Warnings: Crossover: Highlander, character death…sort of, not permanent death
Notes: A cross between two of my fave fandoms and what I’ve wanted to see happen ever since watching NFA. The ex-Watcher finds the shoe on the other foot for a change when he becomes immortal. There may be sequels later on, but it’ll take me a while. No HL characters appear here, just the concept of immortality. Chars will come in later fics. Feel free to send feedback and constructive criticism. It's unbeta'd, so please be nice.
Disclaimer: I don’t own the chars, I just borrow them and then return them unharmed to their world for someone else to use.
email@example.com for feedback and constructive criticism. Flames will used in Wes's flamethrower
Wesley didn’t feel pain or fear or anything anymore as the darkness surrounded him. There was only the blackness overcoming him, engulfing him, plunging him into an empty void of nothingness.
His body now lay seemingly lifeless, but deep inside,changes started to take place and a long-latent gift began to flower, to emerge, to show itself in him. Tiny arcs of energy, almost like microscopic lightning bolts, passed from fiber to fiber, drawing them together, pulling them back into their normal alignment. The edges of damaged tissues pulled together, knitting themselves so that only a telltale scar was left and then this too faded until no sign of the damage remained. The savage slashes in his organs, muscle and skin contracted, growing smaller until they vanished, leaving behind clean, undamaged flesh.
Heart muscle fibers quivered, trembled as the organ fibrillated, then took on a regular, steady beat. Lungs cried out for oxygen and took it into themselves in one deep, sharp, gasping intake of breath as his eyes snapped open and the darkness around him receeded. Once again he was aware, awake….alive. He wondered if this was some trick of Vail’s, designed to torment and torture him instead of just letting him die. But no, He could see Vail lying dead nearby, his body intact but his head shattered into a thousand tiny pieces.
*Illyria* he thought. She had finished what he had started, but had died trying to complete.
Slowly, he sat up and looked down at himself. The tear in his clothing was still there and as he lifted his shirt, he saw blood still spattered on his stomach. But where there should have been a gaping hole, there was nothing now except smooth, healthy, undamaged skin. Slowly, realization dawned; lessons learned long ago in the Watcher academy replayed themselves in his mind.
I am…Immortal…Now that I have died once, I will never die again unless I lose my head and I cannot even be harmed for long, the wounds will heal very rapidly.. I could walk the earth for centuries, millennia if I’m lucky enough.
It was a different branch of Watchers who dedicated themselves to studying and recording the lives of immortals, but he had still been taught of their existence, had studied about them as a matter of principle, of learning about every aspect of the organization he worked for. It was also a way of ensuring Watchers could train their slayers to tell the difference in the field. Vampires could not venture out in daylight of course, but during the night hours when slayers fought and patrolled, it could be difficult to tell the difference. How ironic then, that the former Watcher would now soon be the watched, assigned his own Watcher to chronicle his life.
He struggled to his feet, looked around the room, found himself a sword that had been Vail’s. He hefted it, testing it, swinging it. He knew that now, his life would depend on his ability to use a weapon like this, to fight with it, to kill with it. Curious, he ran the blade across his palm, making a tiny cut. Bluish lighting-like energy arced over and through the wound, crackling and sizzling, and in an instant, the wound was gone.
He had been given a rare gift, a genetic anomaly present in only a few humans born into every generation. But until they died, they never knew what they were. The immortality would always lay latent until the person died a violent death and triggered it. Now, the only way he could die permanently is if his head were separated from his shoulders. He felt almost revitalized, energized as the power of the Quickening he now possessed flowed within him. If he got near another immortal, this would allow him to sense them, and if he died, the victor would absorb this power and knowledge from him.
But there were questions and other thoughts, negative ones now in his mind as well. What was the truth of his past? Immortals were foundlings; none ever knew their true parents. How had Roger Wyndham-Price and his wife, Wes’s mother, really found him and adopted him? Had either of them had any idea of his hidden secret? Was there any connection between this and his father’s lifelong treatment of him? Perhaps not, but he wondered what the man he called father would think of him now. Some humans considered immortals monsters, abominations and hunted them, while others accepted it. He had no worry about Angel and Gunn and the others; if they survived the fight, it would be to them just another surprise of many in the world they lived in.
