Duncan just stared at the stranger, captured by the intensity of the man’s hooded eyes.  Connor MacLeod.  There were so many thoughts spinning in his head he couldn’t begin to sort them out.  Connor MacLeod.  A legend from his childhood of a great warrior who had died in battle, only to rise from his deathbed and walk again.  And the hermit had said…his mind skittered away once again from that memory.

“Are you real?” he whispered, realizing how absurd the question was, but he had to ask it still.

Again, the man made that odd, hacking noise Duncan assumed was a laugh.  “I’m as real as you, Duncan MacLeod, though you’ve led me a hell of a chase over half of Scotland these past few months.  But come,” he gestured, turning to climb back up towards the rise.  “We’d best leave this place before the others return.”

“Wait!” Duncan turned, looking out over the field of his fallen comrades.  He stumbled across the broken landscape, littered with corpses and weapons, and knelt beside the body of Simon MacGregor.  Angus lay nearby, staked to the earth by his own sword.  Simon’s light brown eyes were staring vacantly at the sky and Duncan gently closed them.  “I will remember,” Duncan whispered, his throat tight with unshed tears.

“Come, Duncan!” the man who called himself Connor MacLeod shouted across the field of bodies.

“I canno’ just leave them!” Duncan yelled back.

“And what will you do?  Bury them all?” An arm was waved in an expansive gesture.  “Of course, having tired of chasing the remaining few MacGregors over hill and dale, soon the victors will return, and then they will kill you – again – and you will be buried alongside your comrades, probably in a mass grave.  Have you ever been buried, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod?  Trust me, you wouldn’t enjoy it.”

“But…”  Of course, the man was right.  He couldn’t help these men, and his sword had not really made a difference, had it?  The tears clogging his throat turned to sour bile.

A hand rested on his shoulder, breaking the bitter thread of his thoughts.  “You can’t help them now, Duncan.  It’s time for you to think about helping yourself.”

Duncan wanted to find something cutting and ugly to say.  He wanted to lash out, striking down everyone within reach of his sword.  These had been good men, noble men fighting for their families, their clan. 

He pushed himself to his feet, struggling to master his temper, his tears and his bile with  several long, deep breaths.  He pulled his sword from its scabbard and raised it over his head.  It seemed so heavy, for a second he feared he couldn’t hold it up.  “S’ Rioghal Mo Dhream!” he shouted hoarsely.  “I…Will…Remember!”

Then tears came, just a few, as though there were a great stone blocking his heart, only letting a trickle of his sorrow free.  A hand on his shoulder squeezed, and he was pulled and pushed blindly away, up and over the rise to where a horse was waiting.  Connor mounted, looked down and held out his hand.  Duncan sheathed his sword, reached up and grasped the man’s forearm and leapt up behind him, and together they rode away from Glen Fruin, and the last stand of the MacGregors.

Twice before dark Duncan had to dismount and take cover to avoid being seen by patrols on the lookout for any MacGregors who had escaped the slaughter.  No doubt they would remember a wild man fighting in the midst of the outlaws, said to be a demon who was once a MacLeod. 

Duncan watched from cover as the riders attempted to question the oddly dressed stranger, only to be answered in what sounded to Duncan’s ears like complete gibberish, recited excitedly in a high, annoying voice until the questioners would give up in disgust and ride away.  After the second encounter, Duncan declined to remount.  The extra weight was tiring the horse, and the awkward position behind the saddle made him want to lean into the other man.  Given the weariness that was pressing him down like a stone on his back, Duncan worried he would fall asleep, and some inner sentinel was uncomfortable with that possibility.

Duncan had a thousand questions he wanted to ask Connor MacLeod, but he was too tired and too preoccupied with the ugly memories of the battle and thoughts of all the things he could or should have done differently, of the hermit who had decapitated himself on Duncan’s blade, of his stumbling, bumbling battle with Kanwulf, of his father’s body lying so cold and still in its grave, of his mother’s grief and her careworn face, of so many, many things.  Gradually, it was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other, the effort now requiring so much concentration that it pushed some of his inner turmoil away.

