Lightning's Child
by TheGreyOwl

Disclaimer: The usual disclaimers apply. The main characters and concept belong to Rysher, the story line is mine. Don't sue me; I'm broke anyway. Constructive comments welcome so email me!

The British Air Supersonic Transport steadily climbed through the leaden clouds and heavy snow. The storm was the biggest this year and stretched for miles on either side of the tiny air corridor that marked the polar passage from London to Tokyo, Japan. The crew of this particular flight wasn't as concerned about the snow and buffeting winds as they were about a tiny flickering light on one of the displays. If this light could be believed, the forward cargo hatch was insecure, rattling in its door frame as the winds shook the aircraft. It could be just a faulty light — returning to Heathrow for a faulty indicator would cause delays for all 82 travelers on board, and that would mean trouble for the crew all the way to Japan once the flight resumed. If the indicator flickered once they'd gotten above these infernal clouds and punishing winds, we'll turn back, the captain thought.

As the aircraft crossed the coastline and climbed over the North Sea, the improperly closed hatch continued to shake in its frame. Buffeted by the winds, the locking mechanism slipped further and further. Only a bare sliver of the mechanism held the door against the tremendous force of the slipstream, and then that too failed. The hatch was forced open by the full force of the slipstream generated by the near speed of sound travel of the aircraft. The hatch broke away, peeling a section of the fuselage away like the edging on a canned ham. The resulting sudden decompression of the passenger cabin strained the already weakened floor assembly holding seats 6A and 6B of first class, and ripped them away into the maelstrom of wind and snow of the night sky over the sea. Seat 6B had been empty—the flight had only been lightly loaded. Seat 6A was occupied by a sleeping researcher on his way to Japan for a meeting...a researcher named Adam Pierson.

"We interrupt this program with a special bulletin," came over the TV playing in the background at Joe's Bar. "British Air Flight 96, nonstop SST service between London and Tokyo, has just declared an emergency due to explosive decompression of the aircraft. The exact cause is unknown and the craft is presently enroute back to Heathrow. We will bring you further news as its develops."

"Say, Mac. Wasn't Methos supposed to be on that plane?" Joe asked the immortal sitting by his side. "I thought he said something about taking the SST because the flight time was so much shorter and he could get his feet back on the ground that much faster."

"Well, if he is on that flight, this isn't going to help his reluctance to get on board an airplane," replied Duncan MacLeod. "Methos isn't too happy trusting something as recent as the airplane. In many ways, I think he misses traveling by horse."

The new channels were filled with the coverage of the miraculous recovery of the aircraft. Experts were amazed at the extent of the damage, reminding everyone of the Hawaiian Air flight that had converted from business class to patio class in mid-air when the entire top of the fuselage ripped away. The SST's damage was similar; the side and roof had peeled away over a single row of seats on one side of the aircraft, ripping away the floor and the seats, flinging their occupants into the night sky. The flight crew as lauded for their efforts in landing the crippled aircraft with only the loss of a single life--Adam Pierson, Esquire.

The news that Methos was missing and presumed dead had already reached Joe and Duncan through the Watchers. Since Adam was traveling on Watcher business, the airlines had contacted his business number trying to locate some next of kin. The news flashed across the world in a matter of minutes when the senior researcher called Joe Dawson to tell him the sad news that his friend Adam had met unexpected tragedy aboard the British Air flight.

When Joe called Duncan to tell him, Duncan assured him that Methos was probably still alive but was undoubtedly in serious trouble. As the details of the accident became clearer, they included a report that stated the aircraft's position at the time of the decompression was just north of the Shetland Islands. Duncan instructed Joe to meet him at the Seacouver Airport ready to fly to Scotland, landing first at Edinburgh then connecting on a British Air flight to the Shetland's Sumburgh Airport.

It was late at night when they landed in Lerwick. Acting on information from a friendly British Air agent, they were directed to a small bed and breakfast establishment. As MacLeod settled into his room to get some much needed sleep, there was a knock on the door and he felt the unmistakable jangle of his nervous system that announced the presence of another immortal. Grasping his katana, he eased the door open to see...Amanda?!?

"What in the world are you doing here?" Duncan asked the sultry brunette, wondering how she had found him in this remote part of the world in such an out of the way bed and breakfast.

"I came to help you find Methos. I knew when I heard the news that you would be coming to locate him, my trusty boy scout. The most logical starting point for the search would be here, so voila." Amanda replied. "As to how I found you in this quaint little inn, who do you think suggested to the British Air agent that he recommend it when a tall, good-looking Scotsman with a pony tail asked for lodgings? I promise not to be any trouble and I want to help. He's my friend, too." While she spoke, she entered the room and sat on the bed, smiling her famous (infamous?) come-hither smile.

"Amanda, I am much too tired right now for any of your fun and games. Why don't you go to your room and I'll see you in the morning."

