“But…it’s just dirt, Connor.  What’s that supposed to teach me?” Duncan asked disgustedly as he and Connor struggled to carry a heavy urn of fine sand out onto the balcony.

“Endurance.  And perseverance, although in your case I think it would be more accurately described as mule-headedness,” Connor added with a grunt as the heavy urn was dropped to the balcony with a jarring thud.  “It also is an exercise in controlling your reactions, to fatigue, to boredom, and to pain.  Especially to pain.”

Duncan looked down into the yellow mound with a puzzled expression.  “But how can sand cause pain?” 

Connor smiled grimly.

Thump.  Thump.  Thump.  Thump.

Connor wanted nothing more than to close the doors to the balcony, but that would have let Duncan know he was bothered by the noise, the grunts, the gasping pants of effort.  He glanced up from his papers.  Duncan was only about 30 feet away, shirtless, jamming his hands, first one, then the other, fingers extended, into the urn filled with the ‘dirt’ that he had so derided.  He had been doing it day after day now, at first for at least a quarter hour at a time, now much longer.  Connor had thought the pain would be the primary factor that would stop his student, but Duncan seemed to consider pain a personal enemy, and even when he was shaking with it, sometimes tears rolling down his cheeks, he would press on.  First he did it until he had worn the skin down so far that even Immortal healing couldn’t control the constant bleeding.  Then his skin began to toughen as it healed over and over again, so he would keep at it for longer and longer periods, until now it was a near constant background noise.

Connor had come to realize that Duncan somehow needed this kind of effort, to push himself to extremes.  The more arduous the tasks Connor found, the more determined his student seemed to complete them.  He sometimes wondered if Duncan’s obsession with drills and exercises was always a good thing.  It seemed, somehow, an escape, as though Duncan were avoiding something important, something troubling him, by pushing himself until his mind and body could encompass nothing more than the immediate task at hand.  If he were just trying to prove his stubbornness to his teacher, Duncan had done that long, long ago.

Connor dropped the quill he had been toying with as he composed a letter to Seamus O’Brien.  His mind wasn’t on the task anyway.  He had promised the man a dowry for his daughter, and it seemed the young woman had finally found a real prospect, a captain of a small caravel.  He was older, and already had two small children, but that apparently suited Brigitte just fine.  Her recovery from her heartbreak over Duncan’s rejection had been remarkably fast, which made Connor smile.  If he lived to be as old as the legendary Methos, he would never understand women.

But Brigitte’s pending nuptials had Seamus considering retirement, which would make his daughter’s namesake, the sleek brigantine, the Brigitte, available to Connor as captain.  Connor sat back and closed his eyes with a sigh.  To be at sea, with his own ship alive under his feet. No lurking Immortals, just the wind and the water, the ocean and the sky.  To sail to the Caribbean Sea, to the Orient, to discover lands and places and people he had never known existed…he sighed again, then looked up as he realized the constant noise of his student’s efforts had ceased at last.

Duncan was leaning up against the balcony doorframe, eyes closed, still panting from his effort.  From his fingertips to past his wrists, his flesh was coated with blood-soaked sand.

“Mind the floor,” Connor admonished, then called for Giuseppe to bring a bowl of water for Duncan to use.  The valet came in, ‘tut-tutting’ over the mess.  Duncan pulled away from Giuseppe’s efforts to personally wash his hands, briskly swishing them in the water, then gingerly wiping them off with the towel the valet offered on his arm.  The innumerably tiny abrasions had already healed, but Connor could see that the skin was raw and painfully reddened.

Giuseppe insisted that Duncan sit so he could rub a soothing oil into his hands, which Duncan endured uncomfortably while Giuseppe admonished him for abusing himself.  The valet clearly enjoyed his task and lingered over it, gently massaging the heavily callused palms and fingers until Duncan finally pulled away with a gruff, “Ciò basta!” 

Giuseppe gathered up his bowl, towel and oil with a slightly offended sniff and sauntered away, boldly winking at Connor as he did.  Giuseppe knew his teasing flirtations discomforted Duncan, and took great glee in embarrassing the lad.

Connor firmly pushed aside the letter to Seamus.  His first responsibility was to Duncan, and so long as the man was his student, the Brigitte would have to wait.  “Are you done punishing yourself for the moment?” Connor asked.

Duncan rose and poured himself a glass of water from a carafe Giuseppe kept cool and full on a side table.  “I thought it was an exercise you wanted me to do,” he responded with a slight smile, as though he didn’t really understand Connor’s comment.

Connor snorted, and stood, stretching his back.  “There is a difference between discipline and obsession, Duncan,” he advised.  “One is beneficial, the other can be dangerous.”

