Disclaimer:
The characters of Connor MacLeod and Duncan MacLeod belong to DPP. This fan fiction is for entertainment only; there is no profit involved.
by MacNairCDC
He ran every morning or as near to every morning that he could. Especially on mornings after he�d had a nightmare. Sometimes he had them often; sometimes it would be months and months before the same bad dream visited him, but he knew they�d never completely go away.
It always ended badly, just as it did long ago. He should be used to it by now, but he had come awake wild-eyed and sweating and miserable just as he always did.
Today, it was cold with the final grip of Northwest winter and Duncan jogged a slow quarter mile before the stiffness of his muscles let up. Another quarter mile and his feet settled into rhythm with his breaths. The burn in the bottom of his lungs went away. His stride lengthened and the muscles in his shoulders and legs loosened.
The calm of running took him over gradually. The cadence of his tennis shoes and the huff of his breathing formed a familiar tempo that focused his mind. He fixed his eyes on the bouncing horizon and crossed concrete walkways, maneuvered around the hedge of the Jenkins Estate, and headed out into the labyrinth of trails designed for runners just like him.
He was alone on this chilly early morning. Not a single other jogger had crossed his path, coming or going. The fog crept through the trees of the city below, but the chill and mist did not reach as high as the Estate that curled its way around the base of the mountain. He was alone and it was just another day.
There was an old cemetery along the route he took. Filled with the Jenkins ancestors and on their own land, it was closed to outsiders. There hadn�t been a Jenkins buried there for over one hundred and fifty years. He sometimes wondered, as he jogged past, if there were any of that old family still alive.
�There�s lots of � MacLeods,� he puffed aloud, �in the Highlands.� But in his mind, he knew there was none of his father�s blood living. His father was an only son and with a barren wife, there were no trueborn kin after him. Duncan counted, but his head knew he really didn�t count. There was always a war between his heart and his head; his heart that said he was a Clan leader�s son � his head that never failed to remind him that that Clan leader had denied him. Denied him to his face and before witnesses.
�Not today,� he said crossly to himself, and took a steep trail to the right that made his thighs ache by the time he got to the top. He peeled and ate a banana to restore the energy he was spending and glanced out over the mist-swaddled city. �You�d be proud if you saw me today, Father.�
Except for the bloodshed over a prize we don�t even know is true, his head reminded him.
He went on, counting on the run to silence the old quarrel in his mind. Through rocks and barked trails, skirting soft mud corners at the switchback that led him upwards. He startled up quail and squirrels and one snake, which startled him just as badly. He laughed at his jump to avoid stepping on it.
He didn�t laugh a moment later when the frission of immortal presence crossed his own, but he was only one hundred feet from the shrine of the cemetery and moving fast. He quickened his pace and took the steps two at a time to the top.
Catch your breath quickly, said his mind. �It�s a good thing I do this every day,� he said aloud. He had a spare sword hidden amongst the graveyard crypts and fighting � fighting was just something he had learned to accept as part of his life long ago. Even before he was immortal, fighting was just something that men did. If it was always as bloody and inhuman as those old clan battles, with all the maimed and dead to remind men of the horror of war, perhaps we�d not have so much war.
He caught his breath and retied his shoes. An immortal on Holy Ground wasn�t a threat. Yet. And when he leaned partway over the cement wall, he realized the immortal on Holy Ground wasn�t a threat at all.
Connor MacLeod sat below, his hair a little tousled and his hands warmly gloved. He looked up as soon as Duncan looked down. Neither man smiled.
�A little far from New York, aren�t you?� eventually said Duncan.
�The weather is exactly the same. Cold and wet and idiots out running in it.�
�You�re one of those kinds of idiots.�
�Sometimes.� Connor smiled wryly. �I have to be in order to catch certain friends of mine without leaving a lot of tracks behind.�
Duncan came down to the level where Connor sat and stared off at the cemetery. �What name are you using now?�
�I�m between names, so you can just call me Connor.� His look was patient. �I�ll bet you�re still Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.�
Duncan frowned at him. This was an argument as old as the one his head and heart kept up and he wasn�t going to get into it, again, with the man sitting here. He sat on a bench nearby and said nothing.
