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The white cat slips ghost-like through the rows of graves, searching with sight and sound and smell. A hint of a scent leads to a stone marked with the name Tessa Noel, but the cat sees a figure in the distance and hides behind a larger monument. Duncan walks by the grave on the way to meet the Scholar (as Felicia still terms Methos), not passing close enough to trigger his defences.
Finishing her patrol, she notes another figure, one she has begun to reluctantly admire over the past weeks. Despite age and injury, he moves quite well. The old man has been shadowing MacLeod for some time; he is quite comfortable with his target. Satisfied, she trots back toward where she can see the Scholar and the Warrior talking. Felicia has become quite adept at judging the edge of this danger sense, and so she stops just outside MacLeod’s range. Back on two feet again, she decides there must be one last test.
The final distance between them is a simple Teleport. She lands behind MacLeod and both Immortals react instantly. Methos sees her appear and his eyes widen in shock; Duncan knows someone is here, but can’t identify where. She taps him on the shoulder, feeling his body stiffen under her touch. That is her only warning; suddenly 5 feet of blade, silvered in the moonlight, is coming at her. A spell comes instantly to her mind, but is it in time?
“Duncan, don’t!” shouts Methos.
A strange sensation, like a low intensity Buzz, brings him back to reality. He catches a misty shape moving at the edge of his vision, but it disappears as soon as he looks in that direction. It didn’t look human, probably just a stray animal. These past few weeks have brought him nearly to the point of jumping at shadows.
Methos looks a bit uncomfortable. “She’s not Imm – I mean, I’m not training her. I knew she wanted to meet you, but I never dreamed she was stalking you.”
Mac gives him a Yeah, right look. “Fine. I’m here, you’re here; where’s the guest of honour?”
They both feel the Buzz at the same time. Methos quirks a smile, “That would be her”.
Mac notices his friend’s look of surprise; if it were anyone else, he’d think it was a trap. He senses movement behind him, feels something touch his shoulder. Centuries old reflexes take over; he draws weapon, turns and swings all in a single smooth motion.
He hears Methos shout “Duncan, don’t!” Instantly, he halts the stroke.The flat of his blade (not the edge? he thinks) is just touching the skin of a young woman. She stands before him unflinching, eye to eye. Slowly, her gaze drops to the blade, a barely suppressed shiver is the only outward sign of fear.
“I understood this was a no combat zone,” she says in slow, accented English. “Was I… mistaken?” Blue eyes, strangely familiar, flash a challenge. Go ahead; tell me I’m wrong. It might be fun.
The Highlander is shocked by his own actions, realising how close he had come to the ultimate Immortal taboo: death on Holy Ground. He lowers the weapon, feeling the sting of the implied dishonour. Old habits die hard: “I’m Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod”.
A smile touches her lips, “I know. We’ve met.”
For the first time, Duncan takes a serious look at the woman: tall, attractive; with an athletic build and exotic features, right down to her streaked hair and almond shaped blue eyes. No, definitely not the type of person you could meet and then forget. The dark jeans and plain black T-shirt look new; in contrast to her belt and handmade leather boots, which are old and well used. No sword, but he sees a knife in its belt sheath. A subtle lump at the top of each boot suggests small throwing daggers. No one he knew, and yet there was something about those eyes…
She seems quite amused by his confusion; “I’m not surprised; I wasn’t quite myself the last time. I’m Felicia--”. She flashes her teeth in a grin, adding “of the Clan of the Tiger”.
In his mind, Duncan pictures those ice blue eyes gazing out of a wedge-shaped head; the blonde and brown streaks changed to black and white stripes. Impossible! And yet…
The mental image shifts again, from a white tiger to a white wolf...
The younger boy, all of 13 years, watches the man he’s known as father all his life with a mixture of awe and respect. He knows in his heart that someday it would be his turn to lead. He listens eagerly as they plan a hunt for the next day; tries to hide a boyish grin when Ian berates his best warriors for fearing “an overgrown hound”. Duncan volunteers for the hunt, showing everyone that he is not afraid; but he is gently but firmly told to stay behind.