“Duncan?” 

He blinked, realizing they had stopped.  Connor was standing in front of him, his hand on his arm.

“What?”

“We’re going to make camp here.”

Duncan looked around.  They were off the road, in a small clearing obviously used before as a campsite.  “Oh,” was all he managed to muster in response.  It took another few heartbeats for his thoughts to circle around to something relevant and useful.  “I’ll gather wood for a fire,” he offered.

“No,” Connor said.  He reached out and pulled Duncan’s heavy cloak off his shoulders, and led him over to a bed of pine needles, where someone had thoughtfully spread a tartan in his own blue and green plaid. A gentle hand pushed him down onto the soft pallet, and Duncan’s knees gratefully folded underneath him, and he sank all the way to the ground, thinking he really ought to eat something, or do something useful.  He felt someone cover him with his cloak like a blanket, the gesture comforting him more than he could have expressed, if he could have said anything at all.

The familiar smell of cooking porridge dragged him out of a deep, deep sleep.  His stomach growled noisily and at last he rolled over, his body responding only reluctantly to his commands.  The foppish young man who had declared himself to be a legend was bent over a fire, stirring a small pot.  He didn’t look quite so outlandish without the hat, but he still wore those ridiculous pantaloons and a doublet that Duncan assumed was more appropriate at a royal court ball than for living in the wilds of the Highlands.

“Ah, I thought the smell of food might stir the beast at last,” the man said, not looking up from his task. 

Duncan sat up and stretched his back and shoulders with a long, joint-popping, satisfying yawn.  Then the memories of the slaughter of the previous day came back with a stomach-lurching shock, and he closed his eyes, holding himself very still while he mastered an instinct to shudder, or retch.

When he opened them, he found Connor MacLeod studying him with those strange, predatory blue-gray eyes.  Duncan pushed himself to his feet and turned away, seeking a bush or tree behind which he could relieve himself and thereby avoid that pitying expression.

The two men ate silently from the communal cooking pot, using their fingers when the porridge had cooled sufficiently, and washed the sticky gruel down with a skin of water which would need refilling soon.  Duncan found himself watching the other man out of the corner of his eyes, trying not to get caught at it.  He had so many questions, but didn’t know where to begin.  Connor MacLeod seemed to be a strange mix of the odd and the ordinary – utterly comfortable in his environment, yet looking like someone from another place and time.

Duncan started when Connor unexpectedly and effortlessly surged to his feet, rinsing out the pot and putting it away in his saddlebags, then pulling the various pelts and blankets from the ground to shake them out.  Duncan rose to assist and they worked together easily, without the need for words as they packed up the camp and prepared to depart. 

“Where are we headed?” Duncan asked, finally breaking a silence that had become almost eerie.

“Glencoe,” Connor answered, without looking at him, or indicating in any way that Duncan had any say in the matter.  He mounted his horse and looked down at Duncan, cocking his head at him, those ridiculous feathers in his hat waving in the chilly morning breeze.  “Can you run?”

Duncan frowned.  “What do you mean?”

“It’s a simple question.  Can you run?”

“Of course I can run!” Duncan snapped.

“Good,” Connor answered.  “See if you can keep up.”  He kicked his horse hard and before Duncan could yell after him, was trotting comfortably down the hill towards the trail. 

“Wait!” Duncan yelled, but then decided to save his breath, and lengthened his stride to a trot then a run to catch up to the quickly disappearing rider.  He considered just letting the man go, but he had far too many burning questions haunting him, and Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod was the first person he had met in three years who just might have some answers.

He ultimately stumbled off the path, gulping air in huge gasps, knees wobbling, feet burning, his sides aching with sharp slices of pain that felt like a dirk in his ribs.  It was almost mid-morning and Connor had trotted slowly, then sometimes galloped ahead the whole time, just keeping in sight.  Only once had he waited for him to catch up, and then paused only long enough to take Duncan’s cloak, which Duncan had pulled off and was carrying over one arm when his body started to get overheated even in the spring chill of a dreary, drizzle.  Then, before Duncan could summon breath enough to ask what the hell the man was trying to do, Connor wheeled around, trotting ahead once more.