“And you think I’m dangerous?” Duncan asked.

Connor chuckled and shook his head.  It seemed that his student was determined to avoid any serious topics.  “You’re getting there.” 

Duncan’s lips stretched into a smile.  “I should hope so.  I’ve been working at it hard enough.”

Connor debated with himself whether to push further, to force Duncan to talk about why he felt the need to punish himself, but they were both uncomfortable with such personal conversations, and it would reveal itself in time.  At least he hoped so. “You have nothing to prove to me about your willingness to work hard, Duncan,” Connor felt he had to add, squeezing his kinsman’s shoulder, affectionately.  “Come,” he urged.  Duncan wasn’t the only one who took pleasure and satisfaction in physical effort.  “We can spar at the salon,” he suggested.  “I’m tired of paying for the repairs to the walls and furniture.”

“But I was going riding with the Contessa this afternoon. You wouldn’t want me to disappoint her, would you?” Duncan asked with a smug smile.

“There will be plenty of time for that,” Connor commented with a chuckle.  “And were you going riding with the Contessa, or was it the Contessa you were going to be riding?”

Duncan looked mildly offended.  “The lady is married.  I wouldn’t risk her reputation with an affair.  She just likes my company,” he insisted.

“Is that why you dress up every time you go see her?” Connor teased, heading for their rooms to change into something suitable for sword practice, with Duncan following close behind.  He greatly enjoyed baiting his kinsman, who loved paying court to beautiful women, and took easy offence at any suggestion that his motives were anything but pure and noble.

“I cannot visit the Contessa looking like a stable hand!” Duncan insisted, walking beside him.  “Besides, sometimes she invites Wilhelm and that bastard Dunningham, and I’ll be damned if that Sassenach popinjay shows me up!”

“Just stay out of his way, Duncan,” Connor admonished.  “I promised Munter I wouldn’t cross swords with the man if I could avoid it, but while the Baron may not be a headhunter, I wouldn’t put it past his student.”

“Aye, but Dunningham insists he’s no one’s student now,” Duncan replied grimly, and Connor suspected the two men had had more than a few hostile words.

“Duncan,” Connor snapped, stopping sharply.  “Don’t even think about it,” he said, glaring sternly at his young kinsman and raising an admonishing finger.  “Dunningham is older than you, more experienced than you and he may even have a few dirty tricks up his sleeve.  Your best defense is avoidance, do you understand me?”

Duncan’s expression darkened but he didn’t flinch, and that bothered Connor as much as the notion of his student’s misplaced arrogance.  “Aye, Connor.  I understand you,” he replied softly, but Connor suspected that understanding did not necessarily mean agreement.

It was late morning by the time they reached the salon, and the large rooms were ringing with the clash of swords from at least a half a dozen training sessions in progress.  Connor nodded to a number of the men, many of whom he had instructed at various times in the last decade.  He had traded on his skills as a swordsman for many years now.  It was an easy way to earn extra money when his investments were not bringing in cash.  His well-established reputation brought him more willing students than he had time or inclination to train, and since he had returned to Ravenna he had turned away all requests, concentrating his entire attention on preparing Duncan for the Game.

They squared off with the rapiers Duncan had learned to use admirably over the past months, and Connor pressed his student hard.  Giuseppe had insisted on coming along to watch, and since they planned to take care not to shed blood, Connor allowed it.  The pudgy valet sat in a nearby chair, bouncing with excitement and anxiety at the many near misses, but Connor wasn’t certain whether it was concern over their health, or that Duncan might damage his nice suit of clothes.  Connor was wearing leathers that, while modestly decorative, also provided a little protection.  But Duncan had dressed for his afternoon tryst with the Contessa, and was in silver and black brocade, his long hair pulled back into a neat queue.

After a particularly quick exchange, which had Giuseppe almost coming up out of his chair, the two men paused but didn’t drop their defensive stances.  “You’ve improved greatly,” Connor observed.

“Oh, you really think so?” Duncan asked with a smug smile, and attacked.

Ah, the line between confidence and arrogance was such a thin one, Connor mused as he turned his body, letting Duncan slip past him as he over extended, allowing Connor to easily slap his blade away.  “No,” Connor answered, as they broke off again.  “I was just being gracious.” 

It wasn’t really true, and they both knew it, but while Duncan was a good swordsman, he was young.  There were many Immortals out there better than he, and Connor was determined to keep reminding him of that.  “Now remember,” Connor instructed in English, as they engaged again, “you are only Immortal as long as you can keep your head on your shoulders.”  Duncan’s blade caught Connor’s thrust to his chest, and angled it down, but Connor kept pressing forward, ending up with the tip of Connor’s blade pointing dangerously close to Duncan’s most intimate anatomy.  Both men went very still, their eyes meeting.  Duncan wisely used Connor’s moment of hesitation to attack, but after a quick exchange, once again Connor used his student’s aggression against him and Duncan stumbled, off balance, shaking his head in frustration. 

