"I'm sorry, Ray, I can't take this anymore."

She hoped he didn't hear the nervousness in her voice. Determination, that's what she wanted him to hear. She trembled. Waiting for his outburst, she tried to calm herself by studying his figure.

It seemed a perfect resident of the decrepit apartment where he made his home. His greasy black hair hung at his ears unstyled. She could clearly see the bulge in his right pocket where he kept his gun. His cloths were tattered and sweat stained. The apartment looked even worse. The sheets that should have been on the bed were hung up as curtains. A single bed stood in one corner, with it's pillow on the floor next to it. That was her bed, on the floor, next to discarded food cartons and the bugs. No blanket, and with a lovely view of graffiti painted walls.

The pause grew to long.

"I'm leaving, Ray."

She saw his fist clench before he turned. Her lip hurt from where she had been biting it. Slowly he turned, his black eyes glaring at her. He tried to make his voice sweat, though his eyes were cold.

"Why, baby, was it something I did?"

She let out a shaky sigh. "It's...the violence, Ray. I can't live in your world anymore. I can't deal with your street wars, you know that! I... I don't want to get killed, especially not over a couple of dollars of street money." Like Ray's friend had been. Yesterday.

He slapped her. Sharp, stinging.

"Where do you think you're going to go, Shari baby? My world?! You don't have a world to go to anymore."

Shari nursed her stinging cheek. She thought she would cry. "I'll go home, Ray. Anything is better than this."

His eyes turned colder, his mouth harsh. "Anything?" Shari found herself backed to the sheet covered window, Ray menacing over her, close. "Is this how you repay me? I took you in off the street, gave you a place to stay when you had no where left to go. And now you think you can just walk out on me?" He made as if to hit her again, but stopped. "Besides, I can't let you leave, Shari. You know that. And who's gonna protect you from the deaths and street violence you despise? You leave me you're dead! You hear me? Dead! And I won't be the one to kill you." He spun away from her quickly, and Shari found herself trembling uncontrollably. He turned around at the door. "You won't survive on the streets. Not unless you change your mind." Leaving, he gestured to the gun he had brought for her long ago. The one she refused to touch.

The door slammed behind him.

Shari collapsed where she stood, shaking with silent sobs. She couldn't take it anymore! She had to get out before she went insane or Ray finally snapped and killed her. Or one of his enemies killed her. Trembling, she stumbled to the door. As her hand came down on the doorknob, she found it locked. She shook it, tugged on it, cursed at it, and eventually collapsed, tears streaming down her face.

She had to leave. To be free to run her own life. Not this life. To leave before she lost her mind or her life to the senseless violence that surrounded her. To leave before she was killed.

Shari paused then, her tears coming to a stop. Would that be such an awful alternative to this? If Ray killed her, surely it would be long and painful. And there were more slaps where today's had come from at least. First a runaway, now a suicide. It was a fitting end, in a way. Her eyes were drawn to the discarded gun. No, not that way, bowing to the violence. That would be like Ray had finally won in the end. But it was the only way out, she saw that now. He'd never allow her to leave. And she didn't even know if she'd be accepted back home, having left so abruptly seemingly so long ago.

No, not the gun. Firing it would alert the whole apartment building. She wanted her death to be her affair. And taking her life by his means would not be setting herself free from him. There had to be another way.

Shari stood on the window sill, looking down. Free. It repeated like a litany in her head. Free. The thought of falling. She was calm. A single step into space.

And for one moment, she was free. Free falling.

She was looking up at the side of the building. The alley. I'm in the alley. How'd I get here? Confusion clouded Shari's mind. I never go in the alley!

Shari took a deep breath and tried to think. The fact that the pain was fading quickly helped. That was odd. She was sure she'd been badly injured a minute ago. As a matter of fact, movement had seemed impossible a minute ago. Now, the pain was . . . gone. She rose to a sitting position. Why, Shari felt better than she had in months. Her stomach was not rumbling from lack of food, and her back wasn't sore from al those nights sleeping on the floor of Ray's apartment.

