The Highlander and the Eunuch 2

In the end, there can be only One

MacLeod’s plane passed low over the coastline as he remembered putting Ramii to bed after he had killed his first Immortal. He fired up the engines and made a hard run through Tunisian airspace and stopped only when the plane began to run on fumes. Yet another acquiantance that he knew in northern Africa was there to help him, and the Immortal, who thought himself the Last, was once again on his way. He followed after the crying child in his mind, brought to him by the Prize. The Prize, that was, somehow – all wrong. He could feel it. He knew it. Somewhere, only hours ahead now, was the boy who was calling to him. The boy that he HAD to find. He thought again of Ramii, so long ago.

Glancing down and out the window, Connor MacLeod realized that somewhere not far below him lay the bones of his friend, the young eunuch which he and Castagere had rescued and trained so many centuries ago … somewhere below him, Ramii rested …

The Immortal eunuch slept the remainder of the day and night. MacLeod and Castagere took turns standing watch over the young one’s bed. His breathing was regular, strong, and both knew that he had survived his first Quickening. But what of when he awoke? What had the Quickening done to him? Neither of them knew; neither had even known an Immortal eunuch before. Eunuchs, yes, but never an Immortal one. Eunuchs were quite common; Ramii wasn’t. What he would become when he awoke was a mystery. It could all go so wrong.

The Kurgan was imprisoned, no one believing his mad ravings. His weapons taken, he was defenseless. Countless times during the night, both Immortals thought of going to the prison to visit him and repay him his many past kindnesses. MacLeod thought of Ramirez. Castagere thought of Kiaran. Without words, the ancient friends passed these thoughts as Ramii moaned in his sleep and turned to snuggle down farther in his blankets. Desert nights were cool, to say the least. Connor MacLeod found himself longing for Scotland as he watched and drank, the Katana blade which had been a legacy of his friend and trainer, Ramizez, resting across his lap.

The night passed uneventfully.

Just before the first light of dawn, a harried and frazzled looking Castagere came to relieve the Highlander. Ramii still showed no signs of awakening, yet the African had ordered a bath for the young eunuch and a full breakfast. Both would soon be ready, he told MacLeod, who looked as if he could use it as well.

The Highlander agreed and departed the room. Castagere sat and smiled at the young eunuch he had so recently acquired. No, more than that. The friend that he had saved. The boy had decided to stay. He had trained. He had learned. He had been confronted, tested, and he had killed. Castagere threw his head back suddenly and laughed, a rich laugh borne of the irony of it all. Ramii, eunuch sex-toy of the Kurgan and his host, the host fled now or dead, and the Kurgan left to rot in prison. The laughter awoke the eunuch, who sat up slowly with a groan and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He turned to look slowly around the room, saw Castagere, and smiled a bright smile that shamed the sun coming up over the desert sands.

The Immortal African rose to take the nondescript racially mixed eunuch in his arms, pounding him on the back and embracing him as a brother. He offered drink, as was the custom of his house, and Ramii acccepted. Sleep departed the eunuch quickly, and unaware or unconscious of his nakedness, he held the man who had helped change his life. Unashamed, he looked deep into the black man’s eyes. For what seemed like hours they held that gaze, then Castagere bid his friend bathe and eat. There would be time for talk later. Ramii pulled on a robe and bid his friend goodbye for the moment, as Castagere’s thoughts turned to other things that he had never considered about eunuchs.

Ramii settled into his bath and relaxed, letting the steaming water and delicate soaps wash away the strain of his aching muscles from the previous day’s battle. He could still hardly believe it! He had stood up to the Kurgan, his tormentor of so many years, and won. He had taken HER head, and with it, HER Quickening. He knew what she knew, and in a way, he was what she had been. Still, she had been a woman, not a man. Ramii rubbed at his scalp, picked up a straight razor, and began to shave. For some reason, hair suddenly felt all wrong to him. He worked carefully, and in minutes his practiced hands had rendered his head a smooth and shining thing. He ran a hand over it and sighed. For so long that had been one of the symbols of his enslavement, and now he felt the need to have it back. There was no need to run the razor anywhere else on his body, which had always remained hairless since his cutting. He blamed it all upon the Quickening and continued to soak; to soak and think. Thoughts which were not his own danced in his mind, and he repeatedly ran a long-fingered hand over his smooth chin and sighed in puzzlement. SHE was a mystery, and even though he had taken her Quickening, he did not fully understand it all. There were so many new faces, so many new memories.

