A Dark Day In Paradise Part Three ...

Author’s Notes: This is the third part of the A Dark Day In Paradise series, and to be honest I didn’t think it would take this long!! Once more my thanks go out to Val for ‘encouraging’ me to complete this (which I hopefully will soon) and to Slida for her help with Daniel and to Stone for putting up with me, you’re a doll hun! Love ya!!

Rated NC-17 ... still, due to implied m/m f/f relationships and bad language, still.

This story is a Highlander/Stargate SG-1/Sharpe Cross-Over and no copyright infringement is intended, I am making no profit from this ... still! *L* Standard disclaimers apply.

Any feedback would be greatly appreciated, please direct all such mail to Adriane (that’s me ... the mortal one) at wylt@hotmail.com.

A Dark Day In Paradise (Part Three) © 1998

America, 1998

Adriane entered the room, absently carrying an overly large jumper she’d self-depreciatingly nicknamed ‘the world’s largest jumper’ - on her at least - dressed in her pyjamas, consisting of a pair of baggy light cotton trousers and a short vest, and some thick socks that muffled her footsteps as she padded out into the living room. Rubbing at her wet hair with a towel she smiled slightly as she spotted Daniel. He was standing in front of her working area, stripped to the waist with his towel hanging, forgotten, in his hand and his hair dripping now cold water down his back, dressed in an old pair of tracksuit bottoms she’d kept for Methos. Stifling another sigh she watched for a moment as Daniel, unaware of her presence, examined her personal memorabilia. Trust me, she thought sardonically, I live in an archaeologists dream apartment so who do I bring home? An archaeologist.
The large shelving/desk unit easily covered a third of a wall in the large central room of her apartment. There were shelves stacked to overflowing with books all over her home, but these particular shelves also held archaeological treasures. A musket lay apparently discarded on a shelf, dating back to the 1700’s. A roman helm belonging to a nameless and forgotten soldier hung from the edge of the topmost shelf, testifying to her time in slavery. Other ‘bits and pieces’ lay amongst the shelves ... a scrap of cloth, a medicine bundle ... but what had captured Daniel’s attention was a small piece of papyrus depicting the Egyptian God Osiris. Adriane sighed again, moving to stand silently beside him. Reaching out to lay her small hand on his arm, she carefully schooled her features, reluctant to face the questions she was sure he would ask. He turned to glance down at her, dazed and unfocused.
“This is amazing, where did you get it?” His voice was husky with excitement.
“I picked it up on my travels ... somewhere, I forget where, when, exactly.” She shrugged, feigning indifference, her accent back to the concise english of their first meeting. Startled, he realised that he could not even be sure that this was her original accent, and that her name might not even be Adriane - there was too much about her that he just didn’t know, no way of knowing which facet she showed was the true woman. He turned once more to look at her, his eyes narrowing suddenly.
“Just who are you Adriane Grant?” He watched, saddened as her mask slammed down, shutting him out once more.
“What do you mean?” Her tone innocent and her features betraying nothing.
“I mean who are you?” He persisted. “Where do you come from,
what’s your real name, what have you seen in your life?” She laughed harshly, shaking her head.
“You have no idea do you?”
“Then tell me!” He cried in frustration. “I want to understand, Adriane.” She paused, throwing her jumper over the back of one of the sofas, and ran her hand through her hair tiredly.
“So, you believe I’m an Immortal?” She asked, abruptly breaking the silence. Daniel swallowed. Did he? He asked himself. He searched his feelings, knowing deep down that she’d died that night, and no amount of pretending could deny that. He’d seen aliens, fought and killed aliens, had died himself - several times, only to be brought back by Goa’uld technology. She hadn’t had the benefit of a sarcophagus, she’d revived on her own. There had to be some truth to their claims, he’d seen it. And slowly he nodded. He believed.
Adriane smiled, part of the battle had been won. But her smile died, turning icy. This gentle man had no business being involved in her world, and if she had to make him hate her to protect him then she’d do it, it wouldn’t be the first time and she was damn sure it wouldn’t be the last.
