NEW FANFIC: THE MEETING III 3/6
Vi Moreau (vi@moreaufamily.us)
Tue, 18 Mar 2003 21:15:07 -0600
THE MEETING III by Vi Moreau et al
vi@moreaufamily.us
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Another part of the Renaissance Festival
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"I know they're kinda pretending, but those guys are pretty good swordsmen,
aren't they, Dad?"
The "guys" in question were members of the Society for Creative Anachronism.
Two burly men, wearing head to toe chain mail, were inside a corral beating
on each other with relatively heavy metal swords while an audience watched
and cheered. The heraldic emblems on their tunics matched the ones on their
shields. The smaller of the two men, who must have been a linebacker in his
day job, had a thin metal shield; the even larger guy had a thicker wooden
shield. Both armor and weapons showed signs of use, although they were well
cared for. And the men were having a wonderful time sparring--Connor could
see that this was a labor of love for them, rather than just a job. But as
for their being pretty good swordsmen-- "They're skilled actors, John."
John was truly enjoying watching the fighter's enthusiasm. "They're not any
good?" he whispered sideways to Connor.
The fight did not seem totally choreographed to Connor; each man seemed to
be honestly trying to "beat" the other. Still. "They're good at stage
fencing. But as for actual fighting--follow their blades. Look what they'
re aiming at."
John watched them for a long minute. The men panted, weaved, struck, pushed
and tried to punch each other, and called out insults, taunts and
encouragements, eliciting calls and cheers from an appreciative audience.
One of them fell.
"I'm all right," he called out, giving his opponent, who had paused, the
green light to beat down onto his raised shield mercilessly until the fallen
man managed, somehow, to get to his feet again.
"They're aiming at each other's swords. And shields," John observed.
"Good. What would they be striking at in a real fight?"
"Each other's bodies," John answered. He lowered his voice even more than
before. "Like you and Kane."
Connor felt his gut twist. Once again he wondered just how much John had
seen; and once again he decided to put off that discussion until the boy was
older, better able to understand issues of life and death; of surviving and
killing to survive. -And of course, killing for revenge, for sheer
pleasure, and to get that desired/hated Quickening.- "Yeah," he answered
simply, hoping John wouldn't pry further.
A shout from the corralled area signaled the end of the fight. The loser,
once again on the ground and obviously totally exhausted, with the other man
's sword pressing against his breastbone, said clearly, "I yield to Sir
Thomas!"
"I accept your surrender, Sir Andrew," the winner said, then he and other
mail-clad actors helped Sir Andrew to his feet.
"Right, then! Sir Andrew yields, Sir Thomas is victorious!" the announcer
called out, holding a rusty helmet out for people to deposit money in.
Connor pulled out his wallet again; it had been a good show.
"Would anyone care to try his hand?" the announcer continued. He twirled a
wooden sword in his hand, showing off how light it was. "We have these
excellently crafted wooden swords and wooden shields, made by the armorer's
apprentice for lay folk such as yerselves. The helmets are metal," he
added, banging on one with his sword, "an' there's plenty of padding. Ye
won't be hurt, and ye'll get the sweat runnin' and a real rush from it, I
guarantee it!" When he didn't get any immediate takers, he zeroed in. "How
about you, young lady?" he asked a girl standing arm in arm with a teenage
boy. "Care to give your young gentleman there a what for!? Ye'll get nary
a chance like this again, y'know!"
The audience's laughter intensified when the girl agreed, and the boyfriend,
eyes wide, was more or less forced to go along.
John turned to Connor, eyes bright. "Hey, Dad, you wouldn't want to--"
"No."
John grinned. "I didn't think so. All right!" he exclaimed, as they walked
into an alleyway filled with games. "I'd like to try knife throw, axe
throw, star throw, crossbows--"
"Whoa, whoa!" Connor said, making a time out signal with his hands. "One at
a time!"
"Sure, Dad. Hey, is that mud wrestling!?" he exclaimed, looking in the
direction of the mud pit, where the Sturdy Beggars were calling everyone to
come. John ran to them. Connor laughed and looked at his watch. "Remember
the King's Feast at two!" he called out as he followed John eagerly.
Hopefully, there would be girls mud wrestling, and they did have an hour.
But as he and John got to the mud pit, an armored re-enacter glanced at
Connor and asked, "Wow! Is that a real katana you're wearing with that
Scottish kilt?"
Connor's eyebrows rose in amusement, and John stared at him again.
