A Federation Starbase in the late 23rd Century

The Starfleet Officer woke with a gasp. His lungs burned with the effort of drawing in all the air that his body demanded. Slowly he rolled into a sitting position, allowing the sheet to fall down about his hips. He leaned forward, sinking his aching head into his hands. The migraines had groan worse over the last few weeks, even as the dreams had become more and more vivid. Gingerly he made his way across to the replicator. "Water, 10 degrees centigrade". The device glowed and hummed, depositing a small drinking glass in the opening. He took it and sipped gratefully as he returned to bed. An almost inaudible skittering came to his ears as he lay down and he half smiled, stretching out an arm so that his hand rested on the floor. Within half a heartbeat, the skittering stopped and an icy creeping feeling preceeded B.O.B's arrival on his collarbone. The Lematya spider chittered softly. The sound was soothing and accompanied her telepathic caress. The disturbing feeling that the vivid dream had left him with began to fade as he drowsed. Soon enough, however, the images came again and not even telepathic interference could stop them.

21st Century

Morgan looked around her nervously as she settled herself into the luxurious leather upholstery of her Business Class seat aboard the Airbus A380. She had rarely travelled beyond her home before, much less in such opulence and she was feeling slightly out of place. Cabin attendants moved back and forth with practised efficiency; helping with seatbelts, stowing luggage and escorting passengers to their seats. Martin glanced up from the seat to her left, on the aisle and touched her hand with gentle reassurance. "Are you alright?" he asked, quietly.

"Yeah" she whispered back as she fussed with the light scarf that covered the scar on her throat. "Just feeling ever so slightly overwhelmed. You didn't have to do this you know."

"I wanted to. Don't worry, just sit back and relax, ok?"

"Ok."

Ten hours later, the aeroplane touched down at London Heathrow. It was the late afternoon of a fine spring day as the passengers disembarked and the mass of people trudged through the bland maze of tunnels and corridors that led from the Gates to passport control and baggage reclaim. Morgan passed through immigration without difficulty and rejoined Martin a few minutes afterwards at the luggage belt. The noise in the enormous room was deafening and the older Immortal kept a careful eye on his nervy student as he selected a trolley on which to transport their cases. Typically, her eyes were flitting this way and that as people crowded close to the baggage belt and Martin saw her tense, distinctly ill at ease at the proximity. Fortunately for the two of them, their luggage was among the first few items and soon, he and his protégé were passing towards customs and the main body of the airport.

"We need to pick up the transit case from the freight desk" Penwarden reminded his student. "There'll be questions, there always are. Try not to worry about it, I'll do the talking".

Morgan nodded. "Sorry but there's no way I was sending that hockey stick as unaccompanied baggage" she murmured as the two of them reached the desk.

"Penwarden, one box" the Immortal man told the clerk on duty, handing over his passport and the stub from the baggage tag.

The officer grunted and made a few clicks with his computer mouse. "It's in back" he answered unenthusiastically. "Needs to go through a Customs inspection before I can let you take it".

"Of course" Penwarden ignored his student's restlessness. This was something he had faced many times before. As an Immortal, you couldn't get twitchy about airport security and customs inspections when you were travelling with live bladed swords. He guided Morgan to a bank of uncomfortable metal seats where they waited for nearly half an hour before a customs official beckoned them in to the examination room.

"We've x-rayed the container Mr Penwarden. Do you have a license for the contents?" he enquired with a severe expression.

"Most certainly. It's an original Civil War Mortuary sword, dating from the mid-seventeeth century" he informed the official with more than a small hint of pride as he produced the keys to the case and an envelope of papers from his coat. "Everything you need is all here. Bill of sale, authentication, import licence... and the papers for the other item".

The official grunted and opened the case. Inside, carefully packed in foam and velvet lay Martin's sword alongside Morgan's precious hockey stick. He let out a breath. "Pretty penny invested in this box. Is there a particular reason for purchasing and importing a sword like this?"

"I collect antique weapons" the Immortal explained patiently. "I have traced the provenance of this particular sword to an ancestor of mine. It belongs in the family, so to speak".

"And... this?" he gestured at the curved length of wood replete with signatures.

