Soon it would be over.
After months of constant fighting and ceaseless killing, after taking far too many heads, after coming to dread the swell of the quickening, it would be over. He thought not of the Prize nor of averting a potential tyrant but of freedom. Freedom from fear, freedom from death, freedom from the Game.
The freedom to...sleep.
Or eat?
Or take a shower.
Showers are good.
Duncan MacLeod was standing in the mid-day twilight of a narrow riverbed that ran through a slot canyon. He was leaning against the cliff-face wall. There was an inch of dank standing water that he was forced to walk through.
When the Gathering came, Duncan found himself driven south from Seacouver. He was in the wilderness of Arizona in the Vermilion Cliffs in the Paria Canyon. In tourist season, this area might attract a few hardier canyoneers, but right now, it was deserted as water levels rose.
If Duncan were mortal, having traversed the Paria River for three days should have left him with trench foot and eventually gangrene. As it stood, Duncan might still develop that as he was, without a doubt, completely and utterly drained. Already, his feet were growing numb. It was rare to experience continual degradation, but months of little sleep, food, or rest were taking a toll. His quickening was a constant buzz beneath his skin, compensating for the continual abuse of his body.
Although the shrill whine of mosquitoes (to say nothing of their constant bites) was far more annoying than his quickening's steady nagging thrum.
At first, when he was fresh, they avoided him because the quickening put off a low-level hum that was irritating to them. Now that he was drained, his healing was declining. They had decided he was an all-you-could-eat buffet.
All-you-could-eat buffet. Oh, when this was over, that's what Duncan would do after sleeping—find a buffet and eat until he died. He'd bankrupt them. He would see if Immortals could become overweight from overeating. Cullen skink. Neeps and tatties. Stovies. Lots and lots of pie. He'd find a freaking buffet that served traditional Scottish food. Excellent and delicious comfort food. Mmmmm.
Despite that enticing daydream, Duncan desperately desired to lay down in the mud and sleep, curl up in a little ball, and let the other Immortal win. But it was a small part of him, a small and desperate part that didn't like to fight, wanted to eat, and was sick and tired of the Game.
He ate whenever he could (which was basically never), slept on the rare occasion, and...Duncan made a face. He basically never bathed, so he smelt like the delightful combination of slaughterhouse and rank sock drawer. His clothing was about a day (if not an hour) away from completely falling off him. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and his shoes had been lost a while ago. He would already be completely naked if not for the fact that he stole clothing from his dead opponents.
Even so, Duncan still looked horrible—he was skeletal from the gradual reduction of fat, he had lost a distressing amount of muscle mass, his skin had a yellowish tint, and to top it all off, he was caked in mud and blood. Any mortal that saw him now would believe he was a nightmare brought to life. And Duncan agreed; he was thoroughly disgusted with himself. Even in the past, when he didn't take regular baths, he still rinsed his hair. And he did wash down in rivers after a battle.
After all, sweat and grime were very offensive to the ladies.
Oh well, this final epic battle would not take place with him looking his best. The important thing was that it would take place. Next, his opponent would die. And then Duncan would take the mother of all quickenings. Then he could finally collapse with utter exhaustion. Three days. Three days without sleep since that crazy Italian Immortal attacked him outside an abandoned motel.
Right, epic battle, massive quickening, embrace the night. Right.
Duncan wasn't naive, but even he couldn't predict the utter barbarity of his opponents. Even he had never fought this long or intensely.
At least back in the nineties, when he thought, rather hilariously, that the Gathering was upon him, there were nice weeklong breaks between killings. Not something like this. Going from one head to another to another had left him two parts desperate and one part wary. It just seemed utterly pointless. And he was so tired. And hungry. And humiliated.
And grief-stricken.
He knew all his friends were dead, taken in the Gathering.
Pushing away from the cliff-face wall, Duncan walked somewhat unsteadily into a relatively wide slot canyon. It was wide enough that sunlight could reach the riverbed. The tactical advantages were few here, but he knew he couldn't run away. Time to end this.
He knew his final opponent was at the end of the slot canyon, which opened into a wide valley and lake. And while Duncan had long since learned he was far from perfect, he knew he wasn't evil, which meant this Immortal would be particularly vicious. Everyone knew the final battle would be good against evil.
Perhaps in light of that, Duncan picked up the pace, eager to get this show on the road.
How he knew was a mystery, but deep within his soul, he could feel that only two Immortals were left on earth. It was something in the air like a quickening that had been present his whole life. It was just beyond his awareness, letting him know how many Immortals were in the world, and over the last few months, that collective Presence dwindled until it was just him and another Immortal.
He could now feel a distant quickening, tantalizing close. The Immortal was waiting for him. This extension of the Presence had surfaced in the last several months since the Gathering started. Before, it was elusive, but now it was readily present. It was almost akin to the tinge of a preimmortal quickening but fainter. And at first, when he realized he was sensing Immortals long before they came to him, Duncan thought he could use that sense expansion to avoid them. Something he never thought he'd do, but after not sleeping for several days, Duncan got desperate. It was all a moot point, though, for they could clearly feel him and would zero in on him and attack him.
Stepping out of the canyon twilight, Duncan walked into the day. The sun shone brilliantly from the sky, which struck Duncan as unusual, if not obscene. It should be raining, overcast, or hailing. It shouldn't be sunny. It was killing the mood. This was weather for walks through the park, not final grand showdowns.
An extremely powerful quickening tore painfully across his senses, and Duncan tightened his grip on his katana. He would never admit it, even under torture, but feeling that massive shriek alarmed him. None of the other Immortals he faced had a quickening that colossal. The sensation ripped at him like a jagged piece of glass. Or maybe it was his stomach growling. These days it was difficult to parse out feelings related to an immediate threat and sensations arising from starvation, exhaustion, and injury.
He wasn't remotely concerned about his current condition being an issue for the battle since if his opponent was insane, he'd be easy to defeat. If his enemy was sane, he'd be in the same condition as Duncan.
Shaking away the concerns, Duncan squinted into the rest of the canyon. Duncan couldn't see anyone.
The canyon was empty.
Then without warning, someone dropped down from the canyon above, kicking him in the chest. He held steadily onto his sword, swinging as his enemy parried the strike painfully, the blow rattling his arm. Stupid. Duncan could have kicked himself. Every other Immortal had attacked him like a wild animal. He should have known the other Immortal would not fight honourably but would be sneaky and fight dirty. Now was not the time to let his guard down.
Duncan regained his footing, facing his opponent, who had gone very still and backed away.
"Not so tough now," Duncan ground out. It was a stupid retort, but Duncan wasn't really in the frame of mind to be thinking up witty remarks. This was it. Time to end this, win the Prize, be the One, and bring the Game to a finish.
Time to end this.
"MacLeod..." his opponent said weakly, his bloody sword pointed down.
What?!
Duncan froze.
Dressed in almost completely shredded army fatigues, complete with a bulletproof vest and a very familiar broadsword at hand, covered from head to foot in blood, mud, and grime, was none other than the last person Duncan expected to see.
Methos.