“God…Damn…You,” Duncan wheezed between gasps.  He doubled over, clutching his thigh with one hand and his aching sides with the other, near to throwing up except that he couldn’t spare the breath.  “Are you trying…to kill me?”

Connor had dismounted, and was leaning over, filling his water skin from the loch he had left the trail to reach.  He stood and took a long drink while Duncan watched, his mouth open, almost mimicking the other man’s motions as he recognized how desperately thirsty he was.  Finally, Connor finished, wiped his mouth and handed the skin to Duncan, who grabbed it and poured the cold, refreshing liquid straight down his parched throat, until the water was yanked from his hands.

“Not so fast, my friend,” Connor warned.  “You’ll only make yourself sick, and you’re rank enough already.”

Duncan reached for the skin, but Connor held it out of reach.  “Take small swallows,” he ordered.

Duncan nodded, still breathing too hard to waste air on conversation.  He took the skin back, taking a few more gulps.

“I said, slowly!” Connor snatched the water back.

“All right!” Duncan growled, and this time when Connor handed him the skin he did sip it more carefully, since the water he had already drunk lay cold and heavy in his stomach, and he was not feeling too well anyway.  His skin was hot and sticky inside clothes soaked through either with rain or his own sweat.  His hair clung to him like a heavy, wet shroud, and his feet burned like he had walked on hot coals.

He walked slowly back and forth, his body thrumming, his heart still pounding too hard, and his skin just beginning to feel the cold of his wet clothes and the damp, cool air.  “What the bloody hell were you doing?” Duncan finally got enough breath to ask.  “I must’ve run ten miles or more!  I’m no’ some horse you can race at a village fair.  Next thing you know, you’ll have a saddle on me.”  Duncan waved his arms, his agitation growing now that he didn’t feel like he might faint.

“Running is good for you,” Connor shrugged.  “Clears the mind.”

“Well, my mind is clear enough, thank you!” Duncan growled.  “Who are you, really?  I don’t see how you can truly be Connor MacLeod.  He must be 100 years old by now, if he ever really lived at all.  And you certainly don’t look like a Scot, dressed in those ridiculous clothes.”  He knelt at the edge of the loch and splashed some of the icy cold water on his face, then stood and turned, eyeing his companion with distrust, his arms crossed defiantly on his chest.  “You don’t even sound like a Highlander, with all that silly gibberish you were pratting at those patrols yesterday.” 

Connor MacLeod cocked his head at him, an annoying, amused smirk on his face.  “Well, my Italian and these ridiculous clothes have gotten rid of several patrols that could otherwise have made life difficult for both of us, and at least my clothes are relatively clean, which is more than I can say for yours.  As for sounding like a Highlander, I’m sure after being around you for a few days I’ll be rolling my ‘r’s and dropping my t’s with the best of them.” 

“Och, you talk nonsense,” Duncan responded in disgust, shaking his head.  “You said you knew about me, well spit it out, man. I’ve no’ got forever, you know.”

“That, my friend,” Connor smiled at him, and stepped uncomfortably close, “is where you’re wrong.”  Connor’s hands were suddenly on his chest, shoving hard, and Duncan was propelled backwards, his arms wheeling around and around, trying to hold his balance, but the rocks were slippery behind him and he was falling, hitting the cold water with a slapping, painful splash and instantly sinking beneath the surface.

It took him a minute to figure up from down, to overcome the dragging weight of the pelts on his feet and calves, as well as the claymore still slung on his back, and find some purchase on the smooth, slippery rocks.  At last he managed to stand, sputtering, gasping and coughing, and fighting his way towards the shore, muttering every curse in Gaelic and English he could think of, only to meet the tip of the strangest sword he had ever seen, inches away from his throat.  It was a long, thin curved blade, with one extraordinarily sharp looking edge, ending in a hilt that was also long, but carved in intricate patterns.