Nothing until the silence began to grate on him. Plus, his heart rate had dropped back to normal, spoiling the workout of his run.
�What do you want, Connor?�
�Nothing.�
�You don�t come clear over here to see me for nothing, so what do you want?�
�You told me not to ask you for help anymore after that problem with Foster and Smit. So I�m not asking for anything, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,� Connor said mockingly.
�Dammit, Connor.�
�Why are you such a hornet?� The older Scot looked him over. �Is this run of yours not clearing your head well enough?�
�Did you come all this way just to pick a fight? You spit out my name like it�s an oath,� said Duncan. �You and I have argued about this for hundreds of years�I�m not changing my name. It�s my name and I�m going to use it.�
�You are a damn fool, that�s what you are. If ever I thought someone was kicked in the head as a child, it�s you,� retorted Connor. �There was an asshole clear over on Riverside Avenue who gave a little start after he�d picked the fight with me�said he�d been looking for a Duncan MacLeod. I was supposed to be a snack along the way while he tracked you down.�
Duncan paused his initial tirade and changed his tactic. Not that it matters with this man. �People are always going to be hunting and fighting with me, Connor. It wouldn�t matter what I called myself to them.� He put a thumb on his chest for emphasis. �It only matters to me. I was given this name and it�s mine and I won�t give it up. I give up lovers that die of old age, I give up a peaceful life, I give up lots of things�but this is one thing I will not give up.�
�Why?�
The question was too huge. Duncan just stared at the other man.
�Why not? Why is it your name that you�ve tied yourself up to so tight? It�s not a house, or land, or something else that likely will survive longer than this game will let us survive. You�ve got something tied up into that name that you won�t say��
��You wouldn�t understand,� countered Duncan. �I swear to God, you only come around to pick fights with me that we both regret!�
�I can�t understand if you don�t explain and isn�t that always what you�re yelling at me about? That I don�t explain myself and then we get off on a tear about something?�
The ugly stalemate between his head and his heart raised its head within him and in an overload of emotion and pain, Duncan barked out the truth. �Because part of me doesn�t believe I have the right to that name anymore and part of me hangs onto it for dear life. And you, you who should understand best about what that name represents�Clan and Kin and everything the Scots once were�you come around and yell at me about keeping it, too!�
�What�the�fuck?� and Connor stopped after those three incredulous words and simply stared.
�My father said I was no son of his. I was not his son. Do you know what that means? On his deathbed, my mother told me I would always be Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod � but my father was unconscious and he never said a thing.� His hands were shaking and he put them beneath his armpits as if to warm them. �My heart says I�m a Clan Chieftain�s son, but my mind remembers that he denied me.�
�Aye,� said Connor and his voice had an odd sound in it that Duncan couldn�t identify.
�Every time,� Duncan said hoarsely, �every time you come and belabor your point about my name with me, you take the side of my father.� He knew he looked as angry as he felt. �I don�t ever want to argue about this with you again, Connor. You know how I feel, now leave it lie.�
�I�ll leave it lie,� said Connor, �when I�m good and ready to leave it lie. You are a stupid git for not telling me how you felt all these years and I�m just as stupid for not asking something so obvious.� He scrubbed a hand through his already unruly hair. �Come over here and kneel so I can look you clean in the face.�
�I will not,� returned Duncan.
�Will you just obey me for once in your fucking life and do as I tell you?� Connor snapped back. �Don�t quarrel and don�t get arrogant�just do what I say! Christ on a bicycle, you�re the proudest idiot I�ve ever known!�
I am not prideful. Duncan came closer to his onetime mentor, but he didn�t kneel. He sat astraddle the bench where Connor sat and took a breath to calm himself.
