COMPLETED= 4-24-00

COMPLETED= 4-24-00

Classification: C, MSR, V

Disclaimer: not mine pouts loudly

Spoilers: none really

A.N.: Short x-over vignette between XF and Highlander, it really only deals with the two XF characters, none from the Highlander show or movies. You kind of need to have some grasp of the concepts behind the Highlander world, though even a small one should be enough to understand this.

——^—@ ~ ——^—@ ~ ——^—@


By Rashaka, the Demon

The Gathering had come; had passed. He was the last now, and she had kept him sane once the truth of the Prize set in.

He had not been alone then.

But time passed, and she changed. She grew older; he stayed young— forever young. Her sunset locks turned pale and the laugh-lines around her eyes grew deeper. He watched her wilt slowly before him, without him even being allowed the comfort of sharing his own old age with her.

But he walked by her side always, even when she told him to go. She did not understand that when he looked at her he didn't see the weak, small hands and the pale, wrinkled skin, or the wisps of thin white gossamer that floated gently around her face. He saw only bright, fiery red hair that smelled of raspberries and summer beaches, skin like satin against his own.

She didn't understand until the very end that she never really aged in his eyes.

Head bent, the world on his shoulders—her life on his shoulders— he pressed the note onto the corner of the first of the steps leading to the edge of the mirror-pool. With the hands of a pilgrim touching a holy shrine, he carefully laid a pale, lush yellow rose on top of the note.

As he lifted his hands away, a last, single tear, the last ever he would ever shed, fell from his cheek, dropping to the paper below and soaking into it. With the lonely, cherished words "Thank you," he stood, and walked away.

A bitter DC breeze picked up. Though the rose still clung to it against the harsh winds and kept it grounded —she always was the strong one— the slip of folded paper was blown open for all the stars to see. Words were scrawled across the tiny sheet; desperate, wistful, handwriting in dark lead scratchings:

Weep not for

the memories.