HA SATAN (THE ADVERSARY): An Elena Duran/Corazon Negro Story 8/12
Vi Moreau (vmoreau@directvinternet.com)
Tue, 17 Sep 2002 13:43:26 -0400
HA SATAN (THE ADVERSARY)
An Elena Duran-Corazon Negro Story 8/12
vmoreau@directvinternet.com & divad72@prodigy.net.mx
While Connor and Corazon Negro spoke, Duncan and Elena walked a little apart
from the others, past the pond where the blood of several decapitated bodies
stained the water. She hadn't planned what she'd say to Duncan, but at least
she knew how she felt about him. "Duncan --" she began.
At the same time he said, "I'm so glad you --"
They both stopped, chortled self-consciously and lowered their heads.
"Ladies first," Duncan said. They had both sheathed their weapons but still
looked like they'd been through a war. "You're so beautiful!" he added,
pulling a bloodied strand of hair back away from her face and tucking it
behind her ear.
He'd touched her -- but she no longer felt the thrill of before. It was well
and truly over between them, she thought sadly, but he might not think so.
How to say it without hurting him too much? "Yes. Thank you. And to answer
your question, we came here because we were afraid our mutual enemy, Lilitu,
would come after you. It seems we were right."
"I know something of this Lilitu. But she's not who I want to talk about."
She remembered that Duncan was well familiar with the phrase, 'Faint heart
never won fair maiden', because he boldly took her hand and looked into her
one eye. "I don't care why you left the convent and came looking for me. I'm
just ... so thrilled that you did."
Uh-oh. As she feared, he had the wrong idea. Well, the only way to do this
was to tell him the truth, as she always had. Steeling herself, she said,
"Duncan, I didn't come just for you. Well, it was for both of you, you and
Connor. But that's not why I left the convent," she said.
Confused, Duncan said, "Me and Connor? But you said --"
"Listen," she interrupted. "I left the convent because Corazon Negro asked
me to come with 'him'. He's the reason I'm back in the world, not ... not
you. We felt the MacLeods might be a target, so we came to try to save you,
and I think we did."
"Him?" Duncan said, glancing back at the Aztec. "You and him?"
"Duncan, you knew Corazon Negro and I were lovers way before I ever met you.
We were destined .." She paused, seeing the hurt in his eyes, then swallowed
thickly and continued. "I love you. I have loved you since the day I met
you. But you and I had our time. Maybe we will again someday, but right now,
even if it weren't for Corazon Negro, I couldn't ... I prayed so hard to
forgive you for Stephen's death. And I think I did, finally. Then I prayed
to forget you, but that I couldn't do; and I could never stop loving you."
"You love me. But you don't want me," he stated, releasing her hand.
She put her hand on his chest, where the tall Viking had cut his shirt. His
skin felt warm. "Duncan, there are bigger things going on. Bigger than both
of us. There's evil in the world, and prophecies, and powers beyond my
comprehension. Our troubles, yours and mine ..."
"... don't amount to a hill of beans," he finished for her, quoting from the
movie Casablanca. "I understand. The greater good. And you and Corazon
Negro; you've known each other for centuries and ... he never hurt you like
I
did."
She smiled sadly, touching his face. "Every man I've ever known has hurt me,
Duncan," she whispered.
"But not every man has killed your son," he countered, taking her hand and
kissing her palm, then releasing her once more. "Just tell me you don't hate
me, Elena."
She closed her eyes and sighed. "I don't hate you. I wanted to hate you,"
she acknowledged. "But I knew you killed Stephen to save me. My own son
would have tried to kill me ..."
Duncan shook his head in a futile denial, but she plunged on, "... I know he
hated me, and that he would have tried to kill other Immortals he blamed for
his misery, all those who kept the mystery of his Immortality from him. But
you protected me from his betrayal, and you protected another Immortal he
hated from killing him. You took that burden onto yourself. You have always
taken the difficult path, and the right path. For almost half a millennia
you have been a good and noble man, and you've loved me the best you could.
How could I ever hate you for that? How could I not love you?"
She hoped it was enough, because it was all she had to give him.
