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A) Write a short story, scene or poem that takes place in the rain. The Immortal character(s) must be out in the rain almost the entire time.
B) Write a scene involving the changing of diapers with at least two Immortal characters involved.
Since Methos had agreed to take her as an apprentice, Sheila’s relationship with the last Horseman was changing. The two had a lot in common, there was no denying that: the same odd, slightly morbid sense of humour, the same quietly devious mind, and the same willingness to blend into the background. Not to mention the same drinking habits. But it had been many years, perhaps centuries, since Methos’ last mentorship, and he was taking the role quite seriously. Sheila never knew when an enjoyable evening out with Adam might turn into a session with Master Methos.
"I never pictured you as a Long Walks in the Evening type," Sheila commented, fishing for clues. The traffic on the roads was just starting to die down as the pair approached the bridge over Mill Creek ravine. Unconsciously, she began to quicken her pace; she hated bridges with a passion.
"You have to realise that lessons, like combat, can happen any time, any place. Besides," he added with an eerie little smile, "sometimes it’s good have everything… out in the open." There was a dry, papery scent in the air, despite the sprinkling of drops coming down. The sky, when Sheila dared to glance up at it, was a mass of dark heavy clouds.
Sheila knew better than most the way the Old Man loved to play with words; being out in the open had little to do with their current exposure to the elements. Or everything to do with it, depending on one’s point of view. There was one thing that Sheila had not been open and honest in admitting to her teacher. As the sprinkles turned into a steady rain and the wind began to pick up, Sheila’s tense body wanted to break into a sprint. "Look," she stammered nervously, "can’t we deal with this later? It’s starting to rain and I—"
Without any effort at all Methos slipped in front of her on the bridge’s narrow footpath, blocking her way. "And you what? Want to flee like a rabbit?" As she turned to retreat, he grabbed her roughly by the collar; "We are going to deal with this now!"
§ § §
Down below, in the ravine, another couple was walking in the rain, soaked to the skin. If she squinted, Deb could just make out the pair on the bridge stop suddenly. It was amazing to watch how easily Methos could corner someone at will, blocking her escape from both directions with only the slightest movement. Deb felt a deep sympathy for Sheila up there; "Duncan, is this really necessary? I mean, surely there’s another way."
MacLeod shook his head firmly; "This has to be done, and soon. Fear is one of an Immortal’s worst enemies, this one more than most. All the skill she learns in combat will be useless if she is constantly afraid of what comes at the end of the duel." The Quickening, a release of energy that would make a thunderstorm like this one seem like a gentle spring shower.
"You don’t understand, I’ve seen the way Sheila gets when a storm is coming. It’s not a pretty sight."
Duncan’s voice had an edge hard enough to sharpen, "Death isn’t very pretty either. She’s your friend; do you want her to survive or not?"
Deb almost had to shout to be heard over the wind whipping through the trees along the hiking trail. "Of course I want her to survive, but not at the cost of her own sanity!" At that moment, the first rumble of distant thunder rolled over their heads.
§ § §
At the first sound of thunder, Sheila felt a burst of panic in her chest; she had to get away. She looked around, desperately, for an escape. On one side was the road itself, with enough traffic to make crossing a dangerous risk; on the other side was a guard rail, and open air. One man blocked the only other way out, a man who had known the storm was coming; who had done this on purpose. "This is your fault," she snarled. "Let me go; I have to get out of here!" The man she had trusted as a mentor spoke a single word: "No."
The storm was growing stronger, like a living thing. By now it was close enough, and powerful enough, for flashes of lightning to be visible on the horizon. Vicious crosswinds buffeted the bridge, now pushing them toward the road, now threatening to throw them over the rail. Methos, in what seemed to Sheila like a fit of insanity, lifted up his arms, threw back his head and answered the thunder with a primal roar of his own. "This is Power," he shouted. "This is Nature; this is Life itself. Feel it, smell it, taste it. Embrace the storm. Be the storm."
Sheila desperately tried to shove her way past the madman; "You’re crazy. We’re on the middle of a bridge for God’s Sake; we’re perfect targets!" The only thing that could make this any worse would be—Sheila suddenly found over a meter of ancient steel pointing straight at her heart—if someone decided to give the lightning an open invitation.
There was no hesitation in Methos’ voice, no hint of his dry and wicked humour. "You have a choice. You can either face the storm, or you can face me. Only one of the two can kill you." His posture and stance was pure, unadulterated Horseman. If Sheila attacked, she wouldn’t stand a chance of survival; if she turned to run, he wouldn’t hesitate to take out an unworthy coward from behind. But how could she just stand there, exposed and vulnerable, in the centre of a metal bridge, next to a man who held a lightning rod in his bare hands? Shrieking wordless terror, she took the third option, "none of the above". In an adrenaline-fuelled charge, she vaulted the rail, plummeting to the ravine far below. Methos tried to reach out for her, but it was too little, too late. All he could do was lean over the edge, as sheets of rain pelted him from above. The expression on his face, if anyone were there to see it, would have been regret, mixed with disappointment.
§ § §
"No!" Debra shouted in anguish, as she watched the figure fall. The two of them had been stationed down here as backup, for just such a contingency, but in her heart of hearts Deb had never imagined her friend would actually do it. The effects of the storm were much harsher here than above: the path had turned to mud at their feet, and off-trail was even more treacherous territory. City-girl that she was, Deb ignored the danger and set off cross-country at a sprint. She half-ran, half-slid downslope toward the creek. Thorny underbrush tore at her clothing; branches whipped at her face; exposed roots threatened to break an ankle. She could barely see through the windswept rain, but still she ran.