Robert, the older boy, teases the Chieftain’s son, telling him that a wolf loves nothing more than a juicy young Highland boy. Duncan just smiles and asks his friend, since he is so brave, if he would join him to catch the white wolf tonight. Caught by his own words, Robert has no choice but to come.
The two boys are crouched around a small snare they have built, proud of their work. A low, menacing growl sounds from behind, startling them. Duncan grabs for something to defend himself, finding only a broken tree branch that seems much too small. He shouts over his shoulder for Robert to run, waving his “weapon” to distract the beast. The last thing he remembers is the wolf leaping through the air…
It is early morning, in front of a tiny cabin hidden deep in Donan Wood. Young Duncan looks up into the eyes of a woman his clan calls “witch”, someone he has learned to call friend. He isn't sure how long he’s been here, but he knows he has been kept safe from danger. He remembers the woman, Cassandra, talking about a nameless enemy he must face one day; about Connor MacLeod and the truth that hides in old tales; about many other things. He remembers dreaming of himself as a true warrior: tall and strong and handsome, but already some of these memories are fading.
Duncan hears the voices of a search party in the distance, coming closer. He hesitates; the woman smiles and tells him he need not worry about the wolf.
He looks at Cassandra one last time; a hint of awe in his voice as he whispers, “You were the wolf”.
Flashback fades out, return to the present…
You have a funny way of asking, Miss Felicia comes immediately to mind, but there is genuine longing in her voice that is hard to deny. “After all I’ve been through, you still expect me to help you?”
Felicia’s eyes lower for a moment, returning with renewed confidence. “Yes, I do. Because—after all you’ve been through—you are still an honourable man; and because you were the one who brought me here.”
Methos (who seems to have been forgotten by both sides) steps in, giving Felicia a quick back off gesture. “Lady, Gentleman (giving a slight emphasis to each title) it’s been a long night and we all have some things to think about. Shall we go?”
Felicia nods reluctantly, points up at the moon. “Just don’t take too long to decide.” With that, she abruptly turns her back and walks away.
Duncan can’t resist glancing up into the sky. The darkness swallows
up the woman, but the night air carries a musical voice, a whisper on the
wind…
Tyger, Tyger burning bright,
In the forest of the night.
What Immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetrye?
As the full effect of the night's events settles in, her Confident Stranger act crumbles. Unbidden, one hand reaches up to her neck, rubbing some warmth into a strip of skin cold even in the chill night air. Gods, the man was good. A scattered jumble of thoughts resolve themselves into an internal dialogue:
Felicia, have you gone completely mad? You drive a man to the edge of distraction and then, just when you’ve convinced him to listen, on a whim you decide to push.
Hey, the truth hurts.
Yes, but this was almost the last truth you’d ever learn. You could have got yourself killed!
Who knew a human could have reflexes like that? I Turned the blade in time; he probably didn’t even know he’d been Magicked.
Flat on or cutting edge, a stroke like that would have snapped your spine if it had connected.
Ah, but he didn’t finish that stroke, proving my point exactly. Besides, no one could have faked that expression of guilt-tinged horror. Warrior he may be, but this MacLeod is no killer. He is a man to be trusted.
The question is, will he trust you?
In a way, Felicia almost envied MacLeod his self-control. She isn’t sure if she could rein in the Cat that fast, on the strength of a single word—
A sudden weakness wrenches Felicia out of her thoughts; she staggers. Stepping off Holy Ground is like having a door slammed in her face: the comforting flow of magic she had known all her life suddenly cut to a trickle. Another Mage might find a world like this merely an inconvenience, but to her it feels like slow starvation. Felicia doesn’t just use magic; she is magic—the Cat that shares her mind, just as she could share its body.
From the corner of her eye, she catches a flash of movement. The old man, reaching out as if to help, withdrawing just as suddenly, a strange mirror image of Duncan’s aborted attack. The thought of an audience, even an anonymous one, brings Felicia to her feet. It hurt her pride enough to wait for the Scholar to escort her home; he’s not going to find her sprawled like some swooned maiden.
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