"Elena ..." he said. His eyes were moist, and she felt a tear slide down her
cheek. "We'd better get back to the others," he murmured, nodding in
acceptance of the situation.
Elena smiled at him. "Yes. They'll be wondering where we went. We have a lot
to tell you." They fell into step together, and she glanced at him sideways,
from her left eye. "Are you all right?" she whispered.
"I love you," he said. Then he took her hand, walked her to Corazon Negro,
and put her hand in the Aztec's.
Corazon Negro simply smiled at her.
"Duncan," Connor called out. "We're going to have some guests for the night
on the farm, and they have a story to tell. It seems we're in more trouble
than we thought."
Somehow, Elena noticed, Duncan mustered up a crooked smile. "We'd better
open a few more bottles of Scotch, then."
========
Glenfinnan, Scotland
March 26, 2013
Until last night, that awful night when he had received Zarach's mental
message, Methos had enjoyed and maintained this little inner joke about
himself: He didn't know who he was, or where he'd come from, but he knew
what he liked.
He enjoyed big cities and the commodities they provided. The big steel and
glass buildings, the skyscrapers, the constant movement, the variety of
people. Ever since he could remember there had always been this urge to
build bigger and higher. From Stonehenge to the pyramids to the Empire State
building. Size became a classic symbol of prosperity, development and
culture.
Of course there was nothing that man could build that could compare to
Mother Nature's artwork. In land, air or sea she reigned supreme.
It never ceased to impress him that the trees, those giants of the plant
kingdom, had sprouted from minute seeds that waited patiently on the ground
for a chance to grow. They reached up into the seemingly endless sky, many
of them as old as. well, as him he thought in amusement. Also, those places
where the earth was dented and cracked into canons and craters, as well as
the never ending oceans, hid a mysterious and extraordinary world that had
been the object of the thoughts and speculations of many a man. He reminded
himself that there was still no structure bigger than the mountains, those
grand soldiers of time, unmovable, standing there forever. Yes, certainly
nothing could beat Mother Nature.
He took great pleasure in reading. He had an impressive collection of
ancient books, filled with poetry and historic tales. He grinned slightly at
the thought that he too was a living piece of history. He wondered what
section in his library he would categorize himself under.
Driving was one of his favorite things. It was quite a change from the days
when horses and camels were the only transportation available, he
remembered. He had quite a passion for old automobiles that burnt oil from
the earth, like lamps.
The technological innovations that had developed at the beginning of the
century revolutionized the world around him at incredible speed. The
airplane, the ships, the television, the computer. It was the era of
communications.
He especially remembered the beginning of television. Suddenly he was
allowed to venture into the intimate quarters and thoughts of many painted
faces that looked at him from behind the screen. Sometimes when he felt out
of touch it was just soothing to have it on, as a connection to the world.
Music: he especially liked rock music, but he didn't pay attention to the
words. It was the melancholy, and the dark undertone of drums and cymbals.
It made him want to dance, just as he had a millennia before.
Yes, there was still much to admire and learn from his surroundings, as
always. He liked the taste of the Quickening too, of course. That went
without saying. It was no part of his little joke. Death was not funny to
him. He beheaded other Immortals in silence; he didn't want to know his
victims. Not proper, as he saw it, to talk to these harsh, hard-eyes
Headless Children and then wound them, break their bones and gobble their
heads. And that was the way he lived now-no more violence in his life as far
as he could manage. But even when he felt no great need for Quickenings
anymore, deep inside him he wanted them. And the desire overpowered him
sometimes in all its raving purity. It was the result of Lilitu's influence,
he guessed.
The speculation about his origins had become a source of comical
entertainment for him. Especially since it was he that started all the
rumors and stories. It was his own private joke. Most thought his existence
was only a myth, and the chosen few that knew better, like Duncan, had
bought his 5,000-year-old story, hook, line and sinker. One did not live
this long without being weary, even of trusted friends.
A fellow had once called him a 'calculating son of a bitch'. And he was
right. Methos was calculating and deceitful and many other things, it went
with the territory.
A few detached memories came to him. An arduous journey across the desert.
Walking with the sun directly over them, the heat nearly searing his back.
