2002-02-14 at 8:41 p.m.

Highlander: Thy Will Be Done

Part 6: Pretty Piece of Flesh

"Who are you?" Connor asked softly, much later, his face against her throat. "You've told me all of Rachel and nothing of yourself."

She sighed deeply and pulled back to look into his eyes. "I am The Meggan Ivyblade. I suppose I was born in 1354 for it was then I was found as a naked babe on the dirt crossroad of a nameless village in a forgotten province of Scotland. Not a noble start, I'm sure," she whispered, her brogue thick and sweet.

"Names and titles aren't everything."

Meggan shrugged. "The village dogs continually refused to eat me, so the family with the least children were obligated to take me in. They weren't cruel, I suppose, simply so worn by life as to have no love alive in them.

"When I was seven, during my daily chores, I accidently dropped a bucket down the town well." Long ago fear showed in her eyes. "It wasn't my foster family's bucket -- it was the *town's* bucket. I knew that the moment someone found out, I would be beaten all day.

"So I stood there at the well, sobbing and begging the bucket to come back." A ghost of a smile crossed her lips. "I was amazed when it did. But being a witch would get you burned instead of beaten, so I hid my skills from everyone.

"At the age of nine, I'd become a sturdy child and ate more than the family thought I was worth so I was given to Widow O'Shire. She was like the grandmother I never had. She taught me to sew, spin, weave, tend the animals and the gardens, dye fabric, cook, use healing herbs, and do all the things a woman of the time should do. I began to willfully exert my power for her then, still secretly; her garden and livestock flourished. We traded healthy stock for the items we didn't produce ourselves and lived quite happily and well.

"At the same time, I extended her life and kept her well for as long as I could. She died at last when I was seventeen, of old age -- and not the chronic pnemonia that would have taken her off four or five years earlier."

Meggan stretched. "After that I took her place as wise woman of the village. I expended my own energy and that of the earth near me to ensure that our crops and cattle grew well and prosperous. Everyone was so pleased with me, with my cures, with my luck... it was the first time I'd ever felt wanted by anyone other than Widow O'Shire. I guess that's why I overextended myself.

"One of the farmer's cows finally came down with the cough I'd been warding away. I couldn't stop it -- I had paid out all my energies, taken on too much -- and it spread to the others. It was so unusual at that point to have sickness in the beasts -- I'd been sustaining the village for years. They cried the evil eye on me, and witchcraft. Of course, it'd all been okay when my work had supported them..."

She shook her head. "So I was put to the stake. Everyone I'd ever known or cared about in the slightest -- even my foster family -- came to lay burning brands at my feet. I was nineteen."

Connor nodded in knowing sympathy and shivered. Images flashed before his half-lidded eyes, of screaming, of fire leaping high, of the bag of black powder exploding, ending even the hope of rescue. He shook his head to clear it.

"The wood was green and did not smoke," Meggan continued in a shellshocked, toneless voice, reliving her death. "I was given nothing to end my pain. I screamed for hours as the fire smouldered, devouring my feet and ankles. Finally someone took pity on me and slit my wrists. I bled so slowly... the whole world was agony."

She shook herself free. "Imagine my own surprise when I woke the next morning, in neither heaven nor hell but laying in the ashes against the stake. Naked I had arrived and naked I left that place. As I crested the hill and gazed down on the sleeping town I spoke a single curse.

"Be fertile."

Connor stopped himself from making a derisive noise as he thought it over; she nodded as horrified realization appeared in his eyes.

"I watched the village from a distance for about three years, living almost as a beast. The fools rejoiced for the fields exploded with crops, the cows almost constantly, and many new strong children were born. But soon both the cows and women were worn out with constant pregnancy and the crops -- way too many for anyone to gather in -- rotted in the fields and spread corruption that poisoned man and beast alike.

"I became what they had called me; a witch.

"At last the village separated and each family went to the winds, driven apart by my curse, and the ivy took over the ruins they left behind them.

"Little did I know how lost I'd feel after that. As close-minded as its people were, the town had been my only home and duty for all my years of life. I had no idea of what to myself, and so I wandered for many years -- until I first heard Destiny."

Connor was intrigued by the awed look in her eyes, then amused when she shook her head hard and twiddled an index finger in one of her ears with a look of semi-disgust. "Destiny happens to sound like one of the older doorbells; an electric buzzing noise. I first heard one in the 1930's and I've hated them ever since.