"An Ice Hockey stick. The entire Canucks team from last season signed it personally for my friend" Martin grinned.

The customs man grunted again. The two immortals distantly caught the word 'Supervisor' as he leaned out of the door and spoke to someone on the other side of the threshold. Morgan glanced at Penwarden with a raised eyebrow. Martin simply winked and settled himself more comfortably in the unyielding plastic chair. A moment later the official reappeared together with a second man. There were now four people including two strange men in the small room. Morgan's heart raced and she swallowed as the space seemed to grow hotter. The supervisor narrowed his eyes at flushed skin and dilated pupils.

"She's a little claustrophobic" Martin explained quickly. The supervisor nodded in understanding.

"Wait in the other room Adam" he instructed. "Now, let's see what we've got here". The supervisor pulled the case towards him and unfolded the velvet wrap before thoughtfully scratching the tattoo on the inside of his wrist. "All the papers are correct I see... Well I don't think there'll be any problems bringing these items into the country. The sword is obviously an antique". He nodded to Martin as he settled the sword back into its velvet cushioning. It was a knowing nod; the Watcher recognised the Immortal. His file had come through with the passenger records. The woman with him was, as yet unknown to the Organisation. "I reckon this here hockey stick is probably more dangerous... or it was the last time someone played with it?"

Morgan smiled weakly. "They aren't great league leaders"

"Too true" the customs supervisor laughed and resealed the case, before quickly signing and stamping the import papers. "Well that's everything Mr Penwarden."

Martin nodded and accepted the handle of the precious box. Finally it was time to go home. The Watcher was thoughtful as he observed Penwarden usher the young woman out of the room with almost paternal protectiveness. Finally he thought. He's taken another student. Maybe this one will be better suited to him... Maybe he will be better suited to her. Martin had called ahead and a car was waiting for them. The driver stood among dozens of others at the entrance to the Arrivals Hall, with a sign bearing the legend 'Mr Penwarden'.

By the time they arrived at Martin's home, it was dark and Morgan had slept most of the journey. As the car pulled up in the drive he leaned over and gently shook her awake. "Come on kiddo. We're here".

"As long as 'here' comes in a cup with milk and sugar, it's all good" she mumbled sleepily.

Martin simply chuckled and opened the car door for her while the driver unloaded their bags from the boot of the car and placed them on the porch.

The front door was an unassuming varnished wood with brass knocker, locks and letter box. It was approached by a red tiled step and led into a wide and welcoming front hall. Morgan hesitated just inside the threshold, taking in the staircase ahead of her, just beyond the leftward leading door and other doors to the left and right, further down the hallway as Martin moved around, switching on lights and turning up the thermostat. "You don't have to stand on ceremony here you know. Make yourself at home." He opened a door, flicked a switch and gestured for his student to precede him into the Lounge. He took her coat from her and she sat down, perching on the edge of a firm but comfortable recliner lounge sofa that stretched around the corner of the room, covering almost all of two walls. "One hot chocolate coming up" he said. Morgan nodded her thanks and her eyes relaxed a little. Martin strolled off out of the room whistling to himself. The Immortal woman looked about her, taking in her surroundings curiously.

Penwarden's home was as unassuming as he was; a large detached dwelling in a small village in the English countryside. It sat quite by itself at the end of a cul-de-sac, perfectly private and not overlooked by any of its' neighbours. Light glowed from the gas powered flames in the hearth, scattering orange highlights on a pair of crossed swords hung over the fireplace. Above the crossed swords, a photograph of two small puppies held pride of place overlooking the entire room.

Martin's footsteps tapped on the oak floorboards as he returned, carrying a tray with two steaming mugs upon it. Morgan had begun to relax and now sat straighter as he handed her the fragrant beverage then settled himself on one of the two companion armchairs across from the sofa. A sigh of 'coming home' contentment escaped him as his body relaxed. Morgan took a sip of the sweet liquid in her mug and spluttered. Penwarden simply grinned. "The major problem with 'The New World' is that they have no idea how to make REAL chocolate."

"Nice house" the younger woman offered as she wiped the milk from her mouth and took another, more tentative taste.

