Shadows at Samhain
<center>Shadows at Samhain</center>
By Lady MoonHawke
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything related to Highlander. I make no money from anything related to Highlander. I definitely do not own Samhain or any of the mythology attached. (I get so tired of writing these disclaimers; you know what I mean?) Anyway, it’s not my intention to plagiarize anyone elses ideas or property here. I even held off reading stuff that might have had similar ideas, just to be on the safe side.
With thanks to: Arsenic, for the interesting lyrics. I probably didn’t quite catch the idea, but the story wandered off, and all I could do was follow.
Rhi, for the discussion and description of Celtic religion in the Adian stories. Without it, I never would have gone looking for more information, and this story wouldn’t have been possible.
Spoilers: “Timeless” and “Postcards from Alexa” from “An Evening At Joe’s.’
********************************
For one night every year, the Wall Between Worlds grows thin. Small demons roam the streets, threatening pranks and seeking bribes in the form of sweets. And the spirits of those who’ve passed press close, praying for the chance to visit those they love...
The rangy man jumped back as a flood of not-quite-teenagers raced out the doors and pelted for the stairwell, all white gis and a rainbow of colored belts receding in the distance.
Methos passed into the dojo, watching as MacLeod looked up from his clean-up chores. “Planning on trick-or-treating, Highlander?” he asked, taking in Mac’s black and white gi.
“Just running a little behind,” was the reply. “Class before this one ran a little long, and we got a late start.” He stacked up the last of the mats and pushed them into a corner. “Want to come up while I shower?”
Methos followed him to the elevator. “Sure. We still going to Joe’s tonight?”
“Unless you have something else planned,” MacLeod replied. The elevator creaked upward slowly, swaying slightly in its shaft. “Happy Halloween, Methos.”
“Yeah. Happy Halloween, Mac,” Methos replied listlessly. He watched as MacLeod pushed the gate up, and entered the loft apartment, flopping in a boneless sprawl on the couch.
“Help yourself to a beer.” Mac was across the room and into the bath within minutes, and out a few after that. Methos was still draped over the couch, no tell-tale bottle next to him. “What’s wrong with you?”
The 5000-year-old Immortal pulled himself up to something near a sitting position. “Nothing,” he replied irritably. “Maybe the beer just doesn’t taste as good if it’s not filched.”
Duncan chuckled. “Okay, Old Man. Whatever you say. Let’s get going before Joe starts putting out stringers looking for us.”
Seacouver was chill and foggy as they walked towards Joe’s, passing gaggles of children decked out in all manner of costumes; some recognizable, others less-so.
“What happened to the old favorites?” Mac half grumbled as a fourth Darth Maul ran past. “Witches and ghosts and such. I don’t know what half these things are.”
“That’s what you get for ignoring pop-culture, Mac. You don’t know one of the most recognizable faces of the late-20th century.”
“So who is it, then?” Mac challenged.
“Hell if I know,” Methos replied. “I’ve just seen him sneering in almost every shop window I pass. Maybe I’ll see the movie one day.”
Mac socked him lightly on the arm. “Come on. This fog’s getting thick enough to walk on.”
The inside of Joe’s was filled with rollicking foot-stomping music, and Methos watched from a corner as Duncan tripped lightly through a reel. He could see from across the room the light in his eyes and the smile on his face as he turned his partner one last time, then bowed politely over her hand. He dropped her back at her table, then came back to their table, falling into his chair a bit breathlessly and downing the remaining half of his pint.
“Having fun, Highlander?” Methos asked dryly.
Mac wiped the remaining foam from his upper lip. “Oh, aye. Joe should do this again for St. Andrew’s Day.”
“Somehow I think that’s about as likely as having a bard in for St. David’s, but you might convince him to do it for St. Patrick’s.” He winced as the pipes started up again. “Sounds like an alley full of cats on Viagra. I’m going.” Methos waved MacLeod back down as he stood. “Stay, stay. I’m just going home. I’ll call you tomorrow or something.” He slipped through the crowd and was gone in an instant. Mac tried to follow him, but a feminine hand caught his arm and reeled him into the next set.
****************************
His apartment was quiet and dark, a haven when the chaos of Duncan MacLeod’s life came too close. He draped his coat on the reaching arms of the rack and pulled his sword absently from its concealed pocket. Stalking through the dark apartment, he ignored the light switches, finding his way by memory and feel. Like so many of his other apartments, it was sparsely furnished, the only items of real value being his journals and the odd memento of two from another lifetime.
The light from the refrigerator blinded him momentarily as he snagged forth a beer, and in the process, knocked over a couple of nondescript Chinese food boxes. Cursing, he scooped them up and lobbed them toward the trash, past caring what they contained. On reflection, he pulled two more beers from the fridge. No sense getting comfortable only to get up again.
The beers on top of the ale from Joe’s had the desired effect, and within an hour he was mildly buzzed, slouching limply in the sofa, and watching with mild fascination as the hands of the clock continued on their slow dance toward midnight. He dozed lightly in the last quarter hour, and woke with a jerk as the chimes struck the hour softly.
Methos rubbed the heel of one hand across his eyes, trying to clear the blurriness from his vision. Most of it resolved into indistinct darkness, but near the door, one blob refused to solidify, “Wha’s tha’?” he muttered, alcohol still working on his dazed brain.
