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various orphaned crossovery bits.
Sometime in the first half of the eighteenth century, a chest containing 882 identical peices of cursed Aztec gold was dropped overboard in the deepest part of the ocean, in hopes that it would never again be found to trouble the lives of mortal men.
Sometime around two hundred years later, a honest Henglish seaman by the name of 'Arvey Peterkin retired to a deserted island, and found, half-buried in the sand, a chest full of ancient gold pieces. Not needing gold in his solitude, he left it in the chest-- until his island was invaded by four castaway babies and the two young girls who were taking care of them, and on Christmas Eve, before the rescue ships arrived, he opened it for Christmas presents..
These two circumstances are not as unconnected as you might think.
"You've changed, Cory," said Duncan wonderingly.
"No shit." He lay back against the chair and shrugged. "Maybe I've just finally grown up."
"Hey, it's not *that* unlikely. Listen, there's this novel I read-- oh, twenty years ago-- about a bunch of immortal guys who run around trying to kill each other, so they can win a rulership or something similarly worthless, while the enemies they really ought to be fighting creep in unnoticed-- the hero's this dashing boyscout type named Corwin, you'd like it, Mac," he added with a trace of his old grin. "Anyway, at the end, when he's won his pyrrhic victory, and he's lying exhausted on the battlefield, he wonders if maybe it's simply that the price of living long is that we grow up more slowly. Maybe all that hacking each other up with swords was just adolescent arrogance..."
"And do you think that's true?"
He ran a finger around his glass. "I don't know. Maybe. I know I've met mortals who could probably give even Methos a run for his money in the wisdom department--"
Pierson snorted quietly to himself. "That wouldn't take much."
"Do you know something I don't, Pierson?"
"Of course not. Do go on. I'm absolutely fascinated."
"Well. Mortals. They have one big advantage, coming into the game: they know they can't win. They know they've already lost, and all they can do is make a good showing and go out with grace. But us, we have that one slim chance to win. To be the last one standing. We have *hope*. And hope is the cruellest thing you can give to a person--" He looked across the room with shadowed eyes and Fox offered him a stiff nod of acknowledgement.
"I think," Cory continued eventually, "I think that's the first step to growing up. Realizing that you can't win. That you're going to lose just like anyone else. I lost that hope five hundred years ago when I realized I'd never get any better with a sword. And the second step to growing up is realizing that even though you know you're going to lose, you still give a damn how it ends. IYou still-- care. And that one's harder. Harder in the learning and in the living."
Sometime around two hundred years later, a honest Henglish seaman by the name of 'Arvey Peterkin retired to a deserted island, and found, half-buried in the sand, a chest full of ancient gold pieces. Not needing gold in his solitude, he left it in the chest-- until his island was invaded by four castaway babies and the two young girls who were taking care of them, and on Christmas Eve, before the rescue ships arrived, he opened it for Christmas presents..
These two circumstances are not as unconnected as you might think.
"You've changed, Cory," said Duncan wonderingly.
"No shit." He lay back against the chair and shrugged. "Maybe I've just finally grown up."
"Hey, it's not *that* unlikely. Listen, there's this novel I read-- oh, twenty years ago-- about a bunch of immortal guys who run around trying to kill each other, so they can win a rulership or something similarly worthless, while the enemies they really ought to be fighting creep in unnoticed-- the hero's this dashing boyscout type named Corwin, you'd like it, Mac," he added with a trace of his old grin. "Anyway, at the end, when he's won his pyrrhic victory, and he's lying exhausted on the battlefield, he wonders if maybe it's simply that the price of living long is that we grow up more slowly. Maybe all that hacking each other up with swords was just adolescent arrogance..."
"And do you think that's true?"
He ran a finger around his glass. "I don't know. Maybe. I know I've met mortals who could probably give even Methos a run for his money in the wisdom department--"
Pierson snorted quietly to himself. "That wouldn't take much."
"Do you know something I don't, Pierson?"
"Of course not. Do go on. I'm absolutely fascinated."
"Well. Mortals. They have one big advantage, coming into the game: they know they can't win. They know they've already lost, and all they can do is make a good showing and go out with grace. But us, we have that one slim chance to win. To be the last one standing. We have *hope*. And hope is the cruellest thing you can give to a person--" He looked across the room with shadowed eyes and Fox offered him a stiff nod of acknowledgement.
"I think," Cory continued eventually, "I think that's the first step to growing up. Realizing that you can't win. That you're going to lose just like anyone else. I lost that hope five hundred years ago when I realized I'd never get any better with a sword. And the second step to growing up is realizing that even though you know you're going to lose, you still give a damn how it ends. IYou still-- care. And that one's harder. Harder in the learning and in the living."
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Yay Amber reference.
Ok, I know nothing about Highlander, but I get that Cory==Nick Lea==Krycek. Does Fox==Mulder, or is it a Highlander character?
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