BREAKING SILENCE: An Elena Duran Story 4/4 by Vi Moreau vmoreau@directvinternet.com ========================= present time He had thought he couldn't tell Elena about that, either. But he did, although it wouldn't help her. He concluded with, "Stephen couldn't handle being an Immortal. The shock was too much for him." That summed it up nicely, didn't it? "Stephen always hated Immortals, with the possible exception of his adoptive father, Philippe Holz, and you." /And maybe Stephen hated you, too, Elena./ "We both know he considered all Immortals killers." /And we are, aren't we?/ "Living as an Immortal, what he hated and feared the most, was not possible for him, Elena, and nothing you or Duncan did or didn't do would have made a damn bit of difference." Nothing Methos had done with Pyotr had made any difference, either. And worse, Methos knew he would have seen the same fire of madness in Stephen's Immortal eyes that he had seen in Pyotr's. "And what you're doing now isn't making a damn bit of difference, either. You're wasting away here for nothing." There, was that harsh enough? Apparently not. For a long moment he was silent, thinking. /And now for something completely different./ An old Monty Python bit. Methos tried, "I knew Don Alvaro, you know." Don Alvaro had been Elena's father, her teacher, her mentor. Probably the Immortal she had loved the most. He leaned forward and caught his knee in his hands, looking at a blank spot on the wall, willing himself to stay calm in spite of his growing need to shake her. Literally. Physically. "Alvaro -- I knew him as Roderigo Rubio, while he was still and Iberian rather than a Spaniard -- was Ramirez's student. And Ramirez and I ..." Methos fondly reflected that he'd never seen Ramirez when the Egyptian Immortal wasn't either smiling, or drinking, or both, and Methos swallowed the sharp, sudden spike of pain he always felt at the memory of this particular old friend. But pain like this was meant to be buried, not brought out and examined, and never, ever allowed to show. And Elena wouldn't care about Ramirez, so Methos went back to: "Alvaro. I liked him, although he was a bit too 'honorable' for my taste. And what he admired more than anything was courage. In fact, when I found out he had actually taken on an Immortal student, and a female, no less, I thought, 'She must be a very gutsy child. A very special child.'" Methos had been shocked, in fact, to find out that Roderigo/Alvaro had cared enough to take *anyone* on as a student. "And you were," he finished. "Brave enough for him. And special." The good words. He sighed. Time for the cruel words. He turned his head to look down on her, huddled in her blanket, and whispered, "What do you think your father would say to you now, Elena?" He waited for the answer which would surely come now. Surely she'd talk to him now. Silence, damn it! "I think he'd be very disappointed. I think he'd be ashamed of you -- don't you agree?" he said mildly. It was a cheap shot, a shaft intended to pierce, to draw blood, to get a reaction. But it failed like the others. And it made him angry. Methos sat up straight and continued to look down on her. He could see one of her hands peeking out under the blanket. It was thin, almost skeletal. The woman wasn't eating. And was that his fault? Could he do anything about it? For the first time he wondered what exactly he was trying to accomplish. Did he expect that he'd mouth a few words and she'd be so thrilled and inspired or guilt-ridden or disgusted at herself that she'd leave her self-imposed isolation? And do what? Go back to Duncan MacLeod, the man who had killed her son, her doomed son? Not. What else -- come with him? Did Methos want this woman with him? No, of course he didn't. What he wanted was for her to resume a normal life and help MacLeod get over his grand case of sulks, so that he, Methos, could drop in on either of them from time to time, trade a few quips, drink a few beers, be reassured by MacLeod's respect and friendship, be warmed by Elena's affection and friendship, then leave again, renewed and ready to face the big bad world once more. Her being here, shut up in a convent, was most ... inconvenient for him, he thought, facing his demons squarely, as he always did. Admitting what he was -- to himself, that is. To her, Methos said, "Your people back at the [estancia,] those mortals who count on you, need you and miss you. Your Immortal friends miss you. I -- " He paused, for if he stopped there, she'd surely turn to him and say, "Need me and miss me? Don't make me laugh," she'd say. Or, "Do you really need anyone, Methos? You've gotten along so well on your own so far." Or maybe she'd be moved -- Elena was nothing if not emotional -- and say, "Do you really miss me? Am I that important to you?" And the answers would be yes, no, yes and no. But she didn't turn to him. She wasn't going to ask. She wasn't going to say a word. Not to him, anyway ... but now another player was entering the game. He heard the soft step when it was almost outside the door, and he quickly rolled forward to his feet, pushed the chair back quietly under the desk, picked up his coat and sword and went to stand behind the door -- all of this before the knock came. "[?Elena? ?Estas despierta? ?Te ocurre algo?]" Damn, it was Mother Superior's voice. /What the hell?