He Who Calls Thunder
The first breath of revival always hurt,
but drawing in the hot, wet air of a freshly occurring monsoon storm didn't
make it any easier. Connor opened his eyes and blinked away the rain, wiping
his face with his hand. He locked eyes for a moment with the startled Apache
scout who apparently had been raiding Connor's pockets, then the young
Indian ran off in terror, calling for someone. Connor shrugged, noting that
he had already been robbed of his saber and some of his clothing. He sat up,
looking for the sun and seeing only a bare glint of it in what he decided
must be the west. He peered through the pelting rain, and nodded to himself.
Yes, those were the Tucsons, not the Rincons, therefore it was afternoon --
the head injury must have made it take longer than normal to revive. His
heart skipped a beat as he saw the body of Private Fenwick near him, and he
wondered if the tall Mr. Goddard had gotten away, or if he were just laid to
rot somewhere else.
Connor scrambled to his feet as he felt
the sensation of another Immortal approach. Without his saber, there wasn't
much he could do to defend himself, but he didn't intend to die lying down,
especially not in the rain. Connor saw the pair almost before he heard them.
The scout had returned, still wide-eyed, followed by another Indian -- this
one, Connor guessed, much older than he appeared. The other Immortal eyed
him for a moment, then nodded. "I am unarmed," he said in flawless English.
"I do not intend to fight you."
Connor opened his arms and shook his
head. "I have been disarmed. But I do not wish to fight anyway."
The elder Indian said something to the
boy, who hurried back the way they had come. He gave a bare nod toward
Connor. "They call me He Who Calls Thunder."
Connor gave it only a moment's thought
before introducing himself. "I am Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he
stated firmly, "of Glenfinnan, on the shores of Loch Shiel in the Highlands
The Indian raised an eyebrow. "Do all
White men have such long titles?" he asked, a smirk crossing his face.
Connor laughed a generous and relieved
staccato laugh. "No. Just the Scots."
He Who Calls Thunder nodded with a smile.
"Follow me. We will talk."
The Indian camp was several miles further
into the foothills, and the two ageless men walked much of it in silence as
the rain diminished, then finally stopped. Thunder had reassured Connor that
Fenwick's body would be somehow returned to the fort, so that it would not
become coyote or buzzard food.
Connor received many stares as he entered
with Thunder, in much the same way the Lakota had stared at him when Duncan
had first invited him into camp. That had faded, Connor recalled, the more
he had visited the Lakota camp, and despite his different appearance, they
had adopted him as well. He had hunted with them, eaten with them, learned
some of their language and many of their ways. Until now, he had not
remembered how good that had felt. Connor doubted he would get the chance to
Thunder led the way to his quarters,
opening the tent flap for Connor to step inside. Connor was still hesitant,
never fully turning his back on the other Immortal. Thunder gestured for
Connor to take a seat to one-side of an already-stoked fire, then sat down
himself, his back ramrod straight, his long black hair carefully braided and
settled over his shoulders. "I am Apache," Thunder stated quietly, "and I
have been nothing else for over 500 years." Picking up a ceremonial pipe, he
stroked his fingers down its length. "They call me He Who Calls Thunder
because Thunder is the one who throws lightning. I 'catch' the lightning, so
they think I must call down Thunder." He smirked. "They have seen much,
perhaps too much, but..." Thunder gave a self-effacing shrug. "I like being
Connor grinned. He liked this man
already. "I have been alive three and a half centuries, but I have traveled
far and tried to fit in where I can. Even with the Lakota Sioux," he added,
hoping the name-dropping would be a positive rather than a negative.
"Oh?" Thunder raised an eyebrow, but
there was no animosity in his gaze, only surprise.
"Can't say that I did a great job fitting
in, but they accepted me as I was." Connor watched the Indian fill the pipe
with tobacco, then light it and take a deep pull from its mouthpiece. Connor
knew what he needed to bring up, as much as he did not want to. "There was a
ranch in the valley below," he began, "a Mexican family. The mother and
father were killed brutally last night."
Thunder's gaze raised from the pipe's end
to Connor's eyes. "And you think the Apache were involved." His gaze turned
hard. "No, you assume the Apache were involved."
"No." Connor returned the steely gaze.
"No assumptions. But I want to know the truth."