"I like to think so… but for the moment it's your home as well… For as long as you need it."

"You're very kind Martin."

He shrugged the compliment off. "Once you've finished your chocolate I'll show you your room and, in the morning, I'll give you the grand tour."

Morgan nodded. "Sounds like a plan" she murmured. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure"

"Is there an alarm system?"

"There's no need to worry Morgan. He doesn't know where you are and you're in no danger. Now… relax. We've had a long journey and you must be exhausted."

She nodded slightly and her eyes wandered back to the crossed swords on the wall.

"I see you've noticed my lucky charms."

"Your what?"

"Seventeenth century Scottish Basket hilt Broadswords. The genuine article".

"Why do you call them your lucky charms?"

"They belonged to a pair of psychotic mortal Scots who were not smart enough to use teamwork to take me down… thus I took them down and took their blades to remind myself that two heads are usually better than one when it comes to solving a problem."

"I… see…" Morgan sounded wary

"Don't worry, they're firmly fastened to the wall. Actually, that reminds me… I have something for you" he stood and beckoned to her to follow him but she froze and became cautious again.

"What sort of… something?" she murmured quietly.

"Morgan, Morgan, Morgan" Martin remonstrated gently. "I promise you that nothing is going to jump out and hurt you in this house. You're as safe here as any place off Holy Ground can be. You do trust me, don't you?"

To his surprise and to hers, she reached out and touched his right cheek; running the tip of her forefinger along the length of the rough scar on his cheek, almost the twin of the one that slashed across her own throat. After a moment's silence she spoke. "I do trust you… with my life."

Martin's heart leapt within his breast and he silently laughed with joy at the healing of the first rift. "Good" he smiled as he clasped her hand and drew her to her feet.

"Now let me give you a gift". Teacher and Student moved through the house and into Martin's study. He pulled the heavy brocade curtains across the window, then lifted a long, narrow case onto the desk and unlocked it, before turning it around to Morgan. "Go ahead, open it" he grinned.

Obediently, Morgan reached out and deftly flipped the catches, then lifted the lid and gasped before carefully lifting out the slightly curved blade from it's bed of moulded velvet. "This is… really for me?" she asked in a hushed tone.

"It's a cavalry sabre of the Light Brigade the 13th Hussars. I wielded that on October 25th 1854… at the Battle of Balaclava." He stopped to let his words sink in.

His student frowned as though remembering something, then spoke:

"Into the mouth of Hell

Rode the six hundred."

"Tennyson" Martin agreed. "It was a disaster… A lot of good men died that day. But you shouldn't believe everything you read. We were never wiped out. Old Tennyson was such an exaggerator. Immortality means survival, no matter what. However, it also means that you outlive your friends and carry a lot of memories with you. That's a good sword, Morgan. Take good care of it and it'll take good care of you."

"I will!" She replied earnestly. "I will, thank you!"

At that moment, somewhere else in the house, a clock struck midnight. Martin came around the desk and opened the door. "Alright young lady" he admonished. "You're late for an appointment with your bed! You've been awake almost thirty six hours."

"Alright, alright" Morgan knew there was no point debating the issue when Martin was in 'father mode'. Besides she was asleep on her feet as she allowed him to lead her upstairs and along the landing to the second bedroom. He opened the door and switched on the light to reveal a large room decorated quite simply, but Morgan found she liked the blank canvas of it all. A light coloured suite of furniture adorned the room. A white sheepskin rug invited her to remove her shoes and run her toes through its' soft pile; she moved forward a little, peering through a door at the pristine white shower suite in the adjoining room and running a finger tip over the blue mosaic tiles around the vanity unit. Martin switched on the brass lamps that stood on either side of the bed and grinned. "Welcome home. I hope you approve".

"It's beautiful" Morgan wandered around the room again, circumnavigating the large space until she came to the foot of the bed where she found herself stroking the smooth waxed wood of the footboard.

"Well, goodnight then. Sleep well" he slipped out of the room and closed the door quietly behind him.

