Enemy Of My Soul

CrossOver: Danceth Wth Wolves

The characters belong to Panzer-Davis and Michael Blake. I only borrow them for a while.

Rating: NC-17, slash, violence, language, rape

Many thanks to my beta, Camimac

Key: ****** Scene change, *** Flashback,
Italics Thoughts, Sioux Language

Summary: Duncan finds himself in the middle of the Little Big Horn battle of 1876.

Disclaimer: HL The Series and its characters belong to Panzer/Davis. Dances With Wolves and its characters wereatreated by Michael Blake. I merely borrow them for a time.

A/N: I would like to acknowledge Highlander: The Series for excerpts from the episodes 'The Gathering' and 'Something Wicked.' Also, Carmino Gadelica for the Gaelic Hearth Blessing.

Enemy of My Soul

by

Frances Rolfe

Part I

Late 1872

Kolt'ec looked up to see a p ofp of soldiers drag a struggling and cursing Immortal into the dimly lit jailhouse and toward his cell. He kept his face impassive as the men opened the iron-bardoordoor and shoved their prisoner inside. A quick survey showed that the new man was dressed in a lined cloth coat with fur trim. His long, unkempt dark hair had a plait on either side of his face.

"You're dead! I'll find Kern! Then I'll come after the rest of you! You're dead! All of you!"

Kolt'ec was silent for a bit and then quietly observed, "Would that help?"

"It's not your concern," the new Immortal growled. "Who are you?" he demanded, speaking Lakota Sioux.

Kolt'ec responded in the same language, "Are you always this polite?"

"Not always."

The Native American switched to English. "My name is Kolt'ec."

The other man answered, also in English, "It's not a Sioux name."

"My tribe was long before that, but I have been with the Sioux. You also have a name."

"MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod."

"Ah, European tribe."

MacLeod turned back to his cellmate. "What did you do?"

Kolt'ec shrugged. "Do? I was Indian, I suppose. Also they say I killed a soldier."

The Scot turned around and slid to the floor. "Did you?"

"They were riding down a young Indian for sport. I did this," he raised his arms in demonstration, "and the horses reared and a soldier fell off and died."

"They can't blame you for that," MacLeod answered in a disbelieving voice.

"No? Still, they will hang me. And who's to say I didn't make the horses rear?"

"I hate 'em." Mac raised his voice. "I hate 'em all!"

Keeping his voice mild, the Indian observed, "I can tell."

"All they know is how to take and destroy," Duncan answered, speaking low, "the land and the forest, women and children. It never stops. Never." With that, he swung agilely to his feet.

"It can stop for you."

"It will, once the man who's responsible for my family's slaughter is dead." The Highlander spasmodically gripped the bars as he spoke. His barely restrained rage was a palpable thing.

"Listen to me," Kolt'ec countered. "Your hate is not destroying him, but it is destroying you."

The Scot, still gripping the bars, looked back at his cellmate with glaring brown eyes. "And who are you to know?"

"I am Hayoka. It is my job to take the hatred from the world. I've been doing it for centuries. Taking the evil into myself, so that others may have peace. It is why I exist." Kolt'ec wore a small leather beaded pouch on a rawhide cord around his neck. He removed the pouch from beneath his tunic as he talked. "You are not evil, but you are overcome by hate. And in your pain, you are blind." The shaman removed two berries from within it and held them in his hand. "I can take the hate and stop the pain."

"Maybe I don't want the help. Maybe I need to hate."

"No. It is not your nature. Take them."

MacLeod hesitated, then plucked the peyote up and chewed them. His world then faded. He felt himself mentally transported to a place of water and nature, a holy place of peace and safety, the Hayoka's haven of healing.

* * * * * *

Duncan's sleep was deep. He was exhausted, but for the first time in almost a year, he was at peace. He had been filled with blind hatred for an immortal army scout who had participated in the bluecoats' raid of Mekina's camp. The mercenary had bragged about how many he'd scalped and called MacLeod a squaw man. When Mac found Little Deer, her son Kahani and the entire camp slain, he'd been overcome with grief and an unrequited black vengeance. He'd stalked and hunted Kern to no avail, mad at the world and the entire white race. Then Kolt'ec took MacLeod's pain away, mystically drawing it into himself. Mac had been skeptical but, evidently, it had worked. His heart was still heavy with sadness but his anger had subsided.