"My people," Thunder said, gesturing to
encompass the camp, "did nothing to anyone in the valley last night. We were
holding ceremonies here."
Connor gave a slight nod. "That's all I
wanted to know." He leaned back.
"You believe me?" Thunder raised an
"You looked me in the eyes, you told the
truth." Connor shrugged. "Why shouldn't I believe you?"
Thunder snorted. "Because I am Apache."
"And I had friends who were Sioux. And
they told me the truth. I thought I had friends in the army then, and they
lied to me, and killed the Sioux." Connor stared hard into Thunder's eyes.
"The propensity for lying has nothing to do with your heritage."
Thunder nodded, leaning back against a
rolled blanket and taking another puff of the pipe. He offered it to Connor,
who slowly inhaled from the mouthpiece, but released little smoke. "It's
been some time since you smoked," Thunder said with a laughing smile. Connor
nodded, blushing around the ears. "At least you didn't choke. The tobacco is
fresh, and strong." They smiled at each other, and Connor handed back the
pipe. Thunder settled himself even more comfortably, as if waiting for
Connor to ask a question, and Connor took advantage of the anticipatory
"Why did you kill my men and myself?"
Thunder shrugged nonchalantly. "Not all
were killed. One, but the other got away. And you survived." He grinned.
"But one died." Connor did not return the
smile, his mouth caught in a hard line instead. "You killed a man."
"Our scouts heard the sounds from the
ranch in the valley, the cries of attackers and victims alike," Thunder
replied defensively, "and we had no way to find out what had happened. Our
scouts were looking for danger to us, nothing more. They thought they would
be rewarded for killing soldiers, as they would have been in some Apache
camps. But not in mine. We are different here. And they are being punished
for their presumptions." Thunder broke into a grin again. "Although I think
seeing you revive was more than punishment enough for Swift Bear."
Connor couldn't help but laugh. "Perhaps
so." He turned serious again. "Maybe between the Apaches and the military,
the murderers will be taken care of."
"Perhaps." Thunder nodded thoughtfully.
"We don't want them here any more than you want them in the valley."
"I think the perpetrators were White
men." The hair on Connor's neck prickled, as it always did when he worried
about tipping his hand too far. "The bodies were ripped open and left to
rot, it seemed very deliberate. And senseless, because the first wounds
would have left them dead. It just doesn't seem like an Indian act."
Thunder pursed his lips. "Perhaps. No
guarantee, but perhaps."
"An act against Mexicans too, no other
motive apparently," Connor added. "Nothing was taken." He shook his head.
"As a Scot, I know how that works -- prejudice against a people. And no
matter who is the victim, it's not right." Connor raised his gaze to
Thunder's face. "I know you must have some grievances with the White Man to
be so vigilant in your attacks."
"They are invading our lands." Thunder
"But you've lived here with the
Thunder shook his head. "Not peacefully.
We fought the Spanish for over 200 years for this land."
"But was it yours to have in the first
place?" Connor asked pointedly.
Thunder sat up tall again. "We claimed
Connor shook his head. "You didn't answer
"It is not yours in the first
place, either," Thunder replied emphatically. "The Spanish claimed it in
spite of the natives here. They ceded it to the Mexicans, and you bought it
from them. It was stolen property that the White Man bought."
Connor rubbed his temples, then sighed.
"And Indian fought Indian for it for a long time before the Spaniards came,"
Connor surmised. "Just like my people, the Scots, with clans battling each
other for territory. The Indians who have sat on this territory the longest
are the Papago. According to your logic, this land should be theirs."
Thunder snorted with cynical laughter.
"They are weak, pitiful. They give in too easily to others."
"Because you breed yourselves as warriors
and they do not -- because your war strength is greater than theirs -- that
justifies your claim to the land?" Connor raised an eyebrow imperiously.
"That reasoning justifies the White Man's claim as much as it justifies
Thunder shifted uneasily, remaining
silent for a long moment. He took another pull from his pipe. "We are tired
of being pushed around by the White Man."
"I can understand that," Connor replied,
"but the fact is, the more you fight, the harder he will push. And the
stronger his urge to kill your people will be."
"And if we do not fight, he will kill us
anyway," Thunder said quietly. "Like at Camp Grant."
"The attack on Camp Grant was mostly
Papago and Mexicans..."
"They were residents of the place you
call Tucson," Thunder countered, "and supplied by White men."
