St. Elmo's Fire:
HOLLOW BONES...  

"So tell me, Mac... how come you never told me about your first teacher?"

"My first teacher?"  Duncan MacLeod looked at his student and smiled, not too pleasantly.  "My first teacher was Connor MacLeod, Richie."

"Yeah, that's what I said.  You never mention him.  Why not?" the red-head asked, grabbing up an apple to munch.

"If you ever meet Connor, you'll know why I don't talk about him," Duncan said grimly, and put the bowl of fruit away.  "Don't spoil your dinner."

Christ.  Connor.  I haven't thought about those years for... not since he was here and met Tessa...

How did he know to come then?

"You have funny eyes," Duncan told his teacher, frowning as he tried to decide what, exactly, was odd about them.

"Oh?"  Connor MacLeod looked up from the damp peat fire and stared at his kinsman.  Pale green and blue and black rippled over the light-brown base of his eyes.

Duncan shook his head.  "What do you see, with eyes like that?" he asked in exasperation. 

"Many things.  Too damn many things," Connor MacLeod murmured, and threw the stick he'd used to stir the fire on it.  "Come, we'll spar now.  It will rain this afternoon."

Duncan looked at the clear sky above them and rolled his dark eyes.  "Oh, aye, of course it will."

Later that day, miserably trying to keep some of the water from off his food, Duncan glared at his teacher.

"How did you know it was going to rain?"

Connor picked at his plate with all the enthusiasm of a small child.

"The wind told me," he said.

Duncan blew himself up like a puff-adder; then deflated when Connor's eyes caught his.

"Don't ask if you don't want to know," Connor said harshly.  "And don't wish for things.  You might get them."

"Yes, sir,"  Duncan said, gazing at his kinsman.  He was gradually realizing what he'd known all along; that Connor, for all he looked like a puff of wind would blow him over, for all he laughed and smiled and joked and tried to teach a clumsy oaf of a student without losing patience...

For all of that, Connor MacLeod was a rock that could not be moved. 

It was a damp, dripping day and Connor MacLeod was on his way to Edinburgh, riding a horse that was older than the hills and twice as contrary.  He saw the outline of Beinn Bahn rising in the distance, and knew he was more distant from his goal than he'd thought, and much too far north still.  He kneed the horse, not ungently, and urged the gelding down a faint track that took him south, though it lost itself in the ancient mountains that rose on either side.  It looked promising, and faster than the more well-traveled byways.  (True, he'd no one waiting on his coming, but his food would not last forever and he'd not waste his bawbies on travel and he could help it.)

The mist closed in about him, but his inner compass was as true as an iron and steel one, and there was more than enough light to see by.  The moon was rising early, its large disk round and brilliant, giving the Lady's light to guide him.

He bowed in his saddle to the Lady, his thin lips fulling with grief as he bent.  Heather was dead... may She look with kindness on her grave and guard it for him.  And the old haggis, too.

He'd had to leave the smithy -- there was no place there for him now, not with Heather gone.  And already he could see furtive signs warding off evil as he passed men and women he'd known since they were babes.  If he'd stayed, it would not have been long before talk of witchcraft and burnings began.  Ramirez had warned him, but he'd not needed his teacher's counsel to foretell to what ends fear would drive mortal men.

He'd sold all he owned save his weapons, the tools of his trade and various personal possessions, which included a miniature of Heather an artist at a fair had painted.  It was a good likeness -- the man had caught the laughter in her blue eyes and the temper in the cant of her head, eyebrows raised as if she'd snatch her skirts up and come at him any instant, armed with the cooking ladle or a dripping shirt and a killing tongue.  Ah, his blossom... what a spirit she'd had!

The smile that lit his eyes as he remembered her righteous indignation (usually when he'd done something stupid beyond belief) limned his face with a glow that approached beauty, if he could have seen it.

But Connor MacLeod wouldn't have believed it for a minute.  Vanity in his appearance had never had a chance to take root in the highlander's soul.  Vanity in other things -- in his endurance, in the strength of his sword-arm and some in his skill, in his smithing, well-taught as he'd been by Heather's father -- might perhaps have swallowed him, but for the fact that Ramirez had done a thorough job of crushing conceit whenever the old haggis saw it in him...

And rightly so, Connor thought with rough affection.

The thought of the old peacock deepened his smile, and his eyes glowed with inner mirth.  It had been a long time before he could think of Ramirez without sorrow and pain, but the old man's ghostly memory (and Heather's very real temper) had eventually kicked the melancholy out of him.  It was odd how clearly he remembered the old man and his words, Connor mused.  But it was proper that he should value his teacher's memory.  Ramirez had, in the five years he'd been with him, made him into the man he'd be for all his life to come.

If he could be so good a teacher to even one student in his life, he'd not live in vain.

The horse shied, and Connor took note of his surroundings, the smile gone and cold caution suffusing his light-brown eyes.  It was dusk; he'd ridden too long.  Now he'd have to make camp in the half-glow of winter's almost-night, not knowing where water was or how the land lay.  And these were lawless times -- what had the beast sensed, that had disturbed it?

Patting the horse's neck, he drew his sword quietly, keen eyes searching for what had affrighted the old nag.

The mist parted and a horsewoman approached him in the gloaming.

"Well met by moonlight," she said in a voice that bells could not match for beauty.  She smiled at him, her teeth like pearls, her long hair curled to glimmer with the moon's light, her face as flawless as though it were mirrored in water.