Oh, God. Ray's apartment. Shari realized. I was going to leave. He locked the door. I . . . jumped. Out the window. "Oh Shit!" Shari exclaimed under her breathe. I jumped out the window! I'm supposed to be . . . dead!

Shari's thoughts were clear. She must have died, right? I mean, no one could survive a fall from a sixth story window. Could they? But the apartment was in the front of the building, not over the alley. So how had she gotten here? Maybe she hadn't died. Maybe she'd lost her memory or something an wandered into the alley. Passed out there and recovered? Shari wandered from the alley, in slow denial constructing a false set of events, ones in which she hadn't died. That was, until something stopped her short. There, in front of the building, was a pool of blood. Her now clear mind slowly registered that her clothes were soaked with blood, her hair matted with it. Blood on the ground, blood on her. Her blood. The puddle was slightly sticky, but still very red. Fresh. And there, leading from the sidewalk to the alley, was a smear, a trail of blood.

Someone wanted to hide the evidence, to avoid the building gaining the police's attention, Shari thought bitterly. I must have died. I was dead! Dead, but I live. It seemed so clear now. She'd been given a second chance. Alive, and I'm free.

Shari walked away, down the street, not looking back, on to her future. She needed to change, and to wash, but that should be okay. Whoever had pulled her into the alley hadn't removed the emergency money from her shoe. Yes. I'll clean myself up and try this again. Twenty-three years old. What a wonderful time to start over.

But as she walked, she couldn't help but her Ray's voice in her head. "Where do you think you're going to go, Shari baby? You don't have a world to go to anymore."

As the last of the dojo's daily customers filtered out, Richie Ryan took the opportunity to get in a workout of his own. In his hand, the young Immortal wielded a sword, a gift from his mentor, Duncan MacLoed. Richie let his body go through the familiar practice motions he'd learned for the first time only a couple of months before. Though by now the exercises were practically second nature he didn't let himself slack at all. After all, his life would, and did, depend upon his capabilities with his sword. He might have been immortal, but one beheading - his own - and it was all over. So he defended himself as Immortals had for centuries past and would for centuries to come - with a blade. All in anticipation of the short, violent duels that arose between Immortals, and in memory of those past. In the end, there can be only one.

Why only one? thought Richie in a distracted manner as his blade sliced through the air. Why not, oh, five? What happens if the last two are, say, Duncan and Amanda? Richie stopped for a moment to get a drink of water and mop the sweat from his brow. He chuckled lightly. "Duncan and Amanda," he muttered under his breath. "Now that's a fight to the finish I'd love to see." He laughed lightly to himself, envisioning the two long time friends in a serious sword fight. Well, probably not that serious.

Then, just as he was trying to imagine who would win that unlikely duel, there came a hesitant knock at the door - and the startling sensation that announced the presence of another Immortal.

Richie discreetly picked up his sword before turning around. There were usually two possibilities for the sort of situation; an ‘old' friend of Duncan's, or an old enemy. The old enemies would often just as soon take the head of Duncan's student if it helped them get to Duncan himself. So Richie turned around, sword in hand, ready to fight for his life if necessary.

There, peering uncertainly from the glass doorway, was a young woman Richie had never seen before. She was about five foot five with long, dark hair, pale skin, and startling green eyes. She looked young, maybe in her twenties, but appearances could be deceiving. Often were, when it came to Immortals. And this was the Immortal he sensed. There was no one else around, first of all. Second, Richie could see the woman rub her forehead and shudder slightly. She sensed him, too.

This was all at first glance. The next things Richie noticed when he looked a little closer at her convinced him she was no danger. There was a clear look of confusion on her face, and a hesitancy she wouldn't have had if she'd come looking for a fight. She was unarmed - wore no bulky clothes that could hide a sharpened length of steel, and did not appear to be accustomed to any sort of fighting. As a matter of fact, she seemed to have somewhat fallen on hard times, with a skinniness that spoke of a lack of good meals as well as a lack of martial training. Her hair hung lank and stringy as if it had last been washed in some dubious water source and just left to dry. Finally, Richie noticed one last thing that decided matters for him. There, on the right side of her head, was a smear of dried blood, missed in a cursory clean up. All these things together - the lack of sword , the confusion, the small blood stain - added up to one thing in Richie's mind. A new Immortal, likely ignorant of what she was.

