** Usual CYA disclaimer here about who owns what (I don't own nuthin'!) ** ...Plus a denial of using Marcus' band, M.E.L.T.'s song for anything other than a vehicle for my own overgrown imagination. No words were provided for this cut, so sue me if I got 'em wrong. Austrians singing English songs don't always make for clear lyrics. [g]
And don't blame me for this melodramatic mush. When the Brooding BoyScout (tm) comes and sits on your shoulder in the car while you've got the music cranked, what's a girl to do? And I don't even *like* writing him! Thanks to Dail, Lori and Anne who let me think it was *okay* but were too afraid to say anything much overall.
Warning: Songfic (or as close as I'll ever come)=======================================================
As much that you can breathe can't move Your heartbeat is a message she receives
"I'm losin' it," he thought as the brandy gently swirled around in the snifter, leaving a thick coating of liquor to flow down the sides of the glass. An eerie quiet, broken only by the occasional lapping of a wave against the hull, brought with it thoughts of events both recent and past.
He couldn't be the warrior meant to vanquish the evil mentioned in the journal. Just when he'd begun to realize how many shades of gray there actually *were*, just when he'd stopped judging. That's what it had been about all along. Judging, being judged and finally the discovery that judgment of one's self was simply an ache deep inside, caused by wounds that never really healed, immortal or no.
Duncan MacLeod tallied the names of those he'd decided weren't worthy of living and its enormity frightened him. When had he stopped being a warrior and a leader and thought himself a god, with all the benefits of judgment and punishment therewith?
"Don't you want to save the world, MacLeod? Or do you just want to save yourself?"
Yes! That was all he wanted. He was sick unto death of saving the world from evil when all along there'd been no evil at all...and the world didn't want to be saved. A subjective curse for mankind to determine his own good and evil had become the Scotsman's holy grail. And now that he'd thought his quest was over, he was losing his mind.
She says you're a stranger
what's your name.
There's no promise in her words,
but she laughs and takes your head as
is a moment
You're heart explodes
like coming homeHe'd come so close to taking *her* head. His sword had rested on the creamy flesh of her neck and she'd caressed the cold steel as a lover. Then looked at him with invitation and bid him take her head. And he'd taken so many...so many quickenings. It seemed of late the sword had become too easy an answer. The image of Ingrid flashed across his mind. Now, with time and distance, he couldn't recall why it had seemed so important to kill her. Kill them all...quickly before they contaminate the world. Don't let it spread like Kronos' virus. Had he spent so much time fighting his own perceived illusions of evil that some higher power had deemed him fit to save the world?
You're just a harrowed man
sometimes so high, sometimes lowdown
A harrowed man.
Sometimes so high, sometimes lowdown.He shook his head in denial. "You're blessed...and you're cursed." The hermit's whispered prophesy rang in his head. He sought neither blessings nor curses. He'd asked for none of it and now he was denied his simple need for peace as well. War had been so much a part of his life for so long, did he even know how to live in peace?
Duncan thought of the time he was looking forward to spending with Methos, narrowing the chasm of suspicion and wrongful judgment. There'd been too much said and still so much unsaid, but the ancient Immortal was always there in the shadows of his life, forcing him to deal with the wreckage of his black and white world. Now the words he'd spoken in anger and fear seemed a dream compared to this torment sent upon him. A log dropped into the fire, sending sparks flying onto the hearth. MacLeod jumped, spilling some of the brandy on his leg.
Today you start to realize
A nightmare just begun you.
You thought that she's an angel,
but she's a messenger from hell
sent to drown you.He'd thought her real...in a dreamy sort of way. Her playfulness urged him to believe she was there...alive and ready to take away all the confusion and doubt. Then her games turned deadly and he was forced to accept the visitation of another demon. And she knew how to play him well. "Is that any way to treat a lady?" His chivalrous past come back to haunt him. Duncan MacLeod never shirked his duty, never ran from a Challenge...and hated killing a lady.
The man sitting by the fire, gazing blindly into the flames mentally girded himself for what was demanded of him. Horton, Kronos...Allison. Their message rang clear for the first time. Be it his own demons or those of lost civilizations, he would fight them. If that's what it took to redeem himself in the eyes of those he'd wronged, he'd be that warrior.
In your weakness, your want
And you're lost.
Your memories,
Your memories!Walking over to the table, he picked up the hoary journal and read it once again..."Mac Leod...the next warrior." Squatting by the fire he felt the centuries of training, both mental and physical fight with his longing for peace. In a rush of anger at the gods who'd backed him into this corner, MacLeod threw the book into the flames. Let the fire destroy the demons! He'd have no part of it.
Sometimes so high, sometimes lowdown
A harrowed man.But he would. He already had. And he was scared. MacLeod figured four hundred years of perspicacity was about four thousand year too few, but she'd thrown down the gauntlet and Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod would pick it up. He snatched the book out of the flames and returned it to the table.
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