And he thought about Fred. He had embraced his death because it meant that he and Fred might be together again in whatever life came after this one. But now, it might be centuries, millennia before he saw her again. He felt a certain emptiness and despair that he supposed all of his kind felt at one time or another. If he lived long enough, he would experience this again and again as friends and lovers died, but it would never get any easier no matter how many times it happened. He wondered if this was how Angel felt time and again over his long life. Or at least the part of that life during which he’d had a soul and cared about anyone but himself.
No one really knew the origins of these immortals, whether it was a natural mutation, something mystical, some vestige of some ancient blood mixing, or what. They knew only that the battle of immortal against immortal would go on until only a few remained. Then it would be the time of the Gathering, when the last few, drawn together in a faraway land, would battle until only one remained standing. With all the power and knowledge of the previous immortals inside him, the winner would rule mankind for all eternity. If a good immortal won the Prize, it would be mankind’s greatest moment, but an evil immortal could just as easily plunge mankind into an eternity of darkness, death and destruction. It was unclear whether this was true, really, or simply legend, but what was certain was that other immortals would seek him out now to try and take his head and gain his power.
And until then, his life and battles would be recorded and chronicled by other Watchers, men and women of the organization’s other branch who devoted themselves to observing and recording Immortals’ lives, but never interfering. Most of the time anyway. There was the Joe Dawson-Duncan MacLeod friendship, but that was another story entirely, a special case.
Moving quickly, he made his way out of Vail’s lair, heading for the alleyway where Angel and the others now fought for their very lives. He felt stronger now, less afraid. The demons could wound him, even temporarily kill him, but unless they beheaded him he would die forever, but would keep coming back to life.
He could see as he got close that the battle was surprisingly, nearly at its end. Buffy had arrived with a legion of slayers, and most of the demons were either dead, or beginning a hasty retreat. Angel, Spike and Illyria all still lived, and Gunn was apparently in the process of being healed by Willow and her magick.
“Wesley” Illyria called out, surprised to see him alive. Others looked at him in surprise and shock “You…You were dead, I saw you die.”
“It’s a long story. Something that a few humans in every generation are gifted with, that activates only when they die a violent death. Now, I will never die or even grow old, Illyria. Unless my head is severed from my body, I am basically immortal.”
“This is strange…I can feel power within you.” She said.
“The Quickening. Helps us sense other immortals and if one of them kills me, they will absorb this power. But I’m not planning for that to happen anytime soon.”
“How come you always get all the good luck, English?” Gunn asked.
“No one really knows if there’s any rhyme or reason to this, why someone gets it and another doesn’t.” Wes explained. “And I must say it’s good to see that all of us are still alive and in one piece.”
Angel and Buffy and the others began to talk over joining the teams together and who would have what job and who would go where. Wesley agreed to what was very similar to his old Watcher capacity, helping out with Slayers and taking part in the training himself so that he could stay in good shape for battle. He knew that eventually the day would come when he would have to move on and leave this life behind, as all immortals did at one point or another. He might be able to stay longer, as his friends were all aware of supernatural things and strange phenomena and why he wouldn’t seem to age, but that wouldn’t last forever.
He knew the day would come when they were all gone and he was forced to start over from scratch, but there was one small comfort. Many times, people did not know how to handle newfound immortality and having to leave friends and family. But for Wesley Wyndham-Price, the life he was just beginning was not all that much different from the life he had just left behind. And he would still fight the good fight, not only against supernatural evil as he was used to, but against evil immortals that would win the Prize and plunge mankind into an everlasting darkness.
In the end, there can be only one
*It may not be me* he thought, *but as long as I’m alive and fighting, I’ll not allow the forces of evil to win the battle and dominate mankind, whether they be vampires, demons, or immortals. I’ll keep fighting the good fight until the very end*