Mac awakened and stretched. He swung his long legs around to the floor and rubbed his eyes.

"How do you feel?" a soft voice asked from the other bunk.

"Better. Thank you, Kolt'ec." Duncan scratched his bewhiskered chin.

The aged Immortal grinned and shrugged his shoulders, feeling slightly self-conscious by the show of gratitude. "Why don't you call me Jim."

The Scot nodded. "And I'm Duncan or Mac."

"Come out 'o there!" ordered a small man with a pair of corporal's stripes. "Lieutenant wants ta see ya."

MacLeod glared at his jailer but left the cell, carefully watched by the three soldiers. His hands were swiftly tied behind his back and he was shoved through the door into the brilliant sunshine. He slowed his pace and blinked his eyes, trying to see. His escorts didn't wait while he tried to get his bearings. They shoved him on ahead, causing him to stumble to his knees. The Scot was dragged back to his feet, jabbed in the back and pushed in the direction of a small hut next to the guardhouse. As he was again poked in the back and moved through the doorway of the single room, the unmistakable aura of Immortal presence swept through him. Mac was intlyntly alert, sweeping the tinace ace visually. His guarded eyes met those of a sergeant standing near the lieutenant whom he'd assaulted upon his arrival. The sergeant didn't respond, however, to MacLeod's unspoken acknowledgment.

"Well, you're not so full of piss and vinegar, now, are you?" drawled the officer who waited for him. "I want to know why you were looking for Kern."

Duncan remained silent. When the prisoner didn't answer him, the officer nodded toward the husky sergeant. The burly noncom drew back his meaty right fist and pile-drove into MacLeod's midsection. The Scot grunted and would've fallen to his knees had it not been for the other two soldiers holding him up.

"Talk!" Sergeant Ben Travers barked as he hit the Immortal, this time in the mouth.

"It's none of your business, bluecoat," MacLeod growled, spitting a mouthful of blood and saliva towards the man.

The officer sat back in his chair and tapped a pencil on an open pad. "Bluecoat, huh? You're just another stinking Injun lover." He eyed Travers and the other two men who had brought Duncan to the hut. "Take the prisoner out back, Sergeant, and pound some sense into him." Looking down at the papers in front of him, he added, "Oh, and Sergeant, our regiment pulls out at daybreak tomorrow. See that you have some results before then. I don't want to leave any loose ends for the new commander."

The soldier grinned evilly and returned his commanding officer's brief salute. "With pleasure, Lieutenant."

MacLeod was dragged over to the stable area and the tack shed where the army stored its bridles and saddles. Shoved through the open door, his arms still bound, Duncan fell heavily into a pile of saddles. He could tell from the sergeant's glittering blue eyes that he was a man who enjoyed other men's pain. The first blows were to his face and body. Mac tried not to make any sounds but after a while, he couldn't suppress his moans.

Duncan lost track of time. The soldiers had probably been having fun at his expense for mere minutes but to MacLeod, it seemed hours. During a brief lull, he slumped onto the dirt floor. His entire body ached, especially his arms which were still tied behind his back. He wished they'd just get it over with and return him to his cell. He then glanced up and noticed that they, too, were breathing hard and wiping sweat from their faces. Mac's split lips cracked into a grin as his mocking vision focused on the other Immortal. "What's the matter, Travers? Letting them do your dirty work for you?"

The sergeant glared down at the prisoner huddled at his feet. "You talk tough, squaw man." He lowered his voice and hissed, " I know what ya' are, but it won't do ya' no good around here," he drawled. "Let's see how ya like this." Stepping back, he motioned to the other men in the small room. "Get 'im up from there and lean him over that rack," he ordered, pointing toward a pile of saddle blankets stacked on a bench. Duncan was still groggy and his reflexes slow when his captors jerked him up and shoved him belly down into the blankets. It wasn't until he felt hands groping around him, unbuttoning his pants that it occurred to him what was about to happen. Duncan lifted his face and moaned, "No, not that! Ye'll not do that to me!"

Travers cackled and jerked the Highlander's jeans down to his ankles. He slapped one of Mac's bare buttocks and jeered, "Ye're a squaw, ain't cha? We'll treat ya like one! Hell, we'll all have a turn."

