HIGHLANDER fic
Okay, here I'm trying to begin my HL UNIVERSE :-)
Up to now I wrote my HL stories in Russian only, as turned out I can write in English as well I thought of change it (sorry, became confused with the grammar :-)). I've translated this fic last week and recently received it from beta (thank you crayzee_gal).
Title: STAND BY ME #1: COME IN (CAST YOUR SHADOW BEFORE)(1/2)
Author: Banbury McBurg
Beta: crayzee_gal
Rated: gen/PG
Warnings: death story
Fandom: HL
Characters: Duncan MacLeod, Methos, Richie, Joe Dawson, Connor MacLeod, etc.
Disclaimer: The characters and main concept belong to their creators. Idea of the story and words are mine.
Summary: How do you know that you are gone?
STAND BY ME #1: COME IN (CAST YOUR SHADOW BEFORE)
by Banbury McBurg
Mack closed the book and stretched. That was it - pernicious influence of a sick mind - he began to read detectives and thrillers.
The day was unusually warm for the beginning of November in Normandy and they were settling right on the ground, under the old oak, threw their jackets on the grass. Mack tossed his head back feeling sharp edges of the peeling bark, took out “Portagos” and stroked a match.
Mick snorted, turned over and hid his nose on Mack’s knee. “I cannot suffer your stinkers.”
“I only smoke outside.” Mack defended himself out of sheer habit; these conversations became traditional over the years. “Look, he’s here again.”
The small graveyard near the old little church was well within view from the top of the hill; they could even recognize regular visitors by the figures. The short young woman in the black coat had been coming here every Saturday for three years, standing by the gravestone for several minutes before leaving. Three old women who sat now on the bench by the gates were local. They took care of the graves and often talked with visitors. A young man in a black leather jacket who came here every week sat down near them and motioned towards people getting out of three cars.
Mick sat and looked in Mack’s eyes attentively. “Doesn’t he remind you of somebody?”
“Sometimes I want to go down and ask him who he visited here. It had to be somebody very close - parents, friend or…” Mack shrugged and took silver flask out of his backpack.
“…but you don’t like graveyards…” Mick intercepted it and made several swallows.
“Yes. I don’t like graveyards.”
They fell silent again and began to watch people who came with that guy. Three young women with a girl aged about seven or so entered gates. There wasn’t anything mourning in their clothes but black scarves on their heads though even these scarves appeared inappropriate - their actions here showed their belief that all happening here was a bad joke even if others fooled them into believing it was the truth.
The next visitors were a couple - the woman clung to the man’s arm and stared at the ground. She knew it was the truth.
That young man waited for the last visitors. Three men walked unhurriedly, adjusting their speed to the oldest one, giving a helping hand when his cane came across a pothole. That guy readjusted guitar case behind his back and said something. The others shook their heads.
Mick looked in Mack’s eyes thoughtfully. “Would you like to go down and take a look? Promise I won’t leave you for a moment.”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
“Let’s go then.”
They shouldered their backpacks; shook dried up leaves off their jackets and slowly began their way downhill.
The elderly women had already left their usual place, and the friends strolled between old graves towards the new part of the cemetery following the sound of guitar music. They found a place near somebody’s pompous mausoleum trying not to disturb mourning people but to watch and listen to them.
To their surprise, it was the old man with the cane who played guitar. He sat on the folding chair and fingered guitar strings very low, listening to the others. Nobody made speeches; one after another, they remembered something personal, told stories, reminded of something known by others. Frequently used names were Duncan and Adam.
Neither Mick nor Mack was interested in stories of unknown persons so they just watched talking, listening, and silent people.
There wasn’t funeral repast, they remembered that young man coming to the grave since the day they moved here, rather obit or anniversary of certain event important for dead and alive. There were not flowers at the gravestone, only beer and bottle of Scotch.
“Let’s take a close look.” Mack hesitating glanced to Mick. “I wonder who’s pictured on the high relief.”
Mick nodded and pushed him slightly.
Nobody pay any attention to them, so friends found the most comfortable place - behind the guitar man - and began to examine the stone. The high relief was small, tinted a bit like an ancient cameo. In the center of the oval was pictured a rock with two people on it - a thin big-nosed guy with short cropped hair dressed in jeans and Sloppy Joe with rolled up sleeves and well-built older man with long loose hair dressed in slacks and shirt. The sunset’s dying glow flew round granite figures, shadows played on the rough surface creating an impression of those men moving ahead a little, trying to go out of the stone.