/ "I saw your light under the door." Light under the -- What was she doing walking around at this hour of the morning, anyway? /Sinful conscience keeping you awake, Mother?/ he wondered, viciously. "I was restless...," the nun explained. "May I open the door?" Of course Elena didn't answer. The door opened, and a rectangle of light spilled across the relatively dark room, crawling up the side of Elena's cot, not quite reaching her. The nun's shadow, small and rounded at the top, eclipsed most of the light as Mother Maria Luz's shadow stepped in. The nun herself stayed on the other side of the threshold. "Couldn't you sleep either?" She went on after a slight pause. "I wanted to let you know that the man with the mustache, Jorge Prieto I think his name was, never came back, as I predicted. But Adam Pierson, the Englishman who claims to be your cousin, was back today, looking for you again. I sent him away. Then I lay awake thinking about you, child." There was a long pause, and Methos waited, for surely Elena would turn and say, "But he didn't go away, he's still here, in this room, behind the door." The thick wooden door being the only barrier between Methos and the nun. He heard the nun's soft breathing, and quieted his own. This close, he could smell her -- oregano, earth, sweat -- and goats. /"She hasn't spoken in over two years ."/ Mother Superior continued. Perhaps, in her own way, she was as desperate to get Elena to talk as he was. "He was different from the others. This man -- of course he tried to charm me, but somehow ..." Methos smiled in satisfaction. So he had snowed the old -- "... the impression that he really does care about you. It's for you to know, of course, Elena," she said. He was such a good actor. So talented at manipulation. Or maybe Mother Maria Luz had seen something -- "... is all God's plan for you," the nun was saying. When Elena still didn't comment, Mother Superior sighed -- whether in exasperation or sadness, he couldn't tell. Methos was frustrated after only one hour -- Mother Maria Luz had put up with this for two years. "Ah, well, nothing wrong with silence -- as long as you're praying, that is. I and the other sisters will continue to pray for you. Every day. And every night." Mother Superior's voice, which had been almost disdainful to Methos and calm with Elena, now held an edge, a tremor of emotion, and Methos could clearly hear the sincerity in it, the caring. She paused for so long Methos wondered if she had fallen asleep on her feet. Then she shifted her stance, and finally said, "Sleep well. And God bless you, my child." The shadow of her blessing criss-crossed the light just before she closed the door behind her. Methos waited until the sound of her footsteps disappeared. /Maybe I can work with this./ He came back to the bed and stood over the prone Immortal again. "So, you have nothing to say to Mother Superior either? You can tell she's worried about you. She and the other nuns are expending a great deal of effort on you, Elena. Their prayer isn't easy or cheap. They really put their hearts and souls into it. And you're doing nothing to help them, or to help yourself." He wasn't reaching her. He wanted to touch her, put his hands on her, yank her around to face him. Maybe even slap her. He actually reached a hand toward her. He closed his fist, then bent over her, totally and completely frustrated, speaking to her curved back as before. To her supreme indifference. Or to her total deadness. He raised his voice, hoping -- wanting -- very badly to break through her barriers. Curse her to the bottom pits of all the hells! Did she think she was the only one who ever suffered? "Young Immortals die, Elena, even if we love them!" Did she think she was the only one who ever lost a child? "Even if we try to protect them. Even if we do our best." Did she think she was the only one who blamed herself? "Sometimes we contribute to his death, whether we want to or not!" Did she think she was the only one who was ever responsible? The only one who ever hurt someone she loved, someone she never wanted to hurt? "Sometimes they're sick, Elena, and can't help themselves. Sometimes they're not normal. Dangerous to themselves and to those who love them. And we have to -- Sometimes we have to do it ourselves, we have no choice!" He covered his eyes with his left hand, then continued, in a harsher, but still-controlled voice, "And once it's done, once he's dead, once his head is separated from his body, it's too late to do anything about it, and no amount of wondering or regret or beating yourself up or guilt will change *anything!