"But Destiny called me to a glade in the mountains where a band of men were attacking two robed brothers standing back to back. There I was hit by a sensation I'd never experienced before: a tingling, a momentary sense of nausea, a play of light behind my eyes as if I was going to faint." Connor nodded in sympathy; this was the sign by which all immortals knew each other.

"I had to understand what was happening to me, and I knew that the men below would have the information I needed. I drove off the others; pushed the sensation into them and made it more intense, blinded them. They ran.

She smiled gently. "The boys introduced themselves -- or rather, Luther introduced them. He was the far larger of the two brothers, and covered in muscle -- he was a blacksmith. His brother Arthur was smaller and slim; pale from his previous life as a monk. He spoke only a little.

"Both of them were immortal.

"We made camp for the evening, and over a simple but pleasant meal Luther explained to me who and what I was. They were aghast when they learned I had no sword, but Arthur gave his twin a knowing look and Luther let the issue go.

"We talked into the night; it seemed our conversation went on for pleasant aeons! They told me of the world outside my village... all the places they'd been, all the things they'd seen, all the many different people that had tried to kill them." She smiled.

"They broke out a small skin of wine and we passed it back and forth, and spoke of magic. Luther told me of the sorcery that made it possible for him to store their tent, all their belongings, and even his anvil and forge in a pack small enough for their single horse to carry. I told them of the call that had brought me to their aid, and both of them nodded solemnly. Arthur, laying back and puffing on a long pipe, created in the drifts of smoke pictures of ships at sea, knights jousting, vines of flowers sprouting and entwining all around me. I was befuddled, and as false dawn lightened the sky I begged fatigue and fell asleep by the fire, covered in Arthur's cloak.

"When I woke in the morning they were gone. There was no sign of a fire; no sign anyone had ever made camp there for decades. Ivy covered the place where they had made their tent. The monk's simple cloak had become a modest but beautiful green dress and a lady's hooded cape. Clutched in one hand I found a leather pouch with about twenty gold pieces within it. In the other, I found a sword and a parchment note written in what I would eventually come to know as Arthur's perfect handwriting.

"Once I found someone to teach me how to read, the note said this: 'Dear Meggan. It has been many centuries since we have met any being of your moral calibre, and we know we shall never meet anyone else just like you. Although we had to leave, we thought we could place some small gifts in our stead. The sword is called the Ivyblade, for reasons that should be obvious. She is a good sword, and will match your height and strength perfectly. Let no one else touch her; she resents being handled by strangers. And endeavor not to lose her -- she doesn't enjoy it.

'Go forth and learn much of the world. We'll be here watching, and once you have a few years on you we'll come back for another night of palaver! Love, Luther and Arthur.' "

Meggan sighed deeply. "We met about every twenty-five years until the eighteen hundreds... then they vanished. I found their forge cold and their anvil rusting on a secluded plain in Iceland, beside two skeletons. I buried them with honor. I still don't know who took their Quickenings.

"They were the ones who inspired me; who taught me that immortality is not a curse but a blessing, a chance for a man or woman with a curious mind and a love of learning to over the course of time experience all things, see all nations, be all peoples. Yes, mortals fall by the wayside, grow old and die even as you love them. Yes, it is perilous to love another immortal, when eventually you may face them over your blade. But some loves are greater still than death, and some friendships longer than life."

Connor clung to her. "How can you believe this? How do you find the strength to go on, when little by little this life leaves you so utterly alone?"

"You are *never* alone," she asserted. "To think you are is an affront to the memory of all those who have loved you and gone before you on the path, who wait for you in the bright lands beyond this life. Their voices are still here, their presences; they remain to guide your way. No one is *ever* truly gone, Connor, not as long as you revere their memories and still feel their love."

A creeping awareness in her finally matured into a coherent thought as Meggan realized she was embracing him in the bed, curled up around him as they talked. It was almost hypocritical, she who spoke of love but had never really given in, never spent more than a paltry decade with another person at a time, never allowed them to break through those final shields to the true person she was inside. Rachel had been an anomaly, an experiment... was she now so open that she could trust a near stranger so close to her?

The bell-tone rose up again in her mind as she gazed down on his face, stroked his hair back, watched his eyelids fall and rise sleepily over beautiful hazel eyes.

What was this dream of love?

"You are tired," she whispered gently.

"Yes, I am."

"Then sleep, Connor."

"Don't leave me," he plead as his eyelids drifted shut again, his arms tightening around her.

