Author's note: This was another of the Mid-Week Challenges that occur on the HolyGround forum. The challenge was to take a lyric or lyrics and use them in lieu of any characters using dialogue of any kind. The lyrics were to speak for the characters, no matter how many there were in each piece.

I don't own Connor MacLeod or anything to do with any of the Highlander universe. I'm just borrowing them for a small adventure once in a while.

The December snow crunched underfoot as he silently cursed the old lock on the door before him. With a swift shake of the door, the lock gave way, the door swung open and he entered the darkened room before him. He glanced over at the sheet-draped pieces of furniture and artwork that was strewn about the large expanse of floor space before he went over to the window to look out.

A winter's day in a deep and dark December

I am alone

Gazing from my window to the streets below

On a freshly fallen silent shroud of snow

I am a rock, I am an island

Memories came flooding back as he gazed down to the streets then upwards to the now changed skyline that reflected the futuristic reality that was now the present in the outside world. It was so vastly different since the last time he had stood in this very spot several years ago on another winter's day to watch those who were watching him. Rachel's death had re-opened wounds he would rather not re-live again but yet he knew he would have to.

He turned abruptly from the window and began removing the sheets from the furniture to see what lay underneath and check out the condition of each piece. As he worked his mind was whirling as he tried to think ahead of what his life would be like while his heart steeled itself once more from what he truly was feeling at the moment now that he was back in his own home and alone once again.

I've built walls, a fortress deep and mighty

That none may penetrate

I have no need for friendship, friendship causes pain

It's laughter and it's loving I disdain

I am a rock, I am an island

The muscles in his jaw clenched and relaxed as he moved methodically about his work. Each piece revealed something new that needed replacing or stirred up painful memories that he would have rather kept from experiencing again. His gaze directed himself to the wall which was lined with a multitude of old photographs, tintypes, paintings, certificates from the differing eras and lives he had led. They softened as they fell upon a large framed painting that took center stage in the midst of all the other memorabilia.

With a few, swift strides he was before it and tremulously reached out to brush the thick layer of dust from it. His face took on a level of grief and sadness that one wouldn't have thought possible as he stared with longing at the lovely and fresh faced woman in the portrait. Tears unwillingly seemed to rise in his eyes; he swallowed at the hardened lump in his throat that threatened to wreck everything he was trying to do here.

Don't talk of love, well I've heard the word before

It's sleeping in my memory

I won't disturb the slumber of feelings that have died

If I'd never loved, I never would have cried

I am a rock, I am an island

Finally, with great reluctance, he turned his back on the portrait and moved on down the wall, adjusting and dusting each and everything that was hung there. But a distinct crunching of glass underfoot caused him to look down at the floor. A picture had fallen face down from the wall; he reached down, picked it up, shaking it off as he did so and turned it over to see which one it had been.

A young woman stared back at him from the black and white photo held in his hand. He slowly drifted to go back to the window to look at it better by the light provided by antique street lamps outside his now dilapidated brownstone. One finger traced the outlines of the face in the picture while his voice shakily said to himself in a silent voice, "Rachel--"

Mental images came flooding back of war and gunfire along with the discovery of a very frightened little girl in an abandoned warehouse. They then dissolved into a happy girl in pigtails swinging on an old tire swing in the large backyard then rapidly shifted from one image to another as the little girl became a young woman then an older one in his mind.

Time it was

And what a time it was

It was

A time of innocence

A time of confidences

Long ago, it must be

I have a photograph

Preserve your memories

They're all that's left of you

He sighed deeply and sat on the windowsill, looking at nothing and noticing nothing that happened below him. His heart was torn between tearing in two from the numbing ache it was feeling and the hardening against any show of emotion he might possibly feel about what had happened. The two warred with one another for some time; Connor sat with eyes closed until he thought it was safe to open them again to the world outside and below. The old habit of showing no emotion to the world and others had won out.

He stood. Walking over to his small rotunda behind and just to the right of the stairs that led up to the bedrooms and loft he threw open the doors. He walked in and breathed a sigh of relief. Here at least he could hide from any and all things. He was safe.

I have my books and my poetry to protect me

I am shielded in my armor

Hiding in my room, safe within my womb

I touch no one and no one touches me

He took the three steps downward into the room then another one before sinking into the deep blue cushions of his horseshoe shaped couch. He leaned back his head and closed his eyes to the world once more, blocking out everything except the feeling that he was home. Home, at long last.

I am a rock,

I am an island

And a rock feels no pain

And an island never cries

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