Matters of Honor and Justice 3/3
Tim Laird-DAA Productions (doom1701@YAHOO.COM)
Fri, 1 Jun 2001 13:56:18 -0700
Matters of Honor and Justice 3/3
"So," Joe said, stepping off the lift into Duncan's apartment, "Richie tells me
you called in sick today. I guess I should write that one down."
Duncan looked up from the assortment of vegetables strewn across his
countertop. Wiping his paring knife across a towel on his shoulder, he
motioned for Joe to take a seat. "Aren't you supposed to be watching me? Or
have you just handed over your duties to Richie?"
Joe chuckled. "No, Richie has enough to worry about. Hell, his watcher is
about to quit, after making that trip to Oregon." Joe paused for a moment as
he sat down. Setting his cane beside the chair, he added, "although you didn't
hear me say that."
"Of course, Richie doesn't have a watcher," Duncan sarcastically replied. "Why
would I ever think that?"
"All you need to do is throw in 'What's a watcher', and we'd be all set."
Duncan walked back into the kitchen. After pulling a Tupperware container out
of the cupboard below the sink, he scooped the vegetables off the countertop
and sealed the plastic lid. "You want anything to drink, Joe?"
"No, thanks." Joe waited for Duncan to join him in the living area and then
continued. "Freedman's death has you pretty bothered, doesn't it?"
"More than you know."
Dawson leaned forward in his chair. "Why don't you fill me in?"
Duncan rested his head on his left hand and stared at the floor. "As a friend,
or as a watcher?"
"Duncan, you know that door is where our 'professional' relationship ends.
Anything you want to tell me will be left out of the history books, until you
say so."
Duncan lifted his head. "Hearing his name again brought back the conflict that
I faced. It wasn't just good and evil that day, Joe. There were so many more
things involved. I needed-no, the entire tribe needed justice. The world
needed to be rid of that menace."
"But you had the obligation--not because of the rules or the game, but a
personal obligation-to spare him."
Duncan's head returned towards the ground. "I hope you never understand what
it is like to be one of us, Joe. Being told to kill; being bound to a set of
rules of engagement that, to any civilized being, would seem barbaric. No
immortal on this planet would have judged me for taking his head that day."
Duncan looked back toward Joe. His voice began to show the slightest hint of
the Scottish burr he had spoken with for so many years. "But the rules be
damned, Joe. I cannot kill a man-I cannot take someone's head-simply because
of who they are; and I certainly won't do it until they understand why I must."
"If you'll excuse the dime-store psychology, MacLeod, it seems that there is
more to this than just revenge."
Duncan's eyes lost focus; as if he were staring through his friend. "You don't
know what it is like to live with guilt for a hundred and fifty years, Joe.
Wondering every time you close your eyes if you did the right thing."
"Do you feel guilty for not killing him?"
"In more ways than one. I did wonder for a while whether or not justice was
truly served; but now I tend to ask myself 'Did I go to far?'"
Joe raised an eyebrow. As he was just about to ask Duncan what he meant, the
highlander continued. "I guess I had always assumed that you knew. I must
have given my watcher the slip in those days."
"Well, there is this period that we have sketchy information on you at best. I
think from around 1600 until about 75 years ago. We weren't exactly as
organized back then as we are now."
Duncan showed the slightest hint of a smile. Something about the fact that his
every move, his every thought, was not written down in an archive somewhere,
made him feel a slight bit better. "The other Indians needed revenge," he
continued. "They would never have settled for my telling them that I slapped
him on the wrist and let him go. They needed proof. So I gave it to them.
"If you think a beheading is gruesome, Joe; a scalping is a hundred times
worse. I was so angry that day; I needed so badly to feel that justice had
been done. After disarming him, I tied him to a tree, and I cut him. You
could see the bone underneath when I was done. Ultimately, he passed out from
the pain, but even then, his muscles spasm-ed violently."