Richie put down his sword where he could still get to it easily if it turned out his hypothesis was wrong and spoke in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. "Hi. I'm Richie Ryan. Can I help you with something?"

The girl jumped, then smiled slightly. Or tried to. She chewed her lip nervously before she spoke. "I hope so . . . well, that is . . . I'm not sure . . . um . . ."

"Would you like to come in?" Richie finally interrupted.

She nodded slightly without really being aware of it. "Well, you're about to close . . . I could come back tomorrow if . . ."

Richie smiled. "No, it's fine. Please, come in. We'll try to help if we can."

"We?"

"The owner lives upstairs. He'll be down shortly." That he would. As soon as he sensed an Immortal other than Richie in the building, Mac would have been on his way down to find out what was up.

"Well, if it's not too much trouble . . ."

"None at all. Like I said, my name's Richie. Yours?"

She walked nervously into the large room. "Shari. Ashara. Ashara Williams."

Richie led her over to one of the benches. "Pleased to meet you, Ashara."

She smiled slightly in return and reached up to brush a strand of hair from her face. Richie watched her discreetly as she tried to relax. She was still nervous and tense. But was that a glimmer of hope on her eyes? Ashara shifted her weight and sat forward, trying to think of what to say. She opened her mouth to speak, then gasped in startlement as the elevator door opened with a rattle.

Richie excused himself with a word and went to speak with his teacher. Once he was close he lowered his voice so only Duncan could hear him. "Glad you could join us, Mac," he said.

Duncan looked back and forth for a moment between his student and the odd woman in the dojo. "What's going on?"

"This is Ashara," Richie began. "Mac, I think she's very new to the game."

"How very new?"

"Oh, very new as in total shock, confusion, and no clue that she's destined to chop off people's heads."

Duncan gave Richie a stern glance. "Are you sure?"

"Heck, no, I'm not sure," Riche said with a touch of exasperation. "I know you've been tricked by old Immortals pretending to be young and new before, but I think this one honestly has no clue what's going on." He paused for a moment to take a deep breath. "Listen, all I know for sure is that she looks confused and is unarmed. But I don't know how to handle the situation. Okay?"

"Alright. Introduce me to your mystery woman."

Richie walked back towards Ashara with Mac in tow. As they got close again, Ashara stood up and straightened her shirt nervously. "Ashara, this is Duncan MacLoed. Mac, Ashara."

Duncan nodded. "Is there something I can help you with, Ashara?"

The woman stared at the floor and shuffled her feet in anxiety. "Actually . . . well, I was hoping . . . Oh, this is stupid. I don't have any money or anything. I'm sorry for wasting your time."

"No, it's all right," Richie hastily interrupted. "Go ahead."

Ashara tried to meet Duncan's eyes, but ended up focusing on Richie instead. "I . . . need to learn some sort of self defense. This . . . this was the first place I saw."

"Why do you need self defense?" Duncan prompted.

The woman hung her head again. "I . . . I just barely escaped a bad relationship. He's . . . a dangerous man. I'm afraid he might come after me. When I saw this place . . . well, I thought . . . ." Her voice trailed off.

"Why not go to the police?"

"I can't," she whispered. "I . . . I just can't."

Richie and Duncan exchanged looks. Slowly, Duncan nodded. Richie smiled and placed a gentle hand don Ashara's shoulder. "Why don't you come upstairs," he requested. "You can get cleaned up, we'll get you some food, and then the three of us will sit down and talk. Alright?"

Ashara smiled shyly with just a touch of strain. "Alright. And thank you. Thank you both."

After a last sip of cold milk, she called out "I'm done!" to get her hosts' attention. Duncan nodded and walked over, gesturing for her to have a seat on the coach. Richie - to Ashara's surprised relief - came and had a seat as well.

"So," began Richie, "you're on the run from an ex-boyfriend?"

Ashara nodded. "Yeah. He locked me in his apartment when I told him I wanted to leave." There, that summed up a piece of her situation nicely. It felt good to tell someone what had happened.

