Endmaim
The Holy Ground Highlander Forum Midweek Challenge
Archivist’s Note: The stories and vignettes offered here from various Rysher Forumlanders have not been edited or changed other than having a spell-check performed and being reformatted for this website.
MID WEEK CHALLENGE: ENDMAIM (SPOILERS)
Posted by Leah CWPack on
9/6/2000, 6:41 am
Your
mission, should you decide to participate:
It's the very
end of the Movie, and you've just taken over as the scriptwriter, perhaps
because you'll be in charge of penning the next installment/film. Duncan has
just turned away from the gravesite. Instead of fading to black and the end
credits, you are going to tell us what happens next.
Scene can take
place either on that same Scottish hillside or elsewhere. Basically, you are
adding an ending to the film. Use anyone on anything you need.
Good luck!
Kind of a MWC entry (movie spoilers, I guess)
Posted by Alaska Man on 9/6/2000, 4:34 pm
Well,
I typed it all in, then decided to just hang it up on my website. Link below.
AM
Link: "Journal"
Endgame MWC response...reposted by request.
Posted by MacNair on 9/6/2000, 4:25 pm
I
have to preface this story a bit.
I had not seen
the movie yet, but I had been given 3 things about the movie by a friend
"across the pond" who saw it first and was looking out for me.
I knew Duncan
kills Connor. I knew there was a reason for it. I knew there was a melancholy
scene of Duncan standing over Connor's grave in the Highlands when it was over.
(special thanks to Sharz for the proof reading!)
**************
Mourning Morning
He came awake
gasping for air, thrashing. The covers tangled around his sweating body and he
fought them to get free, stumbling out of bed and onto legs that threatened to crumple.
The silk pajama bottoms hugged his features, clinging damply. His hair was awry
and his mind full of chaos…but he staggered out on limbs as unsteady as a
colt’s, following the faint signal of immortal presence.
He was there. He
was really there. He felt giddy and sick and faint all at once. He thought he
would collapse, so overwhelming were his emotions.
Connor MacLeod
was sitting in the half dawn, sipping coffee. He had one long leg propped
against the windowsill and he looked up, curiously, as Duncan entered the room
and approached. The younger immortal went to one knee and reached out a hand,
his fingers spreading wide, and spanned them across Connor’s neck. The older
highlander tightened almost imperceptibly and the tremor communicated itself through
the hot liquid in the cup in widening concentric circles.
Duncan closed
his eyes, focused intently on his fingers where pulse and heat and life beat
through the carotid arteries. For a moment he was utterly still and then
righted himself internally, belatedly registering the incrementally increased
pace of the heartbeat beneath his hand and the steely grip that fastened on the
errant wrist. He opened his eyes, chagrined by his lapse, and found only calm
blue ones watching and measuring him.
For a moment
they were frozen, staring at one another.
“Good morning to
you too,” Connor wryly stated. His grip did not yield on the wrist.
“I…uh…” Duncan
faltered, “had a dream.” Damn. He knew his face revealed almost every secret to
this man. He wished he had inherited a poker face along with his strong
features. He did not even spare a thought to the fact that his friend had not
removed his hand from his throat…the breath and life continued on under his
fingers. “It was…it was…I was…” He couldn’t finish. He could only gaze back
into that familiar face, tracing every feature as if seeing it for the first
time.
“I’m used to
haunting the dreams of women, Duncan, not inhabiting yours.” Connor spoke it
with characteristic dry humor and quirked an eyebrow at him.
“Not THAT kind
of a dream you s***head!” came the immediate retort. Followed by a hapless
chuckle that choked itself off almost as soon as it began. Too many strong
feelings still circled to be able to break away so easily.
“Eh? Too bad. I
thought I’d get a wild tale out of you…or at least see how far it went before I
clobbered you spitless.” Connors voice was shot through with deviltry.
That did it.
Duncan pulled his hand free and leaned on the arm of the chair, laughing
helplessly until his eyes blurred. He kept his head down even when he stopped,
knowing he would have to explain himself as soon as he looked up.
Difficult ones.
The hum of distress in him was still faintly there, dim and muted. He wrestled
with his sluggish fortitude.
“What did you
dream, Dhonnchaidh?”
The old familiar
name. Damn, Connor was going [to go—omit, it’s stated] for his throat about
this and he wasn’t even ready…but then again, he had definitely gone for
Connor’s. He could still feel the ghostly echo of the life under his fingers.
Putting a hand on the neck of Connor MacLeod … well, there were not many
immortals who would dare, let alone live to tell about it. Honesty was the best
policy, no matter how he felt about it.
“I dreamed I
killed you.”
“So. You’ve done
that before,” said just as softly.
“No. Really
killed you.” He could not meet Connor’s gaze. It didn’t even matter if he was
talking about dreaming the killing or the few times inadvertently in a sparring
session when they had critically injured one another. All the inarticulate
horror and pain of the night swelled up in him and he swung his head back and
forth like some mindless beast trying to free himself.