Himself sitting at a wooden table, slicing a ripe peach with a small stone
knife. The fruit was exquisite, its colors beautiful and the nectar tasted
like no other. A sweet and bitter scent: the smell of bread and beer. His
mind went back to the times of the Big Flood, the biblical Deluge, and to
his first wife. This was around the time Zarach had found him wandering in
the desert.
Even though he claimed he couldn't really remember, he remembered very well.
After more than seven millennia, he had acquired an understanding of things.
That was true. Humans couldn't look at machines and perceive their
principles as he could. Everything was familiar to him. There was nothing
that surprised him really. Not quantum physics or theories of evolution or
the process by which children were inoculated with germs to protect them
from disease. No, it was as if he'd been aware of things long before he
remembered being there. Long before he could say: I think; therefore I am.
But nonetheless, his perspective of things was still very human. No one
could deny that. He was no stranger to pain, and yet he had never gotten
used to it. He had a thousand regrets. He knew of love and heartbreak; he
knew loneliness and despair. He remembered Alexa, his most recent love, and
how she had died too soon.
Black eyes with fine soft wrinkles at the corners and rather smooth lids.
His mouth was a nice, smiling mouth. His nose was neat and finely made; a
little too big, perhaps, but he didn't disdain it. And the eyebrows; he
liked these best of all because they were very black and straight, not
broken or bushy, and they were drawn high enough above his eyes so that he
had an open expression, a look of veiled wonder that others might trust. He
always wore the most modern shirts and pants.
He said his name was Adam Pierson when they asked him. But his real name was
Kadosh. That was the first and secret name, the one he never forgot. He
could draw tiny pictures that meant Kadosh, but where these symbols had come
from he had no idea. Of course, legends called him Methos, the oldest living
Immortal. Others had heard of him as Death, one of the Horsemen during the
Bronze Age. And he had been called Benjamin once. There were other names.
Last night he had awakened, and he found himself listening to a voice he
knew too well. He had lain in the darkness bathed in sound, cries of
infinite pain. And if he lay very still, he could hear thoughts from his
Immortal father-a sopped-up undercurrent full of wild terror that frightened
him. He knew where the voice came from: Zarach needed him. Danger! Be aware!
She is back! We're all in danger! Zarach had yelled inside his head.
And now and then, as he drove toward Zarach's castle in Scotland, quite
distinct from his father's voice, there came to him other Immortal voices
too. Others like him out there, thinking, plotting, feeling, sending a
warning too? Far away their powerful silvery ancient, age-old cries came to
him, yet he could easily separate them from the other warp and woof. Connor
MacLeod's house. They will be at the Highlander's home, waiting for him.
But this receptiveness hurt him. It brought back some awful memory of being
shut up in a dark place with only the voices to keep him company for years
upon years. Panic. No, he decided he would deliberately not remember that.
Some things one doesn't want to remember. Like being burned, imprisoned.
Like remembering everything and crying, terrible anguished crying.
Yes, bad things had happened to him. It was the price he should pay for
living. But always with this same gentle and optimistic disposition, loving
things. And now, Lilitu was free again, trying to destroy them all. And he
needed to rescue Zarach before they both could reunite with the Ancient
Gathering.
It was almost sunset before he reached Zarach's home. He opened the wooden
door, and stood still for a moment, letting the heated inside air surround
him. The blizzard through which he'd passed had lacerated his face and his
ears even on the short walk from his rented truck, and the warmth felt so
good. Nothing more could be gained from listening to the mental message of
his Immortal father, and he knew it. He had come. He had fulfilled his
purpose. But now that he was here, he wondered if he could help Zarach after
all.
Narrowing his eyes and taking out his sword, Methos listened for the
familiar sounds of the night around him. Slowly, he walked inside the
castle. He felt Zarach again. For a moment, he didn't even take note of who
was there. The whole castle was now the dwelling place of the noisy buzz. He
studied the large entrance hall and the adjacent drawing room for the
slightest evidence that anyone else had been here. Of course that was almost
impossible. Zarach's home was miles from the nearest outpost of the modern
world, on the edge of a great gray water-covered loch. But out of force of
habit, Methos always observed everything closely. There were some who could
breach this fortress, if only they knew where it was. And after all, he had
simply walked inside...
