The voices in my head

Note: This was originally written as a NPC piece for an RPG in the Highlander universe.

*******************************************

The four men hung back, the leader unable to believe their good luck. “Two of them, with the one sword!” he murmured to the man closest to him with a smug grin. They’d been trailing the immortal, Stefan Kramer, for a few weeks, the headhunter a cunning and wary character who had obviously lived by making sure he knew what and who was around him at all times. It had made it necessary to have four on the detail, so he didn't detect anyone following him, but it had been worth the extra manpower.

They’d decided a plan of action for that night, wanting to finish this job before they lost the wily immortal's trail. When he’d set out from his boarding house that evening they’d followed him, excited that he seemed to be unwittingly accommodating them with his own plans. When they saw him approach another man, younger, but quickly discernible as another immortal, given his reaction when Kramer had approached, it had become clear to all of them they were going to have a very good night indeed.

The dimly lit area beneath the overhead railway had soon filled with the sounds of clashing metal, the occasional flash of sparks giving brief glimpses of the two swords as they met, hard. There was little talking, the other immortal, who appeared to be the younger of the two, a little more vocal, especially when the older immortal’s blade found a vulnerable, exposed piece of flesh.

“He’s bloody playing with him!” hissed one of the men, Kramer’s guttural snigger drifting across to their ears in between the scuffles. While the two immortals fought the four men moved into position, awaiting the right moment once it presented itself.

There was nothing graceful in the fight, violent swings foiled and followed by undercuts that left wounds, slowly flagging energy being sapped until Kramer finally drove the challenged to his knees, taunting him with ill-concealed glee. He knew he had a victory within his grasp and was delighting in drawing it out.

“Wait for it,” was whispered vehemently into the small microphone on the wrist of the leader of the four, the temptation to dash out strong in the younger, newer two of their group. They hadn’t witnessed a fight to the death and had no idea what was in store for them, and the victor. The leader had seen plenty, and a feral smile curled the corner of his mouth. As much of a temptation as it was to go and take both of them the leader knew it was better to wait, and wait they did.

“Y’ hardly worth the effort!” Kramer sneered, finally severing the sword arm of his opponent then swinging his sword up, pausing as he stared down at the cowed figure. Silently the sword swung, the sickly sound of steel severing tendons, bone, muscle and flesh audible to all those watching on.

“Wait!” the leader hissed again, his eyes detecting a movement in the shadows from one of the others. Kramer’s head started to turn but just then the crackling which could only be described as electrical started to build in the air around the two figures, and Kramer braced himself. A slow, evil laugh sounded, only to be quickly drowned out by the Quickening as it left the the crumpled headless body and crossed over to Kramer.

“Holy mother of God!” could be heard across the airwaves as the flickers and flashes of light quickly became explosions that lit the darkness and drove Kramer to his knees, arms outstretched and hand, much to the leader’s delight, dropping the sword it had held.

He pulled out the machete he had hidden beneath his coat, the man across from him now holding a tomahawk across his knee as they waited for the bulk of the storm to pass.

“Now!”

From the shadows that had reformed the four rushed forward, the immortal known as Kramer still gasping and shuddering, not even aware till it was too late. “Bastards!” he snarled as his hand was caught beneath a boot that crushed it where it was scrambling to find the hilt of his sword.

“And good riddance to you too!”

The leader raised his machete, the matte metal hardly visible in the dark of the night. With a swing that was not too dissimilar to the one that had just severed the head of the other immortal, the machete chopped downwards, the lack of skill and experience leaving it to the second swing, sinking into the skin and detaching the head.

“Quick, get going!” he hissed to the others. There was little chance a second ‘storm’ would go without attracting attention. In most places they found that it wasn’t intense enough to draw people out of their beds to check, but another so soon after the first might be enough to bring someone closer for a curious look.

Even before the last flickers of Quickening were extinguished, drawn into the ground with the lack of anywhere else to go, the four figures had melted back into the darkness, breaths panted as chests heaved with the victory. The leader was eager to send the word back to their headquarters.

Two for the price of one!

It had been a very good hunt indeed!

Note: Originally written in response to a writing challenge, based on the word 'Carry' - this character is an OC Watcher, Jeremy Cartwright, from the Highlander universe.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

So much for each to carry...

Each box contained books. But they weren't regular books, they were journals, hand written, with the observations of the men and women who had been assigned to record the life of the immortal woman Tay-ling Zhun. As he carried them down the stairs, Jeremy felt the weight on his muscles and wondered if it was anything like the weight of years that had been carried by the woman's shoulders. The earliest recording was from the 8th century, her first Watcher learning of her when she came to be taught by the immortal teacher Lady Zheng.

Carrying the responsibility of teaching new immortals was something he pondered in moments like these. Their lives were governed, directed even, by what their teacher instructed them in, their beliefs. For it seemed there was no written history of their own, no records of whether any of it was right, or true. Especially the Rules - being carried down through the centuries by word of mouth alone, and the bane of all immortals' lives from what he could see - There can be only one. That they must kill, or be killed.

He placed the box on the long bench that ran the length of the dimly lit archives, small brass-necked reading lamps spilling circles of light along the wooden length. The table had borne the weight of these and many other journals for as long as the Watchers had been based in the old chateau. The archive shelves that stood in rows along the walls carried the knowledge and history of so many who'd seen so much, and yet carried their knowledge and secrets with them to their grave.

Except for what the Watchers recorded.

He bowed his head, the weight of his current responsibility, to see that none of this was lost, bearing down on him for a brief moment. Inhaling deeply he lifted his head again and picked up the box, weighing it for a moment, before carrying it the length of the room to start his day's reading and archiving.