“Duncan,” Connor paused, letting the man turn so he could see just how serious the conversation was, how much was at stake.  “What you give up to your adversary in defeat is everything.”

“I know,” Duncan sighed.  “I know.  And at that point, I’m very, very dead.”  He moved into a fighting stance and waved his teacher closer.  “Come on!”

“Not just dead, Duncan,” Connor advised with a grim chuckle.  “Empty!”  And they exchanged a quick series of strokes before backing off and circling each other once more. 

“Aye, Connor, I know.  It’s called the Quickening,” and Duncan reiterated what had Connor told him so many times.  “Our strength and knowledge and life essence flows into the victor, feeds him and makes him stronger.  Yes?” It was said in a tone that acknowledged nothing of the power, the thrill, the violation of that ultimate, intimate act.

“It’s what drives the other Immortals to kill us,” Connor growled.  “And what forces us to be smarter, better than the rest.”

“I understand,” Duncan assured him, but Connor was certain he didn’t really understand that there were hundreds of gifted swordsmen and women of vastly greater experience than he, and they all had only one true goal in life – to kill the likes of young Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.  Connor ended the exchange by slipping past his student’s defenses and sliding his blade’s edge next to the soft silk and brocade collar that provided little protection for Duncan’s most vulnerable point – his neck.

“You do?” Connor asked softly, looking deep into Duncan’s dark eyes.  The man was so trusting, so willing to believe that no one meant him deliberate harm absent some specific wrong.  He leaned close, then without a whisper of warning, with an invisible tug of his heel yanked Duncan’s foot out from under him, landing the lad on his back with a whoosh of expelled air, accompanied by Giuseppe’s giggles.  Connor frowned at the valet and gestured to the sword rack nearby with a quick instruction in Italian.

“I slipped!” Duncan responded to Connor’s raised eyebrow at his evident clumsiness.

“Listen!” Connor snapped.  “Soon we will have to part,” he stated, his own heart missing a beat at the realization that had been hovering in the back of his mind for weeks now.  “There is one more thing I have to give to you.”  He hadn’t been sure until this moment that he would do this.  It was his most closely held secret, the single thing Ramirez had taught him that he had always held in reserve.   He led Duncan into a private room, away from the small audience they always attracted when they sparred in public.  Giuseppe followed, handing him one of the blades Connor had instructed him to retrieve.

The valet handed the other to Duncan, moving close and gracing him with a flirtatious smile.  Duncan frowned and snatched the blade with a low growl, but Giuseppe just grinned at him, happy to generate any reaction.

“Va via,” Connor instructed, waving Giuseppe towards the door.  What was about to happen was for no one’s eyes but his and Duncan’s.  “Va via!” he snapped again when Giuseppe didn’t comply immediately.  His valet’s face crumpled, his shoulders slumped as he quietly left, closing the door to the vast, marble floored room behind him.

Duncan took the enormous German langschwertz, similar to the size and weight of the giant claymore he was used to wielding, and a smile lit his face.  “Oh, aye,” he almost purred.  “This is more like it!”  Duncan yanked the tie free from his hair, shaking his head so his hair loosened around his face, gazing at the blade in happy satisfaction.  The lad would always and ever be the consummate warrior and Highlander, Connor thought with a smile, even more so than he.  Duncan would always have a clan to protect, even if he had to make one for himself.

Connor watched in amused affection as Duncan swung the heavy blade to get a feel for it.  Then Connor turned his back, planting his feet wide.  “Attack me,” he instructed.

There was a silent pause.  “But you’ve got your back to me,” Duncan protested.

Connor turned, frustrated at Duncan’s insistence that there were ‘rules’ that ought to be followed in combat.  “It’s not always about strength, Duncan,” he insisted, then turned back around.  “Attack me,” he ordered firmly.  He felt the air stir, heard the grunt of effort as his student swung, and then made the move Ramirez had taught him almost a century before, catching Duncan’s blade and turning so they both froze, face to face, their swords crossed between their bodies.  “It’s about manipulation of the mind,” he breathed harshly, straining against Duncan’s broader frame.  Then Duncan did what Connor knew he would do – what he had to do to break the standoff – and he reached for Duncan’s bicep at the same time he pushed his own blade over his head, then yanked down with all his strength, “as well as the body,” he breathlessly finished his sentence.