A firm hand on
his shoulder anchored him temporarily, but he still felt as if he were drowning
in clear air. “I killed you. It was terrible…even though there wasn’t any other
way. Standing over your grave on the mountain…I…I couldn’t…there wasn’t…” He
stammered to a halt with a giant hand clenched around his heart. He was NOT
going to cry. He hadn’t wept for years. Strange, how his cheeks were damp and
the room swam giddily.
“Shhh.” The hand
crept up around his shoulder to the back of his neck, digging fingers around
the tendons with casual familiarity. “Shhh. Just a dream, Dhonnchaidh.”
“I never call
you,” he stumbled on, hardly taking a breath between words, “I know you’re
right there in New York, but I hardly ever ask you to come and help me with
anything. It’s enough that I know you’re there. A wall behind my back if I need
it. Solid. Strong. Strength within strength. It’s enough that you’re just there
and then I killed you and the wall was gone and it was like having no anchor at
all and part of me…part of me...”
“Shhh…shhh…” The
fingers dug painfully into his neck, demanding focus and control.
But Duncan had
no blockade for this tide and he lurched on, needing to say all the things left
unsaid over the long years. “I buried part of myself on that hillside and it
was like someone put a bomb to Scotland and sank her into the sea. There wasn’t
anything left…and no matter where I went in the world, you weren’t in it
and…and…I’m not ready.” He raised his face at this last, finally meeting the
eyes of the man he had killed. “I’m not ready to lose you. I love you.” And
here he stopped, staggered, half- blind and frozen like an animal caught in
headlights.
Tick. Tick.
Tick. The clock on the wall kept the pace methodically. The only sound in the
room over his pounding heart.
“I know you do,
Duncan.”
“I hardly ever
tell you,” he whispered in an untrustworthy voice. How could his soul hurt so
much?
“That doesn’t
mean I don’t know. And I’m the one man in the seven kingdoms of the world that
has loved you all of your life.” The older man paused for a few seconds. “All
your life, give or take a few decades.”
“I know.” He was
able to breathe easier and his vision cleared. Still, he felt like he had been
run over by a truck. He shivered with barely repressed dread. “Pray that I’m
already gone before you fall, Connor. Pray I’m gone. Pray I never see that
day.”
“Shhh.” Connor
rubbed the pad of his thumb firmly against the corded neck. “You’re a wild
skittish thing this morning, aren’t you? This is what a Star Wars/Star Trek
marathon and too much whisky inspire, youngster. Too much Kirk, Jinn and Kenobi
for you. Surprised you didn’t dream those glow stick swords in there too!”
Duncan couldn’t
help the chuckle. He knew the elder Scot had a fascination for the lightsabers.
One Halloween he fully expected to see him dressed in a cloak with a pretend one,
temporarily insane with mischief and too much drink. He supposed he’d have to
dress accordingly just to keep his old friend out of trouble…
And just as
quickly as the thoughts worked their way through him, the despair and dread
melted away to be replaced with fondness built upon 400 plus years of
brotherhood. A kinship deep and quiet and strong, resting as a familiar spirit
in his soul. This was just a morning and not a mourning at all.
“Tell me,
Duncan,” he interjected, “did you kill me over some girl?”
“No,” with a
snort of humor.
“Good. Then I
can still try to steal them away from you.”
“Connor!”
**************MacNair
9/1/00 4:30am****************
MID-WEEK CHALLENGE ENTRY : A short vinnette to go before the
credits.
Posted by Titania on 9/6/2000, 4:14 pm
*
A Final Toast *
The door to Le
Blues Bar opened, scattering the dust mites and sunshine rays. The lone figure paused
in the doorway, adjusting to the dim interior and searching for a friendly
face. Instead he found Methos.
“I told you it
would all end badly, MacLeod.” the ancient immortal started. “One of the very
few times in my long life that I wished that I were wrong.” he ended
compassionately. He patted Duncan on the back as Duncan gave him a smile mixed
with grief and gratidude.
Joe handed the
last Highlander a pint of ale. He raised his glass in salute. Methos followed.
After a long pause Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod joined them.
“To Connor” they
all intoned together and drained their pints.
FIN
MWC: "Aftermath"-- if this doesn't stay long, it'll be on
Northlander
Posted by Ghost Cat on 9/8/2000, 9:07 pm
"Aftermath"
Duncan stood
alone, saying one final goodbye to the closest thing he had ever had to family.
He felt it was his duty to bring his kinsman home, so that Connor and Heather
would at last have their forever. The Watchers had tried to take his body with
the others, but after one look at the victorious Highlander, they backed down
immediately. The way Mac had been, fresh off Kell and still not quite entirely himself,
he could be very persuasive. So much had happened so quickly, and yet it
always seemed to end the same: with another grave, more friends lost, victory
at a terrible price.
He felt the
warning: who would dare intrude on this private moment? He didn't turn around,
though he gripped his sword hilt tighter. His voice was calm, but dangerous;
"Not here; not now."
A familiar voice
whispered softly, "Not even me?" He spun around quickly, not daring
to believe-
Amanda? She was back; she was
here; she was real. His heart tightened and his spirit soared. Just as suddenly
he thought of Kate, and his hopes fell crashing back to earth. In over three
centuries he had never been able to tell Amanda the truth. Every time they came
too close, he had always pushed her away. The poor sweet rogue probably thought
it was all her fault. He didn't deserve her love.
