BREAKING SILENCE: An Elena Duran Story 2/4 by Vi Moreau vmoreau@directvinternet.com ========================== That night Plan B started with looking up at the stone wall from the outside. Instead of going up and over, which would get him all sweaty and might mess up his clothes, he pulled out of his jacket pocket the burglar's tools he had selected for this job: an aerosol lubricant and a long, thin, electric saw -- with fresh batteries, of course. The lubricant kept the noise and sparks down as he cleanly and quickly cut through the dead bolt locking the gate. The money he'd left would more than pay for the broken gate, he knew, and he certainly wasn't planning to steal anything. Well, not any Church artifact. A little more lubricant on the hinges ensured that the iron gate wouldn't squeak too much. Slipping inside, he put two magnets on both gate doors, holding them shut against any but a close inspection, then stood against a tree trunk and looked around before continuing. Deathly quiet. By avoiding the museum buildings themselves, which had antiques, paintings, furniture and religious artifacts, Methos avoided the electronic alarms. The nuns' quarters were not so carefully guarded. There was nothing of value there for a thief. /Perhaps there is nothing of value there for me, either./ Methos stood in the quiet of the small back courtyard, triangulating on Elena's position without too much trouble. She would be awake by now, and waiting for him. Or for an Immortal, anyway. They were on Holy Ground, of course -- but he hadn't lived for five thousand years by assuming anything, and the one thing he knew about Elena Duran was that she was dangerous. So he slowly and cautiously opened the unlocked door to her cell with his left hand, his sword held in his right hand, close by his leg. >From the light in the corridor he could make out a truly Spartan room, less than three meters on a side. Whitewashed stone walls. A wooden bed against the far wall, and a figure under a harsh-looking, dark, probably woolen blanket. A desk and chair, with a small electric lamp, a blotter, a pitcher of water and a glass. A very old wooden armoire. The only decoration on the wall was the inevitable crucifix. No windows. Only one exit. Sloppy. He turned on the lamp, then quickly and softly closed the door behind him, keeping a careful eye on the woman lying on the bed, unmoving, curled onto her side, facing the wall, her back to the door. He was disappointed not to smell any trace of her familiar jasmine perfume, but he hadn't really expected to. Instead, there was an underlying odor of sweat, and yes, goats. When he had turned on the light she had moved ever so slightly, but he already knew she'd been awake since the moment she'd sensed him. She might even have been expecting some Immortal to pay her a closer visit. Elena Duran had been safe in this convent for about two years. But she was obviously still a light sleeper, as were all experienced surviving Immortals. He put his sword on the desk, then took off his coat and hung it on the back of the truly rickety-looking chair. /No Bauhaus furniture here./ The fact that she had no reaction to his Immortal presence disturbed him quite a bit. This was very unlike her, as she could not be completely sure which Immortal had just walked into her cell. He pulled up the sleeves of his off-white cable knit sweater, thinking, /I might have to work for this./ He pulled the chair out and straddled it, making himself comfortable, facing her. /Let's try Spanish, shall we./ "It's me, Elena," he said. "Methos," he added, unnecessarily, but just in case . Silence. "You're usually glad to see me," he said pleasantly. When she didn't answer, he continued, "You didn't take a vow of silence, did you?" He studied the room, a patch of light on the desk surrounded by soft shadows in the corners. It was very neat. He didn't remember Elena being that neat. The nuns were teaching her something. Then he turned back to concentrate on her. But he couldn't see anything except the dark blanket slowly moving up and down with her even breathing. /"She has said nothing for over two years ."/ "Don't you want to know why I'm here?" he asked, and when she failed to answer that, he added, "Don't you want to know what I want?" That would certainly appeal to her, the flat certainty that he did nothing without benefit to himself. Nothing. "Why do you think?" he asked her, amiably. She said nothing. Methos took a deep breath. "I know deep inside you want to find out, so, let's see. It's taken me four months to find you. Doing nothing else; though of course, I didn't have that much else to do. There are a lot of religious houses in Argentina, which is where I started, naturally. Then I had to decide whether to go north to Brazil or west to Chile. I thought, Brazil is a really big country. With jungles -- hot, humid, insect-infested places. Not my style at all." He grimaced slightly. "Plus, they speak Portuguese, not Spanish. I have no Portuguese, but you do, don't you?" He paused, knowing there would be no answer. Not yet, anyway. "Of course you do. Anyway, I was already in the Peninsula Valdes watching the [Eubalaena australis] -- you know, the