Under the relief were carved three lines. Two names and a word.
Adam *Methos* Pierson
Duncan MacLeod
Unforgettable
~~~~~~~
The universe around them suddenly tilted and Mick had to clutch at Mack’s sleeve to stay put.
“Let’s head out, huh?” He tugged at Mack’s sleeve but the guitar man began to sing at that very moment.
When the night has come
And the land is dark
And the moon is the only light we'll see
No, I won't be afraid
No, I won't be afraid
Just as long as you stand
Stand by me
… nothingtobreathe … nothingtobreathe … hurtshurtshurtshurtshurts … lightlightlightlight …
Mick realized that he was falling. And falling. And falling. He tried to breathe in but he was choking and could only hear the words of the song through the blood pumping in his ears. He was absolutely certain Mack was in the same position and tried to grab him by the shoulder. He couldn’t feel his hand or his whole body. He could feel nothing except the strange bursts of energy that penetrated him from the head to toes.
… lightlightlight … theweightoftheswordinthehand … clackclackclack … scary … scary … SCARY … MACLEOD … wavehitsthewall … darrrr …
If the sky that we look upon
Should tumble and fall
Or the mountains should crumble in the sea
I won't cry, I won't cry,
No, I won't shed a tear
Just as long as you stand
Stand by me
~~~~~~~
The sun shone right into his eye and Methos shielded his eyes with his hand. The eyes of the stone guy looked into him.
“I wonder whether they made it from the photo or by heart.”
“I bet from the photo.” MacLeod’s voice got on his nerves like nail along the plate. “Wanna drink?”
“Uh-huh.” He found himself dragged on his feet by sweater’s collar and a flask was thrust into his hand.
“It’s strange it is that nobody noticed that.” MacLeod watched their friends, perplexed.
“Noticed what?”
“Thunder and lightning.”
“Thunder and…” Methos began to laugh hysterically feeling his throat
burn painfully after frenzied blows of Quickening. “Mac, no! It was all only in our consciousness!”
“What? Hell, no!” Duncan almost knew it was truth but refused to acknowledge it. “Dawson! Dawson, damn! Richie! Connor!” - He tried to catch hold of friend’s hands but his fingers ran through another’s flesh and he felt like a baby trying to catch a sunlight spot. “Manda! Gina! Ann!”
“Duncan,” Methos put his arms round MacLeod’s shoulders and pushed him towards the gravestone. “Look, Duncan - we are dead. We are gone. Finita.” The Immortal released Mac, squatted down and stroked his stone face with his fingers.
They sat with their backs to the gravestone that felt cold even after the day on the sun and listened to the talks around. Dawson sang some more but they didn’t pay attention to the words. They passed the bottle of “Glenfiddich” to each other (it was left for them anyway, wasn’t it?) and listened to Richie who read some passages from Dawson’s secret journals. Little Mary squatted down in front of the high relief and they moved aside by habit to let her the study faces of the people she had never seen and would never see.
“Why are we here?”
“Is that important for you?” Methos lazily looked sideways at his friend.
“Damn, yes.” MacLeod leaped up and dragged Methos with him towards the hill. “Yes! It’s important, damn the Game and… and…” He sighed and rubbed his face with one hand. “I feel myself alive! I… I - feel! Ghosts don’t fe…”
“Did you ask them?” Methos cut in angrily.
“Who?”
“Ghosts.” He turned out.
MacLeod frowned, looked into his eyes searchingly and then pressed Methos’ head to his shoulder with sad smile. “Let yourself cry.”
They stood on the path for a long time watching their friends leaving. The sun went down and darkness came over from the side of Paris. The sea wind smelled of a coming storm but it wasn’t cold. They sat under the oak again.
When he couldn’t make out friend’s face beside him and the only sign of civilization remained flickering candles in the old church and distant glow over Bordeaux, Methos glanced towards the stars and began to speak.
“We didn’t realize we were dead and thought that we were alive.”
“Hmm?”
“We didn’t realize…”
“I understand this part. What I didn’t understand is what are *we*?”
“A-a-a… ghosts, I presume.”
“I am definitely not a ghost.” MacLeod elbowed Methos. “Feel it?”
“I got it…” Methos bit his finger and stared towards Bordeaux, “…we are bundles of Quickening; something like Quickening/Consciousness or…”
“Even better!” Mac snorted, got up and began to pace round the oak. “Wait, wait! But if we are dead than somebody had to kill us and if somebody killed us…”
“…or something…”
“…than we had to be inside… Wha-at? Something? Quite reasonable.” He stopped, bit his lip and nodded thoughtfully. “ Like Darius…”
“Oh, no. Not like Darius at all,” Methos shuddered. “In that case we would know we were dead.”
