Origins Chapter Nine D'hethalia moved reluctantly into the circle of stones and sank down, arranging herself into a meditation position that she could hold indefinitely. She had put this off as long as she could, but the pressure from the others was growing daily. Small, ominous tremors had recently been felt in the dun as the sun’s changing magnetic forces warped their entire planetary system. They might have many fan left, but then they might have no time left at all and any excuses of mental or physical exhaustion would no longer be tolerated. Her duty was to her people, regardless of how she felt about them, and particularly regardless of how she felt about the progeny they had so callously created and used, and about what might happen to the short-lived, frail humans whose planet they needed so desperately. Carefully, she cleared her mind, first forming a mental image of herself as she wished to be perceived. Odd that she still thought of herself as female, despite her recent reversion back to sexual neutrality. Perhaps it was because this particular progeny had such powerful emotions that so easily bled through in their moments of real connection. His need to love and be loved, to belong, to protect, to sacrifice, had all been aspects she had felt would ultimately serve their interests, but she hadn’t anticipated how those emotions would affect her when magnified through the intimacy of shared ka’queha. Was this peculiar sense of ownership, of strangely compelling protectiveness, a vague echo of what humans experienced as parenthood? She mentally shrugged off those speculations to focus on more practical objectives. Duncan needed to see her as someone he wished to protect and whose approval he desired, and the mother figure from his culture had worked nicely, although the Sidhe really had no comparable relationship. Being v’tah was considered an honor because that member of the caresh was given the trust to put the final stamp of attributes upon their joint progeny, but the Sidhe did not nurture their young in any way that humans would understand, and certainly the emotionally charged ‘family’ relationships that bound human society together were non-existent among the Sidhe. She opened her mind and reached out, seeking, feeling through the familiar heavy waves of distortion that met her at the Gate. This was one of the most difficult moments, requiring great power and finesse and experience to breach – but with a sudden almost overwhelming rush, she was through and then almost instantly crushed by the sheer weight of thoughts and emotions generated by the billions upon billions of human minds crowding her thoughts. This was why so few could reach across the Gate effectively, even so close in time to one of those brief periods where planetary, gravitational and multi-dimensional forces were favorable, thinning the barrier to near-translucence to those who could ‘see’ with their mind’s eye. But just pushing her thoughts through was only part of the difficulty. Once across, it was necessary to filter out all the mortal “noise” and find those ancient threads, that heightened level of energy where the predators they had created dwelled, like great white sharks cutting through time and space with silent, deadly grace. For that’s what they were, killers, born and bred. That had been their sole purpose for thousands of that planet’s full cycles – to concentrate life energies so intensely in one individual that the release of it all had the power to open the Gate, creating a physical connection between the two worlds, at last. Yet some of these progeny, much like the g’nagal, had seemed to find their own identity and purpose, entirely apart from their creators. Was that such a terrible thing? Independence from their control seemed such an anathema to her fellow T’eatha Sidhe, so much so that many wanted to eliminate any of the g’nagal that had developed a capacity for independent thought and will. But wasn’t that development a natural outgrowth of their own efforts to create a being that served them almost invisibly, anticipating their every need? Weren’t they at risk of destroying the very thing that gave their now-limited lives its purpose and meaning? The distraction of her own doubts and questions almost made Thalia lose her concentration, and therefore the connection across the Gate, so she deliberately gathered her energy and cleared her mind, riding the threads of trans-dimensional power to find her quarry. Ah, there was the eldest, but he was always easy to find, even if he managed to ignore even their most urgent demands for his attention. Unexpectedly, though, instead of finding the expected current of connection to the eldest, her primary quarry’s trail had evaporated, and there was no recent trace of his massive energies being used in ka’queha. Strange. Frustrated and quickly