Page 25 of Highlander’s Fruit of Eden

Love and Hate

J on reeled back from the news. There was a ringing in his ears, and he could not quite believe what his uncle had said to him. It felt as if someone had plunged a dagger into his heart, and that one person had been the only family that he had left.

“Is this true?” asked Jon. “Was I supposed to be Laird of this castle?”

“Aye, ye were supposed to be,” slurred Vincent. “But I kenned that ye were nae ready for it. Ye’ve never been ready, and wantin’ that lass for yerself, that English lass, is proof of it.”

“But ye wanted the same!” shouted Jon.

“Nay, lad, that was different. Ye wanted to parade her around here. I only wanted her to give me children.”

“Aye, and they would carry on yer bloodline. Ye cannae go on at me for lovin’ her when yer children would have been half English. This has nothin’ to do with her being English, does it. Ye wanted to take her from me because she made me happy, and ye cannae stand that, can ye?”

“It does nae matter anymore, she’s gone now.”

“Where is she!” screamed Jon. “Where did ye send her?”

“She’s right under yer nose, but ye’ll never find her, not before it happens.”

“Before what happens?” Jon could feel the spittle flying from his mouth. His face was red, the vein in his head bulging. Yet, across the room, his uncle was more calm than he had ever seen him—as if nothing was going on between the two of them.

“I cannae believe that it was his dyin’ wish for me to guide ye to be the Laird.”

“Ye keep speakin’ about that!” shouted Jon, his voice rising even more. “Tell me what is going on!”

“It’s almost laughable,” said Vincent. He gave a wicked smile as he drained the last of the whisky in his glass, and, in that moment, his whole being changed.

It was as if the last of his loving uncle had been drained away, and he was finally showing his true self. Gone was the man who had raised him.

“Go on,” said Jon with a serious tone.

“I loved yer faither,” said Vincent. He looked up at the ceiling, reminiscing about times gone by.

“I loved him with all me heart. I’m not glad that he passed, but it was right for our people.

” Vincent took on a more serious tone too.

He wiped a tear from his eye. “I still wish that he was here with me today, but he was taken from us all too soon. Yet, if he had been allowed to be Laird of this Clan, he would have run it into the ground. I’m the only one who has what it takes. Ye should be thankin’ me.”

The more the Laird spoke, the drunker he sounded. Jon could not make out a lot of the words being said, but he could hear the message bending them loud and clear.

“Are ye sayin’ that I am the rightful Laird and ye kept that from me?” asked Jon.

“How have ye nae figured that out by now?” asked Vincent. He wobbled his way over to the small table and put down his glass, holding onto the table to steady himself.

“I cannae believe that ye would do this.”

“Believe it,” said Vincent with a smile. “Ye were supposed to be the Laird years ago, but I decided otherwise. Oh, it feels good to tell ye the truth finally. Of course, there are consequences that go with that.”

“I have to tell the Clan, Uncle, ye ken that.”

“Aye, good luck with that,” said Vincent. “It’ll be yer word against mine, and who do ye think that they are going to believe?”

“But ye’ll tell them,” said Jon.

“How much of a fool are ye?” asked Vincent.

“I’ve kept this a secret for years. Why would I tell the truth now?

Why do ye think that I am tellin’ ye all of this up here alone?

Nay, lad. I’m the Laird, and I always will be.

Ye can tell whoever ye want, but they’ll nae believe ye.

I’m a smart man. Nothin’ is left up to chance.

And I’ve kept ye blabberin’ long enough for the job to be done.

Amelia is dead, Jon, so there is nothin’ left for ye. ”

Jon felt his shoulders slump. He looked over at his uncle and saw the evil there.

It seemed as if something had taken hold of his uncle and was making him act like this—the words full of spite.

For a brief second, Jon’s hand went to his sword, and he thought about running it through the man, but that would only make him as bad as his uncle.

Nothing mattered anymore, not with Amelia gone.

But he would not give up until he knew it for sure—saw her at peace. He had come too far for it to end like this. What he would do next, he did too know. This castle was his home no longer.

“Ye speak about lovin’ me faither, but that cannae be true.

I still have flashes of him on his deathbed, and I ken that he loved ye as I have loved ye, but he would be turnin’ in his grave at how ye are actin’.