whales -- so I decided to cross the border into Chile and work my way north from there. I checked both monasteries and convents, by the way, all the Roman Catholic ones. And I was right -- you're still a faithful daughter of the Church," he finished, a little proud of his own cleverness and tenacity. He smiled slightly at her silence, as though it didn't bother him at all, and he ran his palm across the top of the chair slat. /Yes, I was right about something else: I will have to work for this./ "Tell me, did the formidable Mother Superior tell you someone was asking for you? Or did she simply dismiss me on your behalf?" The silence was almost absolute. If he held his breath and listened closely, he could hear her breathing and the beating of his own heart. Nothing else. In this inner, windowless room -- a cell in every sense of the word -- he couldn't even hear the outside night noises, the breeze in the trees, the frogs croaking, the cicadas rubbing their little legs together ... She had well and truly isolated herself. Been there. He tried a different tack. "This is a nice peaceful place," he said, looking around once more. He stretched his arms over his head, then clasped his hands together behind his head. "It's a good place to hide. You won't easily be found here. In any case, as of yesterday, there's one less Immortal looking for you." She might be curious about that. Or not. Apparently not. Perhaps fear would move her. "However, if I can find you, Elena, others can find you. And they have. And others are looking, believe me. Watchers, too -- but it's the Immortals you have to worry about. You know very well your head is a prize commodity here in South America -- the infamous Argentine. And Holy Ground is a protection, but no guarantee. You know that, too. If I remember correctly from your Watcher Chronicle," he continued, "in the mid-nineteenth century, you were hiding on Holy Ground -- in Mexico, wasn't it? -- and an Immortal sent several men in after you to drag you outside. Stark naked! It must have been quite a scene. I wouldn't have minded being there," he commented snidely, hoping to anger her with the knowledge that he had access to details of her history. No answer. Not even a shrug. He came to stand over her, crowding her, hoping to force her to react. After a moment Methos sat on the edge of her bed. It was a narrow cot, actually. /She's really doing this ascetic bit all the way, isn't she? Been there, too./ His weight settled, but she didn't move. "Of course, you don't care if they find you, do you?" he whispered. "That's it. You're so miserable -- maybe you want someone to find you, to behead you and get it over with. Is that it, Elena? Or perhaps you'd like me to do it?" She didn't react to that, and he tched. "It's been done, you know. To death. It's not even original." When she failed to rise to that bait, Methos was somewhat disappointed in himself. He even started to feel just a tiny bit ... desperate. He really wanted her to talk to him. He wanted to touch her, to reach her. But he knew how stubborn -- and how hurt -- Elena was. He kept his voice steady. He was very good at hiding his feelings. Expert, in fact. "I've hidden in places like this. Many times. Probably for the same reasons you're hiding now. Or for other reasons. I've hidden for every reason there is, Elena. And for no reason at all, sometimes. Just because." He caught his knee in his clasped hands and leaned back a little, remembering. "Sometimes I just needed the peace. The isolation." He took a long breath, let it out slowly. "You do know what I mean, don't you?" If he spoke long enough, he would annoy her. Eventually. And she'd have to answer, say something, just to shut him up. Even if it was "Fuck you!" -- one of her favorite phrases, as he recalled. And once she spoke, once she said one word, he'd have her. But she wasn't saying that one word. He wasn't getting through to her at all. Well, there was one more thing he could try. In spite of everything that had happened, in spite of what Duncan MacLeod had done, Methos couldn't believe that Elena Duran had suddenly stopped loving the Scot just like that. Perhaps eventually she'd forget the Highlander -- but not yet, not just in two years. What effect would his name have? "You know, MacLeod -- Duncan -- didn't even try to look for you. In fact, one of the reasons I'm here is that when I left him he was still brooding, after two years. Still riddled with guilt, [nina.] And you know what a guilt-filled Scot is like. I just couldn't stand to be around him." Methos waited, but then he thought of something. "I won't tell him I found you, or where you are. If you don't want me to." But if you don't talk to me soon, he wanted to say ... He let the implication hang in the air between them. Silence is golden. She obviously didn't care if MacLeod found out, or she didn't think Methos would tell him. Which he wouldn't, not without her consent. Having MacLeod come here, in both their present states, would accomplish nothing. But if Methos could get her talking about her lover of a dozen years ... She wasn't having any. No one at home. Nada. /Let's try the empathy ploy./ "I know how you