Redemption, Chapter 1
morga...@my-deja.com
by Beck McLaughlin
Methos, Duncan and Cassandra are the property of someone else, alas, and
no copyright infringement is intended. Everything else is mine.
Since Cassandra/Methos' threads are the order of the day <g>, I decided
to post this -- a slightly revised and expurgated version of a story
posted to the ROG a few months ago, so some people here may have read
this already. It contains mature situations and some profanity. Since
my usual isp doesn't have this group yet, I'm attempting a post through
dejanews. (Hope it formats OK). Comments, criticisms, flames, etc. can
be mailed to bec...@umich.edu. Thanks for reading. :)
***
Prologue
The old man struggled the last few feet to the summit, heart pounding
until he feared it would burst, the horizon dissolving in tear-filled
eyes. For a moment, he could do nothing but cling to a twisted fir,
buffeted by the winds that were always fierce in this high place. When
at last his breathing eased, he dropped to a crouch.
It had been years since last he'd come here, and it took several minutes
of hunting before he found the stone. The island's harsh winds had
buried it beneath the detritus of the years. His bony fingers scraped
away the dirt, revealing the two carved dragons locked in eternal
combat. For a moment, the old man's hand lingered on the rightmost
figure, its wings unfurled, its jaws drawn back in defiance. Then the
old man rocked back on his heels and pulled a knife from his belt.
A quick slice and it was done, blood falling in great drops, shockingly
red. He closed his slashed fist tightly and felt a stirring deep in the
earth. The presence filled him and he cried out. The seascape
vanished, replaced by a great, roaring darkness. He saw images, faces.
And, at last, he saw what he desired to see -- the face of the Red
Dragon On its right stood the Knight, radiant with power, compassionate
and stern.
Hold! The White Worm appeared, eyes lit by hellfire. The Knight came
forward and struck a mighty blow, but the lightning of his sword glanced
off its opalescent scales. Yellowed fangs raked across the warrior's
broad chest. Fiery breath enveloped him.
To champion the White Dragon came Death, wearing no armor, all whipcord
grace and arrogance. The evil beast swung its head to meet its
servant's mocking gaze. As if he had no care of the beast, Death looked
down at the fallen Knight, then lifted his own sword, a razor edge of
fine-honed ice. The hero prepared to parry, although his bloody hands
shook. Ice met fire. The vision shattered and the old man fell back
with a cry.
Slowly, his strength and wits returned, and when they did, he walked to
the edge of the cliff and for a long time, looked out over a gray sea.
Red Dragon. White Dragon. The waiting was over.
CHAPTER ONE
Methos hurried along the rain-slick street, collar pulled tight against
a gusty, early October wind. The sidewalk was garish with neon
reflection, theater-goers spilling onto the wet pavement in droves.
Perfume, exhaust, the faint odor of coffee washed over the Immortal,
familiar sights and sounds. Among the hundreds of mortal faces, he was
sometimes certain he saw someone he knew, a faintly-remembered friend
from a century long gone. Illusion, of course.
The cab came at once to his imperious gesture. Methos slid into the
warm car. "Sixty-third street. Nine-oh-two."
Pulling smoothly into traffic, the cab began its torturous journey
across town. Methos leaned back, closed his eyes. Duncan was an idiot.
Never had he met an Immortal who could maintain such a rigid moral code
and *still* survive. The kind of hatred Milius nurtured for the
Highlander would never die. Duncan would have to take his head, it was
obvious to them both. Only Duncan would find it cause for angst.
"You're jaded, Methos." His friend's voice echoed through Methos' head.
"That's your problem. You're hardened to the suffering."
"And why not? If you irritate a wound long enough the nerves die." It
was a flippant response -- his usual reaction when the Highlander
indulged in one of his annoying, introspective moods. This time,
however, Duncan had stared at him a long time in silence.
Methos' apartment, plain, inconspicuous, and very expensive, came up on
the right. And zipped past.
"Hey! That's nine-oh-two!"
On the other side of the plexiglas shield, there was no response.
Methos banged on it. The driver reached forward and turned up the
radio. Blood running cold, the Immortal yanked on the door handle.
Locked. He twisted around and tried the other. Furious, close to
panic, he smashed his heel into the window. The cab swerved violently,
knocking him back into the seat.
Methos struggled upright, bracing himself as the cab turned and turned
again. The glittering streets of upper Manhattan gave way to narrower,
rougher roads. Soon Methos recognized the docks -- warehouses bulky
against the sky -- the city lights dancing over the rough, oil-slick
water. His mobile prison slowed and, after a moment, pulled into a
garage. Methos tensed. From the gloom of the cavernous space around
him came other men. They were all armed -- some with guns, others with
truncheons. No swords, thank the gods.
They pulled open the doors and dragged him out, going right for his
sword. His heart leapt, but he felt nothing. There were no Immortals
within sensing distance.
"What do you want? Who are you working for?" He tried to stay calm,
holding out his hands in a quick, placating gesture, but they weren't
interested. They moved into a circle around the Immortal. One of them
slammed his truncheon against his fist; another laughed, pantomiming a
quick slice across his neck.
That was enough for Methos. He spun around, kicking at the man nearest
him. Bone cracked, an audible, sickening sound. The man howled and
went down, clutching his knee. Methos vaulted over him, bolting for the
door.
He almost made it.
****
The Quickening was lost in the storm. Eldritch lightning blended with
natural electricity, dancing from roof to roof, shooting along cables
and running wild through puddles and gutters. Glass exploded into the
alley as a dozen windows fragmented at once. Storm wind and Quickening
tore boards from windows already broken, sent a garbage can rolling
along the debris-strewn alley.
The Highlander's body arched with the arcane energy that roared through
it. Milius' dying howl echoed along his veins, images, tableaus of
other times and places, emotions not his own. For that eternal moment,
Duncan lost track of himself. Then he was kneeling on oily pavement,
ears ringing, sword heavy in his aching hand. The alley's single
street-lamp was blown; the dark was thick and filled with rain.
Time passed and he could stand, lurching a bit until his equilibrium
returned. Shaking wet hair from his eyes, the Highlander found his coat
in a sodden heap near a doorway. He put it on, the material clammy
against his skin, and slid his sword into the scabbard beneath it. For
a moment, he had to lean against the wall, weariness holding him still.
It had been a long time since his last Challenge. Duncan had dared hope
the respite might go on for years. God, but he was stupid sometimes.
Methos, with his wry, devastating mockery, was not being patronizing.
He was imparting wisdom this Scot was too thick-witted to accept.
"Hatred is a narcotic - it eases the pain of fear. Milius has hated you
for two hundred years; it's a habit he can't break. There's no
treatment program. Your choices, my chivalrous friend, are to kill him
now or later. Getting angry at me won't change that."
The chill of wet clothes eventually galvanized Duncan to push away from
the wall and walk slowly back to his car. He fumbled with the keys,
started the engine without truly thinking about it, and headed home.
***
End chapter 1
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