Amanda read the
struggle in his eloquent eyes; saw in him a kind of fragile vulnerability kept
hidden for too long. She reached out to him, gently; "You loved me with
all my faults, did you really think I wouldn't do the same for you?" He
tried to turn away from her, she followed; "Why didn't you tell me about
Kate?"
Challenge flared
briefly in his dark eyes, "Who sent you: Methos, Daw--" she silenced
his protests with a single delicate finger. "Shh, that doesn't matter now.
What matters is that I know, and I understand." She thought for a moment
of Nick; his feverish, pain-filled eyes, the gun in her hands; and afterwards…
"I understand better than you could imagine. We all make mistakes.
Sometimes we even make the same ones."
His voice was
barely audible; "She hated me. For centuries, she hated me." She held
him gently, and part of him noticed that she, too, had changed. There was no
seduction in her touch, no sense that there was something in it for her.
"Shh dear.
I know she can't forgive you, but I can." The noble MacLeod sighed into
her embrace; something deep inside him cracked. There, in front of his homeland
and his kin, he let it all go. He released all of his pride, his guilt, his
doubts and fears. He let go of Connor, Kate, and even Kell. He put aside the
Sanctuary and everything it implied. He let it all flow out of him until he
felt empty inside; and into that emptiness flowed a love that was truly
undying, a love he had pushed aside too many times. In the aftermath of all his
pain and loss, he had found what his was looking for… Redemption.
Link: Clan Northlander HQ-- will
update soon!!
EndGame FanFic (Spoilers) -- Inspired by Leah, My Ending ...
Posted by Snick on 9/8/2000, 12:10
pm
ENDGAME
SPOILER INSIDE
Duncan turned
away from the claymore that marked Connor’s final resting-place. The original
Highlander was home now, home forever on the hills he had loved so well. Now it
was time for the younger Highlander to return to The Game.
As the centuries
passed, he had grown to loathe The Game and its unceasing violence. He
remembered discussing The Game with Connor. Connor had seemed to have no
problem accepting his role in life.
“Why live
forever if our only purpose is to hunt each other? Where’s the wisdom in that?”
he had asked. “Why be Immortal if there’s nothing to it beyond death and
violence?”
Connor shrugged.
He smiled his half-smile. “Nobody ever said the universe is wise, laddie. And
nobody ever said we have to understand our purpose in life – or that we had to
like it once we figured it out.”
Duncan hadn’t
much liked Connor’s answer—if answer it had been. So he Played The Game
according to its Rules, fighting when he was challenged, challenging when he
felt the need. But his heart wasn’t in it. He grew to detest a life so poorly
measured in the number of years lived and heads taken.
Every so often
he tried to retire from The Game. A decade or so in a monastary, masquerading
as a man of God. A few years stolen with an Amerind tribe. Long vacations
playing chess with Father Darius. And a little over a decade spent with Tessa.
It was never any good. The Game followed him, found him—and forced him to Play.
No sanctuary was so deeply hidden that The Game couldn’t reach him.
But now Connor
was safe at last, in the only way an Immortal could ever find rest and peace:
In the grave, lifeforce stolen by another Highlands Immortal. Yes, Duncan had
defeated Kell, whose Highland roots matched his own—but Connor’s death was poor
recompense for that hollow victory. The Game had claimed two Highlanders this
week, and now there was only one left. And the remaining Highlander didn’t feel
much like Playing anymore. He almost envied Connor, now.
But The Game
needed him now more than ever. It had been badly damaged, its Rules bent and
broken by Kell’s tricks. If Immortals could gang-up on each other, if Holy
Ground wasn’t safe anymore – then there were no Rules and The Game was a sham.
Immortality is
pale enough as ‘tis, Duncan thought. Take away The Game an’ we’re nothing more
than a bunch of murderers. The Game is the only thing that keeps us going, its
Rules the only structure in our violent lives. Take that away an’ what’ve you
got? You’ve got Kronos and The Horsemen all over again, times a thousand or two
of us.
It was up to
Duncan to fix The Game. He had to figure-out what The Rules really were, and
let the others know how to Play. He figured Joe would help him – and perhaps
Methos as well. And he could use The Watchers to get the word out. He trudged
back toward the local town, his mind running down one plan after the next,
trying to figure out the New Rules and how he was going to get The Watchers to
cooperate.
He didn’t feel a
buzz of warning. He didn’t see the man on the hilltop, who was kneeling down and
pointing a rifle at him. He didn’t hear the shot – but he felt the blow as the
bullet entered one side and blew out the other. He didn’t have time to be
surprised as his world went dark.
*****
He came back to life with a desperate gasp of air. Gradually the pain left and
energy returned, and along with that came the awareness that he was strapped
down on some kind of operating table. There were IV lines with needles stuck
into him, and wires running in and out of his body at various points, and some kind
of computer hum in the background. The air smelled of disinfectant.
Duncan’s first
impression was that he was in some kind of laboratory or operating room. He
didn’t much like those kind of places. Medical technology held little
attraction for those who healed themselves.