"I will never go from you, Connor," Meggan promised so softly. Not for all the days of our lives, her heart finished silently, reveling as it did in the drowsy embrace of his soul.

**********

"Jesus," breathed Duncan MacLeod as he stepped through the hole in the wall and into the ruins of Connor's old apartment. The room was covered in soot and grafitti. The home of his friend had been befouled by gangs and hobos. Broken glass and bottles littered the floor.

At least something must have survived the blast, he thought, and if the contents of the hidden room are missing then he has been here since the destruction of Sanctuary.

Duncan walked gingerly across the broken glass, a clean neat figure out of place in the grime of the former living room. A bookcase was set in one wall, holding a few forlorn ash-covered books. Grasping the middle support, he pushed the case towards the ceiling. Even after ten years the mechanism moved smoothly and as the bookcase receeded, Duncan forgot his mission in a rush of nostalgia.

The huge round room was filled with weapons and various trophies. His footsteps echoes on the wooden walkway, his breathing quiet with reverence. Here was a picture of Duncan himself in his World War I medic's uniform. And there...

He reached down. The beautifully crafted basket claymore still fit in his hand as if made for him. He surrendered to the memory of 17th century France and the ringing blows of swordplay.

"You have improved greatly," Connor said as they broke apart.

"You really think so?" said Duncan, his brogue still rich and heavy, long before he'd learned to mask it.

Connor rushed him again and in an instant had parted him from his sword. "No. I was just being gracious." He grinned and Duncan scowled, waving off the little man trying to dust him off and fluff his hair.

En garde. The ancient language of the duel.

"Remember, you are only immortal as long as your head remains attached to your shoulders!" Duncan lunged at his laughing friend, only to wind up flat on his back on the practice floor -- a clear miss. "Which in your case might not be long at all!" he added in a jolly tone. Then his sword was at Duncan's throat and his smile was gone. "What we give up to our adversary in defeat, Duncan... is everything."

Duncan met his eyes. Yes, the Quickening: all of your strength, knowledge -- your very life essence -- flowed from your broken body into that of the victor, invigorating him or her. The experience was seductive in a way, and some immortals killed solely to feel it again and again. So to survive one must be better, stronger, faster, and smarter than all the rest.

Connor reached down a hand, jovial again, and pulled Duncan to his feet. "Survival, Duncan... learn it!"

Connor sidesteped Duncan's next enthusiastic but misaimed lunge and slapped him hard on the buttock with the flat of his blade, to add insult to injury and send him sprawling again, this time face-first. Again he had to fend off the giggling little Frenchman, this time from dusting his ass.

"Do you mind?" Duncan nearly shrieked, then slumped in dismay. "You've beaten me ten times out of ten, Connor! I might as well give you my head right now, and spare myself the effort."

Connor strode across the floor until he was very close to Duncan, and met him stare for stare, his face kind, even fatherly.

"You will not give up," he said softly. "You've been given a chance to do something few men can: to live forever. You will not give up. You will continue to fight until you learn, and you will then use what you learn to fight. You are a MacLeod! We never let go."

Duncan attacked again but Connor was ready, having sensed the move in the tightening of the other man's eyes. "Who wants to live forever?" he yelled, and was then abruptly startled to find his blade at Connor's throat.

Connor met his eyes with a look both young and old in the same moment, then carefully closed his hand on Duncan's blade to prevent its further motion.

"You do, Duncan." He smiled. "Get used to the idea."

The Duncan of here and now sighed, but was grinning when he set down the blade. Then the buzz of an immortal in proximity filled his mind. "Who are you?" he demanded, awakened from his reverie by the presence in the doorway behind him.

"A friend." Same voice as on the anonymous phone call. The hair on the back of his neck rose even as his heart sank. "Or lover. Or wife. Take your pick."

"Kate?" he murmured.

"Oh, the name's Faith now..." She sashayed into the light, a fashionable, manufactured vision. "*Everyone's* reinventing themselves these days. But you won't have a chance to remember it for long."

He backed out of the smaller room and drew his sword. Hell hath no fury, he thought, and then the motorcycles came crashing through the boarded windows.

**********

Connor groaned in his sleep.

"They think I bedevil their children," his mother breathed, "simply because I've lost my own."

"I'm so sorry, Mother." He stared into the fireplace. It was cold and the embers were dead. There was no telling how long his mother Caiolin had lain there alone and ill, unable to fix the fire or food for herself.

