HA SATAN (THE ADVERSARY): An Elena Duran/Corazon Negro Story 6/12
Vi Moreau (vmoreau@DIRECTVINTERNET.COM)
Mon, 16 Sep 2002 14:35:54 -0400
HA SATAN (THE ADVERSARY)
An Elena Duran-Corazon Negro Story 6/12
vmoreau@directvinternet.com & divad72@prodigy.net.mx
As they sat in the jet heading northward, Elena stared out at the black
night, hoping, wondering, and fearing. But as if he could sense her
feelings, Corazon Negro squeezed her hand at that moment, and she turned to
smile at him. That smile was followed by a kiss, and they broke apart before
it got too heated. She was still breathing unevenly when Myrddin came up to
them. "You two make a great couple."
Elena smiled. "I can't believe it, that you, Myrddin, are real!"
Corazon Negro nodded beside her in agreement. "Where is Heru-sa-aset?" he
asked the Wizard.
"In the back, checking the map," Myrddin answered.
"Maybe I should join him," Corazon Negro said looking at Elena. "I'm sure
you want to speak with Myrddin, my love," he said kissing her and standing
up.
Elena watched Corazon Negro leave. For a moment, she thought about how lucky
she was, how God had blessed her. She was with her true love again. Anything
was worth that.
Myrddin's voice whispered beside her. "He is a great man."
Elena nodded. "And I love him for that." Then she remembered the many
questions she had for the Wizard. "Could you ... you must tell me about
Lancelot du Lac. Did he really betray Arthur?"
Myrddin sat beside her. His gaze was sad. "Lancelot was French. He had Latin
blood; and he was a man."
"A deadly combination, I know," she said, smiling.
He leaned back, his gaze lost in memory. "Every woman in Camelot would sigh
or swoon when he went by, and he paid attention to none but one.
Guinevere ... Now Guinevere was an enchanting child. She was just a child,
you know, not yet sixteen, married to a man more than twice her age whom
she'd never even seen before the wedding -- such is the lot of royalty.
Lancelot was not much older than she was. He fell in love with the Queen as
everyone did. Even I half-loved her," Myrddin admitted quietly. "Lancelot's
fault was not in loving her, but in what he did about it. And to answer your
question -- yes, he betrayed a man who loved him as a son, and the king no
less, and who was the best, most honorable and honest man I have ever met
and I am ever likely to meet. Arthur..." his voice went lowered to a hush.
"Arthur never deserved such treatment ... from either of them. It was a
great
tragedy in some ways."
"In some ways?" Elena asked.
Myrddin smiled. "I think you understand. It was the British poet Alfred Lord
Tennyson who wrote, 'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have
loved at all.' I believe that love, true love, is never a tragedy -- only
the
lack of it. There are couples that were never meant to be together, like
Arthur and Guinevere, or even Lancelot and Guinevere, although there was
certainly love there. But there are other couples whose destiny is to be
with each other -- like you and Corazon Negro. Never forget that," he
insisted.
Elena nodded. "I won't."
"Now," Myrddin continued. "What else do you want to know?"
Elena thought for a moment. "The sword in the stone, Excalibur. Could I .
could I see it?" She knew many Immortals did not allow anyone else to touch
their weapons, and such a weapon as this! But his kindness made her bold,
and Elena hardly ever held back from asking for what she wanted. She also
realized she might not have another such chance. "May I hold it?"
Myrddin laughed as he stood and went to his suitcase. "Of course, my dear.
Of course."
========
Glasgow Airport, Scotland
March 26, 2013
Keep a stiff upper lip. Never let them see you suffer. And never let them
know -- Oh, God, I've seen them for the last time. Please keep them safe,
Connor MacLeod prayed silently as he watched the airplane bearing his wife
Alex and their children take them to what he hoped was a safe haven in their
isolated farm in the Australian outback. His original plan had been to send
them to Tokyo and to the protection of the Ueshiba house of Aikidoka, who
were not Immortals and would therefore not draw much attention, and who
conveniently owed the MacLeods a favor. But when Connor had called he'd
found that the Immortal samurai Hosokawa and his student Miyu had both
recently lost their heads. Tokyo wasn't safe. So, Australia it was.
Duncan put a hand on his cousin's shoulder and squeezed. "Rachel's on her
way to Australia, too?" he asked.
Connor nodded, swallowing past the lump in his throat.
"And John?"
"He has a new girlfriend and didn't want to leave her. But I managed to
convince him." He sighed. "Whatever happens, it will be soon, I think."
"Yes," Duncan agreed. "I spoke with Amanda, and she's felt something too.
I'm not sure where she is, but she'll be hard to find. As for Methos--"
"Don't worry about Methos, or Amanda. They can both take good care of
themselves," Connor interrupted.