A man leaned
over him and came into focus. It was Carmen Kuryea, the Watcher who had tried
to lock Duncan away in the Watcher’s Sanctuary—where Duncan would still be
except for the help of his friends.
“Where am I?” he
asked the Watcher, already half-suspecting the answer.
“Sanctuary II,
MacLeod. We have new technology. We’ve fixed it. We’ve made it better than it
was.”
The Watcher
looked over at somebody out of Duncan’s view. He nodded. The computer hum
increased and Duncan felt his body shudder. His vision dimmed.
“What’s this – a
new knockout drug?” he asked. “At least, this time you don’t stick a needle up
my nose.”
The Watcher
smiled. He knew something MacLeod didn’t know. “No. Not this time,” he told the
Highlander. “This time we’ve got it all figured out.”
Duncan looked
calmly at Kuryea, but inside he was feeling something strange. What were these
mortals doing to him?
“Do tell,” he
said. “Or should I play a guessing game?”
“No MacLeod. I’ll
tell you,” came the reply. “It’s like this: We’ve spent a long time Watching
you Immortals. Longer than you may think. We’ve been Watching and recording.
Discussing what you’re up to. Studying and learning. Performing autopsies on
headless corpses. Trying to figure-out what makes you different. Different from
us, anyway. And we’re not all of us field agents; some of us are scientists.”
“And --?” Mac
prompted. His stomach was feeling queasy now, and in his shrunken vision
Kuryea’s face looked like a pink dot in the middle of blackness. But he
wouldn’t give Kuryea the pleasure of knowing how he felt.
“And now we
know. Your Quickening, MacLeod. Your lifeforce. It’s all energy, all electrical
impulses that can be found on the electromagnetic spectrum.” The Watcher looked
at him steadily. “And your DNA, your genes, your chromosomes. We’ve mapped them
out as well.”
Kuryea nodded
again and the hum picked-up again. “We’ve got you and your kind figured-out
MacLeod. Right down to the last gene and last bioelectric impulse. You’re
nothing but a pile of electrical charges encoded into a bag of meat.”
“And once we
figured that out and how to map it – it wasn’t very hard to figure out how to
record it.”
Duncan felt
little as his vision blacked out. But his hearing was still intact and he heard
the Watcher’s voice continue.
“So that’s what
we’re doing now, MacLeod. We’re running the tapes and recording your Quickening
for all posterity. Your lifeforce, and Kell’s. And Connor’s. And the energy
from every other Immortal whose head you’ve ever taken. They’re ours now.”
Duncan had
energy enough to speak in a whisper, to ask a final question. “But that’s not
Sanctuary. Recording us doesn’t keep us from fighting—it won’t keep one of us
from The Prize. How does this stop The Game?”
Kuryea’s voice
was triumphant. “Did I say record, MacLeod? Well, yes – we do that as well. But
we also steal. You see, like the Indians who thought that photographs stole
their souls—once we record your Quickening, it’s gone forever. Like dust in the
wind.”
Kuryea’s voice
was losing volume quickly, like it was receding down a well. But Duncan still
heard the final words. “You’re not going to die, MacLeod. In a few minutes
you’ll wake up without a single mark on you.”
“But when you
wake up, MacLeod—you’ll be different. You won’t have your Quickening anymore.
You won’t be immortal anymore. You’ll be just like us. And once we’ve got your
Quickening, we’ll go after the others, one by one. Soon there won’t be any
Immortals left—so there will be no Game and no Prize.”
Kuryea paused and looked sober for a moment, contemplating the enormity of it all. Then he smiled and said to Duncan, “Welcome to the human race, MacLeod.”
Endgame Fanfic (SPOILERS)
Posted by Leah CWPack on
9/8/2000, 9:20 am
He
waited patiently in the car at the bottom of the hill.
Actually, he'd
been waiting for this moment for nearly a decade. Planning. Manipulating.
Calculating. He only felt a small tingle of anticipation because he had been
expecting this for so long. Leaning back in the driver's seat, he hooked one
gangly arm over the seat back and waited expressionlessly.
Here he came.
His shoulders slumped and head down, no doubt grieving over his kinsman who now
slept beneath the gravestone at the top of the hill. A dramatic setting, Methos
reflected, until you realized that the sheep would probably graze there most of
the year. Connor had hated sheep. Irony briefly touched the corner of his mouth.
Meanwhile,
MacLeod ascended, his step slow but deliberate, a figure crushed against the
circumstances of life and death. Methos smiled again and shifted the gear. He
had lived a lot of the former. He had been the latter. Folding his long fingers
around the steering wheel, he straightened and floored the pedal.
MacLeod seemed
so preoccupied with his gloomy funk that he didn't even look up as Methos
gunned the powerful engine. The planning of the past few years telescoped down
in his mind to a few seconds as the car lept forward, tires squealing, and
gained speed. How he'd studied MacLeod's chronicles among the Watchers. How
he'd calculated that the man would pick up a tremendous head count, as had his
teacher. As had Kell, who needed eliminating anyway, with his newfound
addiction to multiple Quickenings. How he had engineered things so that Duncan
would be forced to kill his clansman, and then Kell. How a head count of over a
thousand now resided in one unwitting boyscout. How Methos judged that he was
now ripe and ready for picking. He felt the hilt of his sword against his leg
as he bore down on Duncan MacLeod at top speed, clutching the wheel. The fool
would never suspect a thing until it was too late.