"I often wonder if I would have felt better about it if I had killed him. What
I did was worse than taking the life of an innocent; I put him through decades
of pain. I've heard he was always touchy about his baldness; it wasn't because
he was vain. It reminded him of the constant pain he endured; the pain I put
him though."
Joe squirmed uneasily in his seat. Duncan had been right; it hadn't been just
good and evil that day. Dawson was beginning to feel a conflict of emotions
within himself. Freedman had killed more innocents than anyone cared to keep
track of in his striving for "racial purity"; it would have been easy to accept
his death, but a hundred and fifty years of both physical and emotional pain?
Was that fair? And what of those who had died after Duncan's encounter? How
would their families react to knowing that the man that had killed their
husbands or wives, sons or daughters could have been stopped if it weren't for
one man's interpretation of honor?
Wait, Joe thought, I can't allow myself to think that. It would be too easy to
shift the blame of those deaths onto MacLeod. He was just as much a victim of
that madman as all the others. No, Freedman was the murderer, and he alone
should be held responsible for his crimes.
"And how would you have felt if you had killed him?" Dawson asked, more
thinking aloud than questioning his friend. "How would you have looked back on
the past if you had beheaded a man who didn't understand your heritage?"
Duncan stood and moved toward the window next to the kitchen of his studio
apartment, resisting the urge to begin pacing the floor. "I've asked myself
that question more times than I can count, Joe," he replied. "I thought I was
doing the honorable thing that day, but now, looking back, I don't think I
could agree with my decision." MacLeod turned back toward the living room.
"Was there an honorable thing to do? Either I killed him, without him truly
knowing why, or I let him live out his life in agony."
"The way I see it, you gave him a second chance that day. You showed him
mercy, even though he may not have deserved it. You gave him the opportunity
to learn; both about himself and about others. You can't hold yourself
responsible for his lack of respect; his lack of honor.
"This has never been about pain to you, Duncan; it's been about honor. It's
been about the conflict between respecting the dead, and your own beliefs."
Dawson took a deep breath. "But both were served that day, in giving him a
second chance."
Before Joe could continue, he was interrupted by the sound of the elevator
returning to the floor below. "It's probably Richie," Duncan explained. "He's
probably getting ready to head out for the evening."
Joe took his cane from beside his chair and pushed himself to a standing
position. "I should probably head back to the bar," he said, beginning to move
to the elevator. "I've got a new guy starting tonight; I need to make sure he
isn't going to drink away all the inventory. If you need to talk, on or off
the record, you know where to find me."
"Thanks, Joe."
The highlander walked back to the kitchen and had begun to work again on his
dinner when he heard the elevator doors open, followed by a dull thud.
"Richie, is that you?" he asked. "What was that noise?"
"Richie?" a voice from outside the elevator asked. "Is that the name of the
kid that's sitting in a puddle of his own blood downstairs?" As Duncan spun
around toward the elevator, a smaller, bearded man came around the corner,
carrying a sword. "He was one of us, right, MacLeod? I really didn't come
here to kill anyone; well, except for you, of course."
Duncan's mind raced. His katana was on the other side of the apartment, next
to the fireplace. As the bearded man drew closer, he glanced around the
kitchen for anything he could use to defend himself. Unfortunately, the only
thing within reach was his paring knife.
"One of us?" MacLeod asked, both trying to stall the man, and distract him
enough that Duncan might be able to safely get out of the kitchen.
"Come on, MacLeod," the man replied, moving into the kitchen, pushing Duncan
further into the corner, "don't give me that 'No one lives forever' look. You
know what I'm talking about. And don't try any sudden moves, either, or I'll
just have to lop your head of right here and now."
Duncan gave up on plan A and moved to his next idea; delay the inevitable.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"I guess you probably wouldn't recognize me," the man said, still holding his
sword at the ready, keeping Duncan at bay. "Especially after that little
beauty mark you gave me." Taking his sword into his right hand, he reached
above his head with his left and grabbed a fist full of hair. Tugging at it
gently, he continued, "This is real. Where do you keep the original? I
suppose you have what's left of it sitting around here somewhere."