Morgan picked up the remote control that lay on the bedside table. There was no TV set in the room, but glancing upwards she realised that it controlled the overhead light fitting and fan. Lowering the lights so that only the bedside lamps illuminated the room, she slipped off her shoes and sat on the edge of the bed, bouncing a little to test the mattress. The bed creaked a little and she lay down on it, still fully clothed. A few moments later, the night breeze fluttered the floor length, voile curtains, filling the bedroom with the early spring chill. She yawned as she reached over and closed the window. Five minutes later, she was in bed and fast asleep, curled up like a little mouse..

Martin whistled to himself as he turned the sausages in the merrily sizzling frying pan. "Aha! Thought you could escape me could you?" he murmured, spearing a wayward mushroom and guiding it back to the pack. The Kettle turned itself off and he carefully heated the teapot before adding loose leafed Earl Gray to the infuser and leaving the beverage to brew. Two sharp cracks and a couple of eggs had joined the sausages in the skillet. Upstairs, he heard water running from the direction of Morgan's room. Trusting his instinct that she was awake and getting ready for the day he removed a second mug from the cabinet above his head and methodically spooned coffee and sugar into it. A third Quickening touched his mind and he tensed before a knock on the open door and a jovial "Hello!" announced who it was. William offered his usual cheeky grin. "Morning Sunshine".

"I wasn't expecting you so soon. To what do I owe the displeasure?"

"Charming. Now are you going to invite me in or not?"

Martin pretended to think, then offered an elaborate bow and gestured him to enter. "Since when did you ask for permission?"

"Since there was a young lady in the house." He strolled in and made himself comfortable in the nearest chair before picking up the neatly folded daily paper and opened it. "Hmm….

Doesn't time fly? It's March already."

"March 3rd" Martin agreed.

William did not reply immediately. He stared at the newsprint but did not see the words. "So where's the Ember-Haired Beauty?" He asked at last

"Morgan? I believe she's in the bathroom. I expect she'll be down soon enough. Breakfast?"

"Oh come now Royalist" Farrell sniffed disdainfully. "You know I don't eat that soya fake meat garbage."

"If you're quite finished deriding my lifestyle…"

"I am"

Whatever Martin might have said was cut off as a figure appeared in the doorway from the hall. Morgan's black curls cascaded down her back, unrestricted by clips and pins. Her piercing eyes studied them with quiet intelligence. "You two sound like a pair of old marrieds sometimes" she smiled.

William stood. "Morning kid"

Martin poured boiling water from the kettle into the teapot and coffee cup. "How did you sleep?" he enquired.

"Ok, I think. At least… I didn't dream much. Thanks" she took the steaming mug from him and wrapped her hands around it.

Martin noticed that her nails were neatly manicured and gleaming with black polish that sparkled here and there with glitter, giving them the appearance of a starry sky at the tips of her fingers. "Good, good" he nodded.

At that moment, Farrell moved closer and unbuttoned his coat. "I hope you won't think this too forward of me" he began "but, Happy Birthday". He reached into his jacket and removed a small black bundle of fluff, which he presented proudly to his friend's student.

Morgan looked slightly shocked, then her eyes widened as she took the puppy in her arms. It looked up at her with coal black eyes and yawned, displaying perfect tiny white teeth. A purple ribbon was tied loosely about its' neck. "He's beautiful" she whispered. "How did you find out?" The puppy wagged its' stubby tail and licked her fingers.

William grinned. "I snuck a look at your passport" he confessed. "He's a Russian Black Terrier... He'll love you and protect you from all-comers, no matter what" he promised.

"Thank you. He's gorgeous".

"Well now" Martin chipped in. "A Birthday Girl is entitled to a slap up breakfast. So, sit down and eat up. Then I'll take you into town so you can pick up some supplies for that cute little furball. Any idea what you're going to call him?"

Morgan grinned as she petted the puppy. "Fenris".

"Interesting" He put a plate of scrambled eggs on toasted bagels down on the table in front of her. "Now eat, young lady!"

Putting the dog down gently on the stone tiled kitchen floor, Morgan shot him a mock scowl and picked up a knife and fork. Farrell winked at his friend, who watched with silent approval as his student ate the entire meal. It was not a large plate, but it was enough compared to the mere crumbs that she had eaten up to now. When she had finished, the Cornishman swept away the crockery and placed it in the dishwasher.