Suddenly, the
figure of MacLeod seemed to shimmer and shift. Methos hardly had a moment to
register this before the man in front of him suddenly became an 18-wheeler
bearing down on him at hellish speed.
There was a
split second of apocalypse, and then nothing.
While he had
waited patiently in the car at the bottom of the hill, she had waited patiently
at the top. Sword in hand, she now ascended toward the twisted wreckage. He
ought to have known better to underestimate her, she reflected. Not on her home
ground near Donan Wood, where she had spent centuries waiting and protecting
the Highland child.
And after all, if you could make a cottage disappear, it wasn't much more difficult to make a truck look like a man.
Well......okay. I'll give it a shot.
Posted by Leah CWPack on
9/8/2000, 1:01 pm , in reply to "Go for it,
Girl! Go for it!!!"
She
sent the agitated truck driver off, convinced that he had collided with a tree,
with the assistance of her Voice. She watched the damaged rig move off down the
road and into the distance before approaching the twisted remains of the car
and its occupant.
Methos was
pinned inside, covered in blood. Although he was still slumped in death, his
body had already started to mend. She had expected a quick recovery; his
accumulated power and age made the process a swift one. Unfortunately, the
wreckage of the car would make it necessary for her to extricate him so that
she could swing her sword.
A little tugging
yanked off the crumpled door. She smelled petroleum and realized that the fuel
might ignite before she finished her task and hastened. She didn't care if he
burned to death, but if the car caught fire, it would be hours before it cooled
enough for her to touch it again. In the meantime, she would have to listen to
his screams. And the longer this took, the more likely other vehicles would
happen along.
She wouldn't be
able to get him out of the car. It was clear that his legs were trapped by the
mangled interior of the vehicle. It took some doing to dislodge the steering
column and push it aside so that she could hang his body far enough out of the
car for a decent swing. Taking a deep breath, she raised her sword.
At that moment,
Methos gasped back to life. She waited, poised, as he gathered himself and
gradually took in the situation and his condition. Then his gaze swung up to
her. "Wait."
"I've
waited too long already. Three thousand years is more than enough," she
hissed.
He tried to
wrench his legs free and grimaced in pain. "Think of MacLeod. What will
you tell him?" He gasped.
"The truth.
Something you don't understand."
"He'll
never believe you! You have nothing to show him."
"I don't
have to show him anything. He doesn't need to know about your monumental
betrayal. He's been hurt enough already in the last few days!" she
snarled.
"Can he
afford to lose another friend, then?" He tried to keep his voice calm, but
he smelled the petrol too. "Can he afford to lose two of them?"
Her voice filled
with contempt. "You were never his friend. I knew what you were after from
the moment I saw you ingratiating yourself to him in his loft. You're still the
same monster you always were." She raised the sword high again. "This
is long overdue."
"Don't do
this, Cassandra! You don't want my Quickening."
"Why not?
I've had you 'inside' me often enough, before," she sneered. "You
can't be trusted, ever. There wouldn't be a single moment when you might not be
working on a scheme like this one."
Methos wiped
some of the blood from his eyes in silent resignation. "Go ahead then. Get
it over with. I suppose if anyone's left who deserves it, that would be
you." He bowed his head and tensed.
She stood as a
statue for another half minute, frozen in time. Then she relaxed and lowered
the point of the blade to the ground. "I don't need to, anymore."
He glanced up at
her. "You're going to tell him," Methos said flatly.
"Yes, I'm
going to tell him what you've done. And you can live with the consequences,
when he knows. But not very well, I suspect, and possibly not for long."
"Sporting
of you," Methos said between clenched teeth. "And I suppose you'll
keep protecting him."
She raised the
blade so that the point touched his throat and leaned forward." He lives
because I wish it, as do you. Never forget that."
She turned and walked away.
Re: REPOST OF MidWeek Challenge (SPOILERS)
Posted by Ciara on 9/9/2000, 10:55 pm , in reply to
"REPOST
OF MidWeek Challenge (SPOILERS)"
I
know the week is gone...but I'm always behind schedule...here is my MWC:
Highlander
Endgame continued……………….
Duncan MacLeod
stood solid and still in front of the headstone marker for Connor MacLeod. His
gaze unwavering as he read the inscription over and over. His thoughts were
muddled and vague.
"You did
what you needed to do," reverberated Connor's voice over and over in the
dark recesses of Duncan's mind.
"Aye, I
know Connor…" Duncan whispered softly "But that doesn't take away the
pain." A tear slid slowly down his cheek.
The brilliant
sun had cast of soft glow on the valley making it come alive with crystal
clearness. From behind him, up on the hill, came several long shadows to cast a
shroud over the brightness. Duncan turned reluctantly away to see who or what
had come to disturb his mourning. The glare of the light illuminated three
figures at the hill's crest. They stood quietly as if awaiting his notice and
acknowledgment, not wanting to interfere in his sorrow.