"Freedman?" Duncan asked.
"Bingo," Freedman replied, grasping his sword in both hands again. "No one
ever told me that mortals could take quickenings, MacLeod. If I would have
known that I could have become mortal just by letting some normal take my head,
I wouldn't have lived the past hundred and fifty years in pain."
Freedman noticed the quizzical look on the highlander's face and continued.
"It only took a couple months for the skin to grow back. The wound healed, but
the pain never ended. Every time I put on a hat; every time I bathed; every
time Lisa touched me...
"I remember what it felt like, MacLeod. When you took my own dagger at began
cutting at me; not even having the decency to kill me first. And every time
something brushed my head, I felt it all over again.
"I should do the same to you, MacLeod. Make you spend centuries in agony."
Freedman chuckled. "But I'm not going to. No, MacLeod, I'm just going to kill
you. No torture, no fancy ceremony."
Duncan wasn't listening, though. This man, whatever he called himself, was not
an immortal. He stood there like an image; Duncan couldn't sense him. Could
he truly be Freedman? Duncan questioned himself. He mentioned a mortal taking
a quickening; that shouldn't be possible.
"As a mortal, I was able to sneak up on you, without that damned quickening
alerting you of my presence. You bested me with a sword once, and you could
probably do it again. But now I face you on my terms. You'll be captive to my
blade, just as I was to yours so long ago."
"Why throw away your new life, Freedman?" Duncan puzzled, still looking for
alternatives. Freedman stood at the entrance to the kitchen, having backed
Duncan into the far corner. The appliance island stood between them, but it
offered Duncan no protection. Freedman blocked his exit to the left, and could
quickly block his exit to the right if Duncan attempted it. "You're mortal
now-why throw that gift away?"
"I'm not throwing anything away," Freedman replied. "I'm only taking care of
some unfinished business."
Duncan realized he had one chance to get out of his kitchen alive. Freedman
began to step closer-Duncan knew the time had to be now. He raised the pairing
knife high above his head. Screaming, he hurled it at his opponent.
Freedman turned to his right to see the paring knife embed itself into a
cupboard door. Rage burned in his eyes as he whirled back around, just in time
to see MacLeod propel himself toward the window just outside the kitchen. The
sound of breaking glass startled him, as Duncan's body shattered the window.
Freedman ran to the window. He could see MacLeod lying in the alley below.
Bleeding, and obviously in pain, MacLeod was forcing his way to his feet.
"You stupid bastard!" Freedman screamed. "You coward! You think you're safe?
I'll find you!"
"You won't have to look too hard."
MacLeod looked back at the loft window, listening to Freedman continue to rant.
His eyes met those of his opponent. Freedman was still young, immature.
Duncan knew that words weren't needed at a moment like this. Only a look-a
look that combined both the anguish and the hatred of the past 150 years. A
look that said "This isn't over."
Duncan made his way to the front entrance to the dojo. Luckily, Richie hadn't
yet locked the door. Suddenly, Duncan remembered what Freedman had said about
the boy. He ran to the office to find Richie lying, face down, on the floor.
His head was still attached. Duncan's heart ached for the pain the boy must
have suffered when Freedman ran him through.
How much more pain would this man cause? How many more innocents would be
hurt, or killed, before someone exacted justice?
Even though it was not his body, it was truly Freedman who Duncan had just
faced. It was Freedman who had sliced up Richie, and left Dawson unconscious
on the floor of the loft.
For a second time, Freedman had caused pain and death in Duncan's family.
"It ends here."
Duncan took Richie's sword from his coat in the corner of the office. As he
walked out into the dojo, he felt the floor shake slightly as the lift began to
move back down to the first level. He could hear Freedman's voice, screaming
in anger. "Coward!-He thinks he can run-Not after this long-I'll find him!"
Freedman still believed that Duncan had run in fear.