"You have any family?" Duncan asked.

"Well, yes. First off, I was adopted," she said. For some reason, it felt important that she include that. Duncan nodded. "Secondly, I haven't seen my family in . . . almost seven years."

"You have any place to stay?"

"At the moment, actually, no. I was living with Ray. Like I said, I'm not anymore. Why all the questions?" Ashara asked, suddenly suspicious. "I don't mean to be rude, but can you help me or not?"

"Alright," said MacLoed. "I'll get to the point. Ashara, when did you die?"

Ashara's mind reeled. "Yesterday," she blurted without thinking. "I jumped-" Out of the corner of her eye she saw Richie nod. "How . . . how did you know?" she asked him.

Richie smiled reassuringly. "I died," he said. "The first time was about two years ago. I was shot by a mugger. Mac here is a little over 400 years old. He first died in some long forgotten battle in Scotland."

Ashara stared agape at both of them. "You're . . . ?"

"Immortal," Duncan interjected. "And so are you. That strange headache you got when you first arrived is how we know each other. We knew you were immortal as soon as you walked in the door."

"Immortal? As in can't die?"

"Not unless someone cuts off your head."

"What?!"

Richie looked at Duncan. "That was a little abrupt, don't you think?" He then looked at Ashara again and spoke gently, reassuringly. "From now on, you will not age. You'll stay looking the same age no matter how old you get. Minor - and not so minor, but not life threatening - injuries will heal very quickly. Almost immediately, actually. And if you die, you'll come back to life within minutes, just like yesterday. As long as your head is attached."

Ashara stared somewhat glazed at both of them. "I know this is rather sudden," Richie continued. "I knew about Immortals for a year before I first died, so I'd say you're taking this rather well. But it's important that you know everything. For your own safety."

She nodded weakly.

"There's more you need to know," Duncan continued. "There is one truism to every Immortal's life. In the end, there can be only one."

"Huh?" Ashara blinked in confusion. "I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"There can be only one," Duncan said again. "We Immortals are constantly fighting one another, duels, in the goal of survival. When an Immortal takes another's head, he - or she - also gets that Immortal's power. That is called the Quickening."

"Bears a lot of resemblance to a strange lightning storm," put in Richie.

Ashara looked back and forth between the two men she had only just met, trying to decide if she'd just gone completely mad. Or perhaps they had. "You're serious, aren't you?" she said finally.

Both men nodded.

"What if I don't want to fight?"

"Then you retreat to holy ground. There can be no fighting between Immortal's on holy ground," Duncan explained. "You wouldn't be the first. There are plenty of Immortals who have lived long lives in temples and monasteries. And even those who choose to live with everyone else and take their chances find holy ground to be a place of refuge."

Ashara shook her head. "No," she said finally. "I was never suited for a convent. Besides, were I to consider myself religious at all . . . well, it would be my own personal religion. I never liked the strict rules of organized religion. I couldn't live the rest of my life within them." She looked a touch defiantly into Duncan's eyes. "I won't hide," she proclaimed.

Duncan simply smiled slightly in response.

She was silent for a long time. She was still trying to sort out everything that had been told to her. Finally, she looked up into Duncan's eyes again. "So," she said. "What do I do now?"

"You start by getting some rest," said Duncan. "This is a lot to take in at once. But you're lucky. Many wander for years before they find out what they are. And find a teacher." Duncan smiled then. "You asked for self defense class. You're going to get more than you bargained for."

Ashara smiled genuinely in return. "I . . . thank you. This is all too weird."

"Well, I suppose it is," Duncan agreed. "Tomorrow, you and Richie are going to go shopping. I noticed you don't have any other clothes, unless you've hidden then somewhere. And you'll need to find some place to stay. Until then, you may sleep on the coach." Duncan stood to go. "Good luck, Ashara."

Richie smiled as he too stood to leave. "Welcome to the family," he said.

Immortal, thought Ashara as she tossed on the couch in the small hours of the morning. God damn it, I was trying to kill myself! then, a more rational part of her mind tried - for perhaps the hundreth time - to assert itself. No, it said, you were trying to escape.

