NEW FANFIC: THE MEETING III 1/6
Vi Moreau (vi@moreaufamily.us)
Tue, 18 Mar 2003 21:13:44 -0600
THE MEETING III
By Vi Moreau et al
vi@moreaufamily.us
Standard disclaimer: the concept of Immortality and the Immortals belong to
Rysher and are copyrighted by them. This story is for fun, not for profit.
This story takes place in 1996, the year Connor MacLeod spends with Alex and
the year Alexa Bond marries Methos and dies shortly thereafter. It is part
of a series of "meetings" between two of my favorite Highlander characters,
Methos and Connor MacLeod. These stories are followed by a series of
short -yes, I can write *short*- Connor stories:
LOVE NOT LOST -featuring Rachel Ellenstein, John MacLeod, Tessa Noel and
Richie Ryan-
LAST TANGO AT JOE'S - An Elena Duran Story
A GAELIC BLESSING - featuring Connor and Methos}
NATURAL LANGUAGE - An Elena Duran Story -co-authored by Suzanne Herring-
All my stories are available on Ann Fountain's archive:
www.seventh-dimension.simplenet.com/
Thanks, Ann.
Also check out my Elena Duran website, courtesy of my good friend, Janeen
Grohsmeyer, at: www.erols.com/darkpanther/moreau.html
Acknowledgements:
Although I am the author of record for this story, it was actually written
by committee! The other alpha reader/committee members are:
Bridget Mintz Testa, who wrote Connor's dialog regarding Scots in Japan and
always seems to write the 'funny' stuff in my stories, as she's so much
better at it than I am;
Janeen Grohsmeyer, who writes wonderful stories herself and in this case,
both alpha read AND beta read MEETING III, especially reminding me not to
leave my characters in white space;
MacNair, a most enthusiastic, encouraging fellow writer, with whom I share
many views about Connor especially;
Monica Issacharoff, a new friend and ally with unending ideas and
suggestions.
We emailed each other hundreds of times during the writing of this story.
It was not unusual for any of us to log on and see ten, twenty messages from
one or another of us. Not only did they help me write this story; not only
did we have great discussions about Methos, Connor, and Duncan; they aren't
tired of me yet! They are all giving me ideas for the next "meeting" story
between our heroes! (Yes, there's going to be a next meeting, of course,
lol.) What a great group effort. Kudos to all of us, and thank you very
much, ladies!
THE MEETING III by Vi Moreau et al
vi@moreaufamily.us
=================================
Renaissance Festival in Plantersville, Texas
November 10, 1995
=================================
"Hear, ye, hear ye! Make way for his Royal Majesty, Henry, by the Grace of
God, King of England and France, Defender of the Faith, and Lord of Ireland,
and his most gracious Queen, Catherine of England!" the royal herald
announced.
Alexa Bond giggled.
Methos had his arm around her shoulders and felt, rather than heard, her
laughter. "What's so funny?" he asked, bending over to hear her over the
din of the royal parade and the crowd that had gathered to watch.
"I've never heard someone announce an English king with a Texas accent," she
said, starting to chuckle.
It was good to see her laugh. It made Methos smile. "They could have
chosen a better actor, couldn't they?" he agreed.
"You could do it, with your accent." She pressed her back against his
front, and he pulled her close. "You could even play the king!" she yelled,
turning her head so he could hear her.
"I think I'm too skinny to play the king, although I could plump myself up
with pillows, like Santa Claus." As an afterthought, he added, "Maybe I
could play the queen?"
That set Alexa off into giggles again.
"You think I'm not a good enough actor? I think I'd look very handsome in
that dress! Red is my color. And she was Spanish. I can do a Spanish
accent," he protested.
She turned in his arms and studied him. Her expression softened. "You
could do anything!"
<Anything?> Methos was willing to provide Alexa with whatever strength she
needed from him. But he couldn't do just anything.
"Anything except play the queen," she continued. "You could be one of those
knights in shining armor. In fact, hey!" She struck her own forehead as
though realizing something for the first time. "Silly me. You are one of
those knights in shining armor! My own private and personal Sir Lancelot."