Connor nodded slowly and sighed again.
"Yes, yes they were. But you are forgetting the White commander at Camp
Lowell who sent a warning to the White commander of Camp Grant -- who tried
his best to send troops and medical help. It was not their fault that it
arrived too late. The attackers had planned well, and were stealthy in their
attack." Connor shook his head. "The military is simply...lacking. Good men
are rare -- most are tired of war, after our Civil War. Those willing to
stay are commanding out here, but the men they are leading are often looking
for a place with less law and morals than where they came from. Keeping the
peace, protecting both the citizenry and the Indians who want peace,
is...well...nigh unto impossible." Connor gave an acerbic grin. "I think I'm
ending up agreeing with you more than I'm disagreeing, He Who Calls Thunder,
in spite of my best intentions."
Thunder smiled back with a nod. "We are
both seeing more of the other side. But I do not think we would be able to
convince others to see as we do." He handed the pipe to Connor, who accepted
it a bit reluctantly.
"Especially not since I'm dead," Connor
remarked. "In the eyes of Fort Lowell, anyway."
"You cannot go back." It was a statement,
not a question.
"No." Connor puffed the pipe thoughtfully
before handing it back to Thunder. "I must retrieve my sword, in secret,
from the fort. It belonged to my first teacher, I cannot leave it. But after
that..." Connor shrugged.
"I have men who can lead you away from
here." Thunder gestured toward the blankets. "I can give you a few things
for your journey." His gaze was serious as he leveled it at Connor. "But
where will you go, Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod?"
Connor was startled that the man had
remembered his full name, and was honored by the deference with which it was
spoken. He had made a friend here. "My first student is still on Lakota
lands -- the death of the tribe drove him onto Holy Ground, as he was tired
of the killing, mortal and Immortal." Connor's ears reddened. Sometimes
Duncan's retreat made Connor feel ashamed, as if he hadn't done enough to
prepare Duncan for the world. Even though his kinsman was nearly 300 years
old, Connor often felt the need to protect him, as if Duncan were a younger
brother rather than just a student or fellow clansman. That is how close
their relationship had become, and more often than not, Connor was grateful
Thunder was still nodding slowly at
Connor's words. "I can understand his feelings. I had heard a few tales of a
White Man turned Red, living on the land of the Ancient Ones, but I did not
believe them." Thunder's eyes met Connor's. "But knowing he is Immortal,
knowing his story..." he shrugged. "Now I can believe it."
"I will retrieve my teacher's sword
tonight," Connor informed the other man, "and leave tomorrow."
"Eager to get away?" Thunder leveled his
steady gaze at Connor.
Connor shrugged. "No use staying. They
think I'm dead. If they found me alive, with you..." He shook his head. "It
wouldn't look good."
"You'd look like a traitor." Thunder
seemed amused by this idea.
"And you'd look like you were out to kill
soldiers, rather than just happening on them," Connor added seriously.
Thunder nodded. "True enough." The Apache
sat back again, puffing contentedly on the pipe. He again offered it to
Connor, who politely refused. "Will you be able to find your way back here
from the fort in the dark?"
Connor nodded. "Probably. If not, I can
at least get to the foothills and hide in the trees and brush until dawn
breaks." Connor noted Thunder's half-hidden smile, and grinned himself. "You
don't believe I can find my way back," he acknowledged. "Maybe I can, maybe
I can't. I learned more from the Lakota than you think."
Thunder nodded, his expression still
bemused. "Then we will see you when we see you." He plucked a small doe-skin
pouch tied with a thong of the same material from among his belongings and
offered it to Connor. "For protection on your mission tonight, and on your
journey," Thunder explained. He smiled in a self-depreciatory way. "White
men might call it a good luck charm."
Connor graciously accepted the sign of
friendship, his expression a mixture of surprise and gratitude. He shrugged,
trying to make light of the serious moment. "I need all the luck I can get."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Connor waited until dusk to begin making
his way down to the fort, watching the sky in the west slowly turn from
turquoise to deep summer night blue as he hiked. The Apaches had given him
some civilian clothes -- presumably stolen from someone they had attacked at
some point, but Connor let the matter go. He didn't want to get caught in
his uniform, and the clothes were a dark color and would aid in camouflage.