“Are you trying to tell me that our Quickening just popped out of us like cork out of the bottle and hung in the space?”
“Something like that.”
“And why are we here?”
“I think we’re just tied to our bodies.”
“And what do we do now? I don’t want to be like that… that… I DON’T WANT!”
Methos patted him on the arm encouragingly but said nothing more.
~~~~~~~~
Uniformed officers shoved enraged football fans into the machines. Ambulances disappeared in the direction of the central hospital and remaining spectators cautiously made their way between the police cordon and still bodies laid along the wall of the stadium. There weren’t many of them, but nobody noticed as two small figures slipped under the black polyethylene and dissolved in the nearest bushes.
“You couldn’t find somebody better?” A dark-haired boy about sixteen years old stared atilt at his younger, skinny companion, who sighed at his bloodstained and torn sweater trying to wrap himself tightly.
“What do you mean - better? Sound guys, obviously street riff-raffs, with their age it means - good survival instincts. And then - nobody will worry about them.”
“But… but, look! I’m sixteen! You want me to live the next four hundred years as that age?!”
“You want to turn such somersaults every four hundred years? Oh… oh, my… Do you feel our buzz, idiot? We are pre-immortals!”
“But… but…”
“And I’m not a God, God forbid! I took the best of the possible.” The boy scratched his aquiline nose cheerlessly. “You should be grateful that we got away with that sting quite easy, I couldn’t explain what we did and how.”
“Sorry, didn’t think of it.” The elder boy tried to readjust for the missing ponytail and shrugged. “Nevertheless…” Something rustled in the bushes and both boys shoved their hands in the bosoms by the force of habit. “Damn…”
“Mac?! Why did you leave me, guys?” asked a puny boy aged about twelve or so, dressed in a too-big black coat, as struggled out of the bushes in the light of street lamp.
“Dar! Hey, boyo, I was afraid you couldn’t make it.” The skinny boy slapped the small one on the shoulder. “Great! Now we need to filch some clothes, money and … Paris is waiting! Let’s make Dawson glad!”
The End
April 2007
My beta didn't say whether she like this story or not, I'm curious...
Up to now I wrote my HL stories in Russian only, as turned out I can write in English as well I thought of change it (sorry, became confused with the grammar :-)). I've translated this fic last week and recently received it from beta (thank you crayzee_gal).
Title: STAND BY ME #1: COME IN (CAST YOUR SHADOW BEFORE)(1/2)
Author: Banbury McBurg
Beta: crayzee_gal
Rated: gen/PG
Warnings: death story
Fandom: HL
Characters: Duncan MacLeod, Methos, Richie, Joe Dawson, Connor MacLeod, etc.
Disclaimer: The characters and main concept belong to their creators. Idea of the story and words are mine.
Summary: How do you know that you are gone?
STAND BY ME #1: COME IN (CAST YOUR SHADOW BEFORE)
by Banbury McBurg
Mack closed the book and stretched. That was it - pernicious influence of a sick mind - he began to read detectives and thrillers.
The day was unusually warm for the beginning of November in Normandy and they were settling right on the ground, under the old oak, threw their jackets on the grass. Mack tossed his head back feeling sharp edges of the peeling bark, took out “Portagos” and stroked a match.
Mick snorted, turned over and hid his nose on Mack’s knee. “I cannot suffer your stinkers.”
“I only smoke outside.” Mack defended himself out of sheer habit; these conversations became traditional over the years. “Look, he’s here again.”
The small graveyard near the old little church was well within view from the top of the hill; they could even recognize regular visitors by the figures. The short young woman in the black coat had been coming here every Saturday for three years, standing by the gravestone for several minutes before leaving. Three old women who sat now on the bench by the gates were local. They took care of the graves and often talked with visitors. A young man in a black leather jacket who came here every week sat down near them and motioned towards people getting out of three cars.
Mick sat and looked in Mack’s eyes attentively. “Doesn’t he remind you of somebody?”
“Sometimes I want to go down and ask him who he visited here. It had to be somebody very close - parents, friend or…” Mack shrugged and took silver flask out of his backpack.
“…but you don’t like graveyards…” Mick intercepted it and made several swallows.
“Yes. I don’t like graveyards.”