It was not a good time to point out that Lancelot du Lac was an adulterer
who, like many Frenchmen, couldn't keep it in his pants. Or that Lancelot,
along with Guinevere, helped bring down Camelot by betraying one of the
finest rulers Methos had ever served. Leave it to those Middle Ages
romancers to make a virtue out of lust and treason! Methos would have much
preferred to have been compared to Gawain, who was by far the nicest of the
lot and the best friend Methos had made in that fabled court.
"How about Sir Adam?" he said, and that thought gave him an idea. He looked
at the calendar of events for the Texas Renaissance Festival, 1995. The
jousting was at noon. Yes. He could make it work.
"Sir Adam of Cynghordy," she suggested, horribly mispronouncing the name.
When Alexa had asked a week ago, just before they left on their "holiday,"
where he was from, he'd answered, "Wales. A town near the coast, called
Cynghordy." And he'd obligingly spelled it. He'd told her that to keep her
from asking too many questions.
Alexa had laughed. "Oh, you mean Chingachgook. Pronounced Chicago, I
think."
The memory made him smile, but then he sobered again. Methos had created an
elaborate childhood for himself in Wales, one of several--but he needn't
have bothered this time. Alexa was too exhausted just living day to day
with her illness to be too inquisitive. He studied Alexa covertly, with
quick glances, as she didn't like it when he "stared" at her. The baby blue
angora sweater, a gift from her late mother, complemented her own blue eyes
and made her appear bulkier and healthier than she was. But they'd been
walking for a couple of hours, it was already noon, and she was starting to
pale, tire out. He'd known that would happen, but she'd been so eager to
come to a Renaissance Festival in the heart of Texas that he hadn't had the
heart to refuse. <I don't refuse her much of anything, do I?> A few days
ago they had been in New Mexico, cheering wildly as young cowboys tried
desperately to stay on the backs of bucking broncos and ill-mannered bulls
for the requisite eight seconds. Then they'd spent the whole day resting
up, and driven on to Shenandoah, Texas. And today they were here, and she
was loving it! That's how it worked with her, one day on--sightseeing,
enjoying herself, taking in her surroundings with great glee--then one day
totally worn out. As much as she wanted to crowd as many experiences as
possible into the little time she had left, Alexa simply didn't have the
strength to go full tilt on a daily basis.
Methos could live with her schedule. In fact, he could live with whatever
Alexa needed. He was a heavy and anonymous contributor to a charitable
group that fulfilled dreams for dying youngsters. Dying adults needed their
dreams fulfilled too, and he was doing that for Alexa. And the best part
was that he was not sacrificing anything. He was truly enjoying himself.
So was she.
===============================
Another part of the Renaissance Festival
===============================
John MacLeod asked, "How do you keep from falling down?"
The man wearing stilts under his long green pants answered, "Ye look like a
smart lad. How d'ya think?"
The boy thought for a moment. "Practice!" he finally said.
The stilt-walker took off his soft, feathered hat and bowed slightly and
precariously to John. "Knew ye were a smart one." He winked at John,
reaching down to pat the boy's head. Smiling at Connor, the stilt man
slowly lumbered onward over the cobblestones of New Market Village,
surrounded by his usual cadre of small children.
They were doing it up right, Connor thought. Although it wasn't perfect,
the re-enactor on stilts was trying for an English accent. Even the
children were in costume, all part of the celebration of the annual harvest
festival honoring King Henry VIII and Queen Catherine of England from the
sixteenth century. And the village of New Market was as close to the real
thing as they could get in the twentieth-century Texas countryside--except
of course for the little matter of sanitation. The real village would have
shit on the streets: cow pies, dog poop, human feces, chicken shit, horse
puckeys. Everywhere underfoot. The good old days had not always been so
good.
But even without the shit, New Market Village was celebrating royally.
