This man is not my enemy. I can’t blame him for the way he has chosen to live his life—I carry no grudge for him, no animosity. He doesn’t kill for sport or gain. He doesn’t even *like* to kill … he’s just in this game along with the rest of us. I cannot fault his conduct. There is a reverence and decency in the man. He isn’t *evil.* Yet … I can’t just stand by and let it happen, not when the boy has asked for protection and I know how desperately he needs it.

The visit wasn’t unexpected, not in the least. Duncan called a day ahead and Connor emptied his calendar of appraisal appointments and canceled his plans to attend the upcoming antique shows. He thought of all the news that must be caught up, some terrible jokes to share, and four new swords that would make the younger Scot whistle through his teeth. There were also two bottles of Scotch that needed to be liberated.

Consequently, when the hum of an immortal arrived and the elevator grumbled into life, the elder man smiled and took the staircase two steps at a time to greet him. Oh, he still took his sword, because some habits are ingrained, but he just knew it was his kinsman. He was on the landing, waiting, when the machinery muttered to a halt.

The steel grate revealed Duncan MacLeod standing in the lift, but he wasn’t smiling. He just stood in the elevator looking back at Connor and his body language made everything “pause” in the other man.

The friendly greeting died unspoken. The bear hug failed before it was enacted.

“Not good news,” said Connor without breaking away from his clansman’s gaze.

Duncan did not answer, which confirmed his guess.

“Can you come in?” was the older immortal’s next comment and Duncan slowly nodded for this one.

They made their way down to the open main floor in silence and Connor dropped his sword back into a sheath in an umbrella stand. It was telling that Duncan did not drop his off. He’s not staying, thought Connor internally. Something is up.

“A drink?” he offered.

Duncan shook his head: no.

“This bad? You’d better just out and tell me, Duncan.” Connor’s hands went still on the glasses. He did not even retrieve a drink for himself, though he suspected he would need it. “You took a red-eye flight from Paris to see me, so spill it, brother.”

Duncan was prompt with answering and Connor realized that his old friend had been rehearsing what he was going to say probably for hours on the flight over. It was delivered smoothly and calmly … but Duncan’s eyes spoke everything that was left unsaid.

“An immortal killed a student of mine back in 1795. He hadn’t beheaded him out of malice—it was just the game. He was following the rules. He told me if I still wanted to kill him the following day he would be ready, but I never went back. He wasn’t my enemy and I chose not to make him one,” he said simply. “Now I’ve just taken in a brand new immortal who’s not even sure he can kill someone let alone wield a sword … and he’s been targeted by this older man. I might have to go after him to protect this beginning student.” Duncan hesitated just an instant, “You know him. It’s Damon Case.”

Connor closed his eyes. Damon. His memory conjured the quiet man; the moments of lighting candles in church, singing mass, sharing crude meals blessed by Damon's extraordinary prayers of thanksgiving. They had spent several long evenings reading Latin, discussing life and death, arguing immortality and God. One should never argue scripture with someone who fought in the Crusades and has the book memorized. Every book *IN* the book, memorized. Case marked the line of immortality—neither good nor evil, a pawn to the laws of the game and the testing of immortals. He took no pleasure in killing; rather viewed it as a holy duty—something God had ordained despite what it cost. The silent man often spent the entire night in prayer both before and after beheadings.

Connor did not argue scripture with Damon anymore—all the arguments had been had. They settled to the quietness of not being enemies: immortals who understood where each other was coming from. Connor learned to sleep on the pews during all night vigils. Damon learned to sit during Connor’s drinking and venting tirades to share his pain. They sought out new country to explore; Damon to marvel at God’s handicraft and Connor to just marvel—and escape the world for a short time.

Connor walked with Case in quiet contemplation, absorbing being in the presence of someone who constantly worshiped without the trappings of meaningless rituals. He learned peace amidst fury, thankfulness amidst the morbidity of his life. It reminded him of Nakano, who could hear the heart of a mountain and commune with the soul of the sea. It reminded him of simpler things. The monks cloistered themselves on holy ground, but Damon Case seemed to carry reverence around within him—except for the bloodshed of the game. And even then, his faith and belief sustained him.

The next breath took a long time in arriving to Connor. The one after was better. When he opened his eyes, Duncan was looking at him—waiting.

“Okay,” he finally said.

Duncan stared at him. “Okay? I thought he was your friend?”

Another breath that hurt. “He is.”

“You’re not going to try to talk me out of this?” Duncan sounded incredulous and bewildered. Almost appalled.

“I know you, Duncan. You’ve already considered everything, weighed every course, and had every argument already.” Connor shrugged. “You’ve already decided what you can live with and what you are going to do. Your decision is okay with me.”

Now Duncan looked angry … no, not angry … disappointed. Bewildered. And he didn’t say a word.