Connor glared at him, but obligingly turned sidelong on the bench as well and took a breath the same way. �Who am I?� he demanded abruptly. �When you see me, who am I?�
Duncan snorted. �You�re Connor MacLeod. Used to be my teacher, now you�re a friend.� He added grudgingly, because he was angry, �and a Clansman from the same Clan.�
His answer was lacking, judging by the look of Connor�s face.
�You know that Clans will sometimes take in a Clansman who�s been thrown out of his Clan for one reason or another," said Connor. �It�s rare, but it�s done. Especially if there was war brewing � and there were lots of Clan raids and wars in those years.�
�No Clan took me in. Not even just to fight for them.�
�No one.� Connor said it slowly, thoughtfully.
Duncan eyed him distrustfully. �The Nicolsons and the MacNeils turned me away. Said I was demon spawn and would call God�s curse down on them even if I just fought for them. I knew better than to talk to the Campbells.�
Connor was silent a moment, studying something in the distance just over Duncan�s shoulder. �My Clan banished me, but my father did not renounce me. I was banished, but not denied and they left a bolt of tartan and my father�s battle sword on the mountain for me.� He looked at Duncan and his gaze hardened. �But your father as Clan Chief both denied and banished you. He stripped you of your name as well as Clan. And your head knows the truth�that no woman of a Clan, be she the Clan Chief�s own wife and your mother�no woman has the power to give back what a Clan Chieftain has stripped from you.� Connor slowly drew a single line through the crumbling cement dust of the bench they sat on. �You have no right to the name Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.�
�Do you think I didn�t know that?� Duncan grated out. �But it was because I was immortal and they didn�t understand.�
�A Clan Chieftain�s word is always the law until he recants it,� barked Connor. �All the justifying you�re doing is wrong and you know it�that�s why you�re tangled up in this!� He leaned and caught a fistful of Duncan�s tee shirt strongly enough to halt his rise from the bench. �Who am I, Duncan?�
�What the hell do you want from me? Isn�t it enough to remind me of what�s happened to me and argue again about my name? Of all the people I call friends, I wouldn�t expect you to be the one who doesn�t understand this!� Duncan said angrily.
�I�m trying to get you to understand, dammit,� Connor shouted practically in his face. �Tell me my name�the whole goddam thing!�
�Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.�
�And what Clan took you in?�
Duncan blinked and pulled Connor�s fingers off his shirt. �I told you. No Clan took me in.� He made as if to rise, to pace, perhaps to resume his run, but the older Scot shot a hand out and caught his wrist. �You won�t win a physical fight with me, Connor,� Duncan growled right into his face.
�I want you to sit down and see what I�m trying to show you. You learn best by discovering it on your own and I�m leaving bread crumbs the size of chickens, but your anger is up and you never think very well when your pride�s on the line,� slowly said Connor. �Now sit your ass down and quit fighting with me and think.�
Duncan sat, but his heart was wounded and his head was shouting and all he heard was his father�s voice from long ago, the same voice in his nightmares. Nightmares that never left him, though the years were in the hundreds since his father had yelled his final words at him. His hands were trembling and he made no move to hide them.
But Connor saw, and in an act purely out of the blue, he reached and put his hands across the top of Duncan�s. The younger Scot blinked at them. Connor�s hands didn�t tremble at all; they were nothing but strength through the leather gloves and they anchored him, though his mind refused to clear.
�I can�t see it, Connor. I�m too �� and Duncan stopped, because the loss was too deep and anguishing. I�ve been lying to myself since the day my father denounced me. It�s all been a lie. �I�m not Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod any more and I can�t��
�Stop it,� countered Connor. �Stop that churning about and listen. Your Chieftain stripped you of name and Clan and no other Clan took you in,� said Connor patiently. �I found you digging for roots down near MacKellen�s bog in March of 1625. I took you into the wilds with me because the thaw was on and the game was moving up the mountains.�
�Yes.� This he remembered, though not all his memories of Connor from that time were pleasant. His heart was pounding like a freight train and he�d been sitting for over thirty minutes. �You trained me as an immortal up there in the rough terrain.�
�I took you in.� Connor tilted his head speculatively. �And who am I?�
�You�re Connor MacLeod of the�� and Duncan stopped, because his axis tilted and he stared into Connor�s eyes, seeing him for the first time. He blinked, as if his vision was faulty.