His hands moved down as he scrubbed his body, finally coming to his smooth and empty groin. He paused for a moment, remembering when they had taken his Manhood from him. How they had taken it, and left him for dead. “I must have been all of twelve, “ he mused, “perhaps younger in our tribe.” Again, the sigh. So much lost. So much, that even with the knowledge of what he was, that was not enough. He was not a boy anymore; he would never be a man. But he WAS Immortal. And yesterday he had finally entered that Immortality-Proper through his first Quickening. “She must have set me up, “ he thought aloud. His musing startled a young servant who had come to check on him.

“Sir?” he asked, puzzled. It was a boy native to the city, no doubt one of Castagere’s people. He was short, and Ramii guessed him to be about eleven or twelve. He wore only a brief garment about his waist and a tight cloth about his head. His skin was black, very black, and his eyes shown like stars in the clearest of dark nights. He looked well built and on the verge of being muscular, but a few more years would be needed for that, the eunuch guessed. Ramii noticed nothing that hinted that the boy was a slave. But feeling a bit of pique, and charged from his Quickening, the eunuch asked the servant boy, “Tell me, son, are you a slave here?”

The boy shook his head nervously.

“Are you a eunuch?” Suddenly a stray thought blazed up in his mind, a thought that must have been HERS.

The boy looked puzzled. He merely stared.

“Do you know what a eunuch is?”

The boy nodded and looked away, as if trying to find something to do.

“Have you ever seen a eunuch?”

THAT got the boy’s attention. He shook his head, keeping his eyes averted from his guest as he had been trained to do. At that point in time, Ramii stood up.

The servant boy looked at the eunuch, and Ramii thought he saw some of the color drain from the boy’s face. He continued to stare at the smoothness where there should have been manhood. Then he looked away. “I – I – I’m sorry, sir … “ he stamerred, turning to go.

“There is no harm done, my boy. You are more educated now. Your host Castagere is kind to employ you, as you are not dressed as a slave and obviously, since you are getting hard down there, still an intact boy. Pray that it lasts, “ Ramii stated.

“D-d-do you n-need anything else, sir?” the boy stuttered, turning slightly towards the door. He looked as if he were about to bolt.

“No.”

The dark youth fled, and Ramii laughed a laugh, which, had MacLeod or Castagere heard it, might have worried them.

“You are more educated, if not better off than you were a few moments ago,” Ramii said to no one in particular as he picked up a large towel and began to dry himself. Then he felt it again. The same strange emotion that had come to mind when he had asked the servant boy whether or not he was a eunuch. Rammi paused his towelling, not recognizing the feeling. He felt as if his stomach were asking for food, yet he knew hunger and ruled that out. He looked down at his longer than normal limbs, and found himself trembling. Anxiety he knew all too well, and he dismissed it out of hand. What was it then? His throat seemed tight, and he coughed. The room began to feel warm, but a glance out the window told him that the heat of the day was still hours away and that he should be feeling a slight chill from the exitting of his bath if nothing else. He could also feel muscles contracting in his lower abdomen, and the need to urinate.

As a full eunuch-proper, Ramii did not dismiss this feeling and went immediately to the chamber pot. Many times after his emasculation, he had wet himself before he had grown accustomed to his ‘new’ body and the feelings that it would give him. Even a slight urge to relieve himself could NOT be ignored, as he learned the hard way. With a shiver, as he lowered himself over the chamber pot, he remembered how much pleasure the Kurgan had taken in having one of his boys tickle him until he wet himself. He could still hear the chill, rasping voice saying, “What’s wrong, pretty, nothing to grab hold of to help hold it in?”