Little did he know, MacLeod had only evened the playing field.
Freedman, still ranting, swung open the lift door in a fury-and froze.
His opponent, who he believed would be halfway across the state by now, stood
across the dojo from him, sword in hand.
"150 years ago, you hurt my family. You murdered my tribespeople. Now, you
return, only to hurt my family once more."
Duncan raised the sword, preparing for battle. "I gave you a second chance. I
could not take your life then. The only honorable thing to do was to let you
live, and pray that you learned. Learned who you were; learned what it meant
to be immortal. Today you have that knowledge. The time for second chances is
over. Today I seek justice."
Freedman made the first move, lunging toward Duncan in a frenzy. Screaming, he
lashed out his sword against Duncan's left side. Duncan blocked, but the
weight of Richie's sword caught him off guard. The blow knocked him off
balance. Freedman took the opportunity to connect to Duncan's leg, just below
the knee. The weapon sliced deep.
"Perhaps the rumor of your years of hiding were true, then," Freedman quipped.
"You're out of practice. Out of shape. I, on the other hand, have been
preparing for this day."
Duncan quickly backed away, forcing the pain out of his mind. He had made a
childish error-his anger had clouded his judgement. Quickly readjusting
himself to the heavier weapon, he forced himself upright.
Freedman lunged again. This time, Duncan caught the blow quickly. Freedman
thrust toward Duncan's left side, only to be blocked again. He began swinging
his sword madly, trying to connect with any piece of flesh that he could.
Duncan continued to block, almost instinctively. His years of fighting using
his native claymore came back to him immediately. The heavier weapon wasn't as
graceful, but, against Freedman's wild and unskilled moves, it worked nicely.
MacLeod began to use the pauses between Freedman's attacks to drive him back
toward the middle of the dojo. Freedman grew more and more erratic as he began
to realize how outpaced he was by the highlander's skill. "So this is your
idea of honor?" Freedman yelled. "Toying with your opponent? You're no
different than when we first met, MacLeod. Is this how you get off-trying to
leave your opponents in constant pain-in constant fear of your return? Is that
how you define honor?"
MacLeod's attacks, at first meant only to guide Freedman around the room, began
to connect. A slice across the left arm. A gash into the abdomen. A piercing
of the right thigh.
"Your Indian pals should be thankful I didn't show your kind of 'honor' to
them," Freedman sneered through panting breaths. He limped backward, still
holding his sword at the ready. "I didn't even give them time to scream."
A quick swing through the neck.
Freedman's borrowed body fell to the ground lifeless.
Duncan dropped to the floor. The heavy sword clattered beside him. Duncan
calmed himself, preparing for the inevitable transfer that must follow the
death of every immortal. The dojo lay quiet...
It took a moment before Duncan realized there would be no quickening. It was
almost disheartening to him-the without a quickening, there seemed to be no
closure to the battle. No transference of thought or soul from the fallen, or
from those who's lives he had taken. How do I connect with the past? Duncan
thought. The past that this man had stolen from me?
MacLeod pushed himself to his feet again. Taking a towel from a nearby table,
he tore a makeshift bandage for his leg, tying it tightly around the gash. As
he bandaged himself, he could hear Richie begin to stir in the other room.
"Thank God," Duncan said to himself. "At least today's wounds will heal." He
couldn't force the memory of the old wounds out of his mind, though. The
others Freedman had hurt or killed.
How do you seek closure on a battle with no quickening?
Just then, a reflection near the lifeless body in the middle of the dojo caught
Duncan's attention. Using the rest of the towel, he grabbed the ornate katana
by it's blade. He studied the carvings in its hilt.
"Today, my honor may have been in doubt. But I hope I provided you the justice
I denied you so long ago.
"Red Bear. Walking Eagle. Sitting Stream..."
=====
Tim Laird
-----------------------------
Nobody lives forever, so you might as well go out with a good caffeine buzz...
There's always hope, because it's the one thing that they haven't figured out how to kill yet...
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