He stopped, still thigh-deep in the cold water, his eyes traveling up the blade to meet the cold stare of Connor MacLeod.  The man looked far from foppish now, and it wasn’t the chill of the water that sent a shudder straight down Duncan’s spine. 

“Here.”  With his free hand, Connor tossed him a brown lump, which Duncan caught reflexively.  “You can come out when you and your clothes are clean, and not before.  I’m going to find us something to eat and when I get back, I expect you to have a fire built and the camp set up.”

“I’m no’ your…”

“You have no idea what you are or aren’t, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” Connor snapped.  “If you want to find out, you’ll wash your stinking body and filthy clothes and do as I say.”  The strange sword disappeared into its scabbard, and Connor MacLeod turned, mounted his horse and rode away without a backward glance.

Duncan opened his mouth to shout a curse after him, but something stopped him. He looked at the lump of soap in his hand.  A part of him was insulted and angry, and he wanted to throw the soap straight at the man’s head, knocking that stupid hat off.  But Connor MacLeod was the first man in three years who had sought him out, who intimated he knew what had happened, and more importantly, why.  And the hermit had said…no, he wasn’t going to think about that.

He looked down at his torn, stained shirt and kilt, saw the layers of sweat and grime and blood still in the creases of his skin despite his dunking, and decided that whatever he was going to do, washing was probably not a bad idea, if only to keep away the flies.  He yanked off his baldrick and sword and threw them onto the shore with all the force of his anger and frustration, pulled off his kilt and shirt, then his leggings, and started to scrub.

It had taken awhile to get a fire going.  Everything he had was wet, and most of the wood and kindling he found was damp and moldy.  The sparks from the flints in his poor excuse for a sporran only smoked thinly, then died before any flames appeared.  So he resorted to the old, hard way, rubbing a stick against as dry a log as he could find, rolling it in his hands again and again and again until a small stream of smoke finally appeared.  Even then, it seemed like hours before tiny flames arose, and he had to keep the wood pieces rubbing together until the heat drove out enough of the damp in the wood to finally start a smoky fire.  He fed it carefully, concentrating totally on his task, not daring to let his eyes off of the delicately maintained combination of fuel and flame.  After hours of hard effort, he finally had a decent campfire, and only left it long enough to make brief trips along the loch and into the woods to gather what edible greenery he could find. He was painfully hungry, but then it seemed he was always hungry.  It was only a matter of degree. 

Questions kept building up in him until he was checking the trail almost constantly, watching for Connor MacLeod’s return.  At last he felt that awful surge of pressure in his head, and rose to his feet, for the first time welcoming the uncomfortable sensation. 

Connor MacLeod rode easily into the camp and dismounted, pulling several fat grouse from his saddle.  They had been tied together at the feet and he tossed the birds to the ground near the fire.

“I assume you know what to do with those,” he announced, then pulled the rest of his pack off his saddle, along with a bow and a quiver of arrows.  “I’m going to take a nap.  Wake me when dinner is ready.”  Duncan watched as the man unrolled a pelt from his pack onto the ground, rolled his cape into a pillow and stretched out, his cap pulled down over his forehead to shade his eyes, his lean legs crossed at the ankles.

“But…”

Connor raised a hand, one finger extended.  “And don’t forget to unsaddle and wipe down my horse.”

“I’m no’ your servant, Connor MacLeod!” Duncan snarled at him.  He tired and hungry and thoroughly chilled from wearing naught but a damp kilt all day, since his shirt was in desperate need of repair.  He stood, waiting for Connor to respond to his obvious ire, but all he got for his trouble was a muffled snore coming from underneath the feathered cap.

He went over to the horse and yanked the saddle off.  At least he could retrieve his cloak, although Connor would probably be having him wash that next.  He wiped the horse down and hobbled him loosely so she could seek out his own nourishment, then turned back to the camp.