At that comment, the other men's faces brightened. They crowded around and pinned the now struggling Highlander. The noncom pressed his hned ned shaft between Mac's spread buttocks and into an unprepared small opening that had not experienced such before.

Duncan roared and fought to free himself from the mind-splitting pain and humiliation, but his efforts were futile. His hips were ground into the roughly hewn surface each time the bluecoat's hips pounded into him.

At one point, the sergeant grabbed a fistful of MacLeod's hair and yanked it until Mac's bloodied face met his. "Ya know, it's a shame I'm being transferred back east. I'd love to keep you around a while to keep me company," Travers whispered in Mac's ear so that none of the others could hear him, "for maybe a century or so."

"You best kill me now. You won't get another chance," MacLeod warned, his faint voice like steel.

Travers gleefully laughed, "Naw, I'm havin' too much fun with you, squaw man. I still got a few hours before we pull out."

Duncan heard the sergeant grunt and ejaculate his semen into his body. He groaned when the man withdrew himself and another took his place. This time it was a bit easier because his channel had been prepared by his own blood that trickled from his battered body and down his legs. It wasn't long before his world dimmed and he no longer felt them.

* * * * * *

Sometime later, a half-dressed, bleeding and unconscious MacLeod was dumped back into Kolt'ec's cell. The Indian waited until the others left before untying his new friend. It was obvious what had happened to him. Sadly, he was not able to heal this type of pain.

The Scot soon awoke and painfully dragged himself to a sitting position.

"Are you all right?" Jim asked.

Mac grinned and wiped his mouth on his arm. "I'll live. The sergeant's one of us, but evidently he wasn't interested in taking heads." Duncan flushed and took a deep, settling breath. He then lowered his voice to barely a whisper and asked, "Are you ready to get out of here?"

Kolt'ec glanced at the iron bars. "You have a way?"

MacLeod thought of his friend, the lovely thief Amanda. He grinned and nodded. "Yeah."

Jim hoped the Highlander would say something of his rape, but he didn't. Kolt'ec was worried because MacLeod just pulled his jeans up over his bloody backside and sat staring at the wall.

They waited until there was only the solitary night guard in the small outer room. Kolt'ec called to the man who was in his early twenties and had a shock of white blond hair and blue eyes. The jailer swaggered into the room and over to the cell.

"I am thirsty. I need water," the Hayoka entreated.

The private sneered. "You won't need no water come daylight when we hang your ass, Injun."

Young and inexperienced, the man got too close. Mac reached between the bars and grabbed him around the neck. He held the struggling man until Kolt'ec relieved him of the key to the iron-barred door. When they were free and the man was tied, gagged and left on the cot, the Immortals found a pair of guns in the outer room. A surreptitious look out the window revealed that everything was quiet and the moon had already set, leaving a dark night with only the stars as light. It didn't take them long to work their way over to the small corral, take a mount each and swing up on the horses' bare backs to escape.

* * * * * *

MacLeod followed Jim Kolt'ec as the Indian Immortal rode steadily eastward. His thoughts reflected upon his prison stay as they crossed the miles. He was not the same man he was before it happened, nor would he be again. He'd never been raped before. His shame and humiliation warred with the common sense that told him there was no way he could've fought those men and avoided what had happened to him. Nor could he really blame them, either, except the eanteant, perhaps. The others had acted like so many men had in the past. Atrocious acts were committed by groups acting together that individuals acting alone would never consider. Even so, Mac felt dirty and abused, in a way that he had never felt before. He'd never experienced those emotions quite like he was feeling them now. It would take him a long time to recover. Oh, not the physical hurts. Those had long dissipated within a few hours of his having been thrown back into his cell at the fort. No, his wounds were emotional ones cut deep, salted with anger, disgrace and self-loathing. He wouldn't forget the Immortal Sergeant Travers, nor would he forget Kern. No matter how many centuries it took him, he'd catch up with both of those vermin.

"Mac, you're quiet."

MacLeod shrugged roderode on silently. His mind was still a jumble of images. He'd not touched a man that way. And he'd always been strong enough to overpower the fools, in the past, who'd tried anything with him. He didn't want to talk to anyone about what had happened. Travers' repeated taunts of squaw man played through his mind. . . squaw. . .man. He had not felt like much of a man. He had not been strong enough.