�There you are,� softly said the older Scot. �Finally, you see me. All this time you�ve looked at me and have never really seen me and now you do.� He turned Duncan�s hands over and gripped his wrists; a warrior�s clasp.
�Now let me finish this, once and for all, because you�re the kind who seems to need a big hammer.� His voice grew stronger, the brogue thicker. �I�m Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod and I took you in. I pinned a new tartan on you, my tartan, in late January of that next year. You became Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, though some would quarrel that it�d rightly be Duncan MacLeod of the Connor MacLeod Clan, but that�s a mouthful far too wide for any man to stomach.�
�Connor,� said Duncan, his voice tight with emotion.
�Hist. I�m not done,� said Connor. He leaned, his face serious. �I lead this Clan, because it was given to me rightly�with a Clan Chieftain�s blessing and through my father who did not deny me. I hold it by right.�
�Yes, you do.�
�I am the Clan Chieftain.� Connor lifted a hand to Duncan�s shoulder, studied his stunned expression. �If there are only two of us and I am the Clan Chief�what does that make you?�
Duncan chuckled. One of those partially hysterical giggles birthed out of stress and hardship. �Oh God.�
�No, you�re not God and you don�t get to be God, either.� Connor let him chuckle some more. �You are once again, a Clan Chieftain�s son. You were born to be one and you remain one. You own your name, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, through me.� Connor took his hands off the younger man. �Now,� he said evenly. �Who am I?�
�You�re Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.� Duncan�s voice was sure.
�And who are you?�
�Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.� And he closed his eyes, for the truth took hold of him and all the internal arguments fluttered to the ground like ribbon. There would always be a voice that answered his father in his nightmares and it belonged to Connor MacLeod.
�Yes, you are.� He slapped Duncan�s shoulder. �And though I still think you should give it up and hide a bit more � it�s your right to live the way you want. I can�t promise I won�t sigh and roll my eyes and yell now and then, but I�ll quit fighting with you about it so much.�
�You argue because you want me to live,� said Duncan.
�Yes, I do. And right now, I think we should run.� And he was on his feet and shaking out his arms, preparing to do just that.
�Wait,� said Duncan. �Don�t you want to talk more?�
�No,� said Connor. �You have what you need. I need to run.�
�But,� and Duncan had to trot to catch up, because Connor was up the steps two at a time. �Why are you here? You never told me why you�re here?�
�Wasn�t this enough for you?� countered the elder Scot. He turned at the top step and looked down, his breath steaming in cold air.
�Yes,� thoughtfully said Duncan. �But I�d still like to know why you came originally.�
Connor looked over the hillside, the fog-tucked city, the myriad paths leading away in every direction and shrugged. �I just wanted to run somewhere new.�
And Duncan barked one laugh and took after him, following the bounce of the blue shirt and the churning feet. You�ve always been in the lead, Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod he thought. But aloud he shouted, �I�ll catch you, you know. I know all these paths by heart!�
And his heart was good. So was his head.
~finish~
MacNair, 4:31 pm
Oct 28, 2006
Author scribblings found in the margin of the page:
*9 am start time. The setting is long ago � or maybe not. Darn muses have no date in their head and aren�t making sense. Sorry. Warning: bad language ahead. And equally bad behaving muses.
*1 � hours later, 11:30am: edit #2. This was supposed to be short and neat. Do these boys ever stick to the plan?
* 2 more hours, 1:30pm: edit #3. O my word, this is blowing up in my face! Holy Hannah, tie on your hats!
* 2 more hours, 3:30pm: edit #4. I�m getting tired. Please shut up.
Footnotes:
In reality, the chief of a Clan would ingather any stranger, of whatever family, that possessed suitable skills, maintained his allegiance and, if required, adopted the Clan surname. Source of quote under "Definition of a Clan"