beginning to tire, she stretched her senses further, using the planet’s own lines of energy to ease the strain. It was painstaking, difficult, time-consuming and exhausting, but she settled in to the task wish a sense of sad resignation. After all, it had to be done and there was no one else to do it. ~~~~~~~ It had been a genuinely pleasant evening, typical of the mid-winter Saturday nights in this small, desert town. Christmas and the New Year had passed quietly, for which Duncan was grateful. The solstice that year – his birthday, so he’d always been told – seemed darker, more ominous than usual, and he kept expecting the return of those awful dreams-that-weren’t-dreams, but his nights had been amazingly peaceful. Maybe Methos had been wrong. Maybe it had been some kind of temporary delusion. It wouldn’t be the first time his mind had wandered far from his control. He’d just have to be careful, diligent, mindful of his own weaknesses, in the meantime, it was nice to be around folks who had no agenda, who didn’t monitor his every move like he was an idiot child who needed constant babysitting. Country western music blared from a jukebox, a flashy modern version of the colorful, almost sculptural rounded forms Mac remembered from the 1950’s. Beer was the drink of choice and the Texas Two-Step was the favorite dance. Mac enjoyed being the preferred partner for the ladies, including everyone from Wick’s pretty, round-faced daughter Maria to Adella, a stout, weathered 70-year-old who called everyone “Mac”, which could be very confusing, especially when she’d had a few too many beers and even she wasn’t sure who she was talking to. His current partner was Sheila, a buxom woman of middle years whose well-teased hair was an unlikely bright red. “Come on, Mac, just one more!” Sheila pleaded, tugging on his arm. She worked at the only local hair salon, and he could still catch the faint whiff of chemicals even in the smoke-filled bar. She pressed her ample bosom to his chest. “I’ll chose a slow dance, how about that?” Mac took her shoulders and gently pushed away. “Sorry, Sheila,” he said with a chuckle, and used a sleeve to wipe the sweat dripping down his face. “I’m done. My boots are getting holes in them, and it’s sure not from long walks in the woods.” “Well, you can take a long walk in the woods with me anytime, sweet cheeks,” Sheila drawled, and reached around to give Mac’s behind a hearty squeeze, then added an affectionate pat before she headed back towards the bar to see if she could find another vict… dance partner. Mac made his way through the maze of tables and chairs to where Wick, his daughter Maria and Maria’s latest suitor, George – or Jorge, as he seemed to prefer being called – were ensconced, a half-dozen empty beers lined up like dutiful soldiers in front of them. Wick was struggling to look nonchalant, but his lips were quirking at the corners as he watched Mac approach. Mac pointed at him as he sat heavily. “Don’t say it. You were the one who told me it was a tradition for the newest single guy to dance with every woman in the room.” “I don’t think dancing, at least the vertical kind, was what Sheila was really interested in,” Wick offered wryly. “Yeah,” Jorge offered with a leer, “Rumor has it Sheila would sleep with just about any…. What?!” he winced at a sharp elbow jab from Maria. “Shut up! That’s not nice!” Maria ordered in a loud stage whisper, then smiled a little too sweetly at Mac. “She’s not like that. She’s just always been a really friendly type.” “Yup,” Jorge agreed solemnly and took another swig at his beer. “Especially with anything with two legs and a di… Hey!” This time it was Wick who whapped Jorge on the back of the head and made him spill his beer. “Inina, kos’ka! [Quiet, boy!]” he growled. “Watch your mouth.” Mac found a small, already damp paper cocktail napkin to wipe his forehead and neck. “I think I’ll chose to be flattered at the attention,” he sighed. “But I’m done dancing for the night, and I think it’s time for me to head home. I finally got the new transmission in for the truck yesterday and fitting it is going to take all day tomorrow, at least.” “But it’s not that late, and Sam should be here any minute,” Maria protested, referring to her brother who had been expected at least an hour earlier. “It’s okay, mic’uns’ke [daughter],” Wick said with a sad smile. “Sam will be here when he’s here. The rest of us can’t spend our lives waiting on him.” Mac stood, noting the sad resignation on Wick’s dark, weathered face. Wick hadn’t talked much about his errant son, but Mac had learned through local gossip that the boy had left college after only a semester to ‘find himself’, occupying the trailer Mac now lived in for a year while he did odd jobs for his dad, but then got restless and left for Phoenix and an uncertain future. “Are you sure he won’t need