Connor made his way slowly, taking his time. He moved silently as the Lakota
had taught him when he was trapping, finding places to hide himself where
possible, and finally coming upon the fort shortly after midnight.
As he approached his former quarters, he
felt the warning of the buzz -- and knew it worked the other way around as
well. He looked around cautiously, hiding himself in the row of cottonwoods,
but he saw nothing. Connor's heart raced. So near to shelter, and yet so far
-- and he had to make it back out again too. And all that with Sanders
knowing he was here, and maybe turning him in as a deserter, if not just
outright beheading him. Connor took another look around, but saw only the
flickering lamps in windows from the overnight sentries -- at the garrison,
the corral, the hospital, the telegraph office. But no movement, no sign of
Connor silently dashed for the porch,
eager to have refuge behind the ocotillo fence. Once there, he tested the
door. Unlocked. Connor pondered whether this meant they had already gone
through his things -- he had left no word of next of kin to send his things
to, and they might have just divvied them up. He silently hoped the katana
was still there. But the unlocked door also meant they had moved Simona and
Maria to someone else's quarters, or perhaps took them into town to stay --
and he wouldn't have to tiptoe past the room they slept in. Connor stole
inside and headed into his bedroom, the buzz still upon him. A shadow darker
than the darkness of the room caused him to freeze.
"I thought you'd probably be back
tonight," Sanders' voice said. "You left this." Sanders held out his hands,
the katana laid across them. "I'm guessing that's the blade you carry when
you're not a soldier?"
"Mmm hmm." Connor gratefully took
Ramirez's sword from the younger Immortal.
"We came to look for signs of next of
kin," Sanders explained. "You don't have much here, but I saw this --
managed to keep others from seeing it so you could come back for it."
"Thanks." Connor wasn't sure of Sanders'
motive, but so far, so good. He pulled on his boots, which he'd been doing
without since he'd forded the Rillito -- partly to walk more quietly, partly
to let his trouser legs dry.
"You got a camp?" Sanders asked. "Out in
Yeah." Connor wondered where the
conversation was going.
"Commander heard some rumors in town,
wanted me to go check out the Garcia ranch tonight -- could be the culprits
coming back. I can ride you out there on my horse, no one would ever know.
It'd save you some time." As far as Connor could tell, Sanders was sincere.
"That would be a help," Connor replied as
he drew a belt from the armoire and worked a makeshift holder for the
katana's sheath. "Thanks."
Sanders shrugged. "My teacher said if we
come across a good one of our kind, we should stick together."
Connor nodded. "Good philosophy."
Connor skirted the fort until he was well
past the Commissary stableyard, and he was soon met by Sanders, who pulled
Connor astride the horse he was riding. They rode in silence, the only
sounds that of the horse's hooves and the nocturnal desert creatures: the
call of the owl, the cry of the coyote. The afternoon storm and the evening
sun had left even the midnight air hot and musty, and the horse labored
under both the heaviness of the atmosphere and its dual riders. As they
approached the ranch, the pair heard a skittish nicker from off to their
right. Sanders stopped their horse.
"Over there," Sanders pointed, his voice
low, "two horses. Maybe the murderers are back."
Connor and Sanders dismounted, loosely
tying the horse to a nearby mesquite. Lantern light flickered through a
window in the ranch house. Either the culprits had returned to raid, as
Sanders thought, or news had spread and someone was looting the place.
Either way, it needed to be stopped. The two men crept up to the door, which
was open an inch. Connor pushed it open the rest of the way, shuddering as
its creak broke the silence.
A figure leapt out of the dark entryway,
knife held aloft; the blade glinted in the moonlight as it came down, but
Connor caught the hand that held it. The force of the attack knocked both
men to the ground. As he struggled with his attacker, Connor heard Sanders
enter the ranch house, followed by the sounds of more fighting. Connor
finally managed to throw his opponent, who grabbed and ripped Connor's shirt
before tumbling away in a hazy cloud of dust. Connor leapt to his feet,
facing off with his attacker who had not dropped the knife. The man made a
run at Connor, who grabbed the knife-wielding hand and, ducking under the
man's arm, twisted the hand around to plant the knife deep in the man's own
abdomen. Connor gave the knife a twist, opening the wound further, before
leaving the man to fall with a dull thud. Blood quickly spilled onto the
packed earth as Connor briefly checked his katana -- still securely lashed
to his side -- and rushed inside to aid Sanders.