The voice that replied was chillingly familiar. “Adam? It’s me. Alexa.”
His alcohol-soaked mind fought to comprehend. “Can’t be,” he slurred. “‘Lexa’s dead. I was there. I know.”
The white figure approached, resolving into something that certainly *looked* like it could be Alexa, some small part of his mind said.
“I know you were there. I remember. I think that was the night I loved you the most, massaging the myrrh into my skin, accepting the last stage of my life with love. I could never have trusted anyone else with that.” It was Alexa’s voice, but richer, fuller than it had ever been in life.
“You’re really here?” he asked, still slightly befuddled. She nodded, and he blinked owlishly. “Why?”
“All Hallow’s Eve, Samhain, whatever you call it, it’s my one chance to come back and see you again, talk to you again, touch you again.” Her hand reached out and rested warm and soft on his cheek.
Her touch seemed to burn the remaining alcohol from his blood, and he snapped into sudden and complete clarity. Alexa was here, real, and warm, despite the fact that she should not be.
“Please, Adam - Methos. I’m here for you. Don’t send me away,” she implored.
His answer came in actions. Catching her hand, he stood, pulling her up with him, then kissed her. It was all the things he remembered; warm, sweet, soft, and overall uniquely Alexa. Never speaking a word, he pulled her toward the bedroom.
********************************
Methos woke before dawn, suddenly aware of the cool place beside him on the bed. “Alexa?” _Please, don’t let it have been a dream._ “Alexa?”
She was there, pale in the doorway. “I’m glad you’re awake. I wanted a chance to say good-bye.”
He was out of bed in a flash, one hand around her wrist, holding her gently. “No. Please, don’t go. Not again.”
She allowed him to pull her back down to the bed. “I can’t, Adam. I don’t have that much time.”
“How long?” he asked, forcing the words past the lump forming in his throat.
“Dawn,” she said softly. “Midnight til dawn is all the time I was given.”
Methos reached for the phone. “We’ll go to Alaska, then. Next flight out. The sun won’t be up there for months. Plenty of time...” He folded in half at the waist as she gently pushed his hand down, replacing the receiver.
“No, Adam. No semantics, no trying to find the loopholes. I can stay til the sun rises here, and that is all. I just wanted to be with you one last time.” She allowed him to kiss her a moment, then pulled away. “I have to tell you something else before I leave. There are two messages, from friends of mine, to friends of yours. They’re out on the table.” She restrained him as he moved to stand. “No, wait. The messages aren’t going anywhere. I don’t have much time left, and I want to spend it with you.”
Methos held her close, praying for the sun to stop.
****************************
The pounding in Mac’s head turned into pounding through out the loft. Someone was at the door, trying to wake the Hounds of Hell with a fist.
“MAC! Open the door, Mac!”
MacLeod stumbled out of bed, dragging himself toward the door. Immortal presence knifed through his head, intensifying the hangover. “Who is it?” he managed to get out.
“It’s me, MacLeod,” Methos’ voice rang through the Highlander’s head. “Open the bloody door!”
MacLeod worked the bolts sluggishly, and Methos was finally able to storm in. MacLeod shut it behind him, then leaded back, letting the door hold him up.
“What are you doing up so early?” Mac asked, squinting at his watch. “It’s...7:30? In the morning?”
“I saw Alexa last night,” Methos announced without preamble.
“Wha’?” Now it was Duncan’s turn to blink owlishly. “I hate to put it this way, Old Friend, but she’s been gone a while now.”
“I know, I know. But I swear to you, she was there,” he insisted.
“Where?”
“At my apartment. When I got home, I was feeling a little sorry for myself. I had a couple of beers, and all of the sudden, there she was.”
MacLeod groaned. “And I thought I had too much to drink. Methos....”
“I swear, MacLeod. She was there. She touched me, and it was like I hadn’t had a drop all night. Later, she told me-”
“Later?” Mac interrupted.
“Get your own love-life, Mac. I’m not discussing mine. Later,” he continued, “she gave me these. One for you....” He handed them over.
“And one for Connor,” Mac finished, reading the inscriptions on the envelopes. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” The alcohol was leeching its way out of his system faster and faster, and he studied the writing on the letter addressed to him. “It’s her handwriting,” he whispered.
“Alexa’s?” Methos asked.
“No. Tessa’s.” He looked up at Methos. “You’re sure it was Alexa?”
“Absolutely,” Methos confirmed.
MacLeod picked up the phone and dialed, all traces of the hangover gone. “Hello? Yes, I’d like two tickets to New York, first available flight.” He looked up as the agent put him on hold. “You’re explaining this to Connor.”
*THE END*
GHOST
by Phish
I feel I never told you
the story of the ghost
that I once knew and talked to
of whom I'd never boast
for this was my big secret
how I'd get ahead
and never have to worry
I'd call him instead
his answer came in actions
he never spoke a word
or maybe I laid down the phone
before he could be heard
I somehow feel forsaken
like he had closed the door
I guess I just stopped needing him
as much as once before
but maybe he's still with me
the latch was left unhooked
he's waiting in the wind and rain
I simply haven't looked
Comments? Send them to: Lady MoonHawke.
Back to the Shadowspace
Back to the Oddities and Rarites Homepage
Back to the Highlands