Disclaimer: I do not own the concept of Highlander or the Quickening. This story was not meant to be about anyone specifically, but if you can apply it to any specific character it's all good.

Special thanks to Sarah (aka Lovestowrite) for these lyrics at the end of the story. I don't know if this is what you were expecting, so I hope you like


The Banshee's Lament

The bite of a sword.
The severed head.
The blank, empty stare
of dead eyes.
The Quickening.

"I am coming for you."

*****

You lean in on the sword as it slices at the neck. The head of your opponent lobs itself to the ground and rolls slightly. You feel the shimmer throughout your entire body. Soon it will begin. You stall your movements, bracing for the quickening. The body before you twitches out its death rattle. It has begun.

The light blinds you. You close your eyes and watch the little colored specs dance on your eyelids. It is a useless distraction.

The first pain hits hard. Full force into your chest it strikes, causing you to open your eyes wide. You are blinded again. This time raising your hands to cover them.

The potent energy flows like an angry snake. Entering you in the left shoulder, only to exit again out your right buttock. It loops around for another strike. Each blast is stronger than the first. You scream.

The pain stops.

Slowly, you open your eyes. You look into the palms of your hands, using your peripheral vision to see if the blinding flashes are still there. There is nothing. You pull your hands away from your face and fight to focus your eyes. Nothing but a gray haze surrounds you, bathing all objects in its mist. There is something there, in the mist, but you cannot focus on it.

Bracing your hand on your knee, you push yourself up off the ground. You wonder at what point you actually fell. It had to have been after the initial shock. This is not uncommon.

As you stand, you pause to look at your own form. It exists in stark clarity in contrast to the swirling gray mist.

Taking tentative step after step forward, you begin to wave your hands, back and forth, trying to clear away the haze. As you move forward it clears. The image embedded in the mist becomes clearer to you. It is a room.

Not just a room, it is the living room area of your flat. Large windows surround the room, allowing for light. You peer out the windows and notice that there is no sky. The only light that comes through the windows is from a series of lightning like strobes. The strobes pulse, evenly, but the room is light. Perhaps it is a trick of the haze that still fills the room. You do not know.

There is no furniture in this room, except for a table. It is a small, wooden table placed in the center of the room. On this tables lays your sword. It shines with the same clarity that you have. Gradually, you move towards the table, placing your hands on its cool surface.

The pulses increase from outside the windows, illuminating the mist in the room. With each illumination you begin to notice figures in the mist. They stand apprehensively, as if waiting for a signal to move.

You look quickly at these figures with each passing strobe. Searching to place a name with each of the strong, intense faces that stare at you. You search and search and begin to realize that you do not know these faces. These vague whips of memories do not belong to you. They are the memories of another person. The person that you have just bested in battle. They are not your memories, but soon they will be.

You reach out through the mist and place one hand on the cool, metal blade of your sword. The other rests on its hilt. Your head bows down in a show of respect, and acceptance, for these phantom memories.

The illuminating pulses increase. With each pulse more and more figures appear in the misty room. Soon, there is a constant stream of light coming from the window and hundreds of figures seem to spill into the room.

The figures stand patiently waiting. Waiting for one figure to appear. There is one last instant of darkness outside of the windows, and the light slowly returns, beaming into the windows. As it does, you begin to see another figure take shape.

It is the figure of the man you have just defeated. He stands at the opposite side of the table, head bowed down, hands in mimic of your own. Leisurely, he raises his head and looks into your eyes. His lips pull back into an animalistic snarl. Slowly he pulls his teeth apart until his mouth is open. Once open, he cries out. It is a cry of pain, of sorrow and of death. It is the piercing wail of a dead soul.

You feel the sound push against the skin of your face. It burrows deeply into your senses and threatens to overwhelm them. You steel your nerves to the assault and breath in, raising you hands off the table. Your body leans across the table and embraces the wailing man. You feel a slight amount of substance to this figure, but almost instantaneously the substance vanishes along with the man. You have accepted him. He does not die. He lives on as a part of you. He becomes a part of you and will live on until it is you standing where he was, accepting entrance into another person. Into another soul.

The figures that stood behind him begin to wail. One after another, their voices mingling and over lapping each other, they wail. Each one walks forward, arms spread open, and vanishes inside of you.

There is a pause and you notice that there is one figure, one lone wailing figure, which approaches you and stops at the other side of the table. It is the figure of a woman that stands before you. You do not understand. Your arms are open to her, accepting, and yet she remains standing where she is.

She takes one final step forward and places her hands on your sword, one hand on the blade, the other on the hilt. Her head bows slowly down and she waits, patiently.

The sound of her tortured wail becomes your focus. It confuses you. Your thoughts are jumbled and chaotic. You struggle with your own mind for control of these wild thoughts.

Once again, you steel yourself against the onslaught of this confusion. You move slowly to your original position at the table, placing your hands back upon your weapon. You can feel the resonance of her wail reflecting up off the table as it pushes, gently, at your face. You can feel its force as it cushions and surrounds your face. You head falls slightly forward when the wailing is abruptly stopped.

You raise your head, looking into the depth of her eyes, and smile. She is now standing before you with her arms open wide. She is accepting you now.

You lean forward. She wraps her arms around you, and you feel yourself start to slip away.

// Others have excuses. // She whispers, softly as you begin to vanish, // Others have excuses, I have my reasons why. //

*****

The bite of a sword.
The severed head.
The blank, empty stare
of dead eyes.
The Quickening.

"I have you."


Reasons Why

Performed by Nickel Creek, self-titled album
Written by Sean Watkins and David Puckett
Words copied and used without permission


Where am I today? I wish that I knew
‘Cause looking around there’s no sign of you
I don’t remember one jump or one leap
Just quiet steps away from your lead

I’m holding my heart out but clutching it too
Feeling this short of a love that we once knew
I’m calling this home when it’s not even close
Playing the role with nerves left exposed

And standing on a darkened stage
Stumbling through the lines
Others have excuses
I have my reasons why

We get distracted by the dreams of our own
But nobody’s happy while feeling alone
And knowing how hard it hurts when we fall
We lean another ladder against the wrong wall

And climb high to the highest rung
To shake fists at the ski
While others have excuses
I have my reasons why
With so much deception it’s hard not to wander away
It’s hard not to wander away, it’s hard not to wander
Rabbijones
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