“And you think it’s all fun and parties, participating in history, shaping the future? All happiness and light for two thousand years?” She continued, her voice cold, and he stared at her, shocked by her outburst. “Well wise up Daniel, my people kill each other. We chop off each others Heads so we can grow stronger, and we’ll keep killing each other until there’s only One left.” She told him brutally. “And that One will be rewarded. We don’t know why and we sure as hell don’t know how, but we all fight for it just the same - and mankind had better pray that someone worthy wins it, and thank God Kronos is dead.” She finished.
“Kronos?” He asked, quietly. This hadn’t been what he’d expected.
“A killer. One of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”
“But they’re myths, from the Bible, they’re not real.” He trailed off under her implacable gaze.
“Oh they were real all right, Daniel. I knew one.” She had only recently discovered that Methos had played a part in that reign of terror, but it didn’t matter to her. They’d all done things in their past that they regretted, it was foolish to pretend otherwise. But she was getting side-tracked, and, shaking her head, decided to change tact’s. “What do you see when you look at me?” His eyes narrowed, sensing there was a deeper meaning to the question but unsure of what she was really asking. When he’d first met her, only several hours ago he realised with a start, she’d appeared sad and troubled and he’d taken it upon himself to help her. But since then he’d seen a fierce and ruthless woman who had no need of such assistance. There was a powerful presence about her, that you could sense as soon as she entered the room - even when she sat quietly hunched in a bar, it was still palpable. Her innocence was a facade, her intelligence obvious, and her chameleon-like ability to switch from one thing to another was frightening. Small and athletically built, she radiated a need for protection with her elfin features and striking eyes, until she let you see the calculating and savage side of her multi-faceted personality. She laughed when he told her that, surprised to find such a perceptive man.
“You’re lucky,” she told him dryly. “I don’t let many mortals see the savage side of me, it tends to scare them.” She grinned, amused by his description. And then her amusement faded suddenly to be replaced by calculation. “I’ve killed, Daniel. More than you could possible imagine over the years, and not all of them have been my kind. I’m a killer, and I’m very good at it.” He paled at her words, and she smiled sweetly, mocking the image she had weaved for him before turning away only to spin back round at his gasp.
“What the hell happened to your back?” He asked, bewildered and reeling. Confused in her tiredness, she glanced over her shoulder, smiling as she realised what he meant. The short vest she was wearing did nothing to cover the ugly great ridged scars that covered her back and extended across her belly and flanks in several places - the marks of a flogging that had been inflicted before her first death, and miraculously she’d survived the vicious beating when so many others died of shock and pain. She shrugged, pretending apathy.
“I was whipped by my Master whilst in Rome, 75 BC I believe,” she paused, frowning, “or was it 74 BC.” It bothered her that she couldn’t remember the year. He stared, unable to comprehend her words as he finally grasped that this wasn’t a game, she was deadly serious, and if half of what she said was true then he was in the presence of a cold-blooded killer. “Look at me, Daniel. I have the eternal body of a twenty-three year old, people look at me and see a child.” She told him sadly, acutely aware that there were times when she played on the misperception, and he had to agree. Only her eyes expressed her true nature and age; pain, wisdom and an intelligence beyond her apparent years were revealed there. And he was dismayed by the realisation that because she looked like a child, people treated her as such - an eternity of condescending adults, opportunities missed or denied due to her seeming young age. And he knew then that her bitterness was justified, to watch those you loved grow old and die whilst you remained young - physically at least, to be treated disdainfully by those who considered themselves older and wiser than you - the unfairness of it all was almost more than he could bear, and yet she did, daily, for over two thousand years. Her strength amazed him, and he looked at her with new respect.
“Don’t do that.” She told him tiredly, catching his glance. “I don’t deserve your pity or respect.” He turned away, his gaze going to the display of swords in an impressive array hung above her fireplace, and involuntarily her words rang through his mind, we chop off each others Heads so we can grow stronger. A shiver of fear ran down his back as he noted the razor-sharp edges of each, and he turned to stare at the small woman in horror.
She was a killer.