At the first sight of the body, Deb finally stumbled to a halt, shocked by what she saw. Limbs sprawled in unnatural directions; slivers of white bone were clearly visible where the rain had washed away the blood. Somehow she had twisted during the fall, landing face up on the creek bank; the look in those eyes was one of abject horror.
The author watched in amazement, as the crumpled body seemed to pull itself back together, and then, the sudden spasm of rebirth. The former corpse rolled onto its side, coming up in a defensive crouch. Sheila’s reflexes, despite her lack of experience, were impressive. Her expression, as she struggled to her feet, was more like a cornered animal than anything human.
Debra wanted to rush to the other woman’s side, to provide comfort and shelter; but she had a role to play in this, however reluctantly. As a wild-eyed Sheila tried to flee, Deb stood squarely in her path. MacLeod circled in from behind; the panicked woman found herself surrounded.
It was impossible for Deb to use a calming voice; she had to shout to be heard above the howl of the wind and the near-constant roar of thunder. All she could do was to keep an unthreatening body language and hope her words would be enough. "Sheila, listen to me. You are one of the most stubborn women I know; when you want to be, you are literally unstoppable." Not exactly something Debra wanted to think about right now, but it was the truth. "Don’t let the fear control you; fight it. The storm can’t kill you; look at yourself, nothing that exists in Nature can kill you."
Sheila’s voice was ragged and hoarse, as if she’d been screaming for hours. "And what about…Unnatural?" Deb hesitated; here was a question that could only be answered from experience. She prayed that Duncan could find the right words to explain that unimaginable event.
"You are afraid of chaos, of what you can’t control." Sheila turned warily toward the sound of a new voice. "The Quickening Storm exists, it awaits you at the end of every Immortal combat. But it is not wild, not chaotic. The power is not an attack; it is an embrace. It will seek you out, become a part of you. Sometimes it will be something, someone, you wouldn’t want to be part of you, but it cannot be resisted. And the experience itself is beyond anything you could imagine: it is a moment triumph and a moment of release; it is pleasure and it is pain; it fills you with power as it drains you completely. In the end, you are more than what you were before." The very nature of his words, the conflicting and contradictory descriptions, proved that he was speaking from the depths of his soul. He tried to convey in mere words an experience that was ancient, primal and quite literally supernatural. If only it was enough to get past that irrational fear, to make her understand.
Sheila wasn’t listening; mere words couldn’t reach her in the state she was in. Her entire world had been reduced to the storm closing in on her from all sides and the overwhelming need to flee. These two things, and one more, something that had been drilled into her daily, almost hourly, since her training had begun. She was armed. The heavy claymore appeared in her hands as if summoned there, a reassuring weight. She lashed out, unthinking, at the smaller of the two figures that blocked her escape.
Stunned, as much by disbelief as from the savage swiftness of the attack, Deb made no attempt to defend herself. The wild swing caught her full across the torso, laying her open from hip to shoulder. There was no time for a scream and the howling winds tore away her last pain-filled gasp. Oblivion rushed toward her as she toppled in slow motion.
The follow-through from her first cut blended seamlessly into the next, adding power and momentum to the stroke. It was an overhand attack with enough strength behind it to cut through muscle and bone: a blow against a helpless opponent; a blow made without thought, without recognition; a blow that was—intercepted. The jarring clash of steel against steel sent a wave of numbness all the way to her shoulders, shocking her back to reality.
A voice cut through the noise of the storm without the need to shout; drove past the chaos within her. "You don’t want to do that, not unless you want to live with an eternity of guilt and self-hatred." Recognition dawned in her eyes; "MacLeod? Then who—"
She looked down at what she had done, saw for the first time not an obstacle between her and freedom, not a nightmare enemy, but a face: the face of a friend. Her terror of the storm evaporated, leaving only numbness inside. Her weapon fell from nerveless fingers; she dropped to her knees as if to beg forgiveness. She reached out to touch the still body; her hand paused, hovering in mid-air. She looked up, helpless as a child. "I didn’t mean to!"
"She was trying to help you." For the moment, MacLeod didn’t bother to remind her that Deb would be back shortly; her lapse helped the lesson hit home. "This is what happens when you let your emotions rule you. Now do you understand?"
§ § §
Deb’s first awareness when she "awoke" was a sensation of wet drops landing on her face; It’s still raining?. But no, these drops were warm. Other sensations filtered through; her head was pillowed on a lap, as gentle hands finger-combed her hair, and there was a sense of movement. Slowly, carefully, she opened her eyes, looked up into a familiar face. "Oh, my gloomy little Eeyore, please don’t cry. It makes dying into such an awkward thing."
"It was my fault you did die; I’m so sorry." There was a pang of regret and self-punishment in Sheila’s voice, even as her body-language screamed relief that her friend was okay.
"Don’t worry," she smiled weakly, "I’m kind of getting used to it." She tried to lever herself up to a sitting position. She finally realised that she was stretched out across the back seat of her own Toyota. "Hey, where are we going? And who’s driving my Highlander?"
It was Sheila’s turn to smile; "Who else but your Highlander? We’re on our way to the Blade. I was ready to break every bone in that sadistic old man’s body—twice; but Duncan thought that forcing him to watch us drink for the rest of the night would be a better punishment."
Deb’s wan smile turned into a grin, but she forced herself to deal with more a serious subject. "I’ll make you a promise, Sheila; I’ll help you deal with your fear, if you help me with mine."
"Your fear?"
"Yeah, ever since September 11, I’ve
had this real problem with h-heights. Why do you think I was down in the
ravine instead of up there at your side?" The two hugged awkwardly in the
back of the vehicle, and it was hard to tell who whispered the word into
the other’s ear first: "Together."
Oh, and Sheila, if you're reading this again, Sorry about that!
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