To Hold the Lightning, by MacNair (R)
Fandom: HIGHLANDER
Pairing: Connor/female
Author on LJ: no idea
Author Website: stories archived on Daire's Fanfic Refuge
Why this must be read:
Connor's not one of my favorite characters within the tv series universe, but in the right hands, I enjoy him. More than him, I love Connor's stuff, and as the author illuminates, his relationship to the things he surrounds himself with is different from that of the slightly more self-conscious (and possibly less secure) Duncan MacLeod. There's a nice give and take between the two Highlanders about the significance of objects in Connor's collection, in particular a certain fragile African pot.
The delight of this story is the wonderfully realized young woman at its heart.
They named me Podpah in the rainy season of my fifth year, when the heavens drowned the world with torrential rains that did not cease day or night. My father placed another layer of the enormous leaves from the gidagda plant on the roof of our hut while my nimucyiye [grandmother] barked directions at him with her shrill voice.
Podpah: the broken one. I was only three when I foolishly played near the river and a half-grown crocodile seized me. It hesitated at the edge of the dark water, with me screaming in its jaws, and my brother Muthali stabbed it through the skull with a spear. The grievous wounds took months to heal and I learned to bear the pain in silence while my nimucyiye picked maggots from the injury and massaged hiondo sap into the openings daily.
Podpah. The broken one. She will never walk again, they said when they saw my torn hip and thigh. Cast her to the God of the River and let him wash her away. But my father said, "No. The God of Lightning has smiled upon her, and she is his.”
I don’t remember any of this, of course.
To Hold the Lightning
Pairing: Connor/female
Author on LJ: no idea
Author Website: stories archived on Daire's Fanfic Refuge
Why this must be read:
Connor's not one of my favorite characters within the tv series universe, but in the right hands, I enjoy him. More than him, I love Connor's stuff, and as the author illuminates, his relationship to the things he surrounds himself with is different from that of the slightly more self-conscious (and possibly less secure) Duncan MacLeod. There's a nice give and take between the two Highlanders about the significance of objects in Connor's collection, in particular a certain fragile African pot.
The delight of this story is the wonderfully realized young woman at its heart.
They named me Podpah in the rainy season of my fifth year, when the heavens drowned the world with torrential rains that did not cease day or night. My father placed another layer of the enormous leaves from the gidagda plant on the roof of our hut while my nimucyiye [grandmother] barked directions at him with her shrill voice.
Podpah: the broken one. I was only three when I foolishly played near the river and a half-grown crocodile seized me. It hesitated at the edge of the dark water, with me screaming in its jaws, and my brother Muthali stabbed it through the skull with a spear. The grievous wounds took months to heal and I learned to bear the pain in silence while my nimucyiye picked maggots from the injury and massaged hiondo sap into the openings daily.
Podpah. The broken one. She will never walk again, they said when they saw my torn hip and thigh. Cast her to the God of the River and let him wash her away. But my father said, "No. The God of Lightning has smiled upon her, and she is his.”
I don’t remember any of this, of course.
To Hold the Lightning