They were locked into place, Connor’s own blade horizontal along his shoulders, behind his head, while Duncan’s was caught vertically behind it.  “Aye,” Duncan smiled.  “But now I’m in control.”  Then he tried to pull free, his eyes losing their confidence when he realized his own blade was firmly pinned, almost bending under the pressure of the leverage as the two swords strained against each other.

Connor chuckled grimly.  “Are you?” he asked.  He released his grip and the joint pressure of their strength did exactly what it was designed to do.  Connor’s blade sprung free, snapping around with a power that almost dislocated Connor’s shoulder.  Had Connor not put his entire body into stopping the stroke, the blade would never have halted in its inexorable arc straight towards Duncan’s throat.  This was why he had used the weightier blades.  Swords with even slightly greater spring in the steel would have been inevitably, unavoidably and permanently fatal.

Duncan had gone white, frozen in place, the langschwertz still hovering at his neck.

“Remember well, my friend,” Connor advised softly, breathless from the effort of halting the blade’s swing.  “Properly executed, this move is unstoppable.” 

“Properly executed,” Duncan replied shakily, his eyes still fixed on the blade at his neck.  “We’ll nae have this talk again.”  He looked up.  Their eyes met, and at last Connor was satisfied that Duncan recognized the painful essence of what he had tried to teach.  That they were all destined to kill their own kind, and that you were never safe.  Never.

Duncan was quiet and subdued as they left the salon, seeking separate carriages since Duncan was headed for the Contessa’s villa.  They stood on the street for a moment in silence, but then Duncan turned to Connor, his dark eyes glittering with emotion.  “Connor?” he said softly.  “I don’t know how to be Immortal.  I only know how to be who I am.”  He put a hand on Connor’s shoulder, squeezing it gently.  “And I know in my heart that friendship is more important than any Game.”

“Ah, Duncan,” Connor sighed.  He didn’t know whether to be irritated, amused or simply moved by the declaration.  “To be immortal is to have no ties to any person or any place or any time.  We become only the bonds we form with those few people we trust and cherish.”  He reached out, gripping Duncan’s shoulder.  “Just be careful, kinsman.  Make sure others, especially other Immortals, are worthy of your trust before you give it away.”

“I trust you,” Duncan offered with a smile.

“And I you, Duncan MacLeod,” Connor returned, “of the Clan MacLeod,” he added with a grin.

Connor had finally finished all his correspondence, including his letter to Seamus giving him details of Brigitte’s dowry, when Giuseppe came in, hovering at the door, bouncing on the balls of his feet, but clearly wary of disturbing his master.

“What is it?” Connor finally sighed.  Giuseppe’s life was concerned with little things – food and clothes and local gossip – but what seemed trivial to Connor was sometimes a life crisis to his chief servant.

“Signore,” Giuseppe came in slowly, clutching a handkerchief, and mopping his brow, “there is a rumor going around the piazza, and…I thought…”

“I do not concern myself with rumors,” Connor snapped a little more harshly than he intended.

“But Signore Connor, it is about Signore Duncan, and it…it frightened me, so I thought…” the small man waved his kerchief helplessly.

Connor sat back with a sigh.  “All right, my friend.  What is it?”

“They are saying,” Giuseppe gestured wildly, now pacing back and forth, “C'era una disputa.  Between Signore Duncan and that Englishman.  At the Contessa’s villa.  Something about a horse, and il Tedesco, the Baron Munter.  They say they almost killed each other, Signore!  And I got so frightened!”

Connor had stood during Giuseppe’s nervous recitation, and now grabbed his sword and scabbard from a nearby table.  “Where are they now?” he demanded.

“Non so, Signore!  I asked, but no one knows.”

Just then the whole house vibrated with the slamming of a door.  Connor was afraid his valet was going to faint, until they heard a heavy tread taking the stairs two at a time, as Duncan frequently did.  Then the man himself burst into the room, pausing only slightly when he saw Connor and Giuseppe staring at him.  He headed straight for the wine carafe kept on a side table, poured himself a large goblet and drank it all down in a few noisy swallows.

“Leave us,” Connor snapped to his servant.

His eyes wide, Giuseppe nodded, and for once did exactly as he was told.

Duncan poured himself another drink, but this time just stared into the cup’s depths.

“Well?” Connor finally had to ask.

“Dunningham killed Wilhelm,” Duncan growled, finally looking up, his eyes meeting Connor’s.  Connor almost stepped back from the force of the fierce rage that distorted his student’s face.

“Sit, Duncan,” Connor ordered, pointing to the nearby settee.

“Nay, I’ll not sit, Connor!  Not while that bastard is still alive!”

“Calm down!  I’ve told you over and over again that anger is your enemy.  It blinds you and makes you waste energy.”