By then, Connor was snoring in earnest, and Duncan studied the man for a moment.  The strange sword he carried was at his side and Duncan was sorely tempted to pick it up and inspect it more closely.  He knelt, looking at the intricate carving in the hilt, like nothing he’d ever seen before.  He touched it, and the knobby, cream-colored surface felt almost warm, as though it were alive.  Then he realized Connor’s snores had stopped, and he jerked his hand away.  But the man’s body was still relaxed in sleep, his eyes hidden behind his cap.  Nonetheless, Duncan stood quietly and backed away, his heart pounding more quickly than it should. He berated himself.  It was just a sword.  Whatever legends there were about Connor MacLeod, he was just a man who didn’t even look like a proper warrior.  He shook himself and turned to the preparation of the birds for dinner.

“Smells good.”

The sudden breaking of the silence almost made Duncan drop the spit of meat he was turning over the fire.  He jerked his head around to find Connor standing behind him, wrapped in a warm cloak.

“It’s almost ready,” Duncan responded, turning back to his cooking duties.  “Do you normally sleep all day?”

“I sleep whenever I get the opportunity,” Connor answered.  “You never know when the chance will come again.”

Duncan poked irritably at the fire and started to mention that he would have appreciated such an opportunity, himself, but by the time he turned his head to speak, Connor had disappeared.  Perhaps the man was a sorcerer, since he seemed to just appear and disappear at will.  Duncan stood, peering out into the rapidly darkening night sky.  “Connor?”

“Just washing up and changing my clothes,” Connor’s voice called from over by the loch.  “Especially since you seem to take exception to the fine suit my tailor in Ravenna took such trouble to make.”

“Oh, aye,” Duncan mumbled to himself, kneeling again in front of the fire.  “We wouldn’t want to get your little pantaloons dirty, now would we?”

“No, we wouldn’t.” 

Duncan froze as once again as Connor seemed to appear from nowhere right at his elbow.  He flushed at what the man had overheard, but Connor didn’t seem perturbed.  He only reached over and pulled some meat off of the spit, then blew on it before he popped it into his mouth.  He cocked his head and nodded.  “Not bad.  Ramsons for flavoring?  Nice touch.  And you found some baldmoney, I see.”

Duncan ignored the compliment, not wanting to reveal that he had no idea what the herbs and roots he had found were called.  He had only learned their uses through painful trial and error.  Then Duncan realized with a start that Connor was dressed now in a well-worn blue and green plaid that draped easily on a lean, hard body.  Somehow it made him look younger.  With his brown hair flowing to his shoulders, he looked almost like Robert, his cousin, before…

“What is it?” Connor asked, catching Duncan staring at him.

“It’s just, you remind me of someone.” Duncan pulled the birds from the fire and busied himself cutting them away from the spit so they could be more easily eaten.

“Who?” Connor asked, settling easily on the ground and stabbing the baldmoney roots with his dirk to pull them from the fire. 

“It’s not important,” Duncan murmured, deliberately filling his mouth with food while the memory of being called “kinslayer” echoed through his mind, and for a few minutes the two men ate their meal in silence.  Full at last, the two men sat near the fire for warmth, and Duncan sucked on the bones of the last of the grouse, staring at the flames and wondering when, or if, Connor MacLeod was ever going to tell him anything, when he had claimed to know so much about him.  Finally, he could wait no longer and he took a deep breath, preparing to insist on some answers to some questions.

“It was a battle to protect our village from a warlord who had stirred up the Frasers against us,” Connor began softly, before Duncan had a chance to speak.  “We all rode out that day with the drums rolling and the pipes playing and I wasn’t really frightened at all.  I was eighteen, and it all seemed like a great adventure.  I rode with my cousin Dougal and we laughed and waved, and I kissed a girl I thought I loved, and she shouted at Dougal and Angus, who had been like a father to me, to make sure I came to no harm.”  Connor smiled at the memory, the light from the flames softening his hard features. “But when the battle began, no one would fight me.  They all ran away, and then I came face to face with the largest man I’d ever seen.  They called him the Kurgan.  He must have been seven feet tall, and he skewered me in one blow.”

