Memory
By Ysanne
Secretly, Duncan MacLeod never really started to
feel Christmasy until after the winter solstice, but because the solstice was
also his birthday, he was always a bit embarrassed about it. Was he so
egocentric as to think his own birth gave a greater meaning to the festival of
light? He paused in wrapping Tessa’s tenth present to ponder this, and then
snorted in self-derision. After nearly four centuries of living, he was quite
certain of the insignificance of his place in the universe.
Holding his tongue between his teeth in
concentration, he stuck several more pieces of tape on the crookedly matched
ends of the paper, and then plopped a peel-and-stick gold bow onto the box.
Wonderful invention, those bows. He always wondered why his hands were clever
enough to mend a delicate antique clock, but incapable of wrapping a simple box
without inflicting major damage. He longed to use those convenient printed
boxes or bags, but Tessa simply couldn’t be trusted around presents. The only
way to keep her out of them until Christmas was to use paper and tape – lots of
tape. He conceded that Tessa had her own holiday trials with him, too. She had
resorted to hiding his gifts until Christmas morning.
He placed her present under the tree with the rest
and wished that Tessa would allow him to exceed her limit of ten gifts this
year. After their first year together, when he had overwhelmed her with
twenty-seven presents, she had firmly set the limit of ten, and he had reluctantly
agreed. Then again, he supposed it didn’t matter, because he had simply given
her more gifts throughout the year, meeting her sighs of affectionate
exasperation with a bland, innocent smile.
He smiled now, anticipating her gleefully
attacking the stack of presents, ripping the paper from each gift and tossing
aside the mangled wrappings. He loved it when the gifts that he chose made her
laugh, or gasp with delight. On the other hand, Tessa always bemoaned the fact
that shopping for him was nearly impossible; what did one get a man who could
buy anything he needed, and probably already owned everything he wanted? She
was never quite satisfied with anything she gave him.
The door flew open, interrupting his reverie, and
he was surrounded with cold, snow-spangled air and the essence of his
happiness: Tessa, smiling into his eyes, kissing him on both cheeks and on his
mouth, his chin, his adam’s apple; Tessa, laughing in the kitchen as they made
eggnog and brought out the special chocolates; Tessa, warm and pliant in his
arms as they drifted into sleep.
They never needed to set the alarm on Christmas
morning. As soon as their bedroom brightened with the first feeble light of
dawn, Tessa was prodding him to get up. She went immediately to her workshop
and unearthed a wrapped present from a jumble of metal left over from a
sculpture. Duncan, sleepily sipping his first cup of coffee, blinked in
surprise.
“You’re a sneaky one,” he teased her. “Next year
that’s where I’ll look first, you know.”
“Next year I’ll find a sneakier hiding place,” she
retorted, handing him the package.
The package itself was almost a work of art with
hand-painted paper, an elaborate and elegant bow with pine and holly, and not a
lump or crooked seam in sight.
“Don’t know how you do it,” he grumbled as he
carefully removed the wrappings, ignoring Tessa’s exhortations to hurry.
The present was an album with a beautiful leather
cover, discreetly stamped with his initials. He smoothed his hands over the
supple leather, turning it over to inspect the back.
“Oh, would you just open it?” pleaded Tessa,
smacking him smartly on the knee.
Grinning at her impatience, he finally opened the
album to the first page. It was a drawing of the tour boat where the two of
them had met, with Tessa looking askance at the cheeky ruffian who had jumped
from the dock to her boat. Chuckling at the memory stirred by the picture, he
turned the page. The second drawing was set on Tessa’s little balcony at her
apartment, where they had shared many breakfasts of coffee and croissants in
their first months together. She had focused on their two hands clasped on the
table, with the view from her apartment in the background. The third page made
Duncan look up at her with a bemused expression.
“I didn’t know you did this,” he said.
“You were sleeping,” she pointed out with a sly
smile.
He looked back down at the page, where she had
sketched him in their bed, capturing both his strength and his utterly replete
exhaustion. He felt his face heating.
“Look at you,” she said fondly, “blushing over a
nude sketch. You’re so beautiful, Duncan, don’t you know that?”
“Just so we don’t hang this over the mantle,” he
muttered, and turned another page.
His katana was reproduced there in fine detail,
with his own hand grasping the hilt. His eyes darted up to hers again.
“It’s part of you,” she said simply.
He went on turning the pages, each one depicting
something meaningful from their lives together, drawn with a skilled and loving
hand. At the end was her self-portrait, done with just a few strokes, but the
eyes were so alive with love that Duncan found himself unable to speak for a
moment.
“You like it?” Tessa finally asked hesitantly.
“What do you think?” he whispered, pulling her
over to sit on his lap and bury his face in her soft neck.
After a few moments he was able to ask her what
made her think of doing a sketchbook for him. She lay against his shoulder, her
fingers smoothing the lapels of his robe as she tried to explain.
“You’re nearly four hundred years old, Duncan. You
have so many memories inside you, so many old friends and lovers that you hold
dear. I know the memories are both a blessing and a curse for you. I know, too,
that someday I will join the others in your memory.”
She felt him gather breath to protest, and sat up
to press her fingers against his lips.
“No, it’s all right, Duncan. Listen. When that day
comes, along with your memories you will have this record of my memories of
you. I like to think that you might look at the pages someday, and remember how
much I love you. Do you understand?”
“I do understand, Tess, and the book is wonderful –
so thoughtful, so beautifully done in every way. But Sweetheart, I hope you
understand that it’s only the second-best present you’ve ever given me; the
first is the gift of yourself. I’ve been waiting my whole, long life for the
grace and the blessing of that gift.”
After a rather moist interval, interspersed with
kisses and sniffling, and a thorough application of Duncan’s handkerchief on
both faces, Duncan cleared his throat.
“Uh, Tessa, you haven’t opened any presents yet.”
She struggled from his lap and stood glaring down
at him in mock anger.
“That settles it,” she declared, “no more
sentimental gifts! Next year I’m getting you a tie.”