“How can you talk about being calm?” Duncan swirled, advancing on him.  “Wilhelm was my friend, and that man’s teacher!  And he cut him down like a dog.  Over a horse!” Duncan shouted.  “He came riding up to the Contessa’s on Wilhelm’s prize stallion, with this…this look on his face.  I swear I nearly took his head then and there.”

“How do you know what happened?” Connor asked, keeping his voice deliberately calm and low.

“I know all I need to know!” Duncan snapped, putting the goblet down with enough force to nearly break it.  “Wilhelm’s dead and that man killed him!”

“Is that what he said?”

“He didnae need to say a damn thing.  What could he say, in front of the Contessa?  He said Wilhelm had given him the stallion as a parting gift before heading back to Germany, but I know he would never have given that horse to that Sassenach bastard!  And the only reason he would suddenly disappear without saying goodbye is because he’s dead!”

Connor belted on the scabbard he was holding.  “I’ll go and talk to the man.”

“No!” Duncan stepped close.  “This is my fight, Connor.  And besides, the Baron didn’t want you fighting Dunningham.  Wouldn’t be a fair fight anyway,” Duncan half-smiled.

“I didn’t say I was going to fight him, just talk to him,” Connor snapped.  “And it will give you time to cool down a little.”

“Oh, I’m cool enough,” Duncan assured him, now pacing back and forth, his face grim, but his eyes alight with energy.  “And I’ve already arranged to meet him at dusk outside the walls.”  He spun around and went out on the balcony, examining the sky.  “As a matter of fact, I’d better start now, or I’ll be late.”

“Damn it, Duncan, no!  You don’t know what happened between him and Munter, and you can’t kill a man just because you don’t like him!” Connor insisted, grabbing Duncan's shoulder.

Duncan went very still, and the face he turned to Connor was hardly recognizable.  His eyes were hard and glittering, the normally sweet, smiling mouth was twisted with anger and hate.  “But I’m doing exactly what you said to do, Connor.  After all, as you have told me so many times – There Can Be Only One.”

“And if that is the only reason we kill, Duncan, for hate and for greed, then we are no better than animals, fighting over a rotting carcass,” Connor hissed.  “I’m asking you to stop and to think, to ask questions, to give the man an opportunity to….”

“And what opportunity do you suppose he gave Wilhelm?” Duncan interrupted.  “You heard him.  He didn’t even think we should use swords anymore, just shoot each other from a distance and lop off the head of a man already dead!  How could a man who believed that have any honor?  How can you defend him?!”

“I’m not defending him,” Connor found himself begining to bellow as loudly as Duncan, and took a deep breath to try to stay calm.  “I’m just telling you to step back, to get all the facts, not to rush blindly into a battle that you might not have to fight.”

“Don’t you understand, Connor?  I want to fight him!” Duncan insisted, grimly.  “You said yourself that this is what we were born to do.”  He took off the scabbard holding the rapier he had been wearing and snatched up his claymore, swinging it until it made a musical hum in the air. 

Connor felt sick.  There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do, that was going to change Duncan’s mind on this.  He had known this day would come, but he had hoped it would be a straightforward challenge, not a vendetta.  This Duncan MacLeod was not a man he even recognized.  This Duncan MacLeod would drink in his first Quickening in anger and hate and vengeance, and Connor didn’t know if he even wanted to be around to see it.  Assuming Duncan didn’t die before the day was out.

The room seemed suddenly cold, and Connor shivered, crossing to pour himself some wine, and realizing for the first time just how vulnerable he had made himself to this young man.  He had come to trust him, to open up to him more than anyone since Heather had died, and now – as with all Immortals – he was about to become his enemy.

Duncan had paused at the door and turned.  “It will be all right, Connor,” he said, suddenly sounding uneasy.  “You’ve taught me well.”

“No, Duncan.  It won’t be all right.  Whatever happens, it won’t be all right.”

The room seemed very still and empty once Duncan had left, and Connor went out on the balcony, staring off into space, his throat so choked with grief and anger he could barely swallow his wine.

“Signore?” a quiet voice said.

It took a minute before Connor could speak.  “Yes, Giuseppe,” Connor answered softly at last.

“Are you not Duncan’s teacher?”  Connor turned, and the small man was standing in the doorway, his hands folded quietly at his waist. 

“Not any more,” Connor grated out, and took another long swig of his wine.

“Then aren’t you his friend?” Giuseppe asked.  “He shouldn’t face this alone, you know.”

“He shouldn’t be doing this at all!”

Giuseppe shrugged.  “He is a man.  Men do stupid things.  Does that make him any less your friend?”