feel, Elena." /I really do, actually./ "Contrary to popular belief, my heart is not quite shriveled in my chest. Not yet. I'll admit -- " Centuries of manipulation, secrecy, and of keeping his own counsel made him stop abruptly. "But I *can* still feel. Sometimes. And I know you can. In fact, you're feeling a bit too much. Now you think it will never get better. But you know it will. You've gone through this before, and it always gets better. Time -- " Gods help him, he was mouthing stupid platitudes. Where was his golden tongue tonight? Why couldn't he get her to talk to him? "I came here as a friend, Elena. Your [che,] remember? I have nothing to gain except the pleasure of your company," he said, trying to inject some lightness into the situation. "And I like your company -- you're always glad to see me." So few people, mortals and Immortals alike, were, these days. A confession might draw her out here -- and it would even be the truth. "In fact, you're the only one left alive who knows me and *is* always glad to see me. Mostly. I have to admit I miss that. I miss going to MacLeod's and having you greet me with real ... pleasure. Enthusiasm." He shook his head. "Strictly from a selfish standpoint, the world -- or at least my corner of it -- has been worse off without you in it." He was giving her something, and she was giving him nothing. He knew this was a touchy subject, but maybe it would help his cause: "Remember when I helped you out with your son Stephen, when that German Immortal -- what was his name? -- Wolfgang -- was hunting both you and Stephen in Paris? You said you owed me then, and I said there was no obligation between friends. Remember that?" He was sure she'd remember. She had offered to pay her "debt" to him with her naked body, and it had been one of his greatest temptations in recent times. Elena Duran had been delectable then and he doubted that she'd changed much, even in a convent. But he had resisted, knowing the timing had not been right. Now maybe he could do something with it. If he couldn't appeal to her emotions, maybe he could appeal to her sense of duty. "Well, you do have an obligation, to our friendship and to yourself, not to bury yourself alive in here." When she didn't answer, he said, earnestly, "Talk to me." This time she sighed, or at least took a deep breath -- -- but she said nothing. "All right," he said cheerfully, settling in. He scooted up until his back was against the cool stone of the wall, and stretched his legs out in front of him, much like a cat. Taking a deep breath, he said, "If you won't talk to me, I'll talk to you. I have all night, and nothing better to do." No way she would outstubborn him. "Let's see -- how about I recount the time I lost three sons in one storm? A freak storm over a lake. They were eleven, thirteen and fourteen. No," he said, reflecting. Why had he even mentioned that story? What the hell was the matter with him!? "No, let's try a happy story. How I met their mother, when she was already full to bursting with her dead husband's child, and had two other delightful sons besides. When I decided to marry her." He got up and poured himself some tepid water from the pitcher and drank it, then returned and hitched back up on the bed so he could lean back against the wall, carefully avoiding Elena's feet. Bringing his knee up, he got himself comfortable, then began. "Did I tell you her name was Irina? And that I was her husband for a little over ten years? I know it's not a long time, but among all my wives -- all sixty-nine of them -- I remember her specifically because of those boys. Fine sons. Anyway ..." But no, by all the gods, he *didn't* want to tell that story, because it still hurt. Not so much the loss of the woman, whom he had truly loved. But the loss of that one boy, the middle boy, the abandoned infant Irina had adopted. The pre-Immortal. Methos had become his father when the boy was two, and Methos had been his father for over ten years, until the boy drowned at age thirteen. That boy -- Pyotr. Pyotr. What do you do with a young boy who becomes an Immortal at that age? And who was horrified by it? And who couldn't understand it, couldn't believe it, and couldn't accept it? And who, from the beginning, had more emotional problems than he could bear? Who, in his rage, pain, fear, insanity, turned against those who loved him -- his mother, for instance? Who had never had a chance, no matter what Methos tried to do? "One of a thousand regrets," he'd told MacLeod fourteen years ago. But some regrets cut deeper; some still drew blood centuries later. Methos looked at Elena's huddled back, wishing he could see her face. There was good reason to tell her about Pyotr. Elena was mourning her own son, Stephen, who had lost his head to -- and this made it even worse -- to Elena's lover of fifteen years, Duncan MacLeod, in 2008, a few days after Stephen had become an Immortal, at twenty-three or twenty-four years of age. In fact, he had lost his head directly as a result of becoming an Immortal. Just like Pyotr had. /"She has said nothing for over two years ..."/ So maybe he did need to tell her the story of Pyotr, after all. He took a deep breath and began ...