North America
2055 A.D.
Wrapped in the cloak of night, the forest shook in a fierce, bitter, moaning wind around the clearing in which two men faced each other with swords in their hands. These two were Immortals, centuries old, and this duel they fought tonight was just one of many in the millennia-spanning Game of their kind. And fight they must, for as they all knew, in the end there could be only one. Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod gritted his teeth as he deflected the rushing blade of his opponent's weapon with his dragon-headed katana and kicked out with his leg, catching his enemy hard in the ribs. Sean Clancy grunted and staggered, but did not fall or drop his sword. "Think of this fight as our kind's last, Macleod," the man rasped, "and that one of us'll win the Prize tonight! Makes it more exciting!"
Macleod did not respond with words; his sword spoke for him as the two lengths of steel clashed together, sparks flying from them in the chill air. In a moment, the tendons in Clancy's legs were slashed and he collapsed onto his knees...and then his head rolled off into the dark. From out of the bloody neck of the carcass now writhed glowing tendrils of energy that leapt to ensnare the waiting form of Macleod. White fire flared from his body as the entirety of Clancy's essence was poured into him via the Quickening. When it was finally over, Macleod was on his knees, breathing hard. One more down, said a voice in his head which he recognised as that of Connor Macleod, his long-dead kinsman, teacher and friend. "Connor?" he called out, but the elder highlander was silent.
No sun shone the following morning; only a dreary greyness reigned as Macleod shovelled earth over the hole he had dug and into which he had deposited the head and body of Sean Clancy. Once the last mound of dirt was cast down, Macleod wiped the sweat from his forehead and sighed. Two years ago, with humanity obliterating itself in the long-dreaded nuclear hell of the Third World War, he had come here to this mountainous wilderness in an attempt to escape the horrors of the bombs and fighting. He did not have to worry about radiation. But violence was the life of an Immortal, and it always found him again. All he could ultimately do was await the time of the Gathering, when the last few of his kind would battle until only one remained standing, even if all mortals were dead and the world was dust. Still holding the shovel, he trudged back to his log cabin.
Macleod was just about to step onto the front porch when he registered movement out of the corner of his eye. Swinging to his left, he saw the figure of a man standing on the edge of the clearing. It was not another Immortal he now faced - he would know if it was - but that did not mean the new arrival was friendly, particularly in these times when so many were willing to kill to survive just another day. Macleod examined the stranger carefully. He was bundled up in a heavy winter coat and jeans, both showing extreme wear and tear, with his boots likewise having seen better days. His hair was hidden beneath a thick wool hat. His face, where it was not obscured by an unkempt grey beard, was lined with age. As Macleod watched him, the man suddenly bent over and gave a series of painful-sounding coughs, then straightened up and wiped away something vaguely green from his beard with his sleeve. "Please, do not be alarmed," he said, his voice a groaning wheeze. "I intend you no...no..." He staggered, and sprawled face-down on the ground.
His eyes flickered open as Macleod finished laying him down on the sofa in the cabin. "Shh, it's alright," Macleod said softly. "My name's Duncan."
The stranger weakly cast his eyes around his surroundings: The fireplace, wherein warm flames crackled, warding off the bitter chill of the day; the dinner table with the single chair; the open door leading to the kitchen, and the staircase leading up to the bathroom and bedroom. "There is...no one else here?" he asked. Macleod shook his head, and the stranger said "My name is...Mestral. I am...dying. The pollutants in your world's air...caused by your conflict...have taken their toll on my body. Most...illogical...of your species...to...commit such...destructive acts."
My species? Macleod thought. He wondered if this Mestral was delirious. "Hold on," he told the man, "I'll find something to try and help you." As he started to move away, however, Mestral reached out and seized his wrist.
"Thank you," he said, "but...there is nothing that...you can do to...prolong my life. I wish only...to reveal myself to someone...before my...inevitable demise." With some effort, he lifted his other hand up to his head and pulled off his hat, causing Macleod's eyes to widen in sheer amazement. He had seen a lot in his hundreds of years of life, but never anything like this: The ears of the man who called himself Mestral tapered to high points, making him resemble an elf. "Now you see," Mestral said, "I am not of your planet...at least, not originally. My people...are called Vulcans. I have lived on Earth for almost a century now, and in all that time, I have been forced to hide my true nature...while watching...humans' all too brief lives."
Macleod looked at him and felt for his situation. "I know what it's like," he said. "I'm human, but...I am also over four hundred years old. I'm an Immortal, one of a number who have existed for thousands of years on this world. Don't ask me to explain where we come from, because...I honestly don't know; I don't think any of us do. We just are."
Mestral stared at him, and Macleod wondered if he believed him. Then the old man said "There is...a way for us...to share...our memories. If you...will permit me...I can...join our consciousnesses...in a mind meld."
"A mind meld?" Macleod repeated.
"A...gift of my people," Mestral told him. "Ancient, but...not widely practised in...my time; viewed by many as...improper. But years ago I...defied the taboo and...initiated such a meld...with a human who...was very special to me. It is...harmless, but...the choice must be...yours." Macleod thought carefully, then after a few seconds, nodded his consent. Mestral reached up and placed the fingers of one hand onto Macleod's face, then said "My mind to your mind...my thoughts to...your thoughts. Our minds...are one..." Then, within his brain, Macleod saw Mestral's life: His childhood on the planet Vulcan, growing up in the province of Raal by the shores of the Voroth Sea; his first sights of Mount Seleya and the ruins of Gol; his first steps on an alien world. He watched Mestral graduate from the Vulcan Science Academy and receive his first posting to an interstellar survey vessel. Then his stranding on Earth with two more of his kind, followed by his growing fondness for the ways of humans, and finally his ultimate decision to remain behind when the rescue ship came and dwell with the primitive, highly emotional inhabitants of this planet. The years rolled on and on, bringing pleasant times, and times of mourning...
Mestral saw Duncan Macleod's memories too: Being raised in Glenfinnen, in the highlands of Scotland, as the son of the chief of the Clan Macleod. The Vulcan was with Duncan as the Scot fought alongside his people and perished of wounds sustained in battle, only to rise from the dead; he felt Duncan's anguish when his fellow clansmen cast him out, telling him he was no true Macleod, but a foundling and an unholy abomination they had been tricked into accepting. Then Duncan's wanderings, meeting Connor Macleod, his first teacher in the ways of Immortals; encountering other Immortals as he left Scotland and traveled his world, some of whom becoming friends, such as Hamza el Kahir, Hugh Fitzcairn, Amanda, Darius and Methos, but others deadly enemies, with names like Khordas, Kanwulf, Xavier St. Cloud, and Kalas...there were many other foes across the centuries; Duncan had taken the heads of most, often in self-defence. And sometimes, too, he was forced to take the heads of friends, as in the case of Connor...
Abruptly, Mestral's fingers slipped from Macleod's face. Macleod heard the man gasp, and opened his eyes. Sweat was shining on Mestral's skin; his breathing was more laboured now. "Thank you," the Vulcan gasped, "for...a most interesting experience. Unfortunately, the...last reserves of...my strength are...almost gone. In other circumstances, I...would transfer...my katra...my soul, if you will...into your mind for...you to take...home. But it could...be years, even centuries before...my people and yours...establish such relations. Even...if you were...still alive after all that time, I...could not...allow you to carry...it...so long..." His eyes never left Macleod's as he slowly raised a hand, palm outward, and spread the fingers to form a 'v' shape. "And...so, I shall...simply say...live...long and...prosper, Duncan Macleod...of...the Clan...Macleod." His hand dropped limply, his eyes closed, and in a few seconds Macleod knew he was dead.