Connor's teeth showed briefly white.  He patted the horse again, and felt the lather starting on its neck as it stirred under him.  He kept the rein tight and his eyes from her face as he looked for her confederates.  He'd heard of such, of men waylaid and murdered for their few possessions, but he was not so easy a mark as that.

"May the Lady guide you and the White Christ keep you," he replied, eyes still searching the shadows.  "What does such beauty do in these hills?"

She drew away, as if he'd affronted her, her horse dancing on the narrow track.  After her horse calmed, she said, "I travel to my father's hall.  But I have lost my companions, and would fane have a man at my side when I enter it."

"Where does it lie?"  She lied, and he knew it; there was no hall in these empty hills.  Green they were, and should have been full of sheep and cattle; but he'd seen none, which meant thieves and reivers and worse kept these hills barren.  Had her fellow rogues abandoned her, or was she set to bring him to them, at a place more suited to an ambush?

A low laugh pealed from her, seeking to enchant the heart from his breast (or perhaps raise something a little lower down).  He let it pass; he'd buried his heart with his Heather, and it would not come inconveniently alive for this one, whatever her charms.  But she preened herself as if no one had ever seen her for what she was, and brought her white steed close to his horse, her hand resting lightly on his arm.  "Why, kind sir, it lies but a little ways south of here, under the hill.  Will you not bear me company?  I would treasure your... self, and my father would reward you for my protection."

"Nay, I need no reward," he answered roughly, stirred in spite of himself by her touch.  "No more than you need my protection -- or will have it.  But I will see you to your father's hall, for it lies on my way."

She drew back.  For the first time some emotion rippled across her perfect face, but Connor could not tell its origin.  Ramirez' voice whispered to him, low and compelling, and he heeded its tone if he could not quite make out the words.

There was danger here.  Great danger.

They wended on their way, and the moon sank lower in the sky.  Connor marked its passage, turning to gaze behind him at the landmarks, that he might know them again if he had to come back this way.  Bad that the moon's light ended this soon, for it was the longest night of the year; the turning of the season.

The woman laughed at him, her voice carrying slivers of glass that were meant to cut.  "Are you afraid that someone follows?  Or do you just fear everything, oh gentle knight?"

"No knight," Connor grunted, ignoring the gibe.  "I am a man, like any other."

"Oh, surely not," she purred at him, like a great cat that had found a mouse to play with.

Connor's eyes slid to catch the edge of her face again.  He didn't like to look at her full-on, for some reason.  She... changed, when he did that, her face sometimes one he half-remembered, sometimes one... he'd no wish to recognize.

He rolled his shoulders to loosen them, and did the same for the sword at his belt and his dagger as he stopped to look again at the landmarks.  The moon was near setting now, and he narrowed his eyes at it.

"God grant you good going," he murmured to the Lady, and the woman on her milk-white steed hissed.

"Have you no better to swear by than that one?" she said, and moved closer again.  "We are here; here is my father's hall."

He raised his eyebrows, still seeing naught but rock and turf; then turned his head sharply, for harping echoed oddly down the mountain and caught at him.

"Come in," said the woman, her voice low and alluring.  "Leave your mount be and come enter my father's hall."

She slipped down from her steed and stood in the light that streamed out from great carven doors that had been thrown open in front of them.  He sat, staring.  How could he have missed those gates, they were three-men high?  The smith in him wondered at how they were hinged, and what they'd set them in.  A gaily-bedecked throng waited for them on the open step, calling to the woman and to him, as if they were old friends welcoming them, urging them to stop and rest and refresh themselves.

Connor slid off his horse, ignoring the woman's hand.  He looked for bows and spears and saw none.  All empty-handed they greeted their guests.

Nae ane can be sich fools, he told himself, all the while tempted by the smell of food and drink, the brightly colored silks and satins and the silver notes of music that floated from the hall.  Dourly, he stripped his pack from his horse's back and shouldered it, tethering the poor beast near a circle of lush grass.  "Eat and rest," he bade it gruffly, wondering if he dared do the same.

The woman stood frozen, white-faced with temper, while he tended the nag.  "Are you through?" she asked, ire threading her voice.

"For a bit," he answered.  "He's worked long and hard for me this day, would you grudge him my care?"

She laughed, but it was a cruel sound, and more suited to what he'd thought her at first than what she'd masked herself as.

"Oh, what's a dumb beast, and an ill-favored one?  My father will give you a thousand fine horses for bringing me home."

"I need no other horse," Connor said, rubbing the old nag's shoulder as he followed her into the hall.

He missed her sharp glance, for his own eyes were staring, big as a bairn's on Beltain night, watching the bonfires burn.

The doors closed behind him with the sound of parchment crumpling and he stood there in the great hall in his sweat-stained wool and leather, heavy pack slung over his back, his hair uncombed and his face and hands smudged with dirt, smelling of horse and man and the road.

The moment he entered he knew he'd guessed wrong, disastrously so, about the woman, her father and all.

The world itself altered about him, as it did when he encountered another immortal.  His perceptions were heightened; he smelled more odors, saw farther and sharper, heard louder and softer, higher and lower, felt texture and weave an inch from his hand -- 

Tasted life's blood and death's sting before they began.

His heart sped up its beat, his mind raced a thousand times faster; he felt others slow, and knew his steel would be there before theirs.