"It's a great plaid," Connor corrected. "And I got the katana in the Japans
in 1685."
"Scottish Highlanders? In Japan in 1685?" the man replied skeptically.
"What were you doing there?"
"We were on a tradin' mission."
John rolled his eyes.
"What--haggis for silk?" the re-enactor asked.
"Exactly!" Connor beamed. Then he leaned close to the man. "But those
Japanese didn' like our haggis. They said we were tryin' to poison 'em!
Can ye believe it?"
The re-enactor laughed, and Connor and John moved away, toward the games.
But instead of running off this time, John moved closer to Connor. "Dad,"
he whispered, "did you really go to Japan in 1685 and try to sell haggis to
the Japanese?"
Connor looked down at his son. "Yes to the first; no to the second."
"OK," John said.
Afterward, John tried throwing knives, axes, and stars. He used a crossbow
and a longbow. He insisted Connor try also. Connor was better at every one
of those activities than John, and Connor didn't hold back, either. Then
they stood for a while and watched "Highlanders," all from the MacBrute
clan, toss the caber in the Scottish Highland Games.
"Och, what kinda wee little sword is that at yer hip, lad?" one of the
sweating MacBrutes asked Connor.
Connor took a deep breath. "It's a katana, mon! Don' ye know a sword when
ye see one?"
Two other MacBrutes had now joined their "clansman" and the two MacLeods.
One of the new arrivals--a good head taller than Connor--tapped the claymore
the MacBrute had peace-tied to his side. "THIS is a sword, laddie.
That--now tha's jus' a toothpick."
The MacBrutes and the audience all laughed, while John looked back and forth
between the MacBrutes and Connor.
Connor said, "Och, you wouldna say that if you'd seen the way those Japan
samurai chopped off heads wi' it."
A fourth MacBrute--actually, Connor now noticed, all four were all about a
head taller than he was--stepped up. The MacLeods were now completely
surrounded by MacBrutes. "The question is, laddie, how did you get it?"
"In the famous Highland expedition to the Japans of 1685," Connor answered.
John rolled his eyes up and stared at the sky.
"What Highland expedition to the Japans--I mean, to Japan--in 1585?" said
the latest MacBrute, forgetting his accent.
"The famous trade expedition," Connor said. "Och, man, have ye nivver 'eard
of it?"
MacBrute #2 shook his head. "Was it successful?"
Connor shook his head sorrowfully. "It woulda been," he said, "but we
invited them to share our haggis wi' us." He dropped his voice to a
whisper. "They thought we were tryin' to poison 'em!"
The MacBrutes chuckled knowingly, while Connor glanced at John, who was
studiously ignoring him. Then he grinned and said loudly, "Why, we barely
got awa' wi' our bollocks intact!"
At this all four MacBrutes roared, slapping their bare thighs, and the
onlookers also laughed. John, however, dropped his jaw and gave Connor a
look that clearly said, "I can NOT believe you ACTUALLY SAID THAT!"
Instead, he said, "Isn't it about time to eat?"
The MacBrutes walked away, a couple of them giving Connor friendly slaps on
the shoulder that nearly knocked him over. <Good thing those "laddies"
weren't Immortals.> Then he answered John, complaining good-naturedly. "You
've been eating all day, so let's get to the banquet, shall we?"
They walked toward the King's Arms Feast Hall, but John couldn't pass by the
Bittersweet Armory, any more than he'd been able to pass by the other
armory, without examining every blade. "Wow, Dad, look at that one!"
John was pointing at a very nicely made sword, and Connor thought this
armorer was more skilled than the one on the other side of the festival.
"It's a longsword," the armorer said. "Took me quite a while to smith it.
So," he continued, "a pair of Scots in our midst, kilts and all. You've
either traveled quite a bit to get here, or you have a wonderfully authentic
costume. And is that a katana at your side?"
Connor patted it. "Aye. But we're not Scots," he answered happily, winking
at John, who groaned softly. "We're Highlanders, and this is a great plaid,
not a kilt."
"Plaid or kilt, I don't think the Highlanders used katanas," the man said
apologetically.
John groaned again as connor smiled and began, "I got this katana during the
famous 'ighland expedition to the Japans in 1685."
The "shoppe" owner played along, laughing softly. "I have to admit I never
head of Scots--or Highlanders--going to the Japans and trying to trade
haggis for silk. Quite a story, pilgrim. That katana's sheath looks--is it
lacquer? It's unique and very beautiful, sir," the smith said.