Two days ago the Highlanders had both felt the instinctive awareness that
something big was happening. Maybe this time it was the 'real' Gathering,
Connor thought bitterly. Two days was all the time Connor had had to get his
family ready and send them away. Two days ago Duncan had called Connor, and
they had decided to face what might be the end together, and to do so here
at home, in Scotland. Duncan had flown in from his flat in London just in
time to see Connor's family off.
Duncan. Connor's best friend. His cousin, his kinsman. His clansman. His
brother. "I will not fight you, Connor," Duncan had said decisively the
night before, as they sat in front of the MacLeod farm fireplace, discussing
their options.
Connor had sadly examined his kinsman's dark, familiar and much-loved face.
It was a noble face, a face of strength and innocence and of great power for
good. Long ago Connor had decided that Duncan should be the only one, but he
had never voiced that opinion to his kinsman. Instead, Connor said, "I've
always tried to follow the rules, Duncan. But if you feel any love for me,
or that you owe me something, I will ask you for one thing."
"Anything," Duncan had said. "Except if you ask me to take your head."
Connor had smiled at that. "I ask you not to let me take yours. Can you
promise me that?"
To his credit, Duncan had thought it over instead of refusing outright. "I
promise to try. It's the best I can do."
"The spirit and the letter, Duncan," Connor had answered with one of his
rare smiles, and now, in the airport, he smiled rather more grimly at his
cousin.
Duncan said, "Your family will be all right. We're the ones who are in
trouble."
"Let's go make trouble for someone else," Connor said savagely.
========
Donan Woods, near Glenfinnan, Scotland
March 26, 2013
When they arrived at that place the MacLeods knew well, the ruins of the
little house in the Donan Woods, wanting to be away from where mortals could
be harmed, they realized there was another Immortal already in residence.
The Immortal came to the door. It was the witch Cassandra, dressed in a
flowing green dress, her long red hair gathered at the nape of her neck.
Cassandra, who had lived here for so many centuries waiting for the prophecy
of Duncan's birth to be fulfilled. Cassandra, who had saved Duncan's life
and Connor's too, whose own life both MacLeods had saved, and who had been
both their lovers. Cassandra, who was one of Alex MacLeod's best friends,
and who was loved by Connor's children. Was she here to fight them? Was she
going to be the first to die at the hands of a MacLeod? Connor doubted it,
but still --
"I'm not here to fight you," she said, walking, unarmed, out of the ruined
cottage. "But someone is coming to fight you."
Connor glanced at Duncan for confirmation. They trusted her. "We know,"
Connor said.
"What are we going to do about it?" she asked.
"We?" he asked.
"We," she confirmed.
She trusted them. So here they were the next day, waiting on a hill, taking
the high ground, and making sure they were off Holy Ground. The MacLeods
knew of Immortals who broke the rules and fought on Holy Ground. They would
not.
About dawn Duncan had gotten a call on his handheld from Bjorn Wulfson and
they'd made arrangements to meet. It was beginning. "He's a clansman of
Kanwulf," Duncan had said. "His adopted son. A Viking."
"Well, you just treat him like you treated his clansman," Connor had said as
Duncan nodded. Connor had thought that the Viking would be their -- actually
Duncan's -- first opponent. But now he realized Wulfson had not come alone.
Connor
had intended to fight one on one, but it looked like it was going to be a
group against them. The question was - "How many do ye see, Donnaich?"
Connor
asked, lapsing into the Scottish burr.
Duncan peered through the trees. "I can't tell. Maybe three or four? Maybe
more."
The elder MacLeod nodded grimly. He had an idea it might be more. He looked
at their other companion. They'd brought a Jeep with them. Unfortunately it
was on the other side of their enemies, but Cassandra could still get to it,
circle around, and use it to escape if she hurried. "Cassandra, there's
still time --" he began.
"This is where I want to be, Connor MacLeod," Cassandra interrupted, shaking
her head. "With you and Duncan, today, in this place."
Connor gave her his lightning smile, nodding. Of course it would always be
Duncan and him, but Cassandra's presence here was fitting. It was right. It
was also possible that the three of them would lose their heads today, in
this place. But Wulfson would also lose his head, he promised himself.
"Do ye recognize any of them, laddie? Do ye see Wulfson?" he asked Duncan,
turning also to the woman on his right.
Duncan had been stomping his feet to keep warm as he studied what he could
see of the group hidden in the trees at the bottom of the hill. "No," he
answered, "but they're dressed in furs of some kind. And they're working
together."
"We'll work together, too, Donnaich. And it's the Highlands. They're
lowlanders; that may give us an advantage," Connor said, thinking, so much
for the rules. Bastards. At least they weren't shooting at them from a
distance, which meant, he hoped, they would be dueling with swords. Because
the numbers were against them, he counseled the other two, "Go for the arms
and legs. Cut off anything you can reach, but not the heads, not yet. We
need
to maim them permanently so they can't fight," he said cold-bloodedly. He
peered at them, wondering if all the movement in the trees was just warming
up. "Cassandra," he asked her, "do you think you can use the Voice?" He knew
she didn't like to do so, but in this case ...