Connor stirred the fire with a stick, sending sparks dancing up into the night sky.  “I learned later that Dougal and Angus charged him and killed him, and they dragged me back to Glenfinnan, mortally wounded.  All I remember is a lot of pain, and my mother and friends weeping.  Then I woke up.”  Connor looked over at Duncan to make sure he was listening.  “But I hadn’t fallen asleep, Duncan.  I had died.  And I lived again.  The wound had disappeared.”

Duncan had to remember to breathe, and to blink when his eyes began to water from the fire’s smoke.

“But there was no celebration that I had lived,” Connor went on.  “They tied me up and threw stones at me and would have burned me at the stake, but for Angus, who stood between me and the mob, insisting they let me go.  I was banished from Glenfinnan.  Even Dougal and the girl who had said she loved me, denied me,” he said, tossing the stick he had been toying with into the fire.  “I wandered north, looking for a way to live, and met Angus MacDonald, who took me in, taught me to be a blacksmith, and I fell in love with his daughter, Heather.  She left her family, her clan, gave up everything to follow me into exile.  We built a small croft on some land outside Glencoe.”  Duncan watched Connor’s face soften with a gentle smile that widened when he chuckled.  “It was our own private world, and if no bairns came, it was enough that we were together.”

“And then along came Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez, chief Metallurgist to the Court of King Charles V.”  Connor threw his head back, looking at the heavy, full moon, the stars and the clouds scudding along above them.  “He appeared amidst storm and lightning, and taught me what I was, and how to survive.  I never dreamed then that someday I would do the same for someone of my own clan.”

“I know how to survive just fine,” Duncan grumbled, wondering when the man would ever get to the point.  “But it would be nice to know what happened, and why.  I thought you were going to tell me that, not recite stories of old battles.”

“Patience, young Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” Connor grinned at him.  “Ramirez was outrageous, dressed like a peacock, so full of himself I wanted to break his jaw.  But, of course, I couldn’t have, even if I had tried.  He was a master swordsman, a man who had studied the art of combat for over 2,000 years.” 

Duncan just stared at this man who called himself Connor MacLeod, his heart sinking into the pit of his stomach until he thought the grouse he had just eaten might come back up again.  Another madman.  Would he also try to decapitate himself on Duncan’s sword?  He took a deep breath and stood slowly, not wanting to startle his companion.  “Aye,” he nodded.  “Well, that’s most interesting, I must say.”  He backed away a little, reaching for his baldrick and sword.  “You know, with all that food, I feel the need for a little bit of a walk.”  He gathered up his meager belongings.  It was nothing other than his cloak and his weapons.  All else had been in the pack left on his horse, now lost.

“We cannot die,” Connor said, watching him closely.  “We do not age.”  He stood, catching Duncan’s wrist as Duncan began to back away from the campsite.  “I was born in Glenfinnan, on the shores of Loch Shiel, in 1518.  I am over 100 years old, Duncan, and I am Immortal, just as you are.”

Duncan tried to pull his arm away, but hard fingers gripped him and yanked him back.  “You’re mad,” he whispered.  “Let me go!”

“You died,” Connor insisted.  “But you didn’t stay dead.  Your clan banished you, just as they banished me.  And you can feel me coming, that nasty pressure in your head.  It’s so we recognize each other, and can prepare.”

“Prepare for what?”

“Combat.  Because there can be only one.”

“One what?”

“One Immortal.  We fight each other for the Prize, in combat to the death.  For when one Immortal kills another, the victor gains all the other’s power through their Quickening.  Someday there will be a Gathering, and at the end of it, only one Immortal will remain, and he will carry all the power of all the Immortals who ever lived.”

“But I thought you said we…you couldn’t die!” Duncan wanted to get away, but the grip on his arm was like iron, and Connor’s words held him just as strongly.

“There is only one way,” Connor replied.  “And that is by cutting off our heads.”

This time Duncan found the strength to yank his arm away.  “No!” he snarled. “Not again.  I won’t do this again!”

“What do you mean?” Connor asked, eyeing him with a narrow, speculative look that made Duncan even more nervous.