Tented "shoppes" were everywhere, selling jewelry, wooden carved objects,
musical instruments, toys, stuffed animals. There was an armorer who had
done a lot of research and was putting on a good show, a wonderfully skilled
glass blower, a falconer, a book maker, a milliner, a baker, a candlestick
maker and many others, and the "around the world food shoppes" were doing a
brisk business, too. Music filled the air from various stages and from
strolling musicians who passed around multi-colored felt and/or cloth hats.
Bright costumes were everywhere, and the only way to tell visitors from the
hired actors was that the latter attempted, but did not always succeed, in
using sixteenth century English accents.
If Connor were a nervous man he'd be on full alert at the inordinate number
of steel weapons in evidence--from swords to polearms to axes. But except
for those on display or for sale, every weapon was sheathed and peace-tied.
Including Connor's katana. It wasn't everywhere these days that Connor
could wear his weapon openly. Even though the Japanese katana didn't go
with the Scottish Highlands great plaid that Connor had spent a full twenty
minutes wrapping himself in this morning, the total effect was striking.
Walking alongside Connor, dressed in a kilt and white shirt, bonnet and belt
pouch and also looking like a Highlander--although with John's dark
coloring, he actually looked more like Duncan than like Connor--John carried
a sheathed and peace-tied dagger on his belt. The boy had borrowed the
clothes and weapon especially for the occasion from Connor's collection.
The MacLeod colors were clearly in evidence. For once, Connor was not
hiding his identity.
"Dad, this is great!" John said, taking in all the sights. A troop of
acrobats in Moorish attire, the women wearing beaded bras and the men vests,
both over harem pants, were forming a formidable human pyramid on a wooden
stage to their right, and the MacLeods stopped to watch. Six big men made
up the bottom of the pyramid, and the higher the pyramid grew, the smaller
the acrobats got. Finally the last performer, a dark, curly-haired child
much younger than John, laboriously made her way to the top, got her
balance, and triumphantly held her arms out to thunderous applause.
"I love celebrating my birthday like this! We should always celebrate my
birthday like this!" John exclaimed as he clapped.
"I'd hate to spoil you," Connor answered, his indulgent smile saying, "I
love spoiling you like this."
The littlest acrobat had climbed down and now approached them, holding out a
pouch into which Connor put some bills. John used some of his allowance to
give to the acrobats too.
"Thank you, kind gentlemen," she said, performing that gracious Arab
gesture, touching her heart, mouth, and head, which encompassed thanks,
farewell, and God bless all in one.
"I like being spoiled like this," John reiterated as they walked on through
the crowd, then said, "Look." He pointed at a garden laid out in exquisite
detail. "Titania's Bower," the sign read. "Who's Titania?"
"The Queen of the Fairies, from Shakespeare's 'A Midsummer Night's Dream,'"
Connor answered.
"What's a bower?"
"A shady, leafy bedroom in the woods."
"Oh," John said, then stopped cold and faced his father. "Do you know
everything, Dad?"
Connor chuckled. Then, remembering he was supposed to sound like a
Highlander, in addition to looking like one, he replied, "Aye, that I do,
laddie."
John rolled his eyes, then came back to his original point, as he always
did. "If Rachel were here, she'd flip over this garden."
"Yes, but somebody has to watch the store while I'm gone."
John shook his head. "I think she just didn't want to go camping in the
rough." On another side of the park Connor and John had set up a small tent
for the weekend in what was definitely a primitive campground. "Maybe women
aren't tough like us men, huh?"
<Maybe women who love you know that sometimes a boy and his dad need some
one-on-one time on their own.> During his days as a 'mortal' Connor MacLeod
had labored under the illusion that men were tougher, stronger, better than
women. But in almost five centuries Connor had met plenty of hard women,
mortal and Immortal alike. Some he had romanced. Some he had befriended.
Some he had avoided. Two really tough ones he'd had to behead after they
had both come close to beheading him. But although John knew about
Immortals from his traumatic and recent experience with Kane, curse his
black heart, the boy hadn't quite caught onto the taking heads part of it.