Kolt'ec hadn't asked him exactly what happened. He didn't really need to. It was quite evident from Mac's condition.
Perhaps I'll tell him some day but not right now, Mac thought. Still, he was grateful to Jim Kolt'ec for what he had done for him since they had met. The gentle Hayoka had eased the bitterness and anger he felt toward Kern, but his remng eng emotions were now in such turmoil. He needed to seek out holy ground to rest and gather himself back together. Nothing else mattered at the moment.

* * * * * *

Several days later, they reached a Lakota encampment of thirty lodges. Hot food and dry blankets sounded good to the Highlander.

"This is Ten Bears' Village. He is an old friend. We'll be safe here," Kolt'ec said as he kicked his heels against his horse and guided it toward the village.

Several braves exited their lodges to greet the newcomers.

The native Immortal nodded at a tall, regal Indian who wore two eagle feathers in his hair. "That is WindHis His Hair. He is their war chief. Over there," he motioned toward another magnificent man, "is Kicking Bird, their shaman."

Kicking Bird walked toward the two Immortals. Wind In His Hair and another man in a long buffalo robe closely followed him. The third person also wore Native American dress with an elaborate bone breastplate. His long dark blond hair had a single feather adorning it. MacLeod knew he was white. The man's green eyes, small scar above his left eyebrow and slender, powerful build suggested prior military experience.

Mac leaned toward his friend and murmured, "Who's with them?"

Kolt'ec glanced toward the one the Scot meant and answered, "That is
Shumanitu Taka Owaci, Dances with Wolves."

The two white men nodded a brief acknowledgment of each other as Mac slid off his pinto but neither man said anything.

The Sioux shaman held out his hand as the two Immortals dismounted. "You honor us with your presence, Hayoka."

"I, too, am honored by your warm welcome, old friend," Kolt'ec replied, gripping the other man's arm. He lifted his hand toward MacLeod who joined them. "This is Tuweni Iye Te." The Highlander had shared with his friend the name his now dead friend Mekina had given him.

"Hm, yes, you were with the members of the people who were killed."

A brief look of sadness marred the Scot's features at the memory of the beautiful woman, Little Deer, who'd given him both her love and her son, Kahani. "Yes," he whispered. Knowing the Lakotas did not mention the dead by name, he remained silent.

The medicine man gazed into the sorrowful brown eyes of the man who had escaped death. He had loved well and suffered much. He was welcome. "You may stay with us for as long as you wish,
Tuweni Iye Te, Never He Dies."

MacLeod bowed low to Kicking Bird, then followed a woman who led the way to a tent he and Kolt'ec would share. Once they were inside and had eaten, Mac turned to his new friend and asked, "What is Dances With Wolves' story? What is his white name?"

The Hayoka lit his pipe with a twig from the fire and blew out a long stream of smoke. "He was in the army. He is now hunted by them. I have heard some things but I do not know the particulars. Ask him."

Duncan sighed and leaned back, propping himself on his elbows. "I will." Mac was silent for a bit, then commented, "Did you sense his pre-immortality?"

Jim Kolt'ec's chest rumbled with a light chuckle. "Yes, MacLeod, I did."

Duncan blew out a long, slow breath, which produced steam in the cold air. Listening for any untoward sounds, he could hear the snap of the tent, which sounded more like a drum. He could hear the-off-off wail of a coyote and the hoot of an owl. Other sounds filtered in, the familiar ones of families settling down for the nighac wac was drawn inexplicably to the man known as Shumanitu Taka Owaci. There were still unanswered questions. For now, however, his stomach was full, his eyelids were heavd hed he turned over onto his side, falling asleep instantly. He didn't even notice the silent Indian woman who covered him up a b a buffalo robe.

* * * * * *

John Dunbar sat quietly in his tent. Hise wae was asleep but he found rest impossible. He couldn't get the newcomer, Duncan MacLeod, off his mind. The man was strong and muscular. He reminded Dunbar of a golden cougar waiting to pounce on its prey. His dark hair was long, almost to his waist and his eyes were akin to burnished mahogany. Hearing a sound, he was reminded of his precious wife's presence.