 “Nothing,” Duncan whispered.  “You’re mad, and I don’t want to hear any more.”  He turned and walked away, back up towards the trail.

“Duncan, wait!” Connor shouted after him.

“Why?” Duncan whirled around, heartsick and angry.  Connor had been the first person who had sought him out, a clansman who neither feared nor reviled him, and all he turned out to be was another madman talking about living forever and taking heads.  “You want to fight me?  To see if I can take your head?  No, thank you, Connor MacLeod, or whoever you are.  I’ve no desire to cut off anyone’s head for any Prize.  You and that old hermit can go to hell!”  He turned away and practically ran towards the trail, wanting to put as much distance as possible between himself and this madman.

But a dark shape flowed past him, and blocked his path.  The strange curved sword with the gleaming, sharp edge sang in the air, and then was pointed at the center of his chest.  The tip slowly moved upward until the cold metal touched his chin and Duncan swallowed carefully.  “If I wanted to fight you, Duncan MacLeod, you’d be dead already,” Connor soft voice drifted to him, just barely audible above the whispering breeze and lapping water from the loch.  “And as for you taking my head,” a low chuckle sounded in the darkness.  “That seems highly unlikely.”

“This is insane,” Duncan whispered, but he could feel the sweat of fear dampen his skin, even in the chill night air.  “What do you want from me?  I have no money, no clan, no family.  I have nothing.  I am nothing, no one.  Why can’t you just leave me alone?!”

“You are Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” Connor said evenly, his eyes glowing and flickering from the reflected light of the campfire behind them.  “And you are Immortal, just as I am.  You must learn to survive as an Immortal, and I am here to teach you what you need to know.  Do I have to prove it to you by killing you, and letting you revive, or by killing myself?  No,” Connor shook his head.  “I don’t think so.  I think you know that what I’m telling you is true.  I traveled across half a continent to find you, and I am not going to let you just walk away because you’re too stubborn to admit it.”

Duncan sighed heavily, and let his shoulders slump in defeat, closing his eyes and shaking his head, relieved when the blade moved away from his throat.  For a pause of about five heartbeats he gathered himself, but didn’t move a muscle.  Connor relaxed a little, and started to resheath his sword.  That’s when Duncan made his move, charging forward, shoving with one arm and drawing his claymore with the other, certain his longer, heavier blade would easily swat away the light sword the other man carried.  But his stiff-armed shove only met air, and the lack of resistance made him stumble. 

Duncan barely managed to get his claymore free of its scabbard as he turned, off balance, trying to locate his opponent, when a hard blow hit the back of his knees and his legs went flying from underneath him, landing him flat on his back and sending his breath out in a rush.  Then that deadly, silver blade was descending, its edge caught by the moonlight.  He watched in astonishment as its tip cut through his flesh like soft cheese, and sank deep into his chest.  He looked up, unable to breathe for the pain, and his last view was of Connor MacLeod’s darkening shadow looming over him.

It hurt.  The first breath was the worst, but then he coughed, and that was really bad, too.  He rolled over and managed to sit up, spitting blood into the grass, coughing some more and dragging air in with noisy gasps until it didn’t seem like each breath was going to be his last.  Somehow, he was now back in their camp.

Connor was sitting cross-legged on the other side of the fire, his sword across his lap.  “Feeling better?” he asked with an irritating, kindly smile.

Duncan rubbed his aching chest.  It was slippery with blood, but when he looked, there was no wound.  A wet cloth landed in his lap, and he looked up to meet Connor’s eyes again before he picked it up and used it to wipe away the mess.  “What did you do that for?” he growled.

“You are a stubborn one, aren’t you?” Connor sighed.  “I was trying to make a point, and if someone has to die to do it, I’d rather it be you than me.  Duncan,” Connor said sharply, and waited until their eyes met before going on.  “You’re not a demon.  Neither am I.  We are men, just like other men.  We live, we love, we feel pain.  We can be good, or bad or lazy or hard working.  But we…are…Immortal.  It means you can be whatever you choose to be, do whatever you choose to do.”