"Ahhh…my 3
Musketeers await me Connor," Duncan turned back to the grave and said
quietly. "I'm sure you played no small part in bringing them here did you
my brother?"
Duncan smiled
hesitantly as he turned to the trio once more. He looked up to Joe and thought
to himself, "My dutiful and mortal friend, my Athos, always ready to tow
the line for me and save me from myself…..and Methos….you haughty and unruly
Porthos, pretending to not care…but never too far away to help….and Amanda…who
are you? Are you the charming and brave young D'Artagnan always ready to fight
for me? And I guess that makes me the saintly Aramis, always fighting the
internal battles of right and wrong." Duncan sighed. He started walking
slowly to the threesome with measured, sure steps. The three looked at each
other apprehensively, not knowing whether Duncan would welcome them or not.
"You can't
stay away from me can you?" he called to the group.
Amanda smiled
and relaxed, "We love you Duncan." she called
"Speak for
yourself lady" mumbled Joe
"Do
tell," murmured Methos looking appalled at Amanda. He cleared his throat
and directed to Duncan "We are concerned for your well being and also a
bit curious about you."
Duncan reached
them and Amanda enfolded him in her arms.
"Curious
about what?" Duncan asked Methos as he hugged Amanda tightly
"Well,
it seems that this letter arrived at Joe's a week or so ago." Methos
pulled out a plain white envelope. "Its from Connor …..and its postmarked
after his date of death." Methos handed the letter to Duncan.
Duncan stood quietly looking at the letter and then into the faces of his three
friends. "What now?" he thought in silent wonder.
A naughty response to last week's Mid Week Challenge (EG spilers)...
Posted by Torisen on 9/10/2000, 7:47 pm
Not
naughty in the Hoo-Haa sense or anything, just injecting some nutty humor into
a scene that was really very serious and moving - which I suspect some people
may not approve of. Let me just say that I adore Connor and I wouldn't make
light of his death if it weren't for a certain really fake-looking gravesite...
Duncan blinked back tears as he gazed down at the grave marker of Connor
Macleod. Mentor, brother, savior, friend... Connor had been all these things to
him, and more. There had been spans of years - decades even - in which Duncan
had not seen his kinsman, and yet Connor had always been there for him, in
spirit if not in body. He could not yet accept a future devoid of this man who
had been so important a part of his entire immortal life. But now, a part of
Connor *would* always be with him, in such a manner that it could never be lost
or stolen. His mind crowded with thoughts of the past, Duncan turned his back
on the grave and began to walk resolutely away.
The Highlands
were beautiful this time of year. The sky was so blue and the grass so
intensely green, even a painter would have been hard pressed to improve upon
the view. He knew Connor would approve of his final resting place, burried
beside his beloved Heather, surrounded by the beautiful scenery of his
homeland. Duncan sighed, feeling the cool breeze run its shy fingers through his
hair and play at the hem of his long coat.
It was at this
moment that the scenery reached out and decked him.
"Oh, good
one Mac," Methos sneered from somewhere near by. "You walked right
into the matte painting! Next time watch where you're going."
Duncan got to
his feet, gingerly feeling his nose. At least it wasn't bleeding. He didn't
want to stain the new Adrian Paul Fan Club shirt Joe had given him as a
condolence gift. The Highlander began stumbling his way down the hill - heading
in the other direction this time - to where Joe and Methos waited impatiently
by the car.
Fade to Black.
Told ya it was
naughty.
-Torisen
My response to last week's MWC.......
Posted by Harmony on 9/11/2000, 12:40 pm
Duncan walked
into the Glenfinnan pub and sat down at one of the empty tables. He glanced at
his father's sword, hanging where he had last placed it after defeating
Kanwulf, still on display for everybody to see. That seemed like forever ago
now. Rachel came over to his table and he looked up at her and smiled weakly.
She could tell he had been crying.
"So it's
done, then?" she asked, her lilting brogue soothing to his ear.
Duncan nodded.
"I still
wish you would have let me go with you. He was my ancestor too, you know,"
she reminded him.
"I needed to
do this alone, Rachel. It was important to me. You understand, don't you?"
he replied, the barest hint of brogue slipping back into his speech.
"Yeah. I
understand. You're a loner and you'll always be a loner."
Duncan mused at
the irony of her words. He felt truly alone now. He and Connor had seldom seen
each other in the last century, but they each took comfort in the knowledge the
other would be there if needed. Now that secure feeling was only a fading
memory and Duncan felt so hollow and empty inside.
Rachel sat the
ale in front of him but he pushed it away.
"I dunna
want it," he said.
Rachel sat down
across from him.
"I think it
may be more a case of need rather than want," she replied. "You've
faced deaths before, Duncan."
"Not like
this one I haven't."
He closed his
hands around the mug she had pushed back over to him. Lost in thought, he
absent-mindedly ran a finger slowly around the rim in a circle, a gesture that
had always been Connor's, not his. He caught himself doing it and pulled his
hand away.
Rachel took his
hand in her own.
"You need
some time Duncan and you need some distraction," she said. "I think I
have just the thing."
"Ack,
Rachel…no," he protested. "I just wanna be alone."
"Alone is
the last thing you need. So I guess it's a good thing I remembered where to
find your friend."