Stands With A Fist turned onto her side and instinctively groped for her husband's warmth. His spot was empty. Raising up, she brushed aside her wiry hair and spotted him sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, staring into the low flames. She glanced over to the flap that led to the outside. She could still see the reflection of the harvest moon upon it. Wrapping a blanket around her bare form, she joined Dances With Wolves. She placed her sun-bronzed hand along his strong jaw and turned his face toward her. "Where are your thoughts, my husband?"

John's searching gaze absorbed the woman's features who'd been his wife for more than seven glorious years. When the couple left the Lakota's village in 1865, he'd wanted to tell those who would listen of the reality concerning the Sioux nation. The red men wished to live in peace, as they had for generations.

He'd not found any who paid him any heed. They returned to the Lakota and their home. His one regret was that he and Stands had not had any children. They had each other, however. It was enough for him.

His eyes softened to a sea green as he leaned over and kissed her soft lips. "I was thinking of Tuweni Iye Te. He is deeply troubled."

"Yes, he seems
iyokisice, um, sad?" She looked questioningly at her husband as she did when she was unsure of the English word. Christine had been taken into the Lakotas at such a young age; there were still some words she couldn't remember.

John nodded, "Yes, he does."

"His eyes are ancient and haunted," she added. "He has seen much."

The former Cavalry officer cuddled his wife's shivering form into his warm embrace. "I talked to Hayoka earlier. He said MacLeod was adopted into Makina's camp. I had heard that he was to have taken Little Deer, Makina's widow, and their son, Kahani, for his own."

A tear threatened the white woman's eye. Kicking Bird had found her wandering alone on the prairie when she was a young girl and adopted her into his family. She had made friends with Little Deer and was close to her until Makina took the lithe girl for his woman and returned to his own clan. Stands missed her.

"I want to help him, if I can," Dances quietly tolr.

"I am glad. When I first came here, Little Deer was myt frt friend, when I had no others."

John twisted her slender body until she lay across his lap. He then kissed her long and deeply. When he again could breathe, he said, "I love you, my heart."

His mate reached up and traced the faint scar on the left side of his forehead. It was a remembrance of when the bluecoats had killed his horse and wolf and had tried to kill him as well. "And I love you."

No other words were spoken as each shared their bodies with the other.

* * * * * *

MacLeod accompanied Kolt'ec into Ten Bears' tent for their council meeting the next day. The Scot's initial impression of the aged leader was one of quiet but firm control. He was respected, not just because he was advanced in years and their chief, but because Ten Bears had that unique ability to allow input, listen and to know when and how to impart his words of wisdom. Their concern was for the ever widening gulf between themselves and the white-eyes from the east who came to take their land, scare the game off and even kill their livelihood, the buffalo. MacLeod knew how it would all eventually end. He felt sorry for his Indian friends.

Dances With Wolves took the opportunity when the meeting was over to invite MacLeod to his teepee for the evening meal. Kolt'ec opted to stay with his old friends, Ten Bears and Kicking Bird. So, the Highlander nodded his agreement. "I would be honored," he told the former cavalryman.

After their meal of buffalo stew, MacLeod sighed his pleasure. "Stands With A Fist, you are a rare and gifted cook."

The woman shyly smiled and nodded her thanks. Her husband picked up his pipe from its customary sheath and began filling it. It was the same one Kicking Bird had given to him before Dunbar had left the camp back in '65. He got it going, took a few puffs on it and passed it over to the Immortal. For a time, all that could be heard was the familiar sounds of the various Indian families preparing for sleep.

Duncan at last broke the silence. "What are your names? Your white names?"

Stands With A Fist smiled. Dances With Wolves had asked Kicking Bird and herself the same question about her when they'd first met. "I do not know my last name. I was very young when my family was killed by the Pawnee. Kicking Bird found me wandering on the plain and brought me home to live with him and Black Shawl. But, I remember my first name, Christine."

Dances With Wolves grinned. "Your full name is now Christine Dunbar, Mrs. John J. Dunbar." They exchanged a sweet kiss, their love for each other glittering in their eyes.