the trailer?” Mac asked as he pulled out his money clip to leave some bills for his beers. “I can stay in a hotel while he’s here. It’s really no problem.” “No!” Wick said with a sharp shake of his head. “In the first place, he’s evidently got some woman with him, and that trailer isn’t made for two people. In the second place, he can’t just feel like he can waltz in and out of here like we all just put our lives on hold while he’s gone.” Mac put up a hand in a gesture of peace, “Okay, okay. Just thought I’d make the offer.” Wick smiled at that. “No problem, Mac. Go,” he waved him away in a shooing gesture. “I don’t want you messing up Rosie’s brand new transmission because you stayed out boozing too late.” Mac stepped out into the night air and took a deep breath, cleansing his lungs of the various fumes of the crowded bar. He started down the cracked and uneven sidewalk towards Joe’s Trading Post and his trailer set up behind it, his boots beating a steady rhythm in an otherwise fairly quiet night. After about 10 p.m., there was little in the way of nightlife in Braddocksville, Arizona, and the only regular sounds were the periodic swish of a car speeding through along the highway and the mechanical click that sounded whenever one of the three stoplights along the main drag changed color. One thing among several that he liked about this town was that most everything he needed was within walking distance. His trailer was less than two miles away from anything in town, and he’d liked being able to walk everywhere. Of course, during the day, the desert sun warmed the air to what seemed to Mac like almost balmy temperatures, but the nights could get quite chilly at any time of year, so he buttoned his fleece coat up to his chin, hunched his shoulders against the cold and sped his pace. The movement would warm him shortly, and in the meantime he would have an opportunity to use the rhythm of his walking and the intense clarity of the clear sky and its familiar pattern of stars to sooth and clear his mind. He hadn’t meditated since he’d arrived here in deference to Methos’ warnings, but he deeply missed it. Every day was a struggle, especially on his dawn or evening runs out to the canyon ridge where the very earth seemed to call to him. He shook his head, forcing the need away, and just concentrated on walking, putting one foot in front of the other until he turned into the parking lot at the trading store, walking past the darkened alleyway to the rear. His feet easily found the familiar, well-trod dirt path behind Joe’s to the 100 feet or so to his trailer… and he paused, hearing unfamiliar sounds, human sounds, disturbing the quiet night. There was a low laugh, then a more high-pitched giggle, then some banging as though things were being bumped into, then the light went on inside his trailer and he instinctively ducked down, knowing the silvery moonlight would show his outline against the building behind him. “Ouch!” a man’s voice exclaimed, followed by more bumping about as the small trailer rocked slightly on its foundation. “Be careful. It’s a little tight in here.” “No kidding,” a woman’s voice answered wryly. “You expect us to actually stay here?” “Cheaper than a hotel, and I managed to live here for over a year. Come here. Macuwita. [I’m cold.] Why don’t you warm me up?” Mac moved closer at a silent crouch, coming up to the small side window and flattening his back against the trailer. “I love it when you talk Indian,” the woman said softly, and then there was near-silence for a few minutes except for the soft sounds of kisses and sighs. Shit. This was undoubtedly Wick’s missing son, who had evidently assumed he could re-occupy his old space even after several years’ absence, and arriving unannounced. What to do? He could slink off and spend the night at a hotel, but when Wick found out he’d be furious at his son and probably pissed at Mac. Or he could interrupt whatever tryst was taking place, much to the embarrassment of all concerned. Well, he’d gotten over embarrassment a few hundred years ago, and it would be better to act now than let things go any further. He knocked. “What the…!” the man’s voice muttered. “Nobody even knows I’m here.” “Maybe your dad saw my car,” the female voice whispered nervously. “He’s always at the bar on Friday nights. Stay behind me. And button up. Your underwear is showing.” Mac heard someone approach the door and it swung open to reveal an attractive golden-skinned man in his late twenties with shoulder-length black hair, his denim shirt unbuttoned and his dark eyes narrowed in irritation. “What!?” he snapped. “You Wick’s son, Sam?” Mac asked in as pleasant a tone as he could muster without being unnecessarily obsequious. “Who wants to know?” “I’m a friend of your father’s,” Mac replied with a smile. “MacKinsey Lawson. I’ve been staying here while