Reflections on a Life
by Guinevere the Whyte

"Hey...it's a kind of magic."

Connor's wink didn't reassure Rachel, and her heart sank along with the lift as it descended from Russell Nash's loft apartment. When the top of the elevator car was completely out of sight, Rachel finally let her shoulders slump. She'd go look in the desk drawer for the papers and power of attorney later. Russell Nash wasn't dead yet. And neither was Connor MacLeod. Nash wouldn't survive the night; Connor's instructions to Rachel had told her as much. But Rachel kept her fingers crossed that Connor MacLeod would. He was facing something so much bigger than himself tonight, both literally and figuratively. But win or lose, he wasn't coming back to the loft -- that much she knew from his farewell.

Rachel made her way to the rotunda room that was, in effect, Connor's heart and soul -- a piece of himself was held in each and every object in the room. Rachel closed the doors behind her and sat down with a sigh on the seat. This was where Connor sat most of the time when he was in here, she mused. And he liked being in here, surrounded by his past, barricaded from his present, not having to think about his future. Now Rachel was doing much of the same -- sinking into the past, trying not to imagine what was going to happen this night. She would rather think about the forty-some-odd years since she had met Connor.

Rachel fondly recalled the scruffy, filthy man who had pulled the boards away from her hiding place in the bombed-out factory where her family had lost their lives. Connor's voice had been friendly and soothing, coaxing her name out of her, encouraging her to come with him. She'd been a ragamuffin of a 9-year-old then, and she'd clung to him for dear life as he'd carried her away. And she well recalled her shock at seeing him still alive after being shot multiple times by the German soldier. Rachel laughed to herself. He'd told her it was "a kind of magic" -- and it was only many years later that he felt she could handle the truth and had finally told her the whole story.

Connor had adopted and raised Rachel, had taught her how to present herself, how to listen rather than speak, how to hear the spoken and the unspoken in what people said and to reveal only what you wanted others to see. These were arts of which Connor was a master, and as she grew up Rachel had always suspected that there was much more to Connor buried underneath his calm, everyday exterior. But Rachel had known better than to dig -- it would have been like using a spoon to dig through solid concrete. Only twice during her childhood years had she gotten close to the truth.

Connor had instructed Rachel that no one was to know how he had found her -- she was only to say that he'd adopted her. So when Rachel was assigned an essay in the eighth grade about real-life heroes, she'd written about a neighbor who had fought in World War II. But Rachel had also sat down and written a second essay just for Connor, detailing how he had rescued her from the factory just a few years before -- including how he had "died" for her. Rachel's words were full of her gratefulness and her love for him. Connor had been dumbstruck when Rachel had shyly offered the essay to him to read, and when he had finished he had given her a long, tight hug, and carefully folded the paper and put it in his desk drawer. Rachel wouldn't be surprised if that paper was still around here, somewhere.

The second time she'd gotten even closer to the truth -- closer than she would realize for years afterward. She'd written a short story for another class about a man who couldn't die and went around righting wrongs -- like saving little girls from evil German soldiers. Connor had read it with a slightly disconcerted look on his face, then had given a short laugh and a comment of, "good story, even if the plot is pure fantasy." Rachel shook her head. Now, of course, she realized the story had probably given him the willies for weeks. But he still didn't bring himself to tell her the truth then.

Thanks to Connor, Rachel had had a good end to her childhood, in spite of its harsh beginning. He had protected her from the worst of real life -- sometimes getting a little too protective when it came to the boys who courted her. Connor had even taken to sharpening his antique swords in front of them -- ensuring that Rachel was always home before curfew. And, more important to Connor, he had protected her from his own reality -- sometimes at the expense of being a distant, cold parent. Thought at the time, to Rachel he hadn't seemed much different than other dads.

Rachel had gone off to college in the summer of 1952, with hugs and kisses and promises to write. It had been her decision to study in London, and to load her schedule to be able to earn degrees in both accounting and art history -- the latter spurred by the vast collection of antiques in the house Rachel had grown up in.

Rachel had been a young woman driven to succeed, and in order to create her own future, she'd known she had to stay away from home. As good as Connor had been to her, he was also one to enjoy being in control, and the only way for her to succeed was to have space between herself and the man who still saw her as a child. They kept up a good rapport through letters, and as Rachel had hoped, he slowly came to acknowledge her adulthood. But it was thirteen years after her departure for college before they saw one another again.

