Dream As If You'll Live Forever 1/3
Ecolea (ecolea@WT.NET)
Sun, 19 Aug 2001 04:07:17 GMT
Hi folks,
I'm new to this particular list so I thought I'd introduce myself
by way of my latest fic. Some of you may have seen it already and
for that I apologize in advance. All my other work can be found
in Ather's Fiction Library at:
http://homepages.tesco.net/~Rachel.Trench/ecolea/ecolea.htm.
Thanks and I'm looking forward to reading lots of great fic here.
Ecolea
________________________________
Author: Ecolea
Title: Dream As If You'll Live Forever
Email: ecolea@wt.net
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Tiny ones for the films Highlander and Endgame
Feedback: Comments, flames, superfluous remarks and vicious
character assassination may be cheerfully sent to: ecolea@wt.net
Disclaimer: I'm still not making any money. But please, go ahead
and sue me anyway. If fact, I'll make you a deal. You help me
gain fame and notoriety -- and I'll help your lawyers spend all
that retainer money!
Summary: They said no interference in the Game. They never
mentioned the Gathering.
Author's note: It's a game over story, of course someone dies!
Personal note: Many thanks to Arameth for diabolical and fiendish
torment of the author. And His Gracefulness Charles, for always
wanting more -- quite vocally.
For Daisy: Without whom none of this would have been possible.
Dream As If You'll Live Forever
By Ecolea
The New World
July 22nd, 2010 AD
There wasn't much left to do, Methos thought as he looked around
his sterile hotel room. With a silent sigh he shut down the
computer and stretched his shoulders, working out the tension in
his muscles. He rose tiredly and walked to the window, looking
out on the quiet night. He could feel them -- the last few
Immortals left alive. Their Quickenings sang in his veins like an
ever-present static discharge. By morning, he sensed, it would
all be over.
With a wry smile Methos gave a last glance at the computer as he
headed for the shower. No matter what the final outcome, he mused
sardonically, he'd be damned if the Watchers profited from his
demise. If he didn't make it back his assets weren't going to be
lining anyone's pockets. Quite a few charities, universities,
hospitals, small churches and temples where he'd found refuge
over the years were going to be in the black for decades to come.
Besides, with their job done what would the Watchers do with all
that money? Hand out post-Gathering bonuses to the rank and file?
He doubted it. And he'd noticed quite a few of the Watcher top
brass living far too well for mere historians during his most
recent tenure with the organization. Only Joe Dawson, his friend,
confidant and loyal bartender would be double checking his bank
account when all was said and the battle finally done.
His journals... Well, that was another matter entirely. He'd
seriously considered sending them to the Smithsonian, or perhaps
the British Museum. They were not so much a personal account of
his thoughts and feelings, but an historical record of all he'd
seen and done. And he feared, having seen too many changes and
internal struggles within the Watchers' secret society over the
years that if he left it to them his journals, like the
chronicles they kept so well, would never see the light of day.
And he wanted to be remembered if nothing else. So his journals,
carefully left with his lawyers, would be parceled out among a
dozen different scholars, experts in their fields. The list of
recipients would be published, the truth would be known and in
death as he'd never been in life, Methos would be a lasting
memory among mortals.
***
The number of Quickenings in the area had dwindled to just two
during the long hot night. At dawn, they met on a hilltop above
the city just as the sun was rising. Methos acknowledged his
opponent with a respectful nod.
"You knew it would be this way," Duncan MacLeod accused softly.
"No," Methos told him honestly. "I suspected it might, but hoped
it wouldn't."
"I don't want to do this," the other man admitted. "You're my
friend."
Methos nodded in understanding. "As you are mine, Highlander."
MacLeod and his morals again. He'd counted on them for years and
was no less pained by the thought of killing a friend than
MacLeod was. Still...
"We are lemmings, MacLeod, swimming upstream. There is no right
or wrong in that. It is merely survival instinct."
The Scot frowned at the idea, but he could feel it too. The need
to engage. The need to win. To end the constant burning in his
mind and body that had been his only companion for weeks. To be
The One.
He drew his sword purposefully. "I don't want to kill you," he
apologized, beginning to circle his opponent.
"I know," Methos said, offering forgiveness as he drew his own
weapon, smiling gently. "And I still want to live."
The two men focused on each other ignoring the discordant sounds
of the waking city below. Their swords caught the first ray of
sunlight flashing as they met. Neither man spared a thought for
anything more than the battle at hand. And neither man paid the
slightest bit of attention to the approaching whir of the
helicopters. If they had, they might have thought it was merely
the Watchers. Ever present, ever following, no doubt hoping for a
better view of the proceedings video cameras in hand.
Had they wavered -- paused by mutual consent to examine their
surroundings more closely -- they might have seen the earth
moving. Small nubs across the landscape to which Methos hadn't
bothered to pay attention when he'd originally scouted the area
and chosen this small flat hilltop for his final fight. It was
only in that last instant when the first of the choppers cast a
shadow over the ground that they glanced up. And only an instant
later when something small was tossed out of the cockpit that
they noticed the movement all around them.
They stared at each other then in horror and fascination at the
ground as the object landed a few feet away. And together they
shouted--
"Grenade!"
***