Connor nodded. "Thank you."
"May I.could I see the blade?" the armorer continued. "I love to see those
old quality weapons, being a smith myself."
<That makes two of us. I forged this blade myself and used it to behead
Kane.> "We were warned to keep our steel weapons peace-tied," Connor said.
"Well, yes, of course, but here in this tent weapons are out, as you can
see." Then he winked and said something else Connor didn't hear, but Connor
didn't care any more, because suddenly, standing here in the middle of
several dozen cutting blades, several of which were certainly sharp enough
for a beheading, Connor MacLeod sensed an Immortal.
Connor took John by the shoulder and pushed him away from the weapons tent.
Emerging into the sunlight, Connor stood in front of his son and very
carefully looked around. He spotted the other Immortal immediately. Connor
remembered thinking in New York that next time he'd be the one to find
Pierson. Well, they'd found each other.
<This time I know who you are. Methos, the ancient Immortal. Maybe. And
Adam Pierson, Watcher, definitely. Here in Texas, where I just happen to be
on holiday with my son. What a coincidence!>
<Not.>
Methos had recognized Connor MacLeod in the same instant the Highlander had
spotted him, and instantly had come the thought, <Oh, damn! Connor MacLeod
here, in the middle of Texas. With his son at his side and his paranoia
ratcheted up to "kill." And here I am with Alexa. The gods will have their
little games.> He plunged right into deep waters. "MacLeod!" he called out
cheerfully, walking toward the Highlander, Alexa in tow. "What a
coincidence meeting you here, in Texas of all places!"
"Coincidence?" MacLeod asked, and even the boy looked at his father. The
word had been closer to a growl than to any other sound.
"No, you're right," Methos agreed. "It's not a coincidence; it's
providential. And by the way," he indicated her with a sweeping gesture,
"this is Alexa Bond. Connor MacLeod and his son, John."
"MacLeod?" she asked, holding out her hand.
MacLeod examined her quickly, shot a sharp glance at Methos, then took her
hand in his.
"Any relation to Duncan MacLeod? Mac is one of Adam's favorite 'drinking'
buddies," Alexa continued, as she also shook John's extended hand.
"Yeah, Uncle Dunc!" John piped up.
"Oh, you're brothers?" she inquired.
"Duncan is my cousin," MacLeod said between almost clenched teeth.
Methos nodded at John, not quite daring to shake his hand. MacLeod might
cut off his hand at the wrist if Methos even touched the boy. "How do you
do, John; I'm Adam Pierson," he said. "And Alexa Bond is soon to be Alexa
Pierson, I hope."
"You really meant it? About getting married, here? Today?" Alexa asked,
her cheeks coloring.
The rosiness made her appear less sick for just a moment. Methos smiled and
squeezed her hand. "Can you think of a better place? You even have a hat
for the ceremony," he said, referring to the peaked hat she'd stuffed in her
tote. "And we were searching for someone to give you away. MacLeod here is
the right man. I'm sure he won't disappoint," Methos said expansively.
He could tell Connor was straining to be polite. "You're not serious," the
Highlander said calmly, and at the same time Alexa said, "We should probably
discuss this more," and John chimed in, "You're getting married here?
Cool!"
Methos couldn't tell whether to be amused more by MacLeod's barely hidden
anger, Alexa's slight embarrassment, or John's enthusiasm. Methos knew he
was playing with fire, and yet believed that, with the Highlander, he could
get away with it.
But when MacLeod said, his eyes as warm as the cold Irish sea, "We need our
own private discussion, Pierson," Methos remembered two things. One, this
was not Duncan MacLeod; and two, this was Connor MacLeod. Those two
thoughts chilled Methos' anatomy just behind the navel. Still, pointedly
ignoring MacLeod's last comment, Methos suggested, "Alexa, we'll talk about
our wedding plans after the feast, OK?"
"The King's Feast? That's where we're going, Miss Bond," John said.
"Both of you, please call me Alexa."
"OK," John answered.
"John, you and Alexa go ahead," Connor ordered. "We'll be right there."
<Obviously MacLeod isn't going to attack me right away, but he probably
wants to set a date.> However, Methos was going to be busy for the
foreseeable future. Time to make that clear to the young Immortal. "Go on,
milady," he whispered, taking Alexa's hand and kissing it lightly. "I'll
join you shortly."