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A Highlander Fan Fiction
by Dana Short
DanaShort@aol.com
www.DanaShort.com
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Act I
Meetings
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Prologue
A Dark And Stormy Night
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September 5, 2003, Savannah, Georgia.

The pattering sound of the rain echoed down the alley as Eadgils, last speaker of the Flornlef tribe, paused to listen for footsteps.

He heard a crunch as someone ducked behind a dumpster, but from the breathing, he was able to identify it as coming from The Girl. She was not one he had to fear, at least not yet.

The Girl had been following him off and on over the past several months. She was the latest in a long line of shadows, stretching back almost a thousand years, who had spent their time spying on him for their records. Once, long ago, he had captured one of them, and had learned of the Society of Watchers, a group of scholars, more than anything else, who saw it as their mission to chronicle the lives of all Immortals. According to the one he had caught all those years ago, they were sworn to watch, record, and most of all, to NEVER interfere.

In all the centuries they had been following him, he had never known them to break those vows. Even the one he had captured, when faced with death had remained steadfast in his vows. Eadgils had believed him enough to bind his wounds, feed him a meal, and release him with a warning for his fellows, that if they had to watch him, that it should be at a distance. Over time, he had slowly lowered his guard to the almost omnipresent pairs of eyes, to the point he no longer acted directly to lose them, and never bothered to warn them off, unless they got so close as to be actually rude. Then, of course he would answer their rudeness with his own, often scaring them away and earning a replacement.

The Girl was different though. He could feel her when she was close. For one of his age, he knew well what that meant. She would Quicken one day, and have to learn the ways of the ones she at present only watched. He did not envy her that task. In a way, she would have an advantage, knowing as she did of Immortals, and their rules. She would know enough at least to seek Holy Ground and to try to find a teacher.

He had even toyed with the idea of teaching her himself. It had been many years since he had taken a student. Indeed, it had been many centuries. As far as he knew, he had no students left in the Game. Perhaps he was not the best teacher after all.

But then again, he himself had survived far longer than most Immortals he knew of. Granted, he was no Methos, assuming he actually existed, but he was almost into his fortieth century. He had seen quite a bit since the Horsemen destroyed his village, leaving him to awaken among the corpses and the scattered refuse of his tribe. Since that time, he had witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations, starting with Rome, which he himself watched grow from a crossroads town to a city controlling an empire which spanned the known world.

But now, those same instincts which had served him well all his life were instead yelling at him that something was wrong.

Slowly, silently, he drew his sword, leaned against the wall, and waited.

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