Mac looked up at
her with a slightly puzzled look on his face just as a short figure appeared in
the doorway. At first the shadows of the dimly lit room prevented him from
identifying the slight male figure. Then as the form moved closer he instantly
recognized the shuffling gait of Maurice Lalonde.
"MacLeod!"
Maurice's familiar French accent assaulted his ears.
"Maurice,
what are you doing here?" Duncan asked.
"Your
cousin called asking me where to find Amanda. But, I don't know where she is.
So I came to help cheer you up instead."
Duncan smiled.
If only it were that simple.
Maurice sat next
to Duncan at the table.
"I know
what it's like to lose family; first my lovely wife, Marchelle and her sister,
Isabelle. And don't forget Simone. It is never easy, but one eventually learns
to live with it."
"Maurice, I
know you mean well, but I really need some time alone," Duncan replied.
"Of course.
I understand," Maurice said. Duncan could hear the disappointment in his
old friend's voice.
Damn it! he
thought to himself, he needed this like a hole in the head. Why did Rachel do
this? He looked into Maurice's concerned face.
"I tell you
what, how about we go for a walk and I'll show you some of the places where I
grew up?" Duncan acquiesced. He couldn't abide being the cause of a
friend's unhappiness. His life had recently been filled with far too much of
it.
He was rewarded
when a bright smile lit the Frenchman's face.
"Now you're
talking. You know, I once had a torrid love affair with a Scottish woman. She
was beautiful and she taught me how to cook haggis. No…it's true. I am probably
the only the person in all of France who can cook it."
Duncan smiled in
spite of himself. There was nobody on this Earth like Maurice. He stood and
glanced over at Rachel who gave him a knowing smile and slight nod.
"Are you
coming?" Duncan asked her.
"No, I
think you need some time alone with your friend. I'll be here when you get back
and I'll even cook some haggis for the two of you."
Mac shook his
head and gave her a strange look. He hated haggis and always had. And Rachel
knew this. In spite of that, he said a silent prayer thanking God for sending
Rachel MacLeod back into his life.
He had buried
his kinsman today, in the same grave as his beloved Heather. The only comfort
Duncan could take in this whole mess was the knowledge Connor would eternally
rest beside his true love. The hole he felt in his heart closed a tiny bit when
he reminded himself of that and he recalled Rachel's words the night before:
"Duncan,
the more fully you live, the more honor you bestow on Connor. He loved you so
much he gave you his greatest gift. Living life to its fullest is the only
thing that will ease the emptiness inside you."
Duncan knew she
was right and he also knew it was going to take some time. A lot of time.
Fortunately, he had an abundance of that.
He and Maurice
walked out into the sunshine and Duncan breathed in the Scottish air with its familiar
scent of heather mixed with peat moss. The smell of home. As he and his French
friend walked off toward Loch Shiel he smiled as he listened to Maurice's
gruff, heavily accented English.
"You
remember that business venture I once suggested you join me in….the one with
the truffle sniffing pig? Well, I was talking to my brother last week and he
assures me he will still allow you the opportunity of investing.
"Maurice…."
Duncan began, but Maurice was on a roll.
"You
remember the pig with the best nose in all of France? Well, my brother found
another one. It's true! He was telling me about this one sow…ho, ho, ho…. she's
unbelievable! I was thinking you could maybe put up, oh, sixty percent and with
my expertise…if there is one thing Maurice knows, it is pigs….we could make a
small fortune."
Some things
never change.
For the first time in a very long time, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod laughed.
Slightly offbeat, late MWC (spoilers)
Posted by Ysanne on
9/11/2000, 2:10 pm
Duncan
MacLeod stumbled away from the lonely grave, his vision blurred with unshed
tears. In his troubled state of mind even the colors of the land he loved
looked unnatural to him, and somehow flat. At the bottom of the chartreuse
slope he retrieved his backpack from beneath a chartreuse gorse bush and
frowned as a car approached, its engine loud in the eerie quiet of the
Highlands. As the black sedan idled beside him, a window rolled down to reveal
Methos in the driver’s seat and Joe Dawson riding shotgun. Methos smirked at
the surprise on Duncan’s face, then handed him a travel pack of Kleenex.
“Blow your
nose,” he directed, “then get in. And see you don’t litter.”
“What are you
now, my mother?” Duncan shot back sullenly, swabbing his nose and eyes and
obediently wadding the Kleenex into his pocket. He kept on walking, paced by
the purring automobile.
“Get in, Mac,”
Joe wheedled, “please.”
The big man
hesitated, looked at the darkening sky, then sighed in resignation. Those fat,
scudding clouds promised rain, and there was no sense ruining another leather
coat. He got into the backseat.
“So why are you
here?” he asked his friends suspiciously. “AARP tour?”
“Ha ha,” Joe
said flatly. “No, MacLeod, it’s the Watcher records. I’m in charge of Connor’s
update, and…..GEEZE!”
He broke off as
Duncan grabbed him by the beard and jerked his head around.
“ Watchers!?!
