Solstice
Posted By: Ysanne
Date: Thursday, 21 December 2000, at 3:03 a.m.
He walked along the narrow path to the clearing,
to the place where he had laid the small fire earlier in the day. Kneeling on
the frosty grass, he lit the parchment oak leaves and the brown pine needles
under the kindling, and then fed the licks of flame with dry twigs. The smell
wasn’t quite the same as a peat fire, but he thought the light was the
important thing. He remembered solstice fires burning on every hillside in the
old days, continuing a tradition the Scots were long past believing.
He stood and watched the flames grow higher, his
memories drifting through many years when fire had been the only light against
the encompassing darkness of winter. Had Methos once built solstice fires,
believing that they were responsible for calling the sun back from its sullen
winter retreat? With what ritual of dance or song or sacrifice had his people
pleaded with the sun, or demanded its return? The solitary fire-tender mused
about the differences between the past and the present, and about those things
that remained constant from one age to another.
In his experience guilt and grief remained the
same no matter the century or the customs of the people that inhabited each
short space of time. Although each generation defined its own reasons for
guilt, the emotion felt the same to all those who suffered it. Grief, however,
was an emotion so primitive that humankind had no private claim to it, but
shared it with the higher animals. Grief had the power to kill and sometimes
did, either slowly or in a burst of passion.
As he stared into the fire, Duncan MacLeod
wondered which kind of grief had killed Connor. On that freezing rooftop there
had been the passion-fueled clash of swords and the quick, sure stroke so
ardently desired by his kinsman. But before that climactic night there must
have been slow years of longing for the peace that comes with death, the end of
all passion. Which had killed Connor MacLeod: Duncan’s blade or his inability
to comfort the man in his grief?
He sighed and rubbed his tired eyes, then crouched
and reached to right a log that had rolled too far. Just then the fire snapped
and an ember flew against his cheek, the quick sear of pain startling him out
of his ruminations. The momentary discomfort reminded him of his own
Immortality, both a blessing that healed his perfect body and a curse that
sentenced him to being a helpless bystander as death claimed those around him.
Connor’s death had been a forceful, painful
reminder that living was a choice, even for Immortals. Connor had chosen death,
trusting his “true brother” to be its instrument. Duncan, on the other hand,
had always chosen life. Yes, there had been a few times when death had seemed
so simple and sublime an escape that he had impulsively reached for it, but he
had finally admitted to himself that he could have forced Methos to kill him
after Richie’s death, just as he could have found a way to allow O’Rourke to
behead him. But he didn’t want to die. Given time, Duncan had always chosen
life, even when it wounded him.
He considered whether more time would have allowed
Connor to choose life as well. Connor’s entering Sanctuary might have been a
bid for time, but if so, it seemed that the ten-year respite had only weakened
his desire to live. Duncan would never understand exactly what had driven his
clansman to embrace death, but he felt that he had begun to accept the futility
of despairing over his role in Connor’s choice.
Rising smoothly to his feet, the dark-haired Scot
began to smother the fire, taking time to make sure it was cold before leaving
it. As he walked back to his cabin he glanced up at the black sky adorned with
the glitter of Orion, starry weapons held high. Beloved of the goddess Diana
yet killed by her hand, the Hunter now hunted the heavens forever. MacLeod
paused, chilled hands curled in the pockets of his coat, gazing upward.
Love, grief, guilt, all unchanged since before
recorded time. Standing in the ancient light of the solstice stars, Duncan
acknowledged that there was one more absolute: hope. Whether it was simply part
of his nature, or a mysterious result of being born at the time when winter
began its annual surrender to spring, he had always lived with hope.
He took a deep breath of the snow-scented air,
then another as he felt the heavy ache of his heart ease, freeing the stirrings
of hope to move through him, opening him to life once more.
End
Ysanne