Greece, 68 BC

She laughed, the joy of a good fight searing through her veins, as she danced away from the sword thrust of her opponent. Her tall thick leather boots caused the dust to rise around them, obscuring them from view as they fought endlessly in the overwhelming heat of the day. Her enemy, a foreigner to this land, had Challenged her as she travelled from village to village - her first such meeting since achieving Immortality. Seeing a small fragile looking young Immortal woman he had thought her an easy target, and was now hard pushed to hold his ground against her precise thrusts, kicks, punches and bites. She fought dirty, knowing that the ability to kick a bastard before he kicked you was a skill necessary to her survival. And that was all that mattered, surviving ... at any cost. Parrying a blow, low and to the side she flicked her foot out to catch the stranger in the belly, who folded reflexivly at the waist. Sheering away and turning in one swift movement, she swung with all her strength and watched dispassionately as his head dropped to the floor, rolling until stopped by a mound in the grass. The body fell, a white mist gradually appearing as she watched apprehensively. Her Teacher had described a Quickening to her, but had warned that each one was different, and until you experienced the phenomenon for yourself you could only imagine. She took two steps backwards, away from the corpse, her sword loosely clasped between her hands, waiting. Lightening struck her, the pain and pleasure suddenly filled her body and she heard herself scream as if from a great distance. Her limbs flailed in the air, her sword falling from her grip as over and over the lightening hit her body. Jumbled images filled her mind, her opponents life experiences. He was older than she, by decades - almost centuries and as the pictures faded and she collapsed to her knees in exhaustion she struggled to retain her own identity in a mixture of feelings and memories that were not entirely her own.

America, 1998

Adriane sighed, the memory of that first Quickening still sharp in her mind.
“I didn’t even know his name.” She muttered under her breath.
“So you killed him, for no reason.” Daniel asked, sinking down into his chair. She looked at him sharply.
“Of course there was a reason, Daniel.” She snapped. “The Game is the only reason we need. He Challenged me and I chose to accept.”
“And this is how you live your life? A series of fights that end in death? How empty your life must be.” The young man shook his head sadly.
Golden eyes narrowed. “Not empty, different. I have close friends.”
“Immortals you will one day have to kill or die yourself?” He interrupted, and she bowed her head against the truth of his words, against a day she hoped would never come.
“I would rather die.” She stated calmly, aware that she was mocking the vow she had made so long ago to survive no matter what. No-one knew if the Gathering would remove all trace of reason in the opponents, make them fight friends and kin. And as much as she craved the Prize, she wondered if she could bring herself buy it at the cost of her friends blood. She sighed, deeply and wearily. “But that day is a long time in coming.” She sipped her drink, rising to retrieve the bottle and place it on the coffee table between them. The thought of facing Sharpe, Methos, Stone, Amanda, Kat, or any of them over a sword was almost more than she could bear, and she sheered away from the black depression that was never far away by strength of will alone.
“Tell me about them.” Daniel asked quietly. “Tell me about you.”
“Our life is not for mortals to know.” She told him with a shrug, not sure she could share herself with this stranger.
“Bullshit Adriane, or whatever your name is.” Daniel leaned forward, his face red with anger. “You don’t strike me as the kind that pays much attention to rules unless it suits you!”
She laughed, amused, mocking him. “You think you could understand me? Understand the life Immortals lead?!” Her voice rose, her manner becoming menacing, and he shrank back intimidated. “How dare you claim to know me! You have absolutely no idea of the loneliness and pain that I have endured for over two thousand years!” She ripped at her vest to display more fully the scars covering her body. “This was done to me when I was barely out of my teens, but I survived. I always survive.” She shouted, her tone bitter. “And you have no idea what that survival costs us.” She quietened, sinking back into the armchair. “Our humanity, our loved ones, our very exsistence become shadows of what you take for granted every day of your short lives. We survive ... but for the grace of God, isn’t that how your saying goes? Well I’ll let you into a little secret, Daniel Jackson. Surviving isn’t the same as living.”
Daniel paled, and imagined the horror that they lived. A life of killing, dying and blood, through no choice of their own if they wanted to continue existing. And that’s all it became, an existance of sorts, until the day they died. His blue eyes closed briefly, understanding now that the menace was in reality an anger that simmered just beneath the surface, ready to boil over at any moment. To have carried that burden for two thousand years.
“You want to know about me? You want to understand me? Well fine.” She snapped. “Let me tell you about my life.”

To be continued ...