"Duncan, this is my room. You don't think I'd waste the money on a separate room when you're here, do you? Of course, if you don't want me here, I could always go look in on Joe..."

Duncan groaned his acceptance, locked the door, and turned out the lights.

The morning dawned cold and foggy. The trio gathered for their breakfast and discussed the methodology for the search to come. "He could have landed anywhere," Joe stated. "The pilot believes he was north of these islands. That means Adam could be in the sea just as easily as he could be on land."

"I know it, but we have to at least try to find him. This heavy weather will prevent us from going out in a boat to search; no fisherman in his right mind goes out in fog this thick. I suggest, therefore, that we look around this island first before we move on." Duncan replied, as he spread a map of the islands. "There are over 100 islets in this archipelago and only 15 of them are inhabited. If we're lucky, someone's going to find him on one of the inhabited ones, because otherwise we'll have to search the remaining 85 ourselves as well as sweep the local seas."

The painful rush of frigid air into his lungs convinced Methos that he was still alive, although he really wasn't sure he wanted to be at this point. Coming back from death was never easy and this one had been rather spectacular, he was forced to admit. Plucked from an airplane traveling at near the speed of sound to fall 35,000 feet through freezing winds and swirling snow to crash into the sea. Now that had hurt, hitting water that felt like concrete while moving at somewhere in excess of 80 miles per hour. Must have broken every bone in his body...sure felt like it when he woke that first time. Of course, sucking in a lung full of sea water had not helped any; drowning is vastly over-rated. So was freezing to death; frankly, Methos was tired of freezing to death.

Making landfall improved his spirits somewhat that first night, as he huddled in the lee of some rocks and froze to death again. //This SUCKS!//, he thought, as he faded into oblivion. When morning had dawned, he could see that he was in fact on a pinnacle of rocks, an area so small that he could probably throw a beer bottle cap from one end to the other. //Hey, I'm starting to think about food! I'm on the mend.// After looking around his new kingdom, he had another thought. //Great. Now I can starve to death as well as freeze to death.// He did notice some drift wood piled up on the beach which he gathered and placed at the highest point. As much as he wanted to use it to get warm, he knew he needed it to signal for rescue. And then there's the question of food and water; starving was looking more probable every minute. Of course, he still had to figure out how to light the damn wood if he did see someone. //There's never a boy scout around when you need one. Speaking of boy scouts, I could sure use MacLeod about now.//

After a fruitless search of the north shore of Mainland, MacLeod and Dawson returned to the inn. Amanda greeted them as they sat by the fire with the news that she'd hired a boat to go "sightseeing" along the other islands the next day. "I think we can eliminate Fair Island to the south. Between the ornithologists flocking to the Bird Observatory and the tourists trying to get bargains on their famous Knitwear, Methos would have been located quickly there. I thought we'd start with Foula, which is about 26 miles west of here and work our way north."

"Sounds like a plan as long as the weather cooperates," Duncan commented. "I'm for a shower and then something to eat."

"Coming!" purred Amanda, while Joe just shook his head, thinking //Poor Methos. No food, probably still "dead" somewhere, frozen solid.//

Joe wasn't too far off. As the sun set, the temperature plunged again driving Methos into deep hypothermia, coma, then death. As he died, he could see the Aurora Borealis dancing in the sky above.

The morning sun woke Methos. //Enough is enough. This pile of rocks just doesn't cut it. It's time to find some place with some of the amenities of life, like food...water...heat...beer// With that Methos plunged into the waves and began swimming away from the islet. He swam until has arms grew weary, and then he would float on his back and watch the clouds. Rested he would resume swimming. After a while he spotted an indistinct mass on the horizon and made that his target. //Why does all this some so bloody familiar?//

1148 AD

The hurricane roared out of the night, catching the flotilla of Earl Rognvald's longships by surprise. Masts snapped as the sails were torn away by winds of over 130 miles per hour; boats were swamped. Two longboats were smashed on the beach at Gulberwick, driven ashore by the storm. A few survived this visitation by the Gods, and continued the journey south to participate in the Crusades.

Methos' longboat wasn't as lucky. Driven by the wind and heavy seas, his longboat surged away from the others. What few remained of the crew cried out for rescue by Thor, master of the thunder and lightning, or beseeched Odin to spare them, but their pleas were answered by a small spear of rock, known as Loki's Fingers, as it shattered the hull of the boat. Those with some spark of life remaining grabbed whatever flotsam they could to live one more hour ...one more minute...tossed among the mountainous waves.

Dawn broke over the now calm sea. Methos was now alone. There was no sight of any of his crew or even wreckage anymore. Treading water, Methos could sight of an indistinct blur on the edge of the world. And he began swimming towards it, resting when needed, but steadily pushing towards that mass. Finally, as the evening sun set and darkness descended, he staggered ashore, collapsing amid the rocks above the high tide line.