Huh, she laughed bitterly. I escaped all right! Now, in some ways, things couldn't be better. Ray thinks I'm dead, certainly. But I'm not. I live, and I've found someone who cares enough about a stranger to take me in, feed and clothe me, and expect nothing in return. Life is good. But then why do I feel so bad?

She'd had quite a shock, and no matter how rational she tried to be be, she just couldn't fall asleep. The later it got, the less rational her thoughts became, until her panic and fatigue clouded mind managed to twist everything into a waking nightmare. Ah, God, she though blearily, What if I run into Ray on the street? What then? Or what if he checks the alley because he wants to see my body and finds that I'm not there? He'll go after me for sure! I can't defend myself from him! then he'll take me back and make sure I die. But I won't! He'll keep killing me. And I'll wish i was dead, I know. I'll never be free of Ray again!

Free of Ray. Suddenly Ashara realized something. She visualized the gun sitting dusty and neglacted on Ray's dresser. She visualized Ray's one friend who saw her as a person bleeding to death on the sidewalk, and Ashara couldn't call the police because they'd all go to jail. It wasn't Ray she'd been running from when she'd jumped from the window. It had been the violence of his way of life. Have I exchanged the gun for the sword? she thought, growing ever more panicked.

She remembered Duncan MacLeod's words, how he'd stated so matter of factly that she'd only survive if she learned to fight. She remembered her first glimpse of Richie Ryan, calmly putting down his sword. And, overlapping it all, the image of the dusty gun. Can I do this? she thought. Can I live out my life with a sword in hand? Killing with a sword? Me? She remembered the gun, remembered the feelings of revulsion that came with it. She thought about Ray, and why she'd finaly had to leave.

It wasn't just the violence, she thought. It was the senselessness of it. But is there more sense when it's no longer over money and pride, but over power? Or even survival? She would never got far or live long if she had no reason to, she knew that. She thought when she'd awoken after her fall that it was a one time deal, a second chance. Now, here she was in the home of a man who was 400 years old. She no longer had that motivation that said, "Fix your life. You don't know how short it could be." No, instead she knew how long it could be. Longer than she dreamed. But could she do it? Could she survive it all?

One thing was sure, she'd never survive if she couldn't find some reason to weild a sword. Something worth living for. Something . . . worth fighting for?

It was an alien thought. Ashara, the ultimate in non-violent people, trying to find a reason to pick up a sword and fight. It was almost ironic. She had to convince herself that this violence was necessary, to break a vow she'd made seven years before: harm none.

"The girl is nothing but trouble!" he'd screamed.

"But honey, she's our daughter!"

"She's no daughter of mine!" he'd yelled loud enough to carry through all of the closed doors. "No daughter of yours, either!"

"Oh, Marty, don't say such things!" her mother had cried. "She may not be the daughter of my body, but she is still my daughter and I love her!"

Shari huddled in gloomy darkness, knees pulled up to her chest and tears leaking down her cheeks. A latge bruise was purpling on her jaw. The words stung more than the slap had. These were things she had never heard said before. No daughter of mine? Why didn't they tell me this? Shari ached deep inside. there was a hurt somewhere she couldn't name. Never mind that she was only the subject for a fight in a long line of fights. Only the "reasons" changed. She knew this in some logical part of her mind, but in was buried deep under cries of anguish. She sobbed, but could not stop herself from hearing what she wished she'd never heard.

She could faintly hear her father harumph in disgust. "You spoil her. No wonder she's a brat. As much trouble as the woman who adopted her!"

"I love her! Don't bring her into this, it's not her fight. You used to love her, too." That last came out plaintative.

"Oh, I love her all right. But it's bout time you stopped treating her as a daughter and started treating her like the nameless child she is," he said harshly. "I swear, coddling this artistic dream-"

Her mother gasped. "You wouldn't do that! You wouldn't take her art away from her! Marty, it's her dream! Her favorite thing!"

"It's a dream," he stated coldly. "One that can never come true. If you ever want to be rid of her, if you ever want her to be able to support herself, you'll stop 'ooh'ing and 'ah'ing and instill in her a sense of reality!'