Nae keepin’ me from being Laird, but how ye are treatin’ me as a nephew.

I still believe that there is love in yer heart, but ye dinnae act as if there is.

Me faither would hate what ye have become. ”

“Dinnae speak about things that ye ken nothin’ about!” shouted Vincent. “All of this was done in love of the Clan.”

Vincent had been unbalanced and stumbling, but in an instant, he changed. His sword was drawn in one swift motion, and he bounded across the room at Jon, the point aimed for his heart, as if he could cause any more pain.

Jon was in a daze with all of the new information, but his instincts kicked in. His own sword was drawn in a flash, and the sound of steel on steel echoed around the room.

“What in God’s name are ye doing?” asked Jon when they came apart.

Vincent was breathing deeply, his eyes wide and wild. “Dinnae insult me again! Yer too much of a nuisance, just like that lass of yers. I tried to have ye snuffed out already, but I guess that I’ll have to do it meself. Take matters into me own hands.”

“Ye mean to kill me, Uncle?” Jon was shocked.

He did not have time to come to terms with his shock when his uncle leaped forward again.

The same clang of metal on metal rang out.

Vincent thrust with the sword, going again for the chest, and Jon knew that his uncle would not stop.

He did not want to hurt his uncle, but he was not given much choice.

“Stop this!” shouted Jon.

Vincent moved like a man possessed, dashing to the side quickly to strike down with his sword, but Jon was equal to it, blocking but feeling the force in the strike. His uncle was a strong man, but this was something different.

The sword came slashing from the side, and Jon had to leap out of the way, the movement of the sword ruffling the front of his shirt.

Vincent grabbed a book from the shelf behind him and tossed it at Jon, followed by two more.

Jon raised his hand to block, and when his vision was clear again, the familiar flash of metal came toward him, and he was only just able to parry the sword to the side, the blade cutting through the sleeve of his shirt and biting into the flesh.

There was no pain with the wound. There was already too much pain in Jon’s heart for anything else to trump that.

Vincent was fighting as he used to in his youth, and he did not stop after cutting his nephew.

He swung again with his sword. Jon brought up his free arm, blocking with his forearm and then kicking out to push his uncle away.

The older man still did not stop, and he lunged forward again, directing the point toward Jon’s heart.

Jon was tiring, but it was an emotional exhaustion and not a physical one.

He was able to block the next blow, and the next one, and the next.

Vincent attacked the entire time with a smile on his face.

Jon had hoped that his uncle would tire, but each attack seemed to come with more force and speed, and Jon was worried that he would not be able to outlast his uncle.

He did not know if he cared about that. If Amelia truly were dead, he would get to see her again in the next life.

That would be a just reward for going through all of this pain.

“Please, Uncle,” begged Jon.

The smile on Vincent’s face only grew wider as he moved forward again with a flurry of blows.

Jon parried and blocked and thrust, and the smile was wiped from the Laird’s face.

Vincent’s eyes widened even more, and Jon’s did too.

Both men looked down to where the sword was embedded in Vincent’s chest.

The Laird slumped backward, falling away from the sword, blood spurting from the wound. Jon tried to catch his uncle, but he was too late. Vincent staggered back and fell back against the wall of books behind. He slumped down onto the floor with a thud.

Jon dropped his sword and ran to his uncle. He glanced to the side and could see two guards standing by the door. He had no idea how long they had been stood there.

“Get help!” shouted Jon. One of them ran off, and the other remained. Jon half-expected the guard to attack him, but he only stepped into the room and stood there.

“Uncle,” said Jon, crouching down beside Vincent and taking his hand. “I’m sorry, I did nae mean to—”

“Nay, lad, ye set me free. I’m finally free, and I can be in peace.” He chuckled to himself. “I wanted to be the Laird until me death, and I got that wish. It’s nae easy, Jon. I do love ye.”

“I love ye too, Uncle.”

“Do what is best for the Clan… always.”

The Laird closed his eyes and did not open them again.

“Uncle.” Jon shook him by the shoulders. “Hold on there, Uncle. Ye are going to be fine. Help is comin’. Just tell me where Amelia is. Uncle, where is Amelia?”

The response was only silence.