You want me to help the Watchers!?! Why don’t you just stick a needle up my
nose, Dawson?” Mac raved. “Why don’t you bring out the leg clamps? Why don’t
you just offer me an iron hat? In fact, why don’t you and the Watchers just go
and f…”
“Find another
line of work?” Methos inserted smoothly, slowing for a straggly line of sheep
crossing the road. “Calm down, MacLeod. Don’t you want to set the record
straight? Get Connor’s accomplishments recorded for eternity? Or at least they
will be when the database is updated. Been losing reports. There’s been a bit
of trouble with the mainframe..…OW!”
MacLeod released
Joe’s beard and clamped one big hand around the 5-K Immortal’s skinny neck. The
wheezing sound was gratifying.
“Don’t talk tech
to me, Methos,” he growled menacingly. “Have you joined the bloody Watchers
again just to rummage around in my life?”
“Me?” Methos
asked innocently, “No, no. I just think you’re really, really cute, MacLeod.
That sword kata, for instance, was quite..…something wrong?”
MacLeod removed
his hand as quickly as if Methos’ neck was a hot stovepipe. He slumped back in
the seat, defeated. Tibet was looking better and better.
“Fine,” he said
tiredly, closing his eyes, “have it your way. Who am I to compete with a couple
of professional voyeurs anyway?”
Joe left off rubbing
the sore spot on his jaw and fished a small tape recorder out of the pocket of
his anorak. He held it up between them and smiled encouragingly.
“Okay, my
friend, that’s more like it. Now, first, how could Connor have split Kell in
half somewhere I couldn’t see it? Second, why don’t you have a tan line on your
tushy? Third, if your beard grows at .1 mm per hour, how long did it take to
grow the stubble on your face when I rescued you from Sanctuary? Fourth…”
Joe’s fourth
question was overwhelmed by a deafening torrent of outraged Gaelic erupting
from the backseat, interspersed with what seemed to be Italian curses and
mighty thumps on the back of the seat. Finally, a cringing Methos heard a
command he could translate, and stopped the car. The fuming Scot shoved the
door open, clambered out into the drizzle and glared at them.
“Have ye no
heart? I’ve killed a clansman, and all ye do is blather on about backsides! And
besides, I had noh to do with that damn trailer! Get out of my homeland, ye…ye
Sassenach!”
“No, MacLeod,”
Methos implored, averting his eyes, “not the quivering lip!”
“But Mac,” Joe
interrupted, thrusting his recorder out of the window hopefully, “I haven’t
gotten to the really good stuff yet, like, where did Kell get his shoes made,
and did Cracker Bob make his own helmet in metal shop….”
Methos prudently
played invisible as a snarling MacLeod snatched the little machine from Joe’s
hand and lobbed it neatly into the middle of a nearby loch. The seething Scot
stalked to the front of the car, drew his katana, and planted his feet firmly
on the rocky ground.
“That’s just
rude,” Joe murmured resentfully, shaking his stinging fingers. He stuck his
head out the window and yelled, “A man has to do his job, MacLeod! Y’know?”
The Highlander
fixed them both with a steely glare, lifted his arms to the skies and roared,
“I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and frankly, my dear, I don’t give a
damn!”
Sudden thunder
crashed and echoed through the narrow valley as the silhouette of a lone piper
appeared on a distant tor. Faint strains of an old Queen song being punished by
bagpipes floated upon damp gusts of wind that billowed Mac’s long coat into a
dramatic cape. The two men in the car sat in awed silence as MacLeod towered
like an angry god, perfectly framed by a lightning-lit purple and salmon
sunset. One sharply focused ray of light pierced the lavender clouds,
burnishing the Highlander and his uplifted sword in gold. As MacLeod slowly
lowered his outstretched arms and lifted his handsome, brooding visage to the
heavens, the last gleam of watery sunlight glinted in his sad, dark eyes.
“Now *that*,”
whispered Joe to a sniffling Methos, “is what I call an ending!”
Ysanne, with
apologies to all
Teeny weeny little MWC (inspired by Ysanne)
Posted by Leah
CWPack on 9/11/2000, 2:33 pm
The
Mercedes was halfway up to Connecticut when Duncan MacLeod suddenly shouted at
Methos to stop the car.
The older
Immortal pulled over and watched in alarm as MacLeod staggered out and leaned
over the guard rail, retching miserably.
"What's
wrong?" Methos called.
"Th'
blasted film's going by too fast!" moaned MacLeod.
Old MWC End of Endgame:
Posted on 10/11/2000 at 11:00:42 PM by Robin
A sadden Duncan enters the Inn at Glenfinnan.
Rachel walks over to him and hugs him. "I'm sorry." she whispers and she kisses his cheek.
At a small table by the fireplace sits Joe Dawson and Methos. They had stopped talking when they saw Duncan enter. Rachel closes the door and Duncan walks to the table.
On the table sits a bottle of Scottish Whiskey and three glasses.
Duncan sits down in the empty chair.
Methos picks up the bottle, unscrews the lid and pours a measure into each glass. He then sits the bottle and lid down. The three men exchange a look and each pick up a glass.
"To Connor MacLeod." Duncan intones.
"To Connor MacLeod."
Glasses clink and are drained.
Rachel watches from the door. "It will be a long night." she whispers.
FADE TO BLACK.