He awoke as something prodded him in his side. He rolled over and found himself face to face with a small child, all wide blue eyes in a dirty face framed by flaxen hair; the child ran screaming away. Methos struggled to his feet and began to follow, because where there are children, there is food! As he approached the village, he relaxed. He knew this place; it was Muckle Flugga, the northernmost place which his longboat visited. As the villagers gathered around him, he began to explain about the storm, trying to downplay his survival, but the villagers would have none of that. Methos was obviously favored by Odin, for he must have sent his valkyries to bear him through the storm.

Once they reached the Headman's hut, the elders lead Methos inside. After ritual greetings were exchanged, Methos described how the violent storm had seized the Viking longboats in the night, the mountainous waves swamping some boats while the raging winds snapped masts and shredded sails. His voice choked with emotion, he went on to describe hitting the rocky pinnacle known as Loki's Fingers, and the terror of the night spent being tossed amid the waves, of how dawn had found him alone in the sea, and how he had swam ashore at nightfall.

The village shaman ranted about the old Gods' anger at the insult of Vikings sailing off to support the pale Christ, and that only Methos was spared to honor the Gods for their mercy. //Sure// thought Methos //that's just what the villagers had been saying. Well, you don't hold on to a position of power by bucking popular opinion.//

After some deliberation among the elders, the Headman announced Methos was welcome as a new member of the community. Methos was given one of the smaller damaged huts as his own and invited to join in the village's celebration of his deliverance from the storm and induction into the community.

The next few weeks found Methos concentrating on his house, first repairing the roof and then fashioning some simple furnishings. During this period, Methos also studied the island in detail, taking note of the various plants and gathering those he thought might be suitable. At night in his hut, he turned to his project. //Let's see if I can remember how those Egyptians did this// as he began to mix the barley and hops into a ceramic kettle of water, which he then heated using hot rocks. Once the mixture had boiled for a while, Methos covered the kettle with a heavy pelt and placed in a cool, dark niche in his hut.

Methos joined the rest of the villagers in the chores that kept the community functioning. Whether it was gathering eggs from the various local birds or looking for edible tubers and grasses, Methos was there with a willing hand. The Headman and elders approved of this newest member of the community. Among the villagers was one who worked very hard to be near Methos without drawing his attention...but Methos had already noticed her.

She was hard not to notice. Tall, graceful, willowy, with a crown of hair so fair that it appeared white, eyes the color of storm gray cloud. "She's called Inge Thorsdaughter," replied the Headman to Methos' questions, "She, too, appeared to us during a tremendous storm." And so the village watched with amusement as the two circled one another in a dance older than Methos. When Methos inadvertently caused Inge to get angry, he found another reason for her name: the way lightning flashed in her eyes and thunder rolled from her tongue as it lashed him. But this stormy nature bespoke the probable passionate side of Inge as well.

Soon enough, the village celebrated the union of the two. The shaman presided in the ceremony, presenting Methos with a singular gift, a metal medallion marked with the symbols of Thor's lightning. "Wear this to show all that you are truly beloved of Thor ... and Thor's Daughter," as he placed the medallion around Methos' neck. As the celebration continued, Methos brought out his ceramic kettle from its hiding place. "My friends, this is the nectar of the Gods, but be careful—it can be potent stuff," exclaimed Methos. "It is called beer!"

Strangely enough, Inge never seemed to age either and the villagers accepted this as a further sign of Thor's blessings on them. Inge's barrenness was blamed on Loki's jealousy, and many prayers and beseechments were give by the village women to attempt to placate this capricious god because they felt the couple deserved children.

It was ten years before the return of the longboats from the Crusades. A great feast was held to welcome the returning Vikings who told of their experiences in the Holy Land. The villagers scoffed at their tales of the heat and the barren desert for who would live in such a place (and what God would want it?). They laughed at the descriptions of the strange beasts called camels, cried out at the ferocity of the Saracens, and wept at the losses of the brave Vikings in a land so far away. Everyone drank their fill of Methos' beer, and the night was filled with drunken song.

Later, while everyone slept, other longboats ghosted ashore. The berserker crew crept up to the village, and then screaming their savage war cries, fell upon the sleeping village, slaughtering without mercy. Some of the villagers and the Vikings managed to gain some weapons and began to fight back and the clash of weapons mixed with the screams of the dying.

Methos and Inge, in their hut on the far side of the village, woke to the sounds of the battle. Methos immediately ran into the battle, dodging a sword thrust by a berserker whom Methos smashed with a stout cudgel. Picking up the fallen man's sword, Methos strode into the fray, killing with each stroke. Defending this village brought out the battle rage he had not felt in ages, since the days of the four horsemen, but sometimes rage just isn't enough. Methos was soon surrounded by berserkers.

