill sergeant? At least he wasn't trying to kill him- like everyone else might be. Now that he was immortal, everyday he thought he'd die the next.
Jack, once the go-getter, groaned as he bent down to retrieve his sword. Tommy shouted again to go faster and harder. After the first two hours, Jack began to hate him a little.
"And thrust forward!" Tommy demonstrated, standing next to him. He repeated and Jack copied as best he could. "Again!" Everything ached, oh, how everything ached.
"Now," Tommy commanded, "come at me!" Jack came at him in the style he had been showed, doing his best to disarm his teacher. He did-and sliced his knee right open in the process. "Aarg! Shite!" Tommy collapsed to the ground, clutching his bloody knee.
"Shit! Shit! Sorry!" Jack dropped his weapon and dropped to his own knees to meet Tom.
"Ah..." Tom winced in terrible pain, adjusting himself, "don't worry, that," he said, waving his hand weakly, becoming more himself, "I think I'll be fine." He managed a smile at his youthful student, wiping away the boy's concern. He looked at him. If only he had a couple more years, he'd be a little bigger. Jack was just built scrawny, but he was barely twenty. It would have been helpful with a few more years to bulk up before entering the game, but that couldn't be helped now. He had the fire. He had that chance. Somewhere in the back of Tommy's mind, he wondered about Clement. If he ever found out about Jack's immortality he'd come for him. He knew enough by word of mouth, that Clement left nothing unfinished. Young Jack Dawson would be the last name to clear in the Ojima/Dan Patterson saga. He hoped Jack would have a few good decades-at least- before Clement found him.
"I wonder if I'll ever be able to do it," Jack interrupted his thoughts, "I mean, I know when it's my life or his I'm gonna chose mine, but I don't even think how I could take mortal war-even now." The two of them were sitting on the ground in peace. Tommy's knee was healing, but the training session was unofficially over.
"You won't get used to it, but you'll learn to live with it and losing people, too."
"But you were born a warrior."
"I was," Tommy no longer looked at his student, but stared off as if he were watching another scene.
"How do you handle war?"
"I don't anymore, I quit fighting in mortal battles fifty years ago. I avoid bloodshed where I can now."
***
Andersonville Prison, Geogia 1864
Tommy groaned inwardly as he made himself "comfortable" in the mud. He hated being captured, or any sort of imprisonment for that matter. Upon his capture he had lost three of his friends. One them was just sixteen and lied about his age to get into the army. Lot of good that did him now. But this time was different, he was no longer anxious for the fray. He knew at that moment, though he may never lose his life in mortal battle, he had already lost his spirit there. It was too much death for one lifetime.
Yet here was worse. Soldiers slept in ditches and lay dying as others hobbled past. He passed a full grown man that couldn't have been more than seventy pounds by the look of him. The place smelled of death, but not like bloody death on the battle field or like houses of the diseased-it smelled like both. Like a violent, rotting death, and hundreds of them. There was no place he wished to be less. He knew he would survive and move on. Perhaps that was worse. He did not want to keep the memory of it. He could not help but feel a nostalgia for every brother in arms and every war, but today was the day he'd had enough.
The man who ran the place, Col. William Everitt Culbraith was one of him. He couldn't understand it. Why take life where it is so fragile? But he didn't want to answer that, he'd been doing it himself for nearly five hundred years, in the name of country and cause and comrades. He felt the presence of another immortal. What was Culbraith doing out here, he wondered. Tom got to his feet and looked around for the other. Across the camp, maybe twenty yards stood another Union soldier, not Culbraith. He looked like his best friend had died. He probably had.
The other immortal approached slowly. This one wouldn't take his head under normal circumstances, but Tommy almost wished he would.
"I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he spoke. Ryan had heard of him, Connor's clansman and former student. Duncan MacLeod, he wasn't exactly low profile, but them again, neither was Tomás Ó Riain. Now here they stood together in the lowliest of places.
"Tommy Ryan," he said. There seemed to be recognition in MacLeod's eyes as well.
"New arrival I take it?" asked MacLeod with little enthusiasm, his mind was on someone else.
"Yeah, is there anyway out of here?"
"Haven't looked for one yet. Not unless you know of one already. Or you plan on breaking out."
"Not sure if I've the will anymore," Tommy lamented, "I think this is my last war. Once it's over I think I'm going to find a quiet place somewhere- and never leave," said the medieval soldier. Duncan MacLeod nodded.
The day was gray and wet and miserable. And much too cold for a Georgia summer. The two Celtic warriors stood side by side, looking at the death surrounding them. MacLeod had given up the soldier since he had met the priest Darius, as he told Tommy Ryan. He had been a spy and had now been in imprisoned as an abolitionist, assisting a black man in escaping to the North. His friend had died just days earlier.
Months later, after the war had ended. Duncan and Tommy made their way to New York, a taste of "good old, sweet Yankee soil" as Tommy had called it. Even in America he had his special loyalties. After a few months, Duncan left for Annapolis and Tommy for Paris to this priest for which his friend had so much praise. After five hundred years he felt lost. Anyone who could help would be much welcomed.
If there was anyone guilty of war crimes it had been this man, this goodly priest, once Darius the Great. Rumor had it, he killed a priest, the oldest living immortal at the time, and that he received the priest's goodness in the Quickening. Then he laid down his sword for the last time. Tommy didn't feel like joining the church anytime soon. He hadn't been a religious man in years though Darius's calming presence and strong friendship provided him with some foundation, he moved on and left Paris after three years and moved back to Ireland. The comfort of spending most of his time on the protection of Holy Ground left him with a painful home sickness.
He went back to Tullow, drawn back to the land of his birth and mortal life. He stayed there for over a decade never moving to far from the place he was raised. But he was at a loss. It had been nearly a century since his last return home. His childhood friends were all dead. They married and had children and aged and died. His mother and father, who had loved him in spite of his "curse" had grown old and died without their younger son. His older brother, Áed had a large family with many sons and retired a great warrior. Just as Tomás remembered him, brave and strong like his father. His younger sister, Máire, died in childbirth just a few years after he left, around the time he met Rebecca. She was barely a woman last he left her. He would always remember her as a sweet and innocent child, like his mother only without the edge of woman who'd seen life and loss. But he was not like any of them. By blood, they were not his real family. His mother found him one day in a field. A lone infant, "sleeping perfectly among the lilies" as she had often described. He belonged to nothing and no one, though had they been alive, they would have argued that. Upon his first return, there were those who still knew them and he passed as his own son. But after long no one knew of any of them. Their memories had died in all but him.
He spent the most of the latter half of the nineteenth century wandering around Africa. Then he returned to America, his second home, early in the new century. Two years later he crossed the border, set on heading south until he hit the city of Durango and a beautiful and strong-willed eighteen year old, Rita Alvarez. He hadn't been truly in love in over a century. The first time he left her and promised to return. The next time he came he almost married her. He came back again early in the spring of 1907 and told her everything, even stabbing himself to prove it. And still she stayed with him, knowing she would grow old and die and that he would move on, knowing she would never be a mother, knowing that her own life might be in danger if anybody came for him, and that in the unusual case of his death, it would be violent and sudden. Three years later, Tommy left her, unable to stand the thought of losing her or giving her that pain. He wanted more for her than he could give her.