Duncan twisted the cloth, feeling strangely numb, his mind blank.  “Can you make it go away?” he finally asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Can you make it…stop?  I never wanted to be anything but a chieftain’s son.  Never wanted to do anything but take care of my clan.  I…I don’t want this Prize.  I don’t want to be Immortal.  How do I change it?”

“You can’t, Duncan.  You were born an Immortal.  You can’t go back.  But there is a whole world out there for you to see, so much to learn and do, and you’ll have many lifetimes to do it in.”

“Until this Gathering you speak of, and in the meantime, we all go around chopping off heads of people we don’t even know,” Duncan observed bitterly.  A shudder trembled over him as he said it, and with it the realization that he had somehow accepted Connor’s unacceptable explanation as fact.  “Well, why didn’t you take my head, eh?  And what if I choose not to fight?  What then?”

“At your age, your head is hardly worth taking,” Connor smiled crookedly at him before his expression grew more serious.  “But others will come for you whether you wish it or not.  Your choice is to fight, or to die.”

“But if I am one of these…Immortals you talk about, why didn’t I have any desire to kill you, or…” the image of the hermit’s mad face just before he jerked Duncan’s blade through his neck flashed in Duncan’s mind.  “…or anyone else?” 

“Perhaps because you haven’t yet developed a taste for Quickenings,” Connor answered grimly, then shrugged.  “Not every Immortal you meet will want to take your head.  I’ve met a few who let me walk away without a fight.  But trust between Immortals is rare, friendship even more rare.”

Duncan sat for a long time, staring into the fire, twisting the wet cloth in his hands, his mind in turmoil.  Connor carefully added fuel to the sputtering fire, waiting in patient silence for Duncan to ask more questions, but Duncan wasn’t sure he wanted to know any more.  “Get some rest, if you can,” Connor finally instructed.  “We’ve got a ways to travel and you have a lot to think about, a lot to learn.”

It took hours for Duncan to actually sleep, and the sun was well into the sky when Connor shook him awake.  He felt heavy and lethargic and resented Connor’s easy grace as the man energetically served up porridge, then proceeded to pack up their things while Duncan unenthusiastically ate his portion.

Connor finished securing the various rolls and packs on the horse while Duncan doused the fire and filled the water skin, then Connor mounted and held out his hand.  “Give me your cloak.”

“What?  Why?”

“Why isn’t important, student.  Just do it.”

“I’m no’ your student, Connor MacLeod!” Duncan snapped.

“No?  Do you want to survive, or not?”

Duncan thought about his answer for a minute.  In a way, he had been running after death for three years, believing that was the only way he could prove he wasn’t what everyone accused him of being.  But now that he knew he could really die, he finally had a choice and a real future.  That realization took his breath away, and he had to swallow before he could answer.  “Aye,” he said breathlessly.  “I want to live.”

“Then you are my student, aren’t you?” Connor smiled down at him, and Duncan was reluctantly forced to nod, although he could hear his teeth grind as he clenched his jaw at the humiliation.  Connor waited a moment, then Duncan snatched off his cloak and handed it over.  With a grin, Connor tucked it securely behind him before he kicked his horse into a trot.  “Try not to fall too far behind,” Connor shouted over his shoulder, then urged his mount into a gallop and disappeared around a bend in the trail.

“Bloody bastard!” Duncan growled to himself as he walked, then ran after his 'teacher'.  But he found himself relaxing as he seemed to find a rhythm, and his body warmed to the exercise.  The sun had broken through the thin clouds, and he could see his teacher far ahead, turning periodically to make sure they were always in sight of one another.

Someday, Duncan thought.  Someday, they would spar and Duncan would beat his clansman, dumping the irritating man on his arse just as he had dumped Duncan the night before.  It might take awhile, given that Connor had almost 100 years of experience to catch up to, but catch up, he would, Duncan decided.  Connor thought he was stubborn?  Duncan laughed out loud.  He didn’t know the half of it, and with his face stretching to a grin, Duncan lengthened his stride.
 
 

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