You know the drill, none of the characters mentioned in this story are mine. They belong to either Davis/Panzer or themselves. And now, on with the show . .

Adieu
by Katchoo

An air of gaiety filled the room, but every heart was weighed down with the thought of why they were there. They had come to say good-bye, to share their memories of him with others who had loved him. Flowers filled the plush room, and friends filled the chairs that stood in lines facing the podium. Folks from every walk of life chatted together, remembering, and every agreed that his passing was a sad thing indeed.
For one man, however, the end was bittersweet. He stood in an adjoining room that contained much of Duncan MacLeod’s estate, pieces of his past, trying to convince himself that Duncan’s time was done. Many was the time that “bloody boyscout” had gotten on his nerves, but Mac had also given him so much. Mac had given him a new life. Introduced him to new friends. Shown him what love could be. And taught him the meaning of chivalry. How could an Immortal die? Weren’t they supposed to always come back? And what would he do now that he no longer had Mac to rule his life?
He fondled the keys to Mac’s T-Bird. As much as Mac had loved that car, this friend man had hated it. It was always braking down, but the memories in it were worth it. Duncan’s mind was in that car. Fast, sure, and full of the memories of Tessa. And now the memories belonged to someone else as did the car.
He set the keys down beside the dark wood sword stand that held Mac’s sword. The sword was an razor sharp katana, its ivory handle carved with the glaring visage of an oriental dragon. He lifted the lethal masterpiece and the grip felt as though he were shaking hands with an old friend. As it balanced perfectly in his palm, his heart sped as it remembered the heat of battles past. How many heads had it separated from bodies? How many lives had it saved? And how many times had Mac nicked himself while trying to learn that spinning attack? The man grinned in memory. Duncan had been a master; a tireless warrior, an excellent swordsman, a instinctive fighter. But in the end he met his match, as everyone does. One opponent he couldn’t beat. The man swung the katana in a killing blow against an absent enemy. One more thrust, for old times sake, and replaced it gently on the stand. Duncan’s soul was in that sword. Deadly, beautiful, sharp with honor, and as piercing as truth. In it’s time it had been the weapon of a warrior and the accessory of a true gentleman’s attire. It had fought for honor and for love. It had fought for good, even when it wasn’t sure what good was.
Amongst the antiques and well used workout equipment stood a racks of clothing. A knobby cotton sweater, natural white, hung at the end of the one nearest the man. It smelled of the detergent they had used to clean it for sale, but as the man pressed the comforting cotton against his face he could smell the ghost scent of Mac fill his lungs. Some of Mac’s friends teased him good-naturedly about those sweaters, but none would have dressed him any other way. Duncan’s heart was in those sweaters. Warm, traditional, and seductive. They comforted when someone craved the safety of his arms and begged you to bury yourself in them.
With a sigh, the man sat down on the green leather couch that had been the center of Duncan’s Seacouver loft. His eyes gaze at the clutter of possessions, but he no longer saw them. He saw Duncan, his life vividly replaying itself before him. For six years, or was it four centuries, he had known Duncan MacLeod. His heart had flooded over with pain and drained itself in tears when Tessa had died for a handful of dollars. When, by some miracle, Richie finally learned to disarm him, he had been there to buy them both a beer. And when Amanda had shown up at the barge wearing only a sapphire from the reign of Louis Quatorze that until that evening had been on display with a local exhibit under her long coat, well . . a man can dream, he thought with a grin. But it was gone. Forever. No “coming back” in an hour or so this time. And the man couldn’t believe that it was over.
He stood, and in doing so jarred the table that stood next to the couch. It held the chess set on which Darius had beaten Duncan so many times, the pieces scattered across it as though waiting for the friends to return and finish their game. He bent to pick up the pawn that had fallen to the ground. He fingered the pawn as he whispered to it and the spirits that filled the room. “Adieu, O soldier, you of the rude campaigning (which we shared)”.
The door opened behind him. “ We’re going over to the hotel bar for awhile before everyone has to leave.,” a husky female voice said. “Peter’s already over there and so is Stan, with one of those red shirt girls. Jim has to leave early, something about returning his rental car in B.F.E. I think Peter has an early . I do not envy him in the morning with the hang over he’s going to have. You going to join us, luv?”
He turned and smiled at her, still holding the pawn. “Yeah, Liz, I think I will. Let’s get out there before the party leaves without us, shall we?” he said as he walked towards her. He slipped his arm around her waist and put the other hand in his pocket. So some fan would be missing a pawn. But for Adrian, Duncan MacLeod would live.

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

Adieu to a Soldier
by Walt Whitman

Adieu O soldier,
You of the rude campaigning (which we shared,)
The rapid march, the life of the camp,
The hot contention of opposing fronts, the long manoeuvre,
Red battles with their slaughter, the stimulus, the strong terrific game,
Spell of all brave and manly hearts, the trains of time through you and
like of
you all fill'd,
With war and war's expression.

Adieu dear comrade,
Your mission is fulfill'd -- but I, more warlike,
Myself and this contentious soul of mine,
Still on our own campaigning bound,
Through untried roads with ambushes opponents lined,
Through many a sharp defeat and many a crisis, often baffled,
Here marching, ever marching on, a war fight out -- aye here,
To fiercer, weightier battles give expression.


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