All about him tall, beautiful men and women clustered, supercilious smiles and tittering smirks hidden behind long-fingered hands or lace and horn fans.  None there were honest men, as he knew it, but his eye took their measure and the shape and metal of their swords, even as he thought, inconsequentially, The peacock would have traded his head for their clothes.  He looked again to be sure, but the smith in him knew his trade.  The elegant men and women's graceful movements were an adder's sinuous dance; the swords and ornaments were bronze and gold and silver.

In the whole of the hall, in the whole of the world that was now about him, the only things that held cold iron were with him, and on him, and in him.

Connor MacLeod smiled, the light glinting off half-hidden teeth.

"Come and meet my father," the woman said, taking his arm.  He remembered his groin had stirred before when she touched him.

Not now. 

Ramirez' voice came clearly to him, with all the tales he'd heard of the fey ones.  Take no gifts from them, the old haggis told him.  Eat no food, drink no drink.  And time is not the same here, it runs not as it runs under the sun and the stars -- get out now.

But the doors were closed behind him, and there were many of them, and bronze made good swords.  Then be cautious, the peacock bid him.  And Connor MacLeod laughed that rasping laugh of his; it grated through the hall and snapped harp strings where it echoed.

She tugged him to the great chairs at the center of the dais, and bowed low.  "My father," she said, and triumph was in her voice, "I have brought you a traveler from out of the wide world."

"So you have," the dark lord said, and his voice could lull a wasps' nest, low and warm with the greeting of a guest.  "And you have done well, indeed, for he is the only one that our kin have found this night; this special night, the longest night of all the year.

"Well come you are to our hall, man of Adam's blood.  Come eat and drink with us; what gifts shall we grant you for the favor of your presence here?"

Connor stood, a head and more smaller than the tall lords around him, his eyes straight and unblinking at the splendid king who sat enthroned.  Now he could see the eyes clearly, slitted black pupils shining with inhuman malice and spite.

His own gaze glinted back, red pin-pricks of light dancing in the darkened windows of his soul.  He stepped up to the dais and on it, never heeding the indrawn breaths or the whisper of metal.  His spine was straight as a war-god's spear, and his hands rested lightly, oh-so-lightly, on his sword and his pack.

He would have spoken, but a stir behind him made him turn, though never so far as to put his back to the elf-king.

"A babe," he heard whispered.  "A babe for us to play with.  A babe for us to pay with."

One of the lordlings had entered, exultation in his bearing and a swaddled infant in his arms.

"An unbaptized man-child at that," the other said, bringing the newborn up to the dais.

"A fine babe," Connor's guide said, licking her lips as she crowded close to the infant, many hands reaching to touch, greed and something baser on each beautiful face.  The Sidhe climbed the step to bring the foundling closer to the king.

The infant woke, crying.

Connor MacLeod looked on.  He was seventy-four mortal years old, and felt the weight of every one of them.  Heather would have loved the bairn, she'd wanted one so much.  After Ramirez had informed him he was barren, he'd told Heather he'd take her to the hilltop, the nights of the year the Lady made free to women, for someone else to seed her... but she'd narrowed her eyes at him, and he'd hastily backed down.  (One thing Ramirez had drummed into his head, over and over -- never argue with a woman.  Take her head if you must, and quickly, but don't give her time to open her mouth.)

After that... he'd prayed to every god there was, at every crossroads, every river shrine, given candles to the Church and berries and hares to the Lady's hollow in Donan Wood.  All for naught... Nothing could fill her empty womb.  As time had passed, the longing had lessened in her, but never been lost.

And now here was a red-cheeked, black-haired babe that Heather and he might have claimed for their own, a foundling cast aside... too late.

Too late?  You'll no' leave him to such as that, Connor MacLeod! he heard his blossom scold at him; heard, as well, the old songs singing in the back of his head, of a tithe paid to Hell by the fair folk, a tithe of man's flesh instead of their own.

He tore his eyes from the bonny pink face and cast quick glances below and behind him.

Well, it's no' the odds I'd be wishing for... His hand found the stoppered flask at his belt full of water from the well by the smithy, and stealthily worked at the ashwood plug wrapped with yarn.  His shrewd eyes glanced at the babe again, mind remembering what the priest had told him, times he'd gone with Heather when she'd midwifed... how any man could baptize an infant near to death.  Now what were the words again?  He knew them well enough, though none had chosen a smith outcast from his clan as a sponsor for their bairn... Casually, he stepped forward, the cold iron of the pack on his shoulders, the wrought-iron buckles of his plaid and belt and scabbard pushing away the throng.  Never did he think he'd be glad his blossom wouldn't let him spend his bawbies on siller and gilt.

"A braw bairn," he said, and brought his hand up with the flask and upended it as he continued in a rasp like a whetstone laid on a sword.  "I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."  The babe let out an awful yowl as the water poured down its face; the lordling holding the newborn jerked away, his mouth flying open with a shriek of disgust as water ran over the swaddling clothes, soaking them.  A hissing noise came from where the water dribbled down to his arm, and he dropped the infant, careless of its safety.

Connor caught the infant nimbly, wrapping it in his plaid as, with a deft, lightning touch, he marked a wet cross on the babe's forehead, smeared more water across the nostrils and ears, and spilled what was left of the flask onto the clothes and into the babe's open, rosebud mouth.

It licked at the water and stopped crying, its eyes growing wide in surprise. A bubble of saliva spat from the scrunched-up lips, and the fresh smell of warm urine was added to the cold baptismal flow.

Aye, piss on us all, lad -- you're a true son of Adam, Connor thought with grim humor, stepping away from the babe's captor, who was tearing at his clothing in an attempt to get away from the water, hallowed by the words said over it.