Sanders' own struggle had taken its toll
on the house: broken lanterns, overturned furniture and spilled blood. The
other looter had also been carrying a knife, but Sanders had grabbed one of
the kitchen knives and made quick work of the thief. After the adrenaline
rush, Connor wanted to laugh. Don't challenge a man who's an expert with
sharp objects. Especially if you're not. Connor smiled at Sanders, who
was staring at him.
"What's that?" Sanders motioned to the
shadow hanging from Connor's neck, revealed by the torn shirt.
Connor clasped the pouch with one hand.
"A gift. From a friend."
The moonlight from the window glittered
in Sanders' angry eyes, and Connor could see him putting the clues together.
"You're one of them," Sanders said accusingly. "A squaw man. I bet you even
helped them kill Fenwick."
Connor shook his head slowly, but rested
his hand on the katana's handle. "We were attacked by one set of Apaches,"
he explained, "but I was rescued by another. He gave me this." Close
enough to the truth, Connor thought. And if it keeps us from
Sanders shook his head violently, finally
drawing his saber. "Only good Indian is a dead Indian," he growled as he
advanced on Connor, who drew his katana. "Second best is keeping them
limited on the reservations, or under close eye like our scouts. But them
wild ones....they're the ones we're supposed to be getting rid of, not
pussy-footin' or playing friendly with."
Connor sighed in his throat. "It doesn't
have to be that way...."
"Yes!" Sanders shouted, finally striking
out with his weapon. "Mortals are no different than us, it's kill or be
killed. And them damn Injuns deserve to die."
The clash of steel on steel rang through
the dank night air. Connor let Sanders drive him backward out of the house,
hoping for an advantage with some moonlight shed on the scene. Once outside
the door, Connor turned the tables, driving Sanders back with a few hard
blows. More focused on his sword than his feet, Sanders stumbled backward
over the prone body of the first attacker, the fall sending the sword
clattering out of reach. Connor placed the katana's edge at Sanders' throat.
"It can stop here," Connor said quietly.
"If you swear to not follow me, and don't hunt the Apache. There's a
difference between justice and slaughter."
The fury still burned in Sanders' eyes.
"I will hunt them as long as I live," he spat bitterly.
Connor twitched his lips. "You got that
right." He lifted the katana, then brought it down. "There can be only one."
Winds began to swirl around the house,
reminiscent of the earlier monsoon storm. Connor could feel the electricity
building in it, pulsing until it finally erupted in electric sparks and
bolts, trapping him in its current. He could hear windows breaking on the
house, see the lightning hit fence posts, smell the scent of mesquite trees
burning, but he couldn't move. Thoughts and memories shot through him,
including scenes of a familiar Sioux village being raided, its people
massacred. Briefly Connor caught a glimpse of other soldiers in this scene,
and he wondered which one was Kern. Connor winced in pain as the electricity
stabbed him again, cried out to the night as the energy pulsed through his
body. As suddenly as it had begun, the electricity dissipated, and Connor
fell to his knees. He remained there a few moments, gasping for air as he
dedicated his victory to Duncan and the memory of Little Deer, then dragged
himself to his feet and ran for the trees. The Quickening had spooked the
cavalry horse, which had pulled from its tethering and run from the scene.
The two thieves' horses had been better tied, and Connor cut free the
less-nervous of the two and raced toward the shallow fording spot in the
river, then toward where he thought the Apache camp was.
The Apache went on guard at the rapid
approach of an unfamiliar horse. He Who Calls Thunder emerged from his tent
as the Immortal buzz began, and he worked to quell his tribesmen's fears.
Connor pulled up short in front of Thunder and quickly dismounted.
"I saw the storm," Thunder commented,
waiting for an explanation.
"One of the soldiers was a little too
eager to hunt Indian-lovers....starting with me." Connor took a deep breath.
"We were out at the ranch. Caught either the killers returning or looters.
They attacked, we fought back. They won't be looting again."
"And your shirt was torn, and the other
solider saw your good luck charm," Thunder guessed. Connor nodded. "Did you
get your sword?"
"Yeah." Connor patted the katana handle
at his side.
"And now you have a horse." Thunder
nodded toward the animal. "I can have supplies and a guide ready for you in
the morning. I suggest you ride during the early hours but find shelter for
the afternoon -- maybe sleep. Start again as the sun is going down, when
it's not so hot."