*" Elena had no reaction. None. Shaking his head, Methos tried to push away too many memories of too many bodies, too many kills, tens of thousands of kills. The never-ending story, the thousand regrets. He was finished talking. He'd get nothing from Elena Duran. Maybe she just needed to wallow in her self-flagellation for a while, for a few years. For a few decades, even. He wouldn't have thought it of her, but there it was. Maybe he had completely wasted his time and misjudged the Argentine. He stood to leave, pulled on his coat, adjusted his sword under it, and came to stand over her prone form one last time. "I'm leaving. I've said all I had to say, and then some." He started to turn to go, but realized he had to leave her something more than words. Elena had always responded to touch, so he plucked up his courage and put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. It felt bony and hard, more evidence that she was abusing or at best neglecting her body as well as her spirit. He sighed. "When you get ready to come back into the cold, cruel world -- and you will," he predicted, "just remember that there are those of us out there who still care about you." He wasn't trying for an effect this time; he'd really meant what he'd said, and his voice had deepened, softened of its own accord. He shook his head and moved to the door, not in the least embarrassed by this last show of real emotion. He did care about Elena Duran, damn it, and he wasn't ashamed to admit it, not to her, not even to himself. Opening the door, he glanced down the stark corridor. Empty. Good. Then he looked back in on her and whispered across the small room, "[Hasta la vista, che. Que Dios te guarde.]" ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Elena didn't move for hours, not until dawn, time for morning prayers. This morning she dressed as usual and walked to the chapel, lining up outside behind the five Dominican sisters. "[Buenos dias,] Hermana Marialuisa, Hermana Ursula, Hermana Maria Antonia, Hermana Merida, Hermana Sancha, Elena," the Mother Superior intoned, as she did every morning, nodding with a special smile for each one and holding each of their eyes in turn. Except for Elena, who never looked into any of their eyes. The young Argentine prayed when the others did, dug in the gardens, fed and milked the goats, brought in eggs, took her turn cooking, kept her room in order. She did everything that was required of her. But Mother Superior was sure Elena was afraid to face them, afraid to see her own reflection in the pupils of the nuns' eyes. "[Buenos dias, Madre,]" they answered, one by one. But today Elena raised her head and looked into the eyes of each nun in turn, then looked at Mother Superior. She looked into their eyes for the first time in over two years. Mother Maria Luz held her breath, her mouth open and a prayer flitting through her head, as Elena began to speak. Then Elena cleared her throat and finally whispered, in a voice rusty and gruff with misuse, "[Buenos dias, Madre.]" There was a moment of stunned silence. Then Hermana Marialuisa, the oldest at eighty years of age, burst into a flood of uncontrolled tears, swaying on her feet. Hermana Merida had to take one elbow and Hermana Ursula the other to hold Hermana Marialuisa upright, and they spent ten minutes calming her, while Elena Duran stood silent, her one eye downcast again. In the meantime, Mother Maria Luz, Mother Superior of the few remaining nuns at the Convent of Santa Catalina in Arequipa, Peru, was fighting against the urge to fall to her knees on the spot and thank God for this miracle. She would do that later, in the chapel. For now, she calmed herself, speaking again and damping the joy that threatened to erupt like a volcano, her voice nevertheless hoarse and grateful. "God be praised. Welcome back, Elena." Elena said nothing, as she had said nothing for over two years, but Mother Superior let the joy spill out into a glorious smile on this particularly beautiful, warm morning. Then, as she did at the beginning of every new day, she led the other women into the chapel, and began: "Let us pray." Translations: (all Spanish) Argentino/a - Argentine Latino/a - Latin or Hispanic madre - mother, in this case Mother Superior hermano/a - brother/sister (including religious) nino/a - boy/girl che - Argentine good friend/buddy/comrade estancia - Argentine combination ranch/farm ?estas bien? - are you well? hasta la vista - until we meet again que Dios te guarde - God keep you buenos dias - good morning **Every year from July until December families of Southern Right Whales, Eubalaena australis, gather off the Peninsula Valdes in the southeastern coast of Argentina. Scientists and ecotourists gather in Patagonia to see them, from boats or from the coast. the end of Breaking Silence