Connor had moved into his brownstone in 1965 with the decision to open an antique store under the name Russell Nash, and extended an invitation to Rachel to become his assistant at the shop. Rachel wondered at the name change, but knew better than to ask the elusive man about it. Disillusioned with life and love in the big cities she'd lived and worked in, 31-year-old Rachel readily agreed. It was time to come home.

Rachel could see immediately the effect she now had on Connor. She hadn't realized how much she'd changed until she noted that, at first glance, Connor hadn't recognized her. Instead, he'd run his eyes up and down her body, checking her out as a "prospect." Rachel had laughed at the shock in Connor's eyes when they had met hers and recognition set in. He hadn't changed a bit, she'd noticed, but Rachel simply wrote it off to good aging.

The awkwardness Connor exhibited those first few days together disconcerted Rachel, but the two of them soon got into the swing of building up the new business. After hours, they would often go up to the loft for coffee or a drink and just talk, mostly about Rachel and her career. Then one night she'd turned tables on him, asked him about his history, his past, and particularly why he'd moved and changed his name. And, for once, he'd answered.

Connor had been stiff, tense, unwilling to look at her as he spoke in hushed tones. He had begun as he always did, she now knew, with his year and place of birth -- 1518, the village of Glenfinnan on the shores of Loch Shiel. Then he'd glanced at her face; seeing her slightly bemused smile and raised eyebrow, he'd turned his gaze to the floor, but he'd pressed on with his explanation. He was killed in battle, and had revived. He could not truly die, save one way -- by removal of his head. Connor briefly explained the Rules and the Game, and that on the nights he had disappeared from their home when Rachel was growing up, he had been fighting other Immortals to the death. He detailed his training with Ramirez, his life with Heather, his lonely life since then littered with a few bright spots in the company of other mortals and Immortals.

If Connor had looked up again, he would have seen Rachel's expression slowly change from bemused disbelief to shock, then to sympathy. She knew Connor would not lie to her on a subject such as this, and the pain reflected in his face told her the trials he was describing were real. Her heart went out to the man she had grown up around, but never truly known. Rachel did not interrupt Connor, sensing his need to tell this tale, to be understood. And somehow she did understand, or at least she thought she did.

As his story wound down, Rachel rose from her chair and seated herself next to Connor on the sofa. Gently she had brushed the hair back from his forehead, kissing his temple lightly. Connor had closed his eyes at this gesture, and she'd taken advantage of the moment to kiss him on the lips...

Twenty years later, Rachel still smiled at the memory. Connor had never been vulnerable in front of her while she was growing up, and she had been attracted to it as an adult, her emotions dancing like iron filings under a magnet. Connor had put up his hand to stop her, but she kissed him again instead. And why not? He wasn't her real father, and she was no longer a child. The agony in his eyes, in his voice, during his storytelling had been something she longed to comfort away.

Rachel supposed that if Connor hadn't been so vulnerable at that moment, he never would have let her continue kissing him or lead him to the bed tucked in the corner of the upstairs structure of the loft. Nor would she have done so, had she not been so fed up with the men she'd been around up to then. Rachel smiled again at the memory. Connor had been a tender lover, gentle but needy, and Rachel had realized then that it had probably been some time since he'd taken a woman into his bed. Rachel had initiated the relations, encouraged them, and this gave her a sense of powerfulness, and a sense of no longer being dominated by the intensely stern man who she now saw had only been protecting a delicate inner core. Connor's walls protected his good memories, and protected him from new pain, but also walled him away from joy, and from companionship. But now she was inside.

Connor at first had protested Rachel's new role in his life, but rather superficially. Rachel could see that he enjoyed having a lover and confidante again, even if it was someone he'd had a hand in raising. Occasionally he even taunted her about where she'd learned her morals.

Over time, however, Rachel began to see the negative effects of their closeness. While Connor still seemed to enjoy her company in his bed, there was a look in his eyes that disturbed her -- one of sadness, and of guilt. He was continuing their intimacy as much not to disappoint her as to comfort himself. And the strain was beginning to show in their professional relationship as well.