Inge screamed as she saw the sword thrust through Methos from behind, a coward's thrust bringing down her valiant mate. As the berserker jerked the lightning medallion from around Methos' neck, Inge stood above the village on a knoll and cried out in a voice which carried over the din of battle and conquest. "Thor, my Father! I demand revenge on these evil mortals who have destroyed us. Bring forth your storms and hammer them. Strike until nothing remains!"

The dark clouds that had gathered as she spoke were rent with savage winds. Thunder rolled through the sky. The berserkers turned to flee as lightning slashed through the sky. The first bolt vaporized the coward holding the medallion, but none of the berserkers escaped. The storm raged for hours until no one remained.

Methos drew a gasping breath and struggled out from beneath the pile of the dead. At first he could not credit his eyes for nothing remained of the home he'd come to love. The apocalyptic battle had claimed it all—there was only rubble and the dead. The villagers had been slain by the berserkers; even the women had taken up weapons in their defense and died as warriors. Yet no matter how he searched, there was no sign of Inge Thorsdaughter.

Methos gathered the slain villagers and placed them into one of the two remaining longboats, which he the set afire and cast out to sea. He watch as the flames consumed the boat and his fallen friends, a Viking funeral fitting these fallen warriors ushering them into Valhalla. That sad duty done, he turned to the enemy dead. These charred remains gave mute evidence that some supernatural force had intervened to strike them down. Even those who had died in the battle had been struck and burned. Such a death denied them Valhalla, damned them for all eternity. He drug the carcasses to the cliff and cast them into the rocky surf below.

There was no longer any reason for Methos to remain once he had cleansed the village of the carnage of battle. He gathered what few essentials he could find ... waterskins, some tubers and smoked fish ... and sailed off in the last longboat, his back to the shimmering image of the aurora. Since there had been no sign of Inge on the island, she must be out there, somewhere, and so Methos began his search which lasted for a century before the wound in his heart and soul finally scarred over.

Duncan, Amanda, and Joe listened with interest to the stories told by their boat's captain as he guided them through the islands and islets that made up the archipelago. "From 872 AD, a powerful Viking earldom had been established in Orkney. Although actual Scandinavian rule in Shetland was to last until the mid 15th century, that influence is still very prevalent. Wherever the Vikings went they took their law and their language. Most of Shetland's place names are Norn. Their local parliament was held at Lawting Holm, an islet in Tingwall Loch." he expounded. "One spectacular reminder of Shetland's heritage is to be found at Jarlshof, which is regarded as one of the most interesting and complex archaeological sites in all Britain. It is a settlement buried in time, until a storm exposed the masonry of an entire village. Wheelhouses and brochs, hearths and troughs reflecting the way of life of a bygone era."

"Why, did you not know that the northernmost point in all of Britain can be found in the Shetland's...the island of Muckle Flugga . They tell the tale of a Viking warrior saved by Odin's valkyries from the clutches of Loki's Fingers during a savage storm cast by Thor in protest of the Viking participation in the crusades. This warrior, called Methos, was found on the beach in the dawn without a mark on him, despite a tale of the storm's horror."

Duncan looked at Joe and Amanda. Amanda whispered, "you don't suppose..."

"He does seem to relive certain points..."

"Just where is this place," Duncan asked the captain, "and how fast can we get there?"

As Methos came ashore on the island, the feeling of deja vu increased. Recognition crashed in as he entered the ruins of the village. //Inge! Oh, my love, where did you go? I searched and searched but no trace of you could I find.// Methos stumbled through the ruins, falling at last to his knees near the former communal kitchen. Something out of place caught his eye--a crude metal medallion embedded in the earth.

As his fingers touched the medallion, she appeared before his eyes, shimmering like a heat mirage.

"Oh, my husband, I am pleased to speak with you at last. Long have I watched over you and been troubled at your bottomless grief. Know that my Father would not give me leave to return to the realm of man, else I would have been at your side. Be well, beloved, and know that I am always with thee."

Methos sat amid the ruins of the village, clasping the medallion in his hand as tears streamed down his face. Facing both his grief over Inge and the closure this visitation had brought, he knew he could now move on again. He knew his friends from so long ago would say that Thor had done this...plucked him through the sky and brought him home to Muckle Flugga. And who knows, perhaps they were right.

The sound of footsteps drew him from his memories and he looked up into the anxious eyes of his three closest friends. He gave a sad sigh as he stood, put his arm around Mac and Amanda, saying, "Ah, MacLeod. You wouldn't happen to have any beer, would you?" End

AUTHOR'S COMMENTS: The information relating to the Shetland Islands is correct as far as place names and historical information is concerned. Check out the Shetland Island's Bureau of Tourism on the net for more. And yes, there really is a place named Muckle Flugga...how could anyone make up a name like that! :-)