With a cry of rage and grief and frustration, Connor threw his goblet against the wall, the liquid dribbling down the whitewashed wall like a bloodstain.  He stomped out of the house, pushing rudely through the crowds as the vendors on the piazza busied themselves putting away their wares while last minute customers made their final purchases.

He wound his way towards the edge of the walled city.  He knew where they were likely to meet – just past the northern gate, where the city opened up into fields and farms.  There was a small gully nearby, where a stream provided some of the city’s water supply.

He was at the top of the path when he heard the rhythmic clash of metal against metal.  His heart lurched with dread, and he paused with a small gasp.  He couldn’t do this.  Not feeling this way.  So exposed, so vulnerable.  Connor closed his eyes and took a long breath to get himself under control.  He swallowed carefully, and searched for and found a place deep inside that was cold and distant and unfeeling.  In a moment, his thundering heartbeat slowed, and he walked on.

It was brutal.  Dunningham was clearly the more skilled, experienced fighter, but Duncan’s hours and hours of drills had given him tremendous strength and endurance.  No matter how many times Dunningham cut him, no matter how long and violent the exchanges, Duncan kept coming, ignoring the pain, ignoring the exhaustion.  Now they were reduced to mindless hacking at one another, both men using a double-handed grip to even raise their weapons.

Finally, Dunningham backed off, his sword tip falling to the ground as he gasped for air, clearly completely spent.  “I told you, MacLeod, I didn’t kill him!  He was my teacher, for God’s sake!  I heard the noise and found them fighting, and saw the Quickening.  It was Hyde, I tell you.  Martin Hyde!”

“You were preening in front of the Contessa,” Duncan growled breathlessly, “riding Wilhelm’s stallion, acting like a great lord.  You were glad to have me believe you killed him then!  Now you’ve proved you’re both a coward and a liar.”  With a grunt of effort, Duncan raised his sword and attacked once more.

“I didn’t think you’d challenge me over it, you great Scots dunderhead!  You hardly knew the man,” Dunningham shouted, barely deflecting Duncan’s clumsy, but still powerful blows.

“No, you just didn’t think you’d lose!” Duncan yelled, and with a final kick to Dunningham’s chest, the man landed in the dust, his sword flying from his hand.

Dunningham scrambled to his hands and knees, reaching for his blade, but Duncan got to it first, and stepped on it.  Then, with slow deliberation, Duncan raised the claymore over his head.

“Duncan, don’t!” Connor shouted, stepping closer.

Dark glittering eyes rose to meet his across the clearing, and for a moment Connor thought Dunningham’s life just might be spared.

“There can be only one,” Duncan said, in a hard, low voice, and the sword swung with all the power the man could put into the blow.

Connor felt himself take a long, involuntary breath as he watched the mist rise from Dunningham’s decapitated body and reach its tendrils towards Duncan.  He had expected his student to be wary, frightened, uncertain at this mystical, utterly alien experience.  Instead, Duncan, planted his sword firmly in the ground, and raised his chin as though in anticipation of a blow.  His head turned, and he looked at Connor, and what Connor saw there astounded him.

No fear.  Just sad resignation, as though Duncan knew what was coming, didn’t want it, but was determined to endure, regardless. The mist crept up Duncan’s body and his eyes widened as he gasped, then the energy hit.  He cried out, his arms reflexively letting go of his sword and reaching out in an instinctive urge to dissipate the lightening that now was dancing like St. Elmo’s Fire on and around him.  He jerked and screamed as another blast jolted through him, and again, driving him to his knees, where he grabbed the hilt of his claymore, hanging on for dear life.  It was another half minute of agony before the Quickening energy finally died away, and he sagged, leaning his forehead against his hands, supported only by the steel of the blade still dripping with Dunningham’s blood.

Connor felt ill and breathed deeply several times to control the urge to vomit.  The sharp scent of lightening hung in the air, as well as the stench of spilled bowels and blood.  But it wasn’t the smell that sickened Connor.  It was the sense of loss, that something precious had been defiled for all time, and that Connor had been at least partially responsible for it.

Duncan began to raise his head at last, and Connor turned away before he had to look into the eyes of a man he had taken into his heart, but now had to count as a potential enemy.  He barely saw the path, stumbling blindly as he somehow found his way back to the city gate.  He went into the first tavern he could find, found a quiet corner and got silently, thoroughly drunk.

Someone jostled him, and he made a small attempt at responding, but daylight leaked painfully into his eyes, and he squeezed them closed, only to be jostled again.  “Signore,” a familiar voice spoke close to his ear, reverberating around and sending spears of agony into his brain.  “Signore, you must come home now.”  Someone moved his arm and tried to pull him up.