Methos stood before the giant stone fireplace, which Zarach had carefully
constructed, from the heaviest rocks. Methos watched the schools of flames
dance past him, and then alter their direction instantly and totally in the
wild bonfire. The giant fire swayed from one side to another, a forest of
combustion caught in a hypnotic rhythm with the gentle pressure of the air.
The red and yellow colors of the blaze sent a tremor through him; the high
slender trees of the inferno with its tapering yellow leaves thrilled him
vaguely, like an omen.
Still, Methos could feel the presence of Zarach in the castle. But he didn't
know what had happened in that brief interval from the night before when
he'd received Zarach's message. He didn't know exactly where Zarach was. A
little stab of panic paralyzed him. He stood and leaned against the wall,
his eyes settling with determined calm on the stone floor. The light made
pools of yellow on the walls and floor.
Methos scanned the area. Books lining the walls. He should go to Zarach's
room before he did anything else, he knew that. Cautiously, he moved. He
stood at the foot of the stairs. He sighed and walked. He had been born in a
place of eternal summer, especially when compared to Zarach's place. No
wonder in sunny seas he forgot altogether, and fashioned his life out of the
present of his years with Zarach. I don't remember. It was a condition of
loving so much vice, of being so addicted to Mexican beer and sumptuous
meals, and even the feel of the stone under his shoes was sinfully, and
heated by the bonfire's exorbitant fires.
His Immortal friends. human beings like him. admonished him constantly about
these expenditures: firewood, oil, and candles. And for Zarach only the
finest candles of beeswax were acceptable. Every fragrance was significant.
Stop these thoughts! Memories can't hurt me now! He thought. You came here
for a reason, and you must find the one you care about, your Immortal
father. However, Methos' soul hurt.
He went up the staircase, letting his body find its weight and tread. But
where was Zarach? For millennia Methos had not wanted to talk to Zarach, and
had exchanged only a few civil words when they encountered each other. But
after Lilitu resurfaced back in 1985, everything had changed. After all,
Zarach had put him inside the Watchers. Besides, who better to trust than
his Immortal father, so powerful that none dared question his smallest
request?
Following the strong Immortal's presence, he walked upstairs and entered
carefully into Zarach's bedroom. He felt no death here, only the tender
presence of Zarach. His sword in front of him, he turned on the light,
instantly noticing that something was not quite right. Merely looking at the
huge bed he sensed it. The sound was too loud, too clear. Slowly, Methos
wiped at the thin layer of sweat that covered his forehead.
Swallowing hard, he dared to ask. "Zarach?"
In front of him, Zarach Bal-Tagh lay on the floor, his body in a torturous
position, curved like a fetus. Methos knew no one had entered the castle, he
was certain of it. Only one creature could have done this to Zarach. Only
one being would have known that such a thing was even possible: Lilitu.
For a moment, Methos didn't move. He stared at the image in front of him. He
examined Zarach intensely, lying, unmoving-Zarach Bal-Tagh, the embodiment
of unlimited strength and will. Man. Immortal. The Son of the Endless Night.
Any and all were excellent words to describe him. Zarach, who had given him
the greatest gift on this earth: escape from Lilitu's control.
Looking at him, Methos himself felt so much like a child. That was what he
was. He filled out the definition, as if it were encoded in him perfectly,
and had never been any other genetic design. He had been thirty years old
when Zarach found him in the desert, after his first death during the Big
Flood.
Speechless, Methos stared at his Immortal teacher, his eternal father. If
Zarach was down, what were Methos' chances? What were the chances of the
Ancient Gathering against Mother? He closed his eyes, and then opened them.
Was this terror? Or was it hatred that he felt? -Hatred that had lain
waiting in him for millennia, mixed with resentment and weariness, and grief
for his human heart, hatred that now boiled to a point he could never have
imagined. He didn't dare move, he didn't have the courage to speak. The hate
was fresh and astonishing and it had taken full possession of him and he
could do nothing to control it. All judgment had left him.
"Zarach?" Methos finally asked again. "Father?" he repeated moving closer.
When he obtained no response, Methos knelt besides Zarach and touched the
forehead of his Immortal father. "Oh, Zarach, what has she done to you?"
========