Connor never minded the wet linen; he'd had worse on him and in him.

Then the hiss of the assembled Sidhe hit him with a physical force, and Connor's head came up, the babe cradled under his left arm as he swiftly formed a sling with a fold of his plaid, his leather belt and iron buckles.

Too many for steel, he thought coldly, and the elf-king behind him spoke, his words amused.

"A poor guest, to take his hosts' entertainment with him.  How should we let you leave?"

His head cocked to half-face the lord on the dais, but his reply formed itself in his mouth as he'd heard the charm seeking justice crooned before a lord's seat before, and he spoke without thinking:

"I will wash my face
In the nine rays of the sun,
As Mary washed her Son
In the rich fermented milk.
Black is yonder town,
Black are those within,
I am the white swan,
Queen above them.
I will travel in the name of God,
In likeness of deer, in likeness of horse,
In likeness of serpent, in likeness of king:
Stronger will it be with me than with all persons."

"It's good of you tae ask, but I'll no' take cuid-oidhche frae thee or thine," Connor said mockingly, and the king's teeth bared at the insult, his kinsmen hissing in dismay.

"Nor am I your guest nor are you mine host; no tie between us.  I've done no service for you or your kin, nor to you or your kin, nor will I.  I'll not eat nor drink with you.  I take no gifts from you, nor can you grant me any I might wish to have.

"Your daughter bid me see her to your hall, if so she truly is to you," Connor added mercilessly in his harsh croak.  "Having done so, now I go, with my brother and my son, Adam's own -- and none of thine."  His hand found a pin he'd forged for Heather long and long ago, and fastened the swaddling clothes and the plaid together securely; a brooch of iron twisted in the shape of a juniper branch, a powerful charm.

The courtiers stilled, as if a statue or some dumb beast had spoken with the tongue of man, breaking a natural law that was ordained could not be broken.

Connor turned his back and looked his fill at what lay before him, for he'd never see it again whether he and the babe got out alive or not, that was certain.

It was glittering and magnificent and all he'd ever imagined a king's court would be.  Under hill or no, the walls were gilded until they rose, curving, from his sight, the roof so far above he could not see it, lost in shadow as it was.  The torches reflected the splendor of the hall from the precious metals and cut gems that encrusted the sides of the room, while the floor was polished marble, ghost-white and glimmering with its own pale glow to mirror the finely dressed lords and ladies as they danced to music that would make a crone deafened from birth swoon with rapture.

But for all the fire that he saw, all the light that burst and lanced through the throng and about it, it was cold.

Frigid as the wind whipping off Beinn Bahn -- and yet that chill was a decent coldness, a sun-lit iciness that shocked a man to life.

This... this cold numbed a man, mind and body, dulled him to burnt-out ash.  It was dark and black and bitter and belonged to graves and barrows.

He drew on the babe's wet warmth and found within him that place that told him where he was and what he was.  He sighted a line to where he'd entered the hall, stepped down to the floor and began walking towards the great doors.

I told you to be cautious, pendejo! the old haggis told him. 

I am being cautious; why do you think I have my pack covering my back?  And don't tell me you'd do different, you Egyptian peacock, not with a babe's life at stake.  Thanks be to the Lady his pack was full of cold iron.

His sword was in his hand; he couldn't remember when he'd drawn it, but the cold steel cleared his way as nothing else would have in this crowd.  The whisper of metal scraped across his nerves and he wondered how many he could take down before the bronze swords carved him into giblets, but he didn't turn.

He could see the doors now, and his nerves skipped from head to toe and down each side as well.

And then he could see nothing for the mass of folk who stood between them and their escape, and he cursed inside himself. I can't hew through all of them, he thought, and knew they'd found a trick he couldn't counter.  If he put his sword out to part them, the women could entangle it in cloth, and he'd have the men's swords in his stomach a moment later.

Their eyes staring at him were black as a flock of crows, waiting on the trees about a battlefield.

But he'd no mind to be their food.

A sword or two came in his direction; a spear thrust at him as they'd try to take a boar down.  But the steel of the katana clove the bronze as cleanly as wood, and the spear's shank crumbled when it hit the cold iron on his back.  The metal of their swords wavered in front of him, and he knew they'd no stomach for fighting face-to-face.  He had the dagger from his boot in his left hand by now; he slashed with the blade and saw a shawl leap forth to catch it -- and shrivel as it touched cold iron.  Woven by their ane hands, nae doubt, and of their own silk.  I may get out of here yet, he thought, and knew it for a lie.

They backed another step, sucking him forward -- until a tall lordling with stars in his eyes cast a silken loop off the tip of his sword to encircle the babe.

A murmur from the throng rose to a harmony not meant for human ears to hear, and he gasped as the breath went from him, the babe bound to his side changing as the night turns to day, the winter to spring, the dead to life.

It was a piglet that squealed at him, wriggled to be free; a small mouse, quick to leap away; a spitting cat that bit at him, a badger fierce whose digging claws near disemboweled him, a wolf-cub at his throat, a lion...

Then a slimy newt, a snake with poisoned fangs, a pile of dog droppings crawling with maggots... shattered glass sharper than a sword's edge, wild-fire burning black with heat.

Through it all, Connor MacLeod held fast, his hand scarce fast enough to catch the mouse, his blood staining his tunic where the badger found him, the snake's fangs fastened in his arm...  But a smith's hands are born to hold fire; he brought the dagger up while it ate through his callouses and sheared the silken loop -- and the babe was a babe again.