Connor nodded thoughtfully. "Good plan.
But I can do without a guide -- I won't put any of your people more at risk.
The supplies are appreciated, though."
Thunder pursed his lips a moment before
speaking. "Be careful, Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod." A smile crossed
his face. "And if the Holy Ones smile on us, we will meet again."
"Hopefully in more tolerant and peaceful
times." Connor returned the smile, then let himself be led off to get some
sleep before his journey.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Connor stood motionless outside the open
metal gate, pretending to read the posted leaflet that briefly detailed the
history of the Fort Lowell Hospital, while he steeled himself for the
reality. He'd seen the ruins from outside the chain-link fence, but still he
had to collect his strength to go inside. The Reunión de El Fuerte was the
one day a year when the gate was opened and you could actually walk around
inside the ruins. The fort hospital was the best preserved of the old
buildings, and even it was crumbling with the wind and weather, in spite of
the tin ramada sheltering it and the fence now preventing human vandalism.
Connor had already done this preparation
a few minutes ago, at the corral, trying to push the ghosts of his memory
aside as the re-creationist explained the saddle on display and the uniform
he was wearing. Connor already knew how the wool uniform breathed, and that
they'd used light saddles because of all the extraneous supplies a cavalry
man carried. He had been paying more attention to the corral wall, still six
feet tall in some places, in others completely missing. The sadness had
truly overcome him then, and he'd left perhaps sooner than he should have.
Maybe he'd go back and take a second look. After the hospital.
Taking a deep breath, Connor finally
moved his feet to take him inside. The rooms were smaller than he'd
remembered, and there were some names carved into the adobe bricks now, the
results of vandalism before the fences. Connor shook his head as he made a
slow, thoughtful circuit of the walls, then emerged back through the gate.
They were planting cottonwoods, he noted, trying to recreate the officers
row. Except now the only building along Cottonwood Lane was the 37-year-old
reconstructed Commanding Officer's Quarters, which served as the Fort Lowell
Museum. The parade grounds across the way were now a soccer field and picnic
areas. Connor had seen the run-down house that was the best preserved of the
real officers' quarters across the street, the bits left of the band
quarters just off to this side of busy Craycroft Road, and the homes that
had been constructed out of the remains of the Commissary and the Post
Trader's Store after the fort had been abandoned in 1891. It all left him a
little cold, but he was glad that someone -- even now at this late date --
was thinking of preserving this bit of history.
Connor glanced around at the various
displays of the re-creationists outside the museum -- weaponry, uniforms,
saddles. He didn't stay long, and decided to visit the museum itself some
other time, since it was open to the public year-round. Today the fort was
too crowded with people, and his head was too crowded with memories. Connor
had always known the adobe structures weren't meant to last, but these few
lingering remnants made it seem all the more obvious how much had returned
to the desert or been claimed by souvenir-seekers in just over 100 years.
With the fort as part of his personal history, Connor felt an emptiness in
seeing its deteriorated state. The Commissary and its grounds were up for
sale, and the neighborhood was petitioning the city to buy it, but Connor
knew that would never happen considering its hefty asking price. He
considered purchasing it himself and donating it to the city, just to keep
it in the right hands, but he wasn't sure it was worth liquidating some of
his own assets just to preserve this little chunk of his memory -- and a
property that had been altered greatly since he'd lived with it, no less.
Connor shook his head. No, he wouldn't buy it. He couldn't buy his way back
in time, no matter how much he wanted to sometimes. He'd just have to settle
for reuniting with it once in a while.
With one last glance around, Connor made
his way back to his rental car. He was due to visit Jack Blackfoot -- once
known as "He Who Calls Thunder" -- at his home in Apache Junction, a couple
of hours north of here. That he was looking forward to. Memories were better
shared, and they could talk about other times too, rather than staring in
solitude at the ruins of what once had been home.
Maybe he'd come back next year. Maybe
he'd actually go in the museum, next time. And maybe the Commissary would
still be up for sale -- and just maybe he'd change his mind about buying it.
I went on the Reunión de El Fuerte tour
this past February. I can't explain it, but something about the Fort just
captivated me that day, and from the moment I first glanced at the uniforms
I could not shake the image of Connor standing before a mirror, dusting off
his uniform. And so a fanfic was born. :^)