Six months after she had first kissed him, Rachel had begun excusing herself to go home directly after work. It pained her to see the new sadness in Connor's face at her withdrawal, but it was no worse than seeing the old sadness as she had lain beside him in his bed. Connor grew uneasy around Rachel, and she fought to suppress her guilt. One night, while finishing up some filing and billing, he confronted her about her distancing herself from him. Rachel had confessed that she had read the guilt and sorrow in his eyes and felt the need to do something about it. "I started it," she had told him, "and I needed to end it. For both of our sakes." Connor had said nothing, but turned from her and continued filing.

Connor's discomfort around Rachel grew steadily then, and she could see that the feeling was tangible even to some of the customers. Finally Rachel couldn't bear it any longer and handed in her resignation. Connor was horrified, and had even pleaded with her to stay. "I'm only doing what's best," she had told him, stroking his cheek tenderly. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Then stay," he'd replied, putting his arms around her in a loving but careful embrace. "I don't want to lose my only friend," he whispered in her ear.

My only friend. Rachel half-smiled as the words echoed in her head. When Connor had said that, Rachel knew she couldn't leave. They had finally become true equals that night, each able to respect the other and their decisions. And despite some initial remaining discomfort, over time their love mutated into an enduring, tender friendship. Even now Rachel prided herself in being the only one who could scold Connor and get away with it. She twisted her lips thoughtfully. Perhaps Brenda would be given that privilege eventually. If Connor survived to love her.

Rachel glanced around at the room again, at the swords and shields and art and artifacts. Connor wouldn't just leave all this behind, would he? Perhaps he'd send for it later. At least that held the promise that she'd talk to him again. With a weary sigh Rachel lifted herself from the seat and shuffled back out to the main apartment. To the north, the last of a lightning storm was dying out -- with no clouds to provide a source for it. Rachel's eyes opened wide as she rushed to the window. "Connor," she said softly, gazing a moment at the dying light flashes before tearing herself from the window. Rachel huddled on the sofa, clutching herself for warmth against the cold rising within her.

Rachel had almost drifted to sleep when she heard the whir and grind of the lift rising. Fear struck her heart, and she wondered if it was the Kurgan coming to raid Connor's home. Rachel positioned herself so that she could see the lift entrance, but be mostly hidden herself.

There were two figures in the lift, and Rachel breathed a sigh of relief as she recognized Connor and Brenda. Rachel dashed up the stairs toward the pair. "I thought you said you weren't coming back," Rachel taunted, eyeing Connor's dirty face and bloody shirt with some concern.

Connor was leaning heavily against Brenda, but his twinkling eyes left no doubt in Rachel's mind that his good humor was returning quickly. "I lied," he replied with a wry grin. "So shoot me." He straightened himself up. "But I'll be gone before dawn."

"Where will you go?" Rachel asked gently.

"Wherever he wants to," Brenda cut in, her tone veiling acidity. Rachel bit back a retort. Brenda's apparent jealousy here was perhaps justified, especially if Connor had told her enough. And it would take a hot temper like Brenda's to deal with Connor's own often crotchety and stubborn moods.

"To Scotland," Connor answered as he let go of Brenda. "I'm going home." Connor unlocked his nightstand drawer and drew out a passport. "You," he said, pointing at Brenda, "you'd better go home and get packed."

"Me?" Brenda questioned.

"You. If you're coming with me, that is." Connor grinned at her, his smile bordering on conniving.

"But I...my job..."

"You can come with me, or you can stay behind. But if you're coming, you'd better pack. And hustle." Connor walked into the bathroom without a backwards glance.

Brenda paused only a moment longer in indecision, then hurried back to the lift and set it into motion. She still had not returned when Connor reappeared, freshly showered and in clean clothes. He threw together a bag of clothes and tucked the passport in his back pocket. Finally he looked up at Rachel, whose vision was blurred by oncoming tears.

"I know I shouldn't be," Rachel said quietly, "but I'm jealous of her."

Connor smiled gently with a nod. "I'll send for some of my things later," he said, stepping up to Rachel and enveloping her in his embrace. She nodded in reply, the tears beginning to stream down her face. "Dear, sweet Rachel," Connor said softly, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against hers. "Don't cry. We will see each other again." Tenderly Connor kissed her forehead, then grabbed his bag and made for the lift. As he waited for it to rise, his eyes caressed Rachel's tear-stained face. "Do me a favor, Rachel," he said, stepping into the lift.

Rachel bit her lip. "What?"

"Fall in love." He winked and smiled. "It's a kind of magic."

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