But when only a very small amount of urine came out, and the feeling was still there, Ramii was puzzled. Other than having to heal up from his gelding so many years before, he had never had to cope with a serious illness. His injuries always healed fast, and for the first time in his life, Ramii began to wonder what was wrong with him. He trembled as he wrapped himself in the towel, the muscular tension increasing and the sweat forming up on his shaven scalp. “BOY!” he shouted.

The same black boy who had just left the room poked his head around the doorframe and stammered, “Y-yes, sir?”

Ramii looked at the boy for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts. He suddenly felt even hotter. He wiped at his brow.

With a great effort, and another strange feeling tearing down through his lower abdomen, Ramii replied, “Please, find Castagere or MacLeod, you know - the Highlander. I believe I am ill. Run!”

“At once, sir!” the startled boy replied, dropping his delivery of clean laundry and tearing off down the hall.

What was it? Ramii began to pace the room, his knees weak. Images flooded his mind. “They MUST be from HER!” he said to the empty room, “I don’t recall this … I never enjoyed … never felt…” But a new rush of spasms and shiverring took him. He realized that there was something else, something triggered by the boy. The boy! As his mind locked onto the fresh memory of the black youth, who now sought help for him, Ramii gasped and his eyes went wide. They did not see the bathroom, however. The steaming tub and the tiled floor along with the fine tapestries were replaced by another image … he thought of the black boy again … the set of his brilliant white eyes, the so-short crop of black hair and his small ears. He thought of the full lips and the white teeth when the boy had not understood his question – are YOU a eunuch? What he saw was a boy much like his attendant, a boy of the same racial stock, a boy who was frightened and alone. A roaring sound filled his mind, and his eyes saw before him a too-familiar horror that had haunted his own dreams each and every night since his twelfth summer.

The boy was naked and strapped a crude wooden bench. He was screaming and struggling, and some strange (yet so familiar) white hands were stuffing a large rag into his mouth. The boy had been begging, but Ramii heard laughter. There were voices. Strange voices … “young, isn’t he?”

“not near grown.”

“think he’s a virgin?”

“of course he is, fool, he’s hardly got any hair to shave off.”

“nice, dark skin, shining eyes …”

“Only the best for the Shiek, you know.”

“all of it, good sir?”

“Yes, take it all from him!”

And the muffled screams.

Ramii focused on where the bathroom door should have been, but he saw only the boy. His lithe, young body was immobilized by wide leather straps at the wrists and upper arms. Straps across his chest and waist held him, as did straps at his thighs and ankles. Only his head was free, and his gaze seemed to shift from somewhere to someone, back and forth, as if searching – searching for someone, anyone, to rescue him from his tormentors. “What is this?!” Ramii demanded, but his voice sounded strange – it was too high, too feminine for even a young eunuch like himself. He stared at the hands that were done gagging the helpless boy and that now ran back and forth over his shaven scalp, down and around his small ears. His face was coming closer, and Ramii could see the fear in his eyes. Closer his face came, then he felt warm skin touch his own lips. He saw the hands grip the boy’s head, turning it. The boy resisted, and Ramii felt the warm and sweat of his black skin through those white hands. He gasped as the feeling of warmth spread, and realized that it was HER hands … not his … she was kissing the cheek of the boy who was obviously HER prisoner. His muted cries for mercy were ruthlessly mocked by HER kiss. “Cut him NOW,” he heard himself say in HER voice.

It was the eyes. Ramii became lost in those eyes, so innocent, so wide – and so full of fear. It had been many years since he himself had been in the same situation, but again, there was nothing that he could do.

The terror came back as Ramii turned, as SHE must have turned, to watch. Of course, SHE would watch. SHE would delight in it. Another white man, one that Ramii did not recognize, was holding a small curved knife in his hand as another racially mixed man – one that Ramii DID recognize, tied a thin cord around the helpless boy’s genitals.