Burned, his hand healed quickly, and his sword kept a wall of steel before him as he slowly gave ground -- until finally he halted, his back to stone and metal.  He swallowed, wishing for the flask of water, now hanging empty at his belt.

And now he could see the doors, though still there lay a mort of fair folk and death betwixt he and they. Steel won't do it; what's left?

The sharp hum of bows being strung honed his mind even keener.

"We do not give you leave to go, dog!" a fair one hissed at him, venomous as a serpent, her voice rising to intone:

"Thou man who would travel lightly,
There is red blood upon thy shirt;
Not the blood of roe nor blood of deer,
But blood of thy body, and thou full of wounds."

"If I'm a dog, I am not yours.  An' what name will you use to chant my coronach, bean tuirim?" Connor asked, his own teeth bared.  His voice rose above the angry murmurs.  "If you name me, then you have me -- but ye cannae, can ye?"  His scraped-scale laugh cut through their words.

"Oh, aye, ye make fine port-a-beul, don't ye?  But I hae some tae say as well."  Connor bent his head to the babe, his sweat dropping on it like the baptismal water.

"I place the protection of God about thee,
Mayest thou be shielded from every peril,
May the Gospel of the God of grace
Be from thy crown to the ground about thee.
May men love thee
And women not work thee harm."

"Bless, O Chief of generous chiefs
Himself and everything near him, 
Bless him in all my actions, 
Make Thou him safe for ever, 
Make Thou him safe forever..."

He saw the cloud of glittering dust descend on him, slow as time and quick as blood.  He tucked the babe under his arm and jerked a fold of cloth to cover all its bared flesh.  But his thought for the bairn gave him his doom; the fine grit touched his skin and filled his every pore.

His mouth swallowed it, made it of his substance, drank it down; his nose breathed it into his blood and bone; his ears heard it, and the sound filled his world; his skin felt it and his hands touched only nothingness; his eyes beheld it and there was nothing but ice and black fire and the end of the world.

He died; descended into death and died -- 

And came to life again, on one knee and his blade still straight, though sinking.

The hands that had reached him recoiled sharply in surprise or horror -- how could he tell? -- and the press of bodies jerked back again, giving him a little space, a little time.

He took it, his teacher chiding him. Stay relaxed, pendejo; let the enemy come to you.  Surprised?  Out of control?  Off balance?  Rebuild yourself before you move again.

Feel no pain, feel no fear.  Take it in and expel it; breathe it in; breathe it out.

He needed his eyes and his hands and himself; he spit out what he could of the gift of the Sidhe from his mouth and his voice was a file over rusted steel as he chanted Mary's Augury, a charm from the old gods glossed with the White Christ.

"God over me,
God before me, God behind me,
I on thy path, O God,
Thou, O God, in my steps...
Son of beauteous Mary, King of life,
Give Thou me eyes to see all my quest,
With grace that shall never fail, before me,
That shall never quench nor dim."

The lordly ones stood there, shocked to see him still standing, hate in their eyes where they turned from his voice and the invocation, but strong in their hate; still strong, and barring the path to the true world to him and the babe.

Connor felt drops of sweat begin to trickle down his neck and brow, and he knew he'd lost more blood from dagger's edges he'd not seen that sliced cloth and flesh where iron did not cover (though every blade that struck iron crumbled, and its owner screamed with pain).  A sly spear sought him out, and the iron tip of his scabbard brushed it; a thin male slid away, moaning, his hands reddened.

He would not look at the fair folk, not with his new clarity of vision. Instead, his gaze fixed on an ornate pin thrust through the dress of the lady who'd brought him; a stag leapt to freedom forever denied it, bound by a circle.

A stag.

You old piece of haggis, how many times have you saved my arse?  I'll burn two candles for you in Edinburgh, he promised, and took his answer, as he'd done so many times already, from the peacock's teachings.  He threw his mind out as the old immortal had taught him.

You become your quarry, he'd said. Feel him.  Feel him breathe.  Feel the wind on his back, the thirst in his throat, the muscles of his legs...

Feel his thoughts.

Become him.

He was old and inhuman and shapeless as an icy spring...  He felt nothing for kith or kin, but power moved him with a greed like thick, cold poison, like a wasp's sting and a spider's bite and salt-seeded earth.  And this is the power, and you gathered it so, and you took it so-- 

Force.  Strength.  Might.  Different from his own immortal power, but the same... all the same, to be used.

He drew it to him, pooled it in him in the places where he was dry.  He swelled with the knowledge, soaking it up as a thirsty man drinks water, the frigid power filling him, making him, marking him its own.  He was young and so empty he could store it all within him; saturate the walls of his body and soul and self.  He brushed them aside to take more.

He saw, though not through his eyes, the wave of vertigo that blew through the folk like a wind over a wheat field -- a golden field, ripe for the harvest.  He tapped the core of them and saw them topple, his way now clear before him.

He could not move.

So much power.  And still their greed was in him and of him; he could not let it go.  Stay, it whispered. Stay and use it.  Stay and rule.

What are they? he asked himself, and knew the question was the answer.  Ancient of days, inhuman and kindred... he fell into them, spiraling down and down into their black, pitiless eyes that had seen mankind's rise and hoped to see its ebb... power they had, and he felt its greatness and its decline, diminishing with the rise of the ape-folk.  But still they wove their webs and accounted themselves among the great...

But falling.