I do some work for your dad.” He stuck out his hand for a shake, and watched a complex parade of expressions work its way across Sam’s face. The boy had strong facial features typical of his genetic heritage, but he hadn’t yet mastered his race’s gift for impenetrably neutral emotional control. And even if he had, 400 years of human observation gave Mac a considerable edge in reading even the most subtle body language. Sam reached out and took his hand, giving it a slow, firm shake, meeting his eyes the whole while. It was a modest, if unsuccessful effort at intimidation since Mac just maintained his smile and return the shake with a firm, even grip of his own. “I see,” Sam equivocated. “Dad didn’t tell me.” “Who is it, Sammy?” the female voice called from the rear of the trailer. A blonde head with dark roots appeared at his shoulder. “Oh!” she said, moving more fully into view in the small space, her eyes growing large. “Greta?” Mac asked in astonishment. When you lived for centuries, the possibilities of running into old friends and acquaintances was always a possibility, but sometimes such coincidences seemed frighteningly non-coincidental. This young woman had a bizarre psychic gift that had predicted the peril threatening his beloved Tessa Noel, a threat that had ultimately led to her death and one of his blackest periods of overwhelming grief. The two of them just stared at each other for a long moment, until Sam finally spoke up in frustrated curiosity. “You two know each other?” “Uh,” Mac shook himself out of his momentary state of shock. “It’s, uh, good to see you, Greta. Remember me? It’s Mac.” Then he added with a hard, direct look into her eyes. “Mackinsey Lawson. We met in Seacouver.” “Right,” she answered with a wry twist of her mouth. For a relative youngster, the girl had developed a crusty, defensive manner that bespoke of a painful childhood. “What the hell are you doing here…, MacKinsey?” she asked with a twist of her mouth. “I think I’m the one who should be asking that question,” Mac answered gently. “And you know everyone calls me Mac.” “What the hell is going on?” Sam asked in irritation, looking back and forth between them. “Nothing!” Greta answered sharply, reaching out of sight to grab her handbag, a battered, rolling suitcase and a coat, then pushing past Sam to march down the steps. “I think we need to find a motel room.” “Your dad was expecting you down at the Grill tonight, Sam,” Mac inserted, stepping back out of the way of Greta’s determined march towards the street. “Yeah, okay,” Sam answered, hurriedly grabbing a duffel bag and his jacket and following after his girlfriend. “Hey, Greta, wait up!” Sam shouted ~~~~~~~ Methos settled once again into a meditative pose, clearing his mind and relaxing his body. He’d been doing this every day now for weeks, since the physical search for MacLeod had yielded no useful results. While regular meditation was never a bad thing, the only results as far as finding Mac was concerned was slightly worn spot in his meditation mat. He assumed that MacLeod would eventually give into what should, by now, be an irresistible urge to return to that place of absolute peace and calm serenity that could only be achieved by pushing meditation to a level that was largely unattainable for mortals. But for some Immortals, it was both wonderfully possible and deceptively deadly. Methos had carefully skirted the edges of that dangerous level of transcendence, feeling for distance, direction, for presence. What he had found was that he was aware of the infuriating man, aware that he was alive, that he was somewhere vaguely to the east, and that he had surprisingly avoided lowering any kind of mental barriers that might have given Methos any more specific information as to his whereabouts and well-being. The man had even managed to avoid taking any heads, which was a wonder. Probably did it just to keep them all guessing since he had to know the Watchers, especially Joe and Methos, were looking for him, were worried about him. Stubborn git. Methos felt a wave of gooseflesh wash over him and he sucked in a sudden breath as a tendril of horrifyingly familiar unbelievably powerful otherness touched him. It was a very, very old memory that it evoked, and the revulsion it inspired almost choked him as he rolled off the mat, gasping, fighting the urge to vomit. “No!” he gasped reflexively. “I won’t! I’ll never do it, to him or to myself!” But the contact faded quickly, like a wave retreating into the vast stretches of ocean. He rocked back on his heels, dragging in a deep, uneven breath, unable to shake the sense of violation. The worst of it was that the touch had merely been in passing, uncaring, unconcerned, as though Methos’ presence was merely a conduit to somewhere else. To someone else.
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