“Heat the blade again,” he was saying, “and let’s give the cord time to cut the bloodflow to his manhood. HE won’t be pleased if we botch this one. This is a fine piece of African boyhood here, and he’ll be worth a small fortune once those annoying male parts are gone.”

“IF he survives,” Ramii heard someone say.

“He’ll survive, he looks young and strong.”

“So did the last one, but he died the next day.”

“We’re averaging 7 of 10, damn you. I think 30% is a good fatality rate,” the familiar man said as he knotted the cord around the boy’s genitals, “Hell the Coptics up north are killing 8 of 10 of theirs.” Ramii shiverred, those strange feelings in his body (HER feelings) threatening to tear him in half. He looked down, expecting to see the ruin of his own manhood. Many nights, he had cried himself to sleep with his hand there. Many nights, SHE had rocked him to sleep, with her own hand there. Ramii remembered that she trembled. But instead of seeing his own smooth groin, he saw the white hand, slim and smooth and wearing costly jeweled rings. The hand was touching HER crotch, NOT his! And her fingers were busy. Ramii sighed, but the sigh was not HIS own. Disgust and remorse welled up in him, and try as he might, he knew that the boy was not really there – that he was still at Castagere’s home – and that there was nothing HE could do to free the boy. The tremors grew worse, accompanied by chills and feelings which, even though he found them disgusting, were pleasing as well. The need to urinate grew again, but unaccustomed to pleasure in this form, Ramii did not – could not - recognize it. The hand was moving, and he could hear the men talking. He could hear the boy’s muffled sobs. He could smell the smoke from the glowing brazier.

“I think we’re ready,” someone said.

“Ahhh, yes,” Ramii heard HER say through his own lips. “Make artwork of him, my friend.”

The boy’s genitals had turned an even darker shade, and the free white hand touched them. They were cold, cold and shrinking. She lifted them a bit, and the white man with the glowing red-hot knife approached. The boy struggled against his bonds, but his scream of anguish for the loss of his manhood was muted by the gag as the white man made one careful and practiced cut the with the razor sharp knife. And then the spasms became so intense that Ramii found he was not breathing. His whole body convulved violently as the white hand that was HERS – yet HIS – moved gracefully above the curved blade, lifting the entire genital package away from the boy’s trembling body.

In one stroke of the glowing blade, it was over for the boy on the bench.

Ramii heard laughter and saw the blood flow. He smelled the stench as some boiling fluid was poured over the boy’s wounds.

And SHE held it. His manhood.

In the palm of HER / HIS hand, Ramii realized that she held not only a small severed penis and scrotum with contents, but that SHE also held the Deaths – or worse, Nonexistence – of every Son that would never be born to this mutilated boy.

A strange boy’s manhood … stolen from him.

“Not unlike my own,” Ramii thought.

It was cold in HIS/HER hand, and Ramii found that his gaze could not move from the severed black genitals in that hand. HE/SHE stared at them, and the part that was Ramii fled screaming in revulsion as the throes of the orgasm shook HER.

Ramii screamed silently.

SHE screamed loudly.

The last thing that Ramii thought of was the black boy running down the hall … “Find Castagere!” he had said. The last thing that Ramii saw was the boy on the bench, his tear-stained face with his eyes closed as the pain mercifully pulled him down into unconsciousness. Ramii joined him.

MacLeod was jolted from his reverie by the scream. High above the desert, in his air-conditioned plane, he heard it. Inside his own tormented mind, the Prize swirled like a river with backwashes, eddys … so much to hear, so much to see. For so long he had been thinking of the crying that had drawn him out. And then he had thought back upon Ramii, his friend, like all the rest, long gone. Somewhere below him, buried in the ever-shifting sands lay Ramii. He had wanted to go to the Red Sea, MacLeod mused, his mind drifting back to Castagere’s opulent palace. “I will pass over the Red Sea, Ramii,” he whispered, wondering with a chill at the horrible scream that filled his mind, erasing the crying of the child that he knew he had to find. Marakesh was still hours away.