“Leave me alone!” Connor growled, intending to push the intruder away, but his arms and legs were unresponsive to his commands.

“Now, now, Signore.  Come along, you can do it.”

Connor squinted up into Giuseppe’s concerned eyes.  “He did it, Giuseppe,” Connor sighed sadly, and his valet blinked and coughed, probably from the fumes being breathed into his face.  “I thought I could protect him from it, but I can’t, can I?” Connor mumbled as Giuseppe somehow managed to pull him to his feet and chivvy him towards the door.

“None of us can truly protect the ones we love,” Giuseppe advised.  Connor would have replied, but it took all of his concentration to stay upright as they wove through the streets past the early vendors just beginning to set up their wagons and wares.  “You did everything you could, Signore.  The rest was always up to him.”

By the time they had reached Connor’s home, the walk and the air had helped clear the worst of the effects of his drunken binge, and he was shuffling along on his own, but almost keeled over when Duncan’s presence struck him, stronger, more caustic than before because of the recently taken Quickening.  A surge of guilt washed over him.  A true friend would have stayed, helped his student understand the Quickening.  But no, Duncan couldn’t be his student any more.  That’s why Ramirez had always said taking students was, more often than not, only a heartache.  Because once they took their first Quickening, they were in the Game forever – until they died or took the Prize.  And nine of out ten students learned only the one, important, unalterable fact of an Immortal’s life:  There Can Be Only One.  Connor could hear the words ring in his head, and the voice he heard was Duncan’s.

He pushed into the front hall, and froze.  Duncan was waiting, watching him warily.

Connor brushed past him, and headed up the stairs.

“Connor…,” Duncan began, but Connor didn’t want to hear apologies or explanations, or how sorry Duncan was, or how they could still be friends.

“No,” Connor raised his hand to stop whatever Duncan was going to say.  “I’ll write letters of reference as a bodyguard, and I think you’ve got a little money from your work with Munter’s horses.  That should be enough to tide you over until you find a position.”

Duncan’s already pale face went gray, and his lips pressed together before he nodded his head with a jerk.  “If that’s what you want,” he said hoarsely.

Connor turned away and went on upstairs to his study, where he sat and stared out the window the rest of the day.  Sometime during the night, he forced himself to write letters extolling Duncan’s virtues as a swordsman and as a man.  He had to stop several times when his throat closed, his eyes watered and the page blurred too much to continue.

Giuseppe hovered nearby, bringing food, which Connor couldn’t bring himself to touch; and drink, which he probably touched too much.  Somehow, dawn worked its way over the landscape, he heard a gentle tap on the door, and knew who it was.

“Enter,” he called, pulling his coat on and running his fingers through his hair to reestablish some small sense of decorum. 

Duncan stood at the door, wearing his traveling clothes, his claymore strapped to his side.  “I’ve come to say goodbye, Connor,” he said softly.  He looked sad and tired, as though he, too, hadn’t slept for almost two days.

Connor cleared his throat, and reached for the letters on his desk.  “Here,” he said, thrusting them towards Duncan.  “There are possible opportunities in Florence, Genoa and Rome.  The letters should serve you well.”  He turned away and poured himself a goblet of wine.

“Thank you,” Duncan whispered.  “I wish…,”

“We could wish a lot of things,” Connor interrupted.  “But this is who we are, what we do.  You are no longer the student.  I am no longer the teacher.  There is only the Game.”

“No, that’s not all there is!” Duncan insisted, and Connor turned to chastise the stubborn fool.

“Yes! That is all there is,” Connor hissed.  “You fought.  You killed.  It didn’t matter whether the man had killed Munter.  You would have killed him anyway because That Is What We Do!  You’ve tasted it now.  The power, the energy slamming into your body like the greatest orgasm you ever felt.  The craving for it can become the driving force of an Immortal’s life, and that, Duncan, is why There Can Be. Only. One.”  Connor turned away, heartsick at the look of hurt on Duncan’s face.  “Now go.”

“All right,” Duncan sighed.  Connor heard retreating footsteps, and he pushed his desk chair back with his foot and collapsed into it.  Then the footsteps returned, hard and sharp on the tiles.

“No, it’s not all right,” Duncan slammed back into the room.  “You think that somehow I’ve changed because I took a head.  Well, in at least one way, you’re right.  It made me sick and disgusted.  I don’t know whether Dunningham took Wilhelm’s head, but whether he did or not, all I was out for was a fight.”  Duncan swallowed and looked at the floor, his face haggard and sad. “But I’m the same person you taught, the same person who shared more of my life and myself with you than anyone I’ve ever known.  The same person you said you trusted, and to whom I gave my trust.”

