Disclaimer:
The first part will be very familiar to those who have seen "Band of Brothers." Marie-Chantal Droney wrote the episode. What Duncan and Darius feel and think is just my interpretation. They belong to someone else. I just borrowed them for a short time, and return them undamaged. No money was made, just enjoyment from writing. Thank you to Wildcat for the picture!
by lynnannCDC
Duncan MacLeod struggled to carry his wounded comrade-in-arms over the slippery ground, his eyes darting to the left and to the right. He was looking for any place he could lay his friend that was not three inches of mud, water or snow. The battle had moved on, but the ground was scattered with broken wagons and cannon, and strewn with the wounded and the dead. When darkness came, so would the scavengers. They looted without regard to whether the body was alive or dead. For some it was a matter of greed, for others, a matter of survival. It had always been so in times of war and destruction. The living had to survive any way they could find.
Cannon fire sounded in the distance from enemy guns and nearby from British guns. Some occasional musket fire was close at hand. The groans and screams of the wounded soldiers echoed around him, until it all rang in his ears, as it had many times before. God! He hated this. What was he doing here, in the midst of this turmoil? He had seen the Revolution in France first hand and the deaths of innocent people, rich and poor alike. The thought of Napoleon ruling all of Europe put him firmly on the opposite side, even if meant wearing the hated British uniform. And now, on the battlefield, he struggled to keep as many of his men alive as possible. He would rather be anywhere else in the world, but it was his duty to his men to remain. He would not abandon them. As the son of a clan chieftain, the son of Ian MacLeod, desertion was unthinkable.
He almost stumbled to the ground when he felt the presence of another Immortal. It was only the rifle barrel gripped in his right hand that helped to steady his footing. "Why now? Damn!" he thought. He scanned the bodies scattered around him, the wounded men walking in dazed silence, but he could not distinguish the identity of his foe. When the hooded priest brushed past him, MacLeod suddenly had no doubt. He had once met another who had hidden on holy ground in the guise of a monk. If he ever met that bastard again, he would have his head. He reached for his sword, drawing it six inches from its scabbard.
"I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."
"I'm Darius," the holy man said quickly, quietly, and then he glanced down at the partially drawn sword. He dismissed the saber calmly with his look. "You won't need that."
Duncan blinked. Darius! He had heard of the legendary Immortal who remained on holy ground, and he was stunned to meet him. He had never expected it, certainly not here. He wanted to demand an explanation for the old one's presence on the battlefield. However, the older Immortal was already motioning for the younger one to put his heavy burden on the ground.
Darius examined the face of the injured man. "Those we cannot heal, we bury to prevent disease. Infection kills more than all the English and French cannons." His voice was sad at the irony.
"The surgeons said he would die of infection, to bring him straight here."
"Perhaps I can save him." His smile was one of knowledge.
"From the fevers? How?" Duncan felt a first glimmer of hope that the day would not be a total loss.
"Give me that tin cup, and fill it with snow." Darius pulled a small glass vial from his robes.
MacLeod took the snow-filled cup and held it over the flames of a small fire, and then returned to the side of the Immortal priest. "Here."
"Hold this. There are medicines that have been lost to modern doctors." Darius looked up at MacLeod and smiled. Both had lived through enough "modern" times to realize, in another decade or so, this day would seem backwards in comparison. The priest shook some of the white powder into the cup. He held it to the wounded man's lips, urging him to drink.
"We wait. It will take hours."
"Hours?" MacLeod repeated. There was a battle raging. He could not wait hours to see if the priest's ancient cure would work.
"Yes." Darius said with patience.
The young Immortal realized Darius had probably been in the same position himself. Although their lives might be long, and it would seem as if they had all the time in the world, they were still human. The mind did not usually extend past the day-to-day living they experienced, except for planning for the uncertain future. Would they be alive next week? In fifty years? In two hundred years?
He stood away, listening to the distant sounds. "Well, how goes the battle?"
"Why does that matter to you? Napoleon may lose a campaign; Wellington may win a great victory. What have they really won or lost? Their reputation? These men have been robbed of their most precious possession." Duncan knew what the ancient one meant. They had been robbed of their lives, and their future; robbed of the joy of seeing their children grow.
"You shouldn't be taking part in this tragedy," Darius chastised gently.
MacLeod drew himself up to his full height, shaking off the doubt he had just experienced. "I was raised a warrior. I choose battles I believe to be just."
"Oh, I'm sure. You're quite loyal to your convictions and compatriots. But I wonder what these men think about that, about convictions and compatriotism now?"
MacLeod looked at the dead and dying men around him. He had no answer.
"Come, my young warrior. Pick up your friend. He has swooned, and it won't hurt him to be moved just now. He will be better cared for at the church down the road. And I think you could do with a meal as well."
