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Enemy Of My Soul	By : highlandgirl Category: G through L > Highlander Views: 1401 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Highlander: The Series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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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.
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Enemy Of My Soul