* * * * * *

Days passed and MacLeod fell into the familiar routine of a Lakota camp. Warriors hunted for game. Women cooked and watched over their growing children. The very young played but after a certain size, they were instructed in the crafts they would need when they grew up. Everyone participated in maintaining the tribe, from the sest est or youngest ones up to the largest or oldest ones.

The Highlander paused from the kata, which had been his morning routine for many years. Despite the frigid air and low clouds that promised snow soon, he wasn't cold. He'd been raised in the Highlands of Scotland and was used to the water having a thin sheet of ice across it, frost covering his bed robes and a biting north wind. Wind In His Hair rode up and watched him. He didn't say anything but nodded approval of MacLeod's physical prowess.

When the Scot had finished, the war chief then suggested, "We are hunting antelope today. Would you come?"

Mac nodded. "Yes, I would like to." He hurried out to the h her herd and caught up his pony. Swinging aboard its back, he trotted after theal Ial Indian and the other three men accompanying them.

Duncan had hunted antelope with Mekina's tribe also. He knew the pronghorns could survive for long periods without water. They had an acute sense of sight, great speed and were able to communicate danger with each other by the white patch on their rumps. Like the buffalo, every portion of the animal was used. Their hides were fashioned by the women into shirts, leggings and dresses. Their horns wesed sed in special headdresses, bone whistles, combs and necklaces to name only a few of their many uses. Most importantly, they were a nutritious source of meat, even more important now that the vast herds of buffalo were being slaughtered into oblivion.

The hunting party rode several miles from the camp before spotting a small herd of four adults. Making their plans in advance, the riders took after the fleet-footed animals with their horses running. It took cooperation and skill for the hunters to circle the pronghorns and drive dow down to an antelope pound which was a deep pit beyond some rocks near the stream.

MacLeod enjoyed the wind blowing on his face from the exciting ride. It had been many moons since he'd laughed and reveled in a hunt. When the last of the pronghorns had plunged over the cliff into the pit below, he rode up with the others and slid off his horse, his bow in his hand. Mac was proficient with the weapon after having lived with the Lakota the past three or four years. He glanced down into the hole. One of the animals wasn't dead and its brown eyes met MacLeod's beseechingly, as if it were begging to be released from its misery. The antelope's dark eyes reminded him of Little Deer's. Mac shrugged off the image, blinking back his unwanted tears and reached into the pouch of arrows secured to his back with a leather strip. He let one fly into the heart of the large ram. It was dead.

The others, unaware of the Scot's reaction, chose their prey and soon the four animals were dead. The carcasses were then slung over their mounts and they headed back to camp.

That night, MacLeod feasted along with the others. They shared stories, some about hunts they'd been on or family jokes about how the brave chief Ten Bears had hidden up in a tree with his wife Pretty Shield while a buffalo below them charged the tree. It was evident from the broad smiles on everyone's faces, that the chief's wife of many moons had eloquently told the tale many times. Even so, a light blush formed on Ten Bears sun-darkened face and he shook his finger halfheartedly at his beloved wife.

Mac was chuckling to himself when he returned to Dances With Wolves' tipi witandtands With A Fist. Kolt'ec had told Mac that he wanted to stay at the feast a while longer.

When they were inside the tent, Dunbar grinned at Christine. "One time she was mad at me and wouldn't speak to me. I remember sitting in an overhang and pondering my situation. I couldn't figure out why she was mad at me."

Stands With A Fist made a noise and ignored her husband. Dunbar continued his story. "Anyway, when I came back, she leaped into my arms." He grinned lovingly at her. "We've been together ever since."

Duncan's full lips parted in a half smile. He and Little Deer had known that happiness. They loved each other. The memory of her cold lifeless body in his arms washed through him. He'd held her, refusing to give her up, for long hours, rocking her and begging her to come back to him. It wasn't until his kinsman, Connor MacLeod, appeared and persuaded him that he was able to give her up at last. She had been the first woman he'd truly loved since Debra Campbell his childhood sweetheart. She'd died, too. He unconsciously murmured, "Everyone I care for dies."

He didn't realize he'd dropped his head and was crying until he felt tears dampen his clenched, white-knuckled fists. The dam MacLeod had plugged up the morning after Little Deer's and Kahani's cremation, shored up with his hatred for Kern and bled when his body had been taken against his will, now burst into a flood of despair. It wasn't until later that he realized John Dunbar cradled him in his arms, while Christine sat on his other side, rubbing his back and whispering soothing words to him in Lakota.