The freak June snowstorm had stopped, but it had turned into a gentle rain. The storm eventually drifted further east, and the sun occasionally peaked through the clouds. Outside the small stone church that housed the wounded that had made it that far, the priest stirred a small pot over the small fire. MacLeod's nose twitched at the smell of the simmering stew. "I have heard of you. I thought you never left your church," MacLeod said, watching the Immortal pour a drink from a kettle that had been to one side of the fire. "That sounds like an accusation," Darius said, passing the tin cup to the younger man. "Forgive me, Father Darius, I meant nothing by it." He was horrified that his words were misconstrued. "And that sounds too much like confession, Duncan MacLeod. Some of my friends just call me Darius. I hope you will consider me a friend." His manner invited confidences that would be treated with as much respect as a confession. "I have heard of you as well. I knew I was in no danger from you out there." His head indicated the direction of the battle. "You've heard of me?" Duncan was astounded as he put the cup to his lips. He had done nothing remarkable, except survive for two centuries, a mere eye blink compared to this man. "You have friends among us, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. They thought I should meet you. They say you are a good man." Duncan spewed the liquid from his mouth. "That is vile! What is it?" He eyed the remaining contents of the cup with distaste and suspicion. "You don't want to know. Drink it up." "I think not. Even my mother never gave me anything as bad as that." "It won't kill you, my young friend." "Very funny. If I drink it, I would wish I were dead. Who's told you about me?" He set the unfinished cup on the ground, and took the plate Darius held out to him. "Brother Paul wrote to me many years ago, and Grace Chandel. She's in Paris just now. There were others, in passing." "I heard about you from Brother Paul. When I questioned his decision to remain on holy ground, he told me about you." "We choose not to fight, but we don't want to die, either." Darius stated the obvious. "That's what he said, but I still don't understand. It's a man's duty to serve." Duncan sniffed at and then ate a single suspicious bite of the food. When he found it to his liking, he began to eat ravenously, using his fingers to eat the chunks of stew, and the bread Darius had provided to sop the juices. "I chose to serve the cause of peace when I realized the grief and destruction I had caused as a man of conquest." "When you took the ancient one's head at the gates of Paris," Duncan supplied the legend he had heard. "Yes," Darius admitted, "when I received his quickening, it changed me completely. I knew I could never pick up another weapon, lest it feel too familiar, too easy. I will not kill again, Duncan." "Not even to save your life?" Darius shook his head. "Not even that." "To save the life of another?" Duncan persisted in his quest to understand this Immortal. Darius hesitated before answering. "Would I risk my life to save another? Yes, I would. I have. But being Immortal, it is no real risk, is it? But I will not raise my hand against another. Violence begets violence. I have to be an example by living my convictions, to reach as many as I can with my words, with my actions." "Are you trying to reach me, Darius?" "I haven't even started with you yet, Duncan MacLeod." "My father led our clan. He taught me to serve the people, to fight. I will always be a warrior." He stuffed the last bite of bread into his mouth. "Then be a warrior for peace. At least that would be a start." Duncan passed the empty plate to his host with his thanks. "A warrior for peace? That makes no sense." "In times of war there are many victims. Innocent people in the wrong place, or men like these." Darius waved a hand at the church. "We can not always tell the right or wrong of a conflict. Each side always feels they are right, that God is on their side, for whatever reason. Whether it is nation against nation, or neighbor against neighbor. There are always victims. Help them." Duncan was silent, thinking of the bloodshed he had seen in his twenty-two decades of life. Not Immortal deaths, but those of the victims, as the priest called them. The villages destroyed after Culloden came quickly to his mind. The victims were women, children and the old, not warriors, not instigators. The dark rage that had filled him, sending him on a rampage against the English soldiers, had eventually diminished after he killed the Earl. Part of him regretted the rage, but he had still not come to terms with what had happened. His British uniform suddenly felt suffocating and he pulled at the collar. "I am obliged to fulfill my enlistment." "And being an honorable man, you will. When your enlistment is completed, or when you... die, you might come and visit me in Paris. We will talk then." Duncan MacLeod stood, towering over the priest. He had his obligations, and he could not afford to be tempted by this priest, this Immortal. "I must get back to my men. Do what you can for Harry. He has a wife, and three young children." "I will do what I can, Duncan, I promise. Will you come to me in Paris?" "I don't know. I honestly do not know. But I will consider it." "It would be a good thing, to be a warrior for peace, my friend." "Aye, Father, it would. Watch your head." The Highlander turned and walked away from the priest and the holy ground, back to the battlefields created by mortal men. The Immortal priest had fed him with food that would last a day, and food that would last him the rest of his Immortal life. Back to lynnannCDC's Story Page
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