"Tiny minds and sour dispositions, Connor. I don't need any of them."

"Then will you come and live with me and Heather?" he asked her.

"Yes, my Connor." Friends and family no longer held a place in her heart -- they too had turned their hands against her.

Connor lifted the frail, bundled body into his arms. It seemed to weigh nearly nothing yet he stumbled as he reached the door, propping her onto her feet to clutch at his head.

"Connor, what's wrong?" she cried.

"I've felt this once before," he grated. The Kurgan...

The door burst inward, knocking him to the floor. A tall figure in priest's robes stood over him, the heels of his shoes marked with the three crosses of Golgotha.

"Jakob?"

"You shouldn't have come back, Connor," the soft voice of the figure replied. His face was in shadow but Connor could still see his burning gaze, feel it linger on him distressingly.

"Cousin... please... she is sick... just let me take her and leave here forever!"

"You knew," the red-haired priest continued, as if he hadn't heard. "You knew what would happen if you came back. I am not to blame for this."

"What?" Connor begged, and a sickening realization hit. "Jakob, what have you done?"

"God help you," Jakob whispered, and backed into the shadow of the corpulent Father Rainey. Rainey was exorting Connor, accusing him of black magic and heresy, but Connor could no longer hear the words. All he could see was Jakob's alabaster, fine-boned face and the terrible hunger that burned in his eyes.

"Connor... Connor!" Meggan pleaded as she shook him gently. "Wake up, Connor!"

His arms tightened on her painfully as his eyes flew open, still senseless.

"You were having a nightmare, Connor."

"Jakob Kell," he choked

"Shh..." she soothed him, smoothing his hair back. "Quick," Meggan demanded. "Tell me what you want to eat, most of all in the world, right this very minute!"

"What?" he replied, irritated out of his terror, surprised to hear his stomach growling.

"You heard me, Connor MacLeod. You've not had solid food in over ten years. You've not eaten all of today. What do you want most of all to eat?"

"Fillet mignon," Connor groaned. "Jumbo shrimp, broiled. A huge salad with Ranch dressing. A baked potato with everything!"

She laughed as she disentangled herself and pulled him onto his feet beside the bed. "That sounds wonderful! And an excellent wine to match, yes?"

"Yes!"

Meggan hauled him out the door and through the long ornate hallways and sitting rooms of her mansion. His appraising eye barely had time to note the worth of her antique belongings, much less calculate their value as she drew him out of the house and onto the patio. Out of breath, she gestured at the table and its spread. She needn't have inidcated it -- the lovely odors alone would have guided him on.

"You made all of this, right this minute?"

"Yes," she gasped, face ruddy with joy. "Now eat!"

She laughed at him as she cut her own steak. He ate as if he had never eaten in his life, looking up at her and grinning wolfishly at her with every bite. He surprised her halfway through her wine glass, his bare foot caressing up her leg as he affected an innocent look around his mouth of salad. And there was garlic bread! And a side dish of noodles wrapped around little morsels of delectable cheeses! And oh... a choclate or maybe coffee flavored dessert that had a light fluffy meringue with cinnamon sprinklings on top that melted in the heat of his mouth.

He cleaned all his plates, sipped his wine genteely, and stretched out in the patio chair with a deep satisfied sigh.

"I believe your soul is Italian," she said, and slid a petite bite of the mousse between her lips. He noted with some amusement that she had devoured her meal as well, though definitely with more finesse.

"I have eaten myself *sick*," Connor said contentedly.

Meggan swallowed quickly. "No, you haven't. I've made sure of that."

"You're messing with my insides now, are you?"

She nodded with a cheeky expression. "Anything to get your mind off of bad things."

He was about to ask her on that, and then felt her tiny foot stroking *his* knee. She returned his questioning glance and raised eyebrows with a calm look, but smiled behind her wine glass and passed him another helping of mousse.

**********

Duncan went crashing through the window. He would have been embarassed about his ungainly exit had he not landed on bare construction spikes that pierced through his body and ripped open his heart. As if summoned by his fall, a van wheeled around the corner at breakneck speed and slid to a stop besdie him. Electric saws were applied. He heard nothing; death was almost a relief after a jolt like that. Quickly they lifted his inert form into the van.

It was hours later that he came around, to a great light filling his eyes. Duncan struggled to move but found his wrists were bound in steel manacles. "Connor?" he cried out, befuddled by the Watchers' drugs, and the light vanished.


On to Part 7