Date: Thu, 29 Sep 1994 02:44:30 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Hobert@AOL.COM Subject: CHOICES, Part 14 of 20 < < < < < < < < < < ...cooed as the old man fed them supper. Richie was getting upset at the delay, such a trivial matter that someone unimportant could handle. A foolish suggestion as NO ONE was to supervise the birds. On pain of death. Many of them. He reached his limit, barking, "Enough, old man. What shall I do about tomorrow? About Mordred? You must have a plan." The old man turned, flicking weary eyes over Richie. "Yes. I have plans. I always do. Take my dear apprentice. She has plans of her own. Plans that require my plans. As my plans need hers. And through all this weaves your plans. Or lack there of." The man threw the last of the seed at a bird, dusting the remaining flack from his hands, moving closer to Richie. "I take everything into consideration. Even spoiled children. Now go, before I *use* one of my plans on you. That's how your father died. One of *my* plans." The eyes flashed, hinting at great power. Power that could easily destroy Richie. Power barely held in check. Richie left, his feet moving of their own accord. Once in the courtyard, the fear left him, leaving him as bitter as usually. Mimicking the old man, he haughtily intoned, "He always has a plan. He always... > > > > > > > > > > ...has a plan..." Richie sat quietly in a chair, hand rubbing his chin. He looked up, noticing Duncan had stopped pacing and was watching him, a curious expression on his face. One that meant Richie should explain. "Merlin always had a plan. That was one of his favorite boasts. Being prepared for anything that could happen. It always seemed like he knew the future." "Like Darius," Duncan commented. "He dreamt of his death, and tried to tell me about it. But I was too stupid to listen. He sent Joe a warning as well. What was Joe trying to say? 'Never teary'." Duncan finally filled his glass, sloshing the liquid around, wandering randomly around the room. "Closed casket. No autopsy. Sounds like one of us, Mac. But Joe wasn't an Immortal. Besides, Lynn didn't wait four days before burying him. So why is tomorrow so special to be buried?" Richie leaned back in the chair, his head hurting from the thoughts going around in circles. The alcohol didn't help either. "Because it would be too late. Just like an Immortal... 'Never teary'... Damn it! Nefertiri!" Duncan shouted as he slapped the counter top, the loud noise hurting Richie's ears. "That's it," Duncan continued. "He was telling me Nefertiri." The Highlander came over, roughly dragging Richie to his feet, propelling him out the door. "Get your car warmed up. I'll meet you there. He's planning on coming back, but Lynn buried him too soon. We buried him ALIVE, Richie." He was off, running down the corridor, Richie left standing, watching the ponytail flop around Duncan's back. The words echoed, finally cutting through his fog shrouded brain. Then he too was running.... - - - - - - - - - - - - Duncan's shovel was the first to strike the metal coffin. The two Immortals were knee deep in mud and water, the incessant storm not stopping for them. Richie tried bailing the water out with a bucket from the car, Duncan clearing more mud from the coffin. He tried yelling instructions to the redhead, but the furious storm overpowered all sounds. He then pantomimed using the shovel to lever the lid open. Richie nodded his understanding, moving to the other side of the casket. On the third attempt, the shovels visibly moved, the muddy water being displaced suddenly. Panicked, Duncan began prying off the lid, hoping Dawson didn't drown before getting him out. The lid came off, the Highlander handing it to Richie as he dived in the muck, trying to find the body. It felt like minutes passed as Richie threw the lid out of the hole, but suddenly Duncan surfaced, cradling Joe's head in his hands, keeping it above water. It took both of them to lift Dawson out of the grave, letting him lie on the mushy grass as they found a pulse. And breath. Then they sat back and laughed, not minding the downpour, as the mortal choked and gasped between them. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - "Well, not having anything to go on, mind you, I'd say he'll be fine," Dr. Mitchum commented to Richie and Duncan, all three watching Joe Dawson talk to Jeremiah Russell across the sickbay, the younger man sporting a bandage around his head. Richie expressed his thanks to the doctor before the man moved on to other patients. The two Immortals walked over in time to catch the last of Dawson's comment. "...all my secrets, young Jeremiah. Let's just call it magic." His eyes alighted on his new guests, a smile appearing on his face. "And my rescuers. What did the doctor have to say?" "To shoot you now," Richie said, "and put you out of our misery." That drew a chuckle. "Really, he says you'll be fine. Until Lynn gets a hold of you." He stopped talking when Jeremiah broke in, telling them he had to go. Motioning to Duncan, the two walked to the door, leaving Joe and Richie alone. "What do you remember? About the fight?" Dawson looked skeptical. "You mean my dear *dead* brother-in-law showing up? Talk about a bad penny!" Richie instinctively glanced at the retreating Duncan, gauging to see if he could have heard. A move Joe picked up on. "You haven't told him, have you." Richie shook his head. "What can you say? 'I *think* your worse nightmare is up and walking again? For the third or fourth time? By the way, Mac, nice haircut.' I don't see it happening." He sat on the bed, looking at Joe Dawson, trying to decide how much of Merlin was there, and how much of Arthur he was willing to acknowledge. "You knew it was going to happen." "I guessed. It was only a matter of time before they drew you out. The Gathering has been whittled down to four. And if Morgana is involved, I'm involved. Chances were I'd die." "Four?" Richie asked surprised. Understanding dawned. "You mean one of them and three of us. If you can count Augie." Dawson only smiled, adding cryptically, "Greg's the least of your problems. Now is the time to get your house in order." The old man reached over, pressing the call button. A perky medical type appeared, Joe asking for supper from her. Turning to Richie, he raised his eyebrows, pointing after the woman. Richie shook his head 'no' at the silent offer of supper. Dawson shrugged. "Whatever. You'd better get going. I believe the information you wanted from the database is ready." Richie just laughed, amazed, promising to stop by later. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - The gulls cried along the Florida coast, Jeremiah and Duncan walking in the sand barefoot. The mortal had been quiet all the way down from Freedom, even while taking off his shoes and shirt. Now he seemed anxious to talk, just afraid of how to start. Duncan stopped, venturing a guess. "Is this about your father?" The other's startled look revealed how close to the mark he had come. "Problem? Or do you want to know something?" Jeremiah sighed. "A little of both, really. You've known him for a long time, haven't you?" The water rushed up the sand, running over their feet. Duncan motioned to a spot, not wanting to walk and discuss this at the same time. The Highlander sat lotus fashion, Jeremiah joining him on the sand, sitting and pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. Duncan looked out over the water, remembering. "I met him back in... '92, his eighteenth birthday. He's told me a smattering of his life before that time. I saw him fairly often until he graduated in 2000. We've had no contact for the last twenty years. Does that help?" "A little," Jeremiah replied. "What was he like, as a kid?" "Well, let's see. He was robbing the antique store when I first met him. In fact, he didn't really break that habit for a couple of years. Never listened, controlled by his hormones. Incredibly obnoxious. Got into all sorts of trouble. Cocky. That's the word. Is that what you wanted to hear?" "Was he a... good person?" Jeremiah hesitantly asked, confusion on his face. Duncan shrugged. "For a teenager, sure. Tried to do the right thing, always apologizing when he screwed up. Don't get me wrong, he could cross the line. But that happens with youth. Trying to test the bounds." The Highlander softly laughed. "I wouldn't use the term 'straight-laced', but all in all, yes. What's bothering you?" Jeremiah just shook his head, asking another question. "Is he anything like Arthur?" Duncan stood, nervous, dusting the sand off his pants. "What does that have to do with Richie?" "I want to know if he's like Arthur," Jeremiah repeated, standing also. Duncan moved up to him. "What happened?" he asked again. Jeremiah broke, turning away, ashamed at what he was thinking. "I've been talking to Uncle Greg... He's been telling me about Camelot, what happened back then. About Gwen, and Gawain. And himself. Especially Arthur. Some of the stories are... scary. Terrible. Joe told me Arthur planned to come back. That's why my father is here. He's Arthur. Reborn. It scares me, because I think he could be. Could be capable..." Jeremiah shivered at the pictures he imagined, the things he thought his father might do. Even though it was hot and humid, Duncan still saw the tremors along the mortal's bare back. "Richie isn't Arthur. Maybe in body, but certainly not in spirit...." "Tell me he's never cut off someone's hands," Jeremiah suddenly asked. "Tell me." The gulls cried in the emptiness. Duncan melted inside, not wanting to answer. The silence was answer enough. It looked to him as if Jeremiah wilted, grew smaller in some way. Growing uncomfortable staring at the mortal's back, Duncan looked around, noticing for the first time the sun was setting. And it was getting cold. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Richie's door buzzed, Freddie's voice blaring over the com. Once inside, the technician set a huge folder on Richie's desk, full of paper. Richie looked up as it landed with a thump, noticing the strange look in Freddie's eyes. The mortal didn't say a word, just turned and left without making eye contact. Puzzled, Richie went through the file, noticing one of the last pages was wet, drops of water making the paper soggy. Reading the section, he noticed it was Horton's last attempt at killing Duncan in Paris. The fake Tessa, the pretender Pete. His gaze locked on Pete's biography, noticing the last name. Peter Cummings. A light ignited in his head. Freddie Cummings. Richie turned to the keyboard, accessing the Freedom personnel database. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - The fire Duncan had built blazed into life, lighting the small section of beach. They hadn't left this spot, not even returning to the shuttle for Jeremiah's clothes. Duncan thought the night air was nothing compared to the cold Jeremiah felt inside. The mortal sat there, silently, arms wrapped around his torso, staring into the flames. "Do you think my father loves me?" he suddenly asked, startling the Highlander. Duncan looked up across the fire, catching Jeremiah's intense gaze. "I mean, am I more than a responsibility of his? Did he even want me?" Duncan took a moment, realizing how delicate his answer had to be. "I only know what I've seen these last few months. When you were gone, on the PROMETHEUS, he was a bundle of nerves, worried. Now that you're here, it's like a cloud has been lifted." The Highlander cocked his head, a questioning eyebrow raised. "But is that because of love, or his promise to my parents? Does he protect me because it's his duty?" The young man's voice sounded more frustrated, more aching. And softer. Treading on long unspoken territory. "Grace resented me. She though I was a pest." "That doesn't sound like the Grace I knew," Duncan retorted, unconsciously shaking his head. "She would be the first to smother..." He stopped as Jeremiah stood up. "You *don't* understand!" the young man spat, turning away from the fire, walking to the surf. The moon reflected of the silvery water, the mortal lost in shadows of the night. Duncan slowly followed, trying to help the tension between father and son. "I understand that every relationship, be it man and wife, lovers, friends, or even parents and children, is different. There is nothing to compare what the two of you bring to it. You don't have blood connecting you, but you have something stronger. Love." Duncan stopped behind Jeremiah, taking in the view as the mortal saw it. "Richie and your parents were the best of friends. He didn't have to think twice about adopting you. It wasn't easy, and not something done lightly, but he felt it was his responsibility. And he does love you. He gave up so much because of you, and even now, he has no regrets." Jeremiah was quiet, absorbing everything. "How can you be sure? How do you know?" Duncan chuckled. "If he only felt it was his duty to raise you, he wouldn't have though twice about forbidding you to go to Mars. And found some way to keep you here. It took love, a special love, to let you go so far away. That's how I know." The Immortal put his hand on the young man's shoulder, remembering other men he had befriended over the centuries. "We do what we think is best, and hope we get it... My God, you're freezing!" Duncan wrapped his arms around Jeremiah, distressed at the low body temperature. The young man's teeth chattered as he commented under his breath. "I've been so cold for so long..." Duncan half led, half carried him back to the fire, setting him down close to the flames. Adding more wood, building up the blaze, the Immortal knelt beside him, turning the unresisting face to look at him. "We take love where we can find it, Jeremiah, in what ever way, shape, or form. And hold on for as long as it lasts. That's the only thing we really have." "Even if he doesn't approve?" Jeremiah asked, his dark eyes black in the night. "Of Lucas?" Duncan guessed. The young man slowly nodded. Duncan smiled, sitting again on the sand. "Let me tell you a story about a doctor named Michael ..." =========================================================================