They did not feel, as he felt... inhuman passion moved them, but not love nor hate nor anything that might have made him hold his hand.  Their desire was for power, and they vied for it as others fought for food or water or territory.  And yet they disdained man, whose needs they deemed baser than their own.  And from that disdain dripped a malice, cold as midnight, covering their great fear.  They could not understand the ape-folk, though the ape-folk could ken them; and they knew that lack of knowledge would destroy them.

He dreamed them, loved them, hated them, encompassed them, as they surrounded and were part of the earth and fire and water and air.  He drank their power as he'd drink clean water and shed his skin to shrug theirs on, the wind whispering to him, earth enfolding him, water lapping him, fire consuming him, until all he could feel was...

Everything.

He took the passion, burning like ice too cold to touch, and folded it into himself, into the empty places where his dreams had been...

He became them and saw with their eyes, thought with their thoughts.  All of humanity was spread before him to ken, warts, pimples and all... the evil that men do, the horrors they inflict on themselves and others... all the darkness and the filth and the crawling maggotry of men... the terrors and the cowardice, the betrayals and self-serving greed, the small hypocrisies and the great ones, the lies... the lies that beget lies that beget lies...

He saw it all, through eyes that were beyond mankind, every aspect of the ape-folk that they knew laid before him, brought before him, shoved down his throat to gag him...

The heart of him watched as the ice crystals formed in his bones, creeping within him like a glacier grinding a path through the mountains, settling in its chosen spot at the back of his head to lie there for eternity.  It swallowed his youth like a tasty morsel and gave back to him an inhuman ferocity that filled him like a wind, a current that felt nothing, loved nothing, knew nothing but its will and its path... found parts of him he'd never wished to know and froze them in its icy heart.

I don't want this, he told himself, and a thousand echoes whispered, 'Yes, you do'.

I don't want this, he cried out.

Don't you, pendejo?  Then stop it!

How?

How else?  This is what they want -- you've become one of them.  Find yourself!

Find himself?  He looked for his center, to find it covered with ice; fled down the roots of himself as if the hounds of hell were at his heels, and came at last to bay in his heart again, as alone as he'd been when they stripped him of his name and cast him out, clanless.

Oh, really?

He jerked his head around, panting.  The old haggis was there on his fine horse, looking down at him with exasperation in his stare.  Did you learn nothing from me, then?

Ramirez stared at the sky, arms folded.

Connor approached him, tentatively laid his hand on the velvet-clad thigh; the old man swung down off his horse and knocked him to the ground with a blow, then picked him up and embraced him.

We are brothers!

Tears... tears trickled down and began the melt... 

He cried until his heart felt on fire; a hushed voice stopped him as he lay there, weeping, spring in his heart and the beginning of growth.

What is it, love?  Why are you lying there?  There's work to be done!

He rolled to his feet to see Heather, arms akimbo, sparks flying at him from her lively blue eyes.

But... but I can't!

Can't?  I'll show you can't, Connor MacLeod!

Chased by a soup-ladle, Connor tore back along the path he'd come by; hearing his bonny lassie behind him, elation tore at him, sparked in him, filled him with mortal delight; the scorching summer sun blazed down on him and he took fire from it and burned with immortal flame.

The thin, watery melt became a raging river as the ice thawed and went into his blood.  The glacier retreated, condensed and compacted itself, forming an frozen, stubborn core that would not yield, could not grow... could only change itself from the black bitter ice of its progenitors to the clear, crystalline ice of its new master.

Ramirez' great, booming gales of laughter followed him and Heather as they dodged and swiped at each other all through his self, finally collapsing back where they'd begun... in his heart.

Blossom.

He'd seen with their eyes and knew with their mind; but he felt with his heart, human though immortal.  And he saw, as his soul trembled from the assault and found courage in his love, that they waited for his failure, for the breaking of his self at their behest.

His mouth opened, breath coming in short pants, as he pondered in that space without time and time without world -- 

He yielded to his heart.

It grew to bursting in him as he accepted the evil, the lies, the fear and the greed... and moved on to embrace the good, the honesty, the sacrifice and honor and... and the love and the laughter that sustained those who had nothing else. 

He saw with their black ravens' eyes... and he wept tears from them as they could not, leaching the salt-sweet bitterness from the shadowed depths that could not cry.  He accepted all knowledge they thrust within him and welcomed their own memories and desires.  He made himself part of all that was and is and would be, human and fey, ancient and new-born.

As they could not.

They flinched.  They fled from him, down the hills and through the valleys, hid in crannies, burrowed into their earths, flowed through the waters and washed into the sea, all to escape the knowledge they'd gifted him, the curse they'd laid on him -- and never asked themselves which was which.

Connor MacLeod inhaled slowly; no pain pierced his lungs.  He breathed again, lowered his head and looked before him.

The fair folk who could move were feebly attempting to stand.  He took another deep breath and stepped forward, his muscles aching with the battle he'd fought.

The woman who'd brought him was in front of the doors on her knees, but her head was thrown back and her eyes were implacable. 

He could feel her still; could sense all her kin with her, and knew he'd have some part of them with him the rest of his days, pale revenants entwined with the others of his own kind he'd killed and would kill.

It did not matter.  In his heart, he burned.  Even the glacier still within him burned, with a cold flame that was anathema to the fair ones' own bitter ice.

"No mortal man are you, to come and go from under the hill; no son of Adam to die in Faerie and live again.

"What lesser beast whelped you in an ill-timed hour?" she thrust at him.

He smiled; Heather's love pulsed within him, and Ramirez... if he grew to half the man Ramirez had been, he'd die content.