"She's come a long way" William commented later once they were alone.

"That she has" Martin agreed. "She has a way to go yet, but she's doing so much better".

"You never did tell me what happened to her."

"William, William… You know I can't violate a confidentiality".

"It was bad, huh?" Part of Farrell wished that he could convince Martin to break his oath, so that he would have another reason to avenge himself upon the murderer who had torn his and Morgan's lives apart.

After a moment's hesitation, Martin nodded just once. "But I can't say anything else".

"You don't need to."

"She's doing so well… When the plane took off the other day I thought I could almost see... It was as if the frightened child was left behind in the terminal... She was nervous and apprehensive, yes but she was – IS looking forward. It's like a fog has lifted from before her eyes and a crushing weight has been taken from her shoulders. I never thought I'd see the day. At one point, very early..." he hesitated and took a sip of tea before smiling slightly at Fenris, who was attempting to chew the ribbon from around his neck.

"At one point, you thought you might be faced with... taking her head... putting her 'out of her misery'. Lord God, that's such a vile expression!"

"I could not have put it quite so... succinctly. And in all honesty, I do not think I could have done it had it come to that. It would have been little more than cold blooded murder though we tell ourselves it is Euthanasia... in the newborn's best interest".

"It is not" Farrell agreed firmly with a vigorous shake of his head. "In all my time on this Earth I have only heard of one maybe two incidents where it was truly unavoidable". The older man's expression darkened as he remembered. "Morgan is not incapable of understanding or communication. She just seems to want to be left alone".

Martin shook his head in disagreement. "It would be a bad idea. If she internalises the circumstances... Well, Freud said that 'Anger turned inwards is depression'. Human companionship is what she needs for the moment, whether she wants it or not. A pet will only take her so far, although I will admit that she seemed to appreciate your gesture".

"I think she's one of those who get on better with animals". Work with Penwarden. Help her until she's prepared to help you. This was an idea. Farrell put it aside for later consideration.

"Most definitely. And, it's well known that animals provide the most effective therapy to the traumatised. Morgan never struck me as the City type. She probably grew up in the middle of nowhere and, I think that's where she's happiest".

"With independence and no sign of civilization or another person who wasn't stoned for miles around".

The raindrops of a late spring shower pattered heavily on the windows as Farrell glared at the computer thoughtfully. It had been a while since he'd tried what he was about to do. He had little use for the machines but, he admitted, that they did prove handy now and then. He connected to the Internet and stared out at the lowering grey clouds as he considered his options. Three things he knew for certain: Morgan was Canadian; she had been murdered by an Immortal named Ziegler; almost certainly the same Immortal who had murdered Miranda, whom he had pursued across two continents only to lose on the Pacific coast of Canada. The two killings bore such similarities... He had to find the connection and right now he wasn't too fussed about Morgan's privacy, or Penwarden's precious oath of patient confidentiality. William's fingers danced on the keyboard and before he knew it, he had access to the Canadian police server. He worked quickly, searching for and downloading the information he wanted, knowing it was too dangerous and would take too long to read it online.

There were photographs; William ignored them. He wanted information, but he had no interest in voyeurism. The police reports would be sufficient so he turned to them. A call had come from concerned locals the first time that a 'church' mob had surrounded the entrance of the young woman's store. It had been logged and put aside as routine as had a number of subsequent complaints about crowds in the street and harassment of customers. It was not until late one evening when a patrol was alerted by a member of the public to the relentless screaming of an alarm that someone went to check, only to find that they were too late to be of help. The store had been wrecked and the owner was dead by multiple gunshot wounds.

Farrell sighed in frustration. He was no closer to the answer than he had been to begin with. There was just one more small report. The woman's body had later disappeared from the coroner's van. To date it had not been found. The case had gone cold. The Immortal punched the wood of the table upon which the computer sat. He could guess about what had happened to the body, which meant only Morgan could help him now. The need for vengeance burned within him even more intensely. It overrode his common sense and even his sense of decency, all of which were railing against what he planned to do now.