"I-I'm sorry," Mac raggedly apologized, sitting up and wiping his eyes with the heels of his palms.

"Don't be," Dunbar reassured him. Dances With Wolves was silent for a bit, waiting for the Highlander to gather himself together.

"Is there anything that we can do to help?"

"I don't think that anything can help, except maybe time. . .and maybe a place where I can just get away and find some peace."

"I know of a place like that. It's far to the west of here. It's quiet and peaceful. It's an island where the shamans go for vision quests. Stands and I stayed there for a time." John looked over toward his wife before asking the Immortal, "Would you like us to take you there?"

"Aye, I would."

* * * * * *

Duncan's sleep that night was filled with images of Little Deer, Kahani, the antelope and Sergeant Travers' leering face. The phantom pain of his body's invasion made his nightmare seem so real that he hollered out loud and abruptly bolted upright, his lungs heaving as he gasped for breath.

Kolt'ec had awakened on his pallet across from MacLeod and turned his face toward the distressed Immortal. He didn't say anything at first, but then murmured, "what's wrong?"

Duncan ran his trembling fingers through his hair. He knew Jim cared and was a good friend. Still, Mac wasn't sure he could share that intimate part of himself with anyone, not even with the Hayoka.

"Would you like to tell me what happened at the fort?" Jim softly probed.

Part of him wanted desperately to share his rape with the Hayoka. He confided, "They...raped...me."

Jim remained silent, hoping the Highlander would say more. If he could talk about it, it would help him accept the truth of the depraved acts committed against him. Perhaps he would see that he hadn't a choice; he'd been overpowered; he was still the same man he was before.

Instead, Mac mumbled, "I'm sorry, I can't, not yet."

Kolt'ec nodded his understanding. "Just know I'm here when you can, my friend."

Duncan nodded and laid back down. He tried to go back to sleep but it was impossible. Finally, when the first glimmer of daylight flickered upon the tent's sides, he left his pallet and went outside to find a secluded place where he could exercise his demons away in the cold light of dawn.

MacLeod shared his travel plans with his Immortal friend later that morning. Jim decided to remain in camp. He and Ten Bears wanted to discuss the increasing unrest between the People, the Lakota Sioux, and the whites. Kolt'ec was familiar with where Dances Withves ves planned to take the Highlander and promised he'd come visit him before long.

"Omani nyo, Mac."

"Yes, travel well, Jim."

Kolt'ec watched them leave two days later. The younger man was still troubled. The Hayoka hoped the island's peace would help him deal with his ghosts.

* * * * * *

Well provisioned and armed, the trio left the encampment and commenced the long journey to the Northwestern Territory. The first part of the trek was uneventful. On horseback, they covered as much as twenty or more miles per day. Duncan and John took turns killing small game and picketing their horses while Christine prepared the meals. She was surprised one evening when MacLeod wanted the pleasure of cooking the food himself. Stands With A Fist had never seen a man do a woman's work. She laughed at him, but had to admit later that he'd done a good job; the food was very tasty.

Their sojourn was uneventful until a wandering bear happened upon their camp one night. Its low-pitched growls awakened them. Before either man could act, the animal moved toward Stands With A Fist. The woman screamed and rolled out of her bedroll, away from it.bar bar reached for his rifle but the Highlander was much faster. MacLeod drew his Bowie knife from its sheath strapped to his leg and attacked the brown animal with its dishpan face.

Duncan's highland yell filled the glade as he charged headlong at the bear, who'd reared up on its hind legs. The Scot stabbed the animal but only managed to slice one of its forepaws. This served to anger it even more. Roaring in rage at its injury, the bear backhanded MacLeod, swiping deep gashes across the Immortal's left shoulder. Mac could vaguely hear the terrified whinnies of the plunging horses as they tried desperately to break their tethers and escape.