She saw she hadn't touched him, and spat.  "Cursed be you, who take of our power.  Take with you our eyes, to see what's not seen; take with you our ears to hear what's not said; take with you our feet, to walk hidden ways; take with you our touch, to grasp the unknown; taste Death before you, and know your own dying --"

He threw back his head and laughed and she flinched from the harsh sound.  "I'd not take your curses, no more I'd take your gifts.  Blessings be from my Lady, and the White Christ give you peace."

He sheathed his sword and walked past her and through the open doors as she threw herself away from the cold steel -- and his benison.

"Curses on you and in you and with you, willing or no!  No man leaves our land save he be altered," he heard, but heeded it not.  His mind was on his journey, and he began the charm of the warrior; a benediction which, he hoped, would bring them out safe:

"...The sword of Michael be on thy side,
The shield of Michael on thy shoulder;
There is none between sky and earth
Can overcome the King of grace.
Edge will not cleave thee,
Sea will not drown thee,
Christ's banners round thee,
Christ's shadow over thee;
From thy crown to the sole,
The charm of virtue covers thee.
You will go in the King's name,
And come in your Commander's name;
Thou belongest to God and all His powers...
Go, with the charm about thee,
And let no fear be on thee!
Thou wilt ascend the tops of cliffs,
And not be thrown backwards;
Thou art the calm Swan's son in battle,
Thou wilt stand amid the slaughter;
Thou wilt run through five hundred,
And thy oppressor will be caught;
God's charm be about thee!
People go with thee!"

He brought the infant out in the faint light of stars and saw with startlement that it was still several hours until dawn.  He must have come out almost as soon as he'd entered -- though it had felt like a hundred years in the great, gilded, echoing hall behind them.  Wrapped damply under his arm, the babe gurgled and whimpered and yawned with its pink bud of a mouth.  He clasped it to his breast, looking down on it as he swayed with relief and the passing of fear.

A bairn was there, and a child and a man... a dark angel, an immortal with the heart of a lion and the plaid of a MacLeod...

He blinked and the babe poked him in the eye.

"And that's what you get for dreaming," he told it in his thick, raspy voice, enfolding the tiny fist in his own strong grasp.

"Come along, my dark warrior," he crooned as best he could.  "We've to find you a mother.  Now, what do you say to that?"

The babe spat up on him, then snuggled close and slept.

He fed the old nag a few oats as an apology for its lack of rest, then swung his saddle up and tied his packs on.  Carrying the weight had tired him almost as much as the lack of sleep, but he wanted to be as far from this spot as he could before the sun came up.

The chill felt good to him -- felt clean, like the smell of dirt and horses, and he stood, just a moment, breathing deeply.

Why do I still feel strange? he wondered, then dismissed the thought.  No man had dealings with the lordly ones and walked out again without some change.  He'd be more than lucky if nothing came ill of it.  He casually glanced back at the side of the mountain, expecting to see granite scars and scrubby firs and bracken.

From the corner of his eye, there was only rock grown thick with moss and weed.  But when he stared directly at the hollow hill — 

Lines of fire traced ancient carved stone doors across the mountain's face before they faded to show him only the outline of the gate.

At dawn's light, he stopped on the rise overlooking Loch Shiel and the rude huts of Glenfinnan.  He'd had to retrace his steps a bit to make their way to his old village, but he'd not thought twice about it.  It just seemed... right.

When he brought the babe out of the safe pocket he'd tucked it into, he found the bairn had wetted and dirtied his one change of clothing.  To be expected, of course.  Connor dug deep in another side-pocket of his pack, the one that contained Heather's miniature and the things she thought precious, and found, sewn all around in a linen pouch, a length of wool tartan salvaged from the MacLeod plaid he'd been wearing when they drove him out of the clan fifty-six years ago.  He shook his head at a woman's fancy, and then wrapped the moth-eaten cloth about the tiny form.  At least it was clean, and warm.

A sprinkle of the faerie-dust had worked its way through the folds of his plaid and lay on the child's face and skin while he worked to clean and clothe it.  Its tiny hands rubbed at the glittery stuff, and Connor wiped it away from where it lay on the rosebud mouth.

"That's no' the sort of thing ye want inside ye," he told the foundling, watching the luster fade into the pink skin as the sun's light glinted from the hilltops.  The tot blew spittle bubbles out at him, lower lip pouting, and then gurgled rosily.  The face of the man leaning over the infant softened from its harsh contours.

"Glenfinnan's no' a bad place to grow up, boy," Connor murmured to the babe, who began to placidly gnaw on his fingers.  "Though I'd no' recommend it for after you're dead.  Now, mind your manners and we'll find you a decent family."

He squinted at the village... there was some activity in the murky gloom, and a thoughtful look settled on his face.  With the babe in his arms, he let the horse pick its way down the hill and stopped at a tinker's fire, set outside the village.  He dismounted and went to the bucket of water kept by the fire, dipping a drink.  The infant he loosened from his plaid and brought it out, a smile playing about his lips.  Oh, aye, a bonny babe... if he couldnae be ours, he'll still be a MacLeod, my blossom.  Now what did I miss?  Ah...

He took up the dipper and dripped a drop or two on the babe, whispering in his thick voice, "I stand sponsor to thee, and on your behalf I renounce Satan, and all his works, and all his pomps."  He sighed, then, knowing he'd done all he could. 

The grandmother, already working by the light of the flames, had been staring at him suspiciously, but knew better than to anger an armed stranger, and her men more likely to sell her than fight.  Connor gave the new-born into her hands.