"How?" she cried. "Like you did? With fists and slaps? Or maybe that's not enough for you. Not enough that you hit us both!"

Shari could imagine him going red faced with rage. "Yeah," he said coldly, "she needs less coddling and more force. I should have learned that from you."

"You bastard!" her mother screamed.

Then the sounds Shari would have blocked from her ears if she could; the growl of rage, the impact of flesh on flesh, the gasp of pain. Then, another sound, one heard less often: a reverberating crash. That was followed by a heavy silence into which echoed only the beating of her heart. Young Shari froze instinctively, like a squirrel who thought if you didn't move you would not notice it. Like the squirrel too, her freeze only lasted a moment, then she sprang into sudden motion. She exploded from her covers and shot from the room like a missle. It had been an amazingly soft sound that had so hurtled Shari into motion. Barely a whisper: her mothers muffled tears of pain.

The living room was silent when Shari came running through the doorway. She stopped dead, blinded by the suddenly bright lights and afraid that the silence only meant another doom was about to descend. Blinking until her vision cleared, Shari tensed in anticiptaion of a sudden blow.

Slowly the room resolved itself into its familiar forms. Too familiar. Shari's mother sat crumpled on the floor, whimpering softly in pain. She sat among the shards of an antique vase. Pale and white-lipped, she bled freely from a gash in her forehead. Her jaw was already dark from another blow. Shari's father hovered over her, trembling in concern fixed with barely suppressed rage. Over his shoulder, Shari saw her mother look at her, her eyes pleading. She was trapped, and Shari knew it. Her father saw the gaze, and turned to face his adopted daughter. As he turned, Shari saw what caused her mother such pain. Her arm lay across her at an odd angle that could only mean it was broken.

As her father opened his mouth to speak, Shari stared back at him defiantly and beat him to it. "I'm calling the hospitol," she declared, and whirled from the room before he could stop her.

When it came down to it, Ashara had never forgivven herself for that night. They'd taken her mother to the hospitol, fixed her up, and sent her home like nothing had happened. The whole while Ashara had said nothing. For a while, at least while her motherhad healed, things were quiet in the Williams' household. Then, gradually, the abuse began again. First only verbal, then slaps, finally two more "accidents" that landed her mother in the hospitol.

Ashara blamed herself as surely as if the blows had come from her own hand. As she saw it, they might as well have. She had dome nothing to stop her father. And, as she had become older and more defiant, she too had become a target for her father's anger. It was a long time before she finally had enough. Her freedom had dissappeared, her means of expession curtailed and nonexistant, and her life a haze of pain from bruises that made her look jaundiced. Then, there was another "accident," this one landing her mother in the hospitol for two days under observation. Two days in which Ashara had been the only target for her father's anger. When Mother returned home, Ashara left for school -- and didn't come back.

She'd made her descision the night before, her backpack and gym bag stuffed with clothes and food. Her savings such as they were in her pocket, she left that morning knowing that she wouldn't be coming back. She no longer cared. There was nothing left for her to loose. She had no family, a world of pain, and an empty place where her heart should have been. Standing in the driveway, she had turned around in a final farewell. "Goodbye" was not what she whispered. Instead, from deep within her empty heart, came two words, words which became a solemn vow. "Harm none," she whispered. "Harm none."

Ashara felt tears leaking down her cheeks as she lay on MacLeod's couch. Why, Gods? she thought. If there is something out there watching, why do this to me? She sobbed softly. Why can't I live somehow where violence is not a necessity? Why can't I live somewhere that violence is not an option?

But the powers that be offered no explanation, and the moonlight thrugh the window offered no comfort. In time, Ashara cried herself to sleep.

Deep in the recesses of her mind nightmares came unbidden. She saw her mother again, battered and beaten. Instead of her father it was Ray who delivered the blows. And, as Ashara stood watching, unable to move, unable to cry out, Ray lifted a shining sword and swept Mama's head cleanly off her shoulders to land Ashara's feet, eyes glaring accusingly. Your sword, the dead mouth declared, and daylight came to the city.

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