“Duncan,” Connor sighed, “I’m sorry, but once you’re in the Game, once you’ve taken a Quickening, everything changes.”

“The person I am, the person you taught, didn’t change!” Duncan insisted.  “But you have always said that taking a Quickening under the wrong circumstances can be horrible, that someone who does that isn’t worthy of your trust or your love.  Well, I took a Quickening before we even met!  Does that mean everything we have shared is a lie?”

Connor rose, staring at Duncan in shock.  The lad’s eyes were glittering with tears.  “What did you say?”

“I told you about the hermit,” Duncan turned away, his voice low and subdued.

“The hermit?  You mean the one who predicted that we would meet?”

“Yes,” Duncan whispered.  “I didn’t know it at the time, but he…he was an Immortal.  I didn’t know that Immortals even existed.  He said…,” Duncan shuddered, reaching for the wall to steady himself.  “He said he had been waiting for me for 600 years, and that I had to taste the truth of what I was.  Then he came at me with a sword.  I thought he was crazy!  I was only trying to defend myself and get away when he…he grabbed my blade and….” Duncan choked.  “He, uh,…” Duncan was breathing shallowly and his face had gone gray.

Connor grabbed Duncan’s arm and dragged him to the settee.  “He what,” Connor demanded.

“He beheaded himself on my sword,” Duncan said in a strained whisper.  “I…I don’t really remember much of anything after that.  Some villagers found me days later and took me to the priest at Strathconnon.”

“My God,” Connor whispered, finally laying a hand on Duncan’s shoulder.  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, although he suspected he knew the answer, and his lips thinned at his own blind insensitivity.

“You…you said that when an Immortal takes his first Quickening, it brands him for life, and without understanding it, without a teacher there to explain it, the Immortal becomes someone not to be trusted.”  Duncan lifted his head.  Tears had tracked down his cheeks. “I was afraid you would abandon me.  And I was right, wasn’t I?”

“Oh, Duncan,” Connor sighed.  “What an awful thing to live with all this time.  I’m so sorry.”

Finally, Duncan took a deep breath and pulled away, wiping his face and straining to smile.  “However you feel about me now, Connor MacLeod,” he said.  “You are still my friend.  I once told you that I would never raise a blade against you in earnest, and that has not changed, the Game be damned.”

Connor took a long breath, the painful band that had constricted his chest loosening a little for the first time in two days.  “Duncan,” he smiled tentatively, “we need to talk.  Stay.”  When Duncan shook his head, he added quickly, “Not as a student.  As a friend.”

Duncan’s tense face relaxed into a gentle, genuine smile.  “I think,” Duncan said, blinking rapidly, then clearing his throat before going on.  “I think you were right, Connor.”  He stood.  “It is time for me to go, but not in anger, or mistrust.”  He held out his hand.  “Be well, Connor MacLeod,” he said, his voice rough with emotion.

His throat was far too tight for Connor to be able to say a word.  He stood and clasped his friend’s forearm and pulled him in, relishing the warmth and solidity of that strong body.  The student wasn’t the only one with much to learn, Connor realized.  If Duncan could deal with all that had happened and still be the man Connor had come to know and love over the past five years, maybe – just maybe – he would be strong enough to survive, to grow, to continue to learn, to be a friend – a brother – for the long centuries to come.  Duncan was right.  The Game be damned.

“Graham Ashe,” he finally managed to say, and Duncan pushed away a little, looking confused.

“Graham Ashe?”

“One of the best swordsmen in the world, an Immortal, and a good man, so I hear,” Connor explained.  “The last I heard, he was in Florence.  He could teach you, if you’ve not given up on teachers entirely.”

Duncan laughed, the sound ringing off the hard, whitewashed walls.  “Oh, I think I still have a thing or two to learn,” he quipped.  He turned and Connor followed him out to the hall and down the stairs, where Giuseppe was waiting outside, flirting outrageously with the young lad who was holding the big black stallion that had once belonged to the late Baron Wilhelm Munter.

Duncan stood for a moment, squinting against the bright morning sunshine.  “I guess this is goodbye, then,” he said.

“Not goodbye,” Connor corrected, resting a hand on Duncan’s shoulder.  “We will see each other again.  After all,” he leaned close to whisper.  “We’re Immortal.”

Giuseppe stood with Connor and watched Duncan ride away with a clatter of hooves on cobblestones.  “Is everything all right, Signore?” he asked, looking up at him in concern.  “Are you and Signore Duncan still friends?”

Connor swallowed past the tightness in his throat. “Always, Giuseppe,” he assured him softly.  “Always.” 

With a deep breath, he turned and went inside, his mind already on re-writing his letter to Seamus O’Brien.  It would seem the Brigitte was about to get a new captain.