This will take more than just surface words. Connor took a deep breath and put a hand out to place on Duncan’s shoulder. “If I could see the two of you standing side by side and a voice asked which one of you I wanted to see live—and only one could live—I know what my choice would be. Though it grieves me to have to choose; the answer would still be the same.”

Duncan closed his eyes and mutely nodded. He looked pinched, exhausted, and sleepless. “I can’t let this young man be slaughtered like a lamb, even though he’s being foolish about his immortality. He just doesn’t get it yet, and I’m hoping to buy him enough time to understand.” He regarded Connor grimly. “I don’t know any other way to stop Case. ”

“I know. Damon is a straight stick: a line in the sand. He doesn’t bend or change.” Connor looked intently back at Duncan. “And you’re a straight stick and fixed on your course. Neither one of you will divert from what you hold true.”

The younger Scot sighed heavily. “If I can get him down, I’ll try to get him to leave it—to let the boy go.”

Connor smiled sadly. “He won’t, Duncan. It’s who he is. Those who don’t take the game with brevity, who showboat or play it for sport all wind up on his list. This is a serious game to him and he expects somewhat the same seriousness from everyone."

“Even the new ones?” Duncan asked harshly.

“Even the new ones,” replied Connor, sternly. “There aren’t any rules protecting new ones and if that boy is being stupid about his immortality, then that’s why Daman has targeted him. I bet your student in the past was an arrogant little fool, wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” admitted Duncan. “He was sure that he could take on anyone.”

“Reminds me of you.”

“You didn’t run into Case back then with me.”

“If I had of, I would have taken you and run until your foolishness was tempered with more understanding. Case doesn’t just kill every fucking immortal he crosses paths with—he’s known me for close to two hundred years and has never tried to fight me.” Connor felt a surge of anger rising in him and quelled it. You can’t turn these two stubborn men. They are on a direct course. Trying will only make it hurt *you* more and hurt *Duncan* more if he has to kill him. Case believes he’s here to test immortals as dictated by the game and Duncan cannot help defending the weak, even when they don’t deserve it. “You can’t stop defending and Case can’t change his purpose. It’s his vocation, his quest before God as much as it’s yours to guard the vulnerable.

Duncan sighed again, resigned. "I have a 767 to catch straight to Paris. I'm sure they can find a seat for you if you pay enough money. I know where Damon is; you can have a chance to see him."

Connor shook his head. "I don't need to see Damon."

Duncan had that appalled look in his face again, though it was tempered a bit.

"That's not where Damon would want me to be," Connor softly explained. "He has no fear and no regrets, nor does he need a friend standing by. He is always prepared to die, much more than any of us. I'll go to the church."

"To light candles," Duncan quietly said.

"And pray—though I'm not so good at it as Damon...” He couldn't meet Duncan's eyes now. The future was colliding with all his past memories and all he wanted was for the younger Scot to leave. The hand that gripped his shoulder, wordless with regret, seemed far away. "Ring my cell, one ring only, when it's over will you? That way ... I'll know."

Duncan was silent, though his hand pinched and pinched—revealing his anguish at this position. "I'll call, but then I'll probably fly and see you." He didn't add that he would also tell Damon Case to phone if he won.

"I won't want to see you, Duncan," Connor admitted.

"I know. That's why I need to come."

"I'll be angry ... and upset."

"I know. I can handle it."

Connor sighed, exasperated. "I don't want to hurt you, Dhonnchaidh."

"Those who love much, suffer much," Duncan quoted. "I'll come. You can swear and hurl things and bite at me with the sword ... and then we'll sit up all night and remember."

“All night,” Connor whispered. “I sat up many times with him over others. It would be proper to sit up all night for him…”

The fog was slowly dissipating when Duncan fumbled for his phone. The signal strength was poor. He went outside and punched the numbers from memory with his mind tumbling with old chants, candle scent, and liturgy. Somewhere … somewhere … somewhere … the phone rang once and he cut off the signal. Then the anguish came, both for the life he had to take and the man amidst candles far away, whose soul was now pricked. And he imagined him there, with thousands and thousands of candles … all of them streaming tears.

Within the day, Duncan discovered the worth of the young immortal he had spared at the expense of another man's friend. "Amanda was right," he said grimly when he was alone. "Sometimes the game just sucks."

~finis~

MacNair
4/18/03

Because the muses wouldn’t let it go and they liked the title so much.

Damon Case was the one immortal in the series that I thought Duncan made a mistake in killing instead of considering other options—like running with Danny Cimoli. Damon Case did not strike me as a man who would rage and then attempt to use all resources to try and track them down … by the time they met again, Danny would have been trained or would be sequestered on holy ground. Duncan himself voices his regrets about this outcome in the episode and it isn’t until later that we see how right he was. It’s a bitter weight.

Ultimately, it still comes down to making the best choice at the time and living with the consequences.

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