by kai
February 2002
Topic: An innocent man/woman is accidently killed by one member of the pairing. Deal with the emotional and psychological aftermath. Any fandom, 30 minutes. Fandom: Highlander, Slash (DM/M)
There are no innocents in this Game, MacLeod. We are all killers.
I remember the statement well, but not the context. Was it said late in the evening, over whisky and chess? Were we still friends or newly made lovers? Was it before or after I learned that he knew far too intimately of the darkness that we each, every immortal, bear within as our birthright?
We are all killers. That much is true.
But there *are* innocents, aren't there? Men and women who are bystanders in the madness, despair, and all too infrequent joy that twists through our lives like some tangled and choking weed that flowers only once a century. Tessa. Little Deer.
Richie.
My eyes could be open or closed. I could be blind. I did try, although Methos stayed my hand. Regardless, I can still see -- I can *feel* -- his death. The fatal stroke -- the inevitable slight catch as steel parts skin and snags on bone -- is burned into my body, my hands. The unforgiving lash of the lightning, swallowing his essence. And the blood. The blood will never fade, it's stickiness and iron tang will never leave me.
My body will never forget.
"Mac. We're here."
The car has stopped, the low, crumbling buildings are in view, and his hand is in mine. My thoughts are too tangled, it's so easy to become lost in them, I want to die, but even so he refuses to let me go; his hand is warm and strong. We pause in the courtyard of the monastery, just before the tall wooden doors and I close my eyes.
I can't help but remember that Richie was a killer too.
Finis.