Mac ignored his injury. He knew he stood a better chance of defeating the maddened bear than his friends. So, he continued stabbing and slicing the animal as it closed on him. The bear suddenly reared up again and attacked MacLeod, wrapping its giant paws around the Scot's body. As it did so, it managed to dislodge Mac's knife; the weapon fell uselessly to the ground. Duncan didn't have time to think. He was fighting for his life. He barely heard Dunbar's shout but deftly caught the other man's knife when John tossed it to him. Ignoring the massive beast's foul breath, he flipped the blade and plunged it deep into the bear's chest. By now, both it and MacLeod were covered in a mixture of bloods.

A fear of final death flooded Mac's mind when the bear bit deeply into his shoulder, right at the juncture of his clavicle and neck. Blood gushed out as an artery was punctured. He only had time to think,
Dear God in heaven! This damned wild grizzly is going to take my head.

John Dunbar shoved his wife across the clearing to the relative safety of the woods. Readying his rifle, he watched in open-mouthed shock as the Highlander fought the crazed bear. He raised his weapon several times to get a bead on the animal, but each time MacLeod ended up in the way. It was not until the grizzly bit into Mac's neck, causing the man to slump to unconsciousness, that Dunbar had a clear shot. Cursing under his breath, he discharged the rifle, shooting the animal between the eyes. He watched it fall onto MacLeod's now inert body.

Dances With Wolves levered another bullet into the rifle's barrel and fired another shot into the bear. At long last, a deep guttural sigh was expelled through its snout, heraldthe the bear's death. John knew his friend was dead, but he had to check to make sure. So, with a mighty effort, he shoved the carcass off MacLeod and turned the Scot over onto his back. John's lower jaw dropped open in shock as Mac's wounds began to close with tiny sparks, similar to lightning. John leaned over and pressed his ear to MacLeod's chest. He could hear a steady heart-beat. Mac's neck hadn't healed as yet and the Highlander wasn't conscious, but that would only be a matter of time. He rocked back onto his heels and murmured in shock, "I will be damned."

"Shumanitu? He lives?" Stands With A Fist asked as she returned to the campsite. Her keen eyesight had taken in the bloody scene.

Her husband turned his astonished face toward her and answered, "I don't know how in the hell why, but yes, he's alive. I guess it is true. He really is Never He Dies."

Christine crossed quickly to one of their packs and removed a clean cloth. Then, saturating it with some water from one of the canteens, she proceeded to wash the blood from Duncan MacLeod's chest and neck. Meanwhile, Dunbar went to the picket line to soothe the horses. He patted them gently, spoke softly to them and rubbed their noses. Reaching into a pouch hung on his belt, he removed handfuls of grain and fed them to the animals. Within a short time, the horses relaxed and resumed their grazing. It was a miracle they hadn't broken loose in the frantic melee that had just occurred. As it was, they were still skittish and trembling for a long time. After he'd finished tending the animals, John began to skin the bear. They would take the pelt. There was more than enough meat to provision them for the rest of the trip. Even so, they couldn't pack it all. A large portion would have to abandoned.

Dances With Wolves and Stands With A Fist sat with MacLeod until he recovered. With his immortality obviously revealed, he told them about Immortals and the way he could die permanently. Just thinking about how close he'd come made Mac reach up unconsciously and rub the left side of his neck, the place where the bear had bitten him.

"It is said," Christine spoke as she deftly prepared the meat they would take with them, &qthatthat everyone has an animal spirit. When one's spirit, or totem, sacrifices his life to you, he has given you his courage, his soul, his strength and his knowledge."

Duncan half-smiled. "You think the bear was my spirit guide?"

"The
mato, the bear, I believe, is your totem. Mato is believed to get its power from the Great Spirit. It will give you strength, knowledge and the ability to look within yourself and understand why you do the th you you do."

MacLeod at first had passed off what Stands With A Fist was telling him. It sounded so much like the superstitions of his clan. Yet, he listened. "Tell me more."

"Because a bear is active both day and night, it has lunar, moon, energy as well as that of the sun. However, it can be too quick to anger, sometimes, too sure of its own power and too quick to forget caution. It is important to be aware of your limits and gather much inner strength."

The Highlander shivered unconsciously because, inadvertently, the woman had hit upon two of his tendencies: to act first and think later. They finished dressing the bear's meat. It took them most of the night to finish. Even though they didn't have lon long to sleep, they laid down and slept for what few hours they could.

* * * * * *

--TBC--