He had to repeat his question. "Cassandra?"
"They're wearing furs?" she murmured, then said to Connor, "It depends; but
I think --"
She was interrupted by yelling, stomping and roaring from the woods. And
howling!
"What the hell?!" Connor cried out.
"Berserkers," Cassandra answered bleakly. "That's why they're wearing furs.
I hoped I was wrong. They're following the old ways," she said, pointing
down the hill. "Working themselves up into a wild frenzy. And they've
probably taken hallucinogens of some sort," she added glumly. "Which answers
your question about the Voice. I doubt that I can get into a drug-hazed
mind. It will have to be swords," she said, pulling out her blade.
Connor had never fought a Berserker, but what worried him the most was the
numbers. How many? "If there are more than half a dozen we withdraw, run
through the trees behind us and circle back to the Jeep," he decided. He
didn't have to wait for Duncan or Cassandra's agreement -- he knew they
would
follow him. In the meantime, he took his katana in hand, and so did Duncan.
"Swords, then," the younger Highlander said.
"Swords," Connor agreed, waiting, anticipating-and perfectly calm. He could
feel the cold breeze in his hair and the carved sword hilt in his gloved
hand. He could smell the forest, the trees, the grass, and his companions.
The day was cold and clear, and he was home, in his beloved Highlands, with
a sword in his hand. This was the way he intended to die, the way he planned
to die, when it finally happened. He had many regrets and had made many bad
choices, but he had also done some things right. The man standing on one
side of him and the woman on the other side were proof of that. Ramirez.
Heather, Brenda, John, Alex and his current children, Colin Duncan and Sara
Heather. Five hundred years of life had been hell in many ways, but on the
whole he was glad to have had such time, such opportunities, such
adventures -- and such good, devoted, beloved friends.
"I love you both," Cassandra said, putting a few stray strands behind her
ear and grabbing her weapon two-handed in front of her. "Just wanted to get
it on the record."
"I'll make a note of it-for the record," Connor answered her gravely,
although his eyes were smiling at her fondly.
Duncan looked at her, "I love you too, Cassandra." Then to Connor, he said,
"Connor, I want you to know --"
"I know, laddie. I know." Grey eyes met brown ones with an expression they
couldn't put into words. "Me, too. But we still have our heads, an' a job to
do."
"Aye, that we do. And here they come!" Duncan said, setting himself.
They came running up the hill like a slavering pack of wolves, screeching
and howling, holding long swords and axes. Cassandra called out the command,
"Stop!" in a voice that reverberated in Connor's bones, but not a single
Berserker slowed down. And as soon as they cleared the trees, Connor
realized there were too many, twelve or maybe fifteen. Too many.
"Run," Connor said softly, and they sheathed their weapons, then turned to
rush back down the hill into the trees behind them. Even as they did, Connor
saw one man bump into another and the second man turn to cut him down. In a
moment those two were involved in a duel of their own. Crazy bastards are
doing our work for us! he thought, remembering that while in the midst of
their fury, their Berserkergang, the Vikings would cut down any living thing
in their path-including their own comrades.
Letting the others get slightly ahead, Connor glanced back over his shoulder
and easily spotted the leader, now crowning the hill -- a perfect blond
specimen well over six feet tall with bloodshot blue eyes, a reflection of
the wrong side of sanity. Wulfson was not the fastest, but he was carrying
a battle-ax that Connor knew he himself would have trouble lifting.
Connor knew Duncan could run forever, but Duncan was no sprinter, and
Cassandra was further ahead but would soon have to slow down. Their enemies
would neither tire nor slow down, not anytime soon. "Faster!" Connor yelled.
They crashed through the leafless trees, Duncan leading them in an arc that
would take them back to the cottage and their means of escape, but Connor,
in the rear, could hear the howls and blood-curdling screams getting closer,
not further away. He took another peek and saw that one man was way ahead of
the pack and closing in on him. "Keep going!" he yelled at his companions in
Gaelic, and at the first opportunity, placed himself behind the nearest
trunk wide enough to hide him. The lead Viking didn't even slow down, and
Connor, timing it precisely, pulled his katana back and stepped out of
hiding, neatly slicing his opponent's head off. Then he ran as fast as he
could. In his experience, the Quickening went to the nearest Immortal, not
necessarily to the beheader. If he was very, very lucky ...
Connor felt the electricity in the air and didn't dare look back, afraid to
possibly fall and seal his doom. He saw Duncan ahead of him glance back once
and smile, so Connor guessed his little trick had worked. Maybe the
Quickening would even be spread among several Berserkers. Maybe. In any
case, that took two of them out of --
Heavy breathing, and now suddenly a scream of triumph, right behind him,
right on 'top' of him. "Damn!" Connor cursed, as he turned around, going
from
fleeing to fighting.
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