They fell silent again and began to watch people who came with that guy. Three young women with a girl aged about seven or so entered gates. There wasn’t anything mourning in their clothes but black scarves on their heads though even these scarves appeared inappropriate - their actions here showed their belief that all happening here was a bad joke even if others fooled them into believing it was the truth.
The next visitors were a couple - the woman clung to the man’s arm and stared at the ground. She knew it was the truth.
That young man waited for the last visitors. Three men walked unhurriedly, adjusting their speed to the oldest one, giving a helping hand when his cane came across a pothole. That guy readjusted guitar case behind his back and said something. The others shook their heads.
Mick looked in Mack’s eyes thoughtfully. “Would you like to go down and take a look? Promise I won’t leave you for a moment.”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
“Let’s go then.”
They shouldered their backpacks; shook dried up leaves off their jackets and slowly began their way downhill.
The elderly women had already left their usual place, and the friends strolled between old graves towards the new part of the cemetery following the sound of guitar music. They found a place near somebody’s pompous mausoleum trying not to disturb mourning people but to watch and listen to them.
To their surprise, it was the old man with the cane who played guitar. He sat on the folding chair and fingered guitar strings very low, listening to the others. Nobody made speeches; one after another, they remembered something personal, told stories, reminded of something known by others. Frequently used names were Duncan and Adam.
Neither Mick nor Mack was interested in stories of unknown persons so they just watched talking, listening, and silent people.
There wasn’t funeral repast, they remembered that young man coming to the grave since the day they moved here, rather obit or anniversary of certain event important for dead and alive. There were not flowers at the gravestone, only beer and bottle of Scotch.
“Let’s take a close look.” Mack hesitating glanced to Mick. “I wonder who’s pictured on the high relief.”
Mick nodded and pushed him slightly.
Nobody pay any attention to them, so friends found the most comfortable place - behind the guitar man - and began to examine the stone. The high relief was small, tinted a bit like an ancient cameo. In the center of the oval was pictured a rock with two people on it - a thin big-nosed guy with short cropped hair dressed in jeans and Sloppy Joe with rolled up sleeves and well-built older man with long loose hair dressed in slacks and shirt. The sunset’s dying glow flew round granite figures, shadows played on the rough surface creating an impression of those men moving ahead a little, trying to go out of the stone.
Under the relief were carved three lines. Two names and a word.
Adam *Methos* Pierson
Duncan MacLeod
Unforgettable
~~~~~~~
The universe around them suddenly tilted and Mick had to clutch at Mack’s sleeve to stay put.
“Let’s head out, huh?” He tugged at Mack’s sleeve but the guitar man began to sing at that very moment.
When the night has come
And the land is dark
And the moon is the only light we'll see
No, I won't be afraid
No, I won't be afraid
Just as long as you stand
Stand by me
… nothingtobreathe … nothingtobreathe … hurtshurtshurtshurtshurts … lightlightlightlight …
Mick realized that he was falling. And falling. And falling. He tried to breathe in but he was choking and could only hear the words of the song through the blood pumping in his ears. He was absolutely certain Mack was in the same position and tried to grab him by the shoulder. He couldn’t feel his hand or his whole body. He could feel nothing except the strange bursts of energy that penetrated him from the head to toes.
… lightlightlight … theweightoftheswordinthehand … clackclackclack … scary … scary … SCARY … MACLEOD … wavehitsthewall … darrrr …
If the sky that we look upon
Should tumble and fall
Or the mountains should crumble in the sea
I won't cry, I won't cry,
No, I won't shed a tear
Just as long as you stand
Stand by me
~~~~~~~
The sun shone right into his eye and Methos shielded his eyes with his hand. The eyes of the stone guy looked into him.
“I wonder whether they made it from the photo or by heart.”
“I bet from the photo.” MacLeod’s voice got on his nerves like nail along the plate. “Wanna drink?”
“Uh-huh.” He found himself dragged on his feet by sweater’s collar and a flask was thrust into his hand.
“It’s strange it is that nobody noticed that.” MacLeod watched their friends, perplexed.
“Noticed what?”
“Thunder and lightning.”
“Thunder and…” Methos began to laugh hysterically feeling his throat
burn painfully after frenzied blows of Quickening. “Mac, no! It was all only in our consciousness!”
“What? Hell, no!” Duncan almost knew it was truth but refused to acknowledge it. “Dawson! Dawson, damn! Richie! Connor!” - He tried to catch hold of friend’s hands but his fingers ran through another’s flesh and he felt like a baby trying to catch a sunlight spot. “Manda! Gina! Ann!”