"Go tae the chieftain's lodge," he told her.  "His wife will welcome the babe."

She looked at him with dark suspicion.  "An' what's for me an' mine?" she muttered.  "There be months of winter left, and we short of help and all, wi' nae place tae bide..."

Connor's face turned to the wagon and the two men lying underneath it, still asleep.

"You've need of a younger woman," he said softly, and the grandmother drew back, her fingers making a sign to ward evil off.  "If you do as I say," Connor continued, his face impassive, "You'll have another to help you when you leave this morning."

"We'd no plans to leave --" the crone began to mumble, and then the first rays of the dawn, the forerunners of the sun in all its glory, came over the hill and she saw his face full-on.

"Let me go, then," she said, her toothless gums working, and, with the foundling in her arms, scurried down the path, finding a watchman to take her to the chieftain's rude hut.

Connor got back on the horse and considered things.  The light was growing, and he could see the village clearly now, more clearly than he'd ever seen it... as it had been when he was a child in it, as it was now... as it would be thirty years hence, and more...  Perhaps I hae been changed, eh, haggis?  I was never this fanciful before...

Or never saw what was truly there, a dry Egyptian voice told him.

Mayhap.  They'll be coming now...

They?

The tinker's woman came back up the hill with another, younger woman stumbling after, a hastily-tied bundle in her hands.  She was crying, wailing that she didn't deserve banishment, that it was a devil's child, but only silence followed her out of the village.  When she saw Connor sitting on his horse she almost ran to him.

"Sir and master, aid me now in Mary's name!  My laird's been bewitched by the devil, taken in a changeling, a child of the fair folk and no mistake!  Can ye no' --"  She caught her speech in mid-breath as Connor leaned down from his saddle and she saw his eyes.

"In the Mother's name I give you greeting," Connor whispered, but for all the quiet of his voice it shook the men and dogs out of their rag-woven blankets, and they stood before him, blinking.

"In Three-fold name I blessed that child and baptized him and sponsored him," he went on evenly.  "But I have no blessing for those without charity in their heart; not for those who'd harm a babe, and he more innocent than any man or woman grown."

The woman shrank away and made to hide herself, but there was no shelter from his eyes.

"These need a healer to travel with them," Connor said after a pause.  "And a midwife kens that trade, I'd judge; nae doubt they'll take you with them, and ye ask.

"But best ye be gone, and quickly too.  I've no need of telling you, I suppose, what might happen to a woman, or the folk she travels with, if loose tales were spread of changelings or the birth of a chieftain's son?"

"Nay, laird," she whispered, and the crone and the men nodded hastily.

"For I'd hear," Connor said mercilessly, and smiled more terribly than the sun rising behind him.  "The wind would come tell me, and I'd find you..."

He shook his head.  "But that won't happen.  Here's siller for your trouble," he tossed the crone a piece and the midwife too; they caught at the coins, greed outweighing their fear.

Connor nodded to them all, not letting a vision of their future weigh on him.  Nae man can save the world, he told himself, and knew its truth.  He lifted the rein and drummed his heels into the old nag's sides, feeling its disdain for his impatience.  After all, the road was always there, wasn't it?

He pulled up a few hours later, when he was well away from the lands he was born in, and glanced about him, putting away old memories with the mist-filled light of morning. The winter's turned; spring comes, he said to himself and reined the old nag south, towards Edinburgh once more.

He worked it out in his head as they cantered down the new road.  Thirty years or so he made it... 

The lad would make a likely student.

Duncan stirred the fire; as usual, Connor had been up before him, seeming to need no sleep, and had disappeared without a trace into the forest.  Then, when breakfast was ready, his teacher stepped around a tree that Duncan swore couldn't have hidden a rabbit, much less a man, and dropped on his heels in front of the fire.

"It's time," Connor said, and Duncan's heart skipped a beat.  "We'll go to Beinn Bahn."

His strange eyes looked through Duncan, who stared back, all his heart and soul laid bare.

"We'll finish your training there."

"We will?"  Duncan asked, uncertainly.  "Connor, how do you know that?

"Connor?

"Connor!"

"So, why don't you talk about him?" Richie persisted, after dinner.

Duncan threw a pillow at him.

"I don't talk about Connor because... because if I do, he might show up," Duncan finally said, out of sheer exasperation.

Richie howled with laughter.

"You mean like the demon king?  He'll appear 'puff' in a cloud of smoke?  Ah, come on, Mac..."

A wave of presence rolled over them, a rip-tide of a current that left behind gut-wrenching disorientation, and Duncan scrambled for his sword while Richie was still holding his head.

The door popped open and a short, sandy-haired man slid through it, the katana in his hand neatly blocking the slice of Duncan's matching blade.

"Bloody lousy locks ye hae," the elder highlander grumbled, and headed for the whiskey with unerring instinct.
 
 

The Gaelic, the charms, and a few other things were taken from The Folklore of the Scottish Highlands by Anne Ross, who took most of it from John Campbell's Popular Tales of the West Highlands, published somewhere in the middle 1800's.

cuid-oidhche - a night's portion or share, due to a lord from his men.

coronach - singings (lament) usually eulogies or a recital of valiant deeds of the dead man and his ancestors, hunting prowess, largesse, etc. 

bean tuirim - mourning women employed to sing the coronach

port-a-beul - mouth-music

pendejo -  pubic hair; a coward

people have visited the hollow hills since 5/30/01 when I got counters back up!
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