Connor was content, for the moment, not to go into too much detail.
However, John's male chauvinistic statement could not stand. In today's
society John would need to have a more egalitarian attitude. Plus, it
simply wasn't true of Rachel or many other women Connor had known. "Rachel
is tough, John."
"Yeah. Being Jewish and all in World War II. Right," John agreed, his
voice a little muted.
Connor knew John had recently studied the Holocaust in social studies class,
but that wasn't a topic for now. Today, they were going to have fun!
"Hungry?" Connor asked, knowing that was a favorite topic for a soon-to-be
twelve-year-old boy.
But John was thinking about someone else who wasn't with them. "Don't you
think Alex would have enjoyed this, too? The dancing, the history?"
"The history part of it isn't perfect," Connor commented. "Alex is an
archaeologist; and these are just actors." <For one thing, they're clean.
Common folk in Tudor England had been mostly filthy, stinky and ignorant.
So had noble folk, for that matter.>
"I do, John." After a happy summer of love and companionship in the
Highlands, Connor and Alex had simply decided to call it quits. Yes, they
had they loved each other. But part of that had turned out to be love
forged from a common danger, represented by Kane. Wartime romances were
notoriously short-lived, and in the end Connor and Alex had decided they
would make better friends than lovers. <One less person who can be used
against me in the Game,> Connor had thought a little selfishly when he and
Alex had made their amicable decision to split. Leaving a woman he loved
had always been painful for Connor, however. He knew he invested too much
in romantic relationships, but although he could at times avoid them, he
could never love a woman less than with his whole heart.
For good or ill, John had also grown very close to Alex. This
camping/festival trip, on a chartered jet from New York, was partly a
birthday celebration and partly a way to make the two of them feel better.
But John was still looking at Connor expectantly, and Connor knew that
single syllable answers were not always enough for his sensitive and curious
son. John had studiously avoided mentioning Alex on the flight down, but he
wanted to talk about her now. So be it. Connor began, "It didn't work out.
Sometimes two people love each other but not-- "
"Not enough?" John interrupted.
All right. There was going to be a discussion about love and relationships,
here, on a noisy, crowded cobblestone street of re-enacted New Market
Village in Plantersville, Texas, at the 1995 Renaissance Festival. Children
didn't always want to talk, and John was already showing signs of becoming
the "strong, silent type." <Wonder where he got that from?> But today John
wanted to talk, and Connor would take what he could get. "There are many
kinds of love, John--," Connor began.
"But I'll still be able to join her on her dig in Australia next summer,
right?" John asked.
<So that's what you're worried about, laddie.> "That's the plan," Connor
agreed with a quick smile. And as John turned to watch the swordfighting,
Connor realized there wasn't going to be a serious discussion right now
after all. <Another time.>
But before Connor could take another step, a costumed actor asked him, "Hey,
is that a real katana?"
"Aye," Connor replied, staying in character.
"What's a Highland Scot doing with a katana?"
"I got it in the Japans."
"Highlanders never went to Japan," the actor retorted. For the benefit of
the small group that had surrounded them, the actor raised his voice. "The
Highland Scots were barely civilized!"
Connor bristled a little. "I went to Japan," Connor replied. The actor was
a smart-ass,
and his job was to entertain the crowd by annoying and, ultimately, making a
fool of some passerby if possible. Connor knew the type, and he didn't mind
the challenge.
"How did you sail there?" the actor said. "In a bowl of haggis?"
That got a laugh from the spectators. And John was staring at Connor, his
mouth hanging open.
"Nae," Connor replied calmly. "I went in a ship. The haggis is the reason
I left."
"Why's that?" the actor said, taken a little off guard.
"We tried to sell 'em some haggis, and they chased us awa'. Can you
believe." Connor glanced around and lowered his voice so that the little
group around them leaned in closer. "They said we were tryin' to poison
'em!"
That produced a laugh, and the actor grinned and nodded to Connor,
acknowledging his defeat. Connor winked back, and he and John moved on.