“Duncan,” Methos put his arms round MacLeod’s shoulders and pushed him towards the gravestone. “Look, Duncan - we are dead. We are gone. Finita.” The Immortal released Mac, squatted down and stroked his stone face with his fingers.
They sat with their backs to the gravestone that felt cold even after the day on the sun and listened to the talks around. Dawson sang some more but they didn’t pay attention to the words. They passed the bottle of “Glenfiddich” to each other (it was left for them anyway, wasn’t it?) and listened to Richie who read some passages from Dawson’s secret journals. Little Mary squatted down in front of the high relief and they moved aside by habit to let her the study faces of the people she had never seen and would never see.
“Why are we here?”
“Is that important for you?” Methos lazily looked sideways at his friend.
“Damn, yes.” MacLeod leaped up and dragged Methos with him towards the hill. “Yes! It’s important, damn the Game and… and…” He sighed and rubbed his face with one hand. “I feel myself alive! I… I - feel! Ghosts don’t fe…”
“Did you ask them?” Methos cut in angrily.
“Who?”
“Ghosts.” He turned out.
MacLeod frowned, looked into his eyes searchingly and then pressed Methos’ head to his shoulder with sad smile. “Let yourself cry.”
They stood on the path for a long time watching their friends leaving. The sun went down and darkness came over from the side of Paris. The sea wind smelled of a coming storm but it wasn’t cold. They sat under the oak again.
When he couldn’t make out friend’s face beside him and the only sign of civilization remained flickering candles in the old church and distant glow over Bordeaux, Methos glanced towards the stars and began to speak.
“We didn’t realize we were dead and thought that we were alive.”
“Hmm?”
“We didn’t realize…”
“I understand this part. What I didn’t understand is what are *we*?”
“A-a-a… ghosts, I presume.”
“I am definitely not a ghost.” MacLeod elbowed Methos. “Feel it?”
“I got it…” Methos bit his finger and stared towards Bordeaux, “…we are bundles of Quickening; something like Quickening/Consciousness or…”
“Even better!” Mac snorted, got up and began to pace round the oak. “Wait, wait! But if we are dead than somebody had to kill us and if somebody killed us…”
“…or something…”
“…than we had to be inside… Wha-at? Something? Quite reasonable.” He stopped, bit his lip and nodded thoughtfully. “ Like Darius…”
“Oh, no. Not like Darius at all,” Methos shuddered. “In that case we would know we were dead.”
“Are you trying to tell me that our Quickening just popped out of us like cork out of the bottle and hung in the space?”
“Something like that.”
“And why are we here?”
“I think we’re just tied to our bodies.”
“And what do we do now? I don’t want to be like that… that… I DON’T WANT!”
Methos patted him on the arm encouragingly but said nothing more.
~~~~~~~~
Uniformed officers shoved enraged football fans into the machines. Ambulances disappeared in the direction of the central hospital and remaining spectators cautiously made their way between the police cordon and still bodies laid along the wall of the stadium. There weren’t many of them, but nobody noticed as two small figures slipped under the black polyethylene and dissolved in the nearest bushes.
“You couldn’t find somebody better?” A dark-haired boy about sixteen years old stared atilt at his younger, skinny companion, who sighed at his bloodstained and torn sweater trying to wrap himself tightly.
“What do you mean - better? Sound guys, obviously street riff-raffs, with their age it means - good survival instincts. And then - nobody will worry about them.”
“But… but, look! I’m sixteen! You want me to live the next four hundred years as that age?!”
“You want to turn such somersaults every four hundred years? Oh… oh, my… Do you feel our buzz, idiot? We are pre-immortals!”
“But… but…”
“And I’m not a God, God forbid! I took the best of the possible.” The boy scratched his aquiline nose cheerlessly. “You should be grateful that we got away with that sting quite easy, I couldn’t explain what we did and how.”
“Sorry, didn’t think of it.” The elder boy tried to readjust for the missing ponytail and shrugged. “Nevertheless…” Something rustled in the bushes and both boys shoved their hands in the bosoms by the force of habit. “Damn…”
“Mac?! Why did you leave me, guys?” asked a puny boy aged about twelve or so, dressed in a too-big black coat, as struggled out of the bushes in the light of street lamp.
“Dar! Hey, boyo, I was afraid you couldn’t make it.” The skinny boy slapped the small one on the shoulder. “Great! Now we need to filch some clothes, money and … Paris is waiting! Let’s make Dawson glad!”
The End
April 2007
My beta didn't say whether she like this story or not, I'm curious...