Date:         Wed, 27 Jul 1994 00:33:52 EDT
Reply-To:     Highlander TV show stories <HLFIC-L@PSUVM.PSU.EDU>
Sender:       Highlander TV show stories <HLFIC-L@PSUVM.PSU.EDU>
From:         Hobert@AOL.COM
Subject:      CIRCLES,  Part 3 of 5  (1/3)

*This is a continuation of events begun in CHANGES,
  previously posted to HLFIC-L


CIRCLES
by Kevin H. Robnett


Part Three - Amanda,  thief

- - - - - Saturday, May 13, 2000 - - - - -

     Richie lounged on the circular couch in the memorial room,
a circular chamber housing most of Connor's historical memorabilia.
It was ironic to him that he had nothing to display here.  He was
twenty-five, looked nineteen, and had a lifespan of about fifty.
<According to Joe.  Damn his statistics!>  Richie usually came
here to get away from the outside world, for here, one could
almost feel like time had stopped,  or maybe it all came together
at once.

     Every time Gregor brought up the past, Richie ran.  <I guess
I'm not really ready to admit my life is not my own.>

     /Your life is no one's but yours, Richard./

     Her name made an echo through his mind.  <Oh, Es!>

     /I'm sorry to intrude, but you need help.  And Jeremiah is
no longer here to give it to you./

     <It was nice talking to someone who didn't expect you to
be more than a stupid salesclerk.>

     /You think everyone here forgets you are simply a young man?
Yes, Arthur set many things in motion for when you arrived.
Yes, these people are here to mold you on the path he started.
But all of them see you, Richard Ryan, Immortal idiot.../

     <Oh, thanks.  Loads.>

     /...not the heroic lord of Camelot.  I think it's very brave
and courageous to forge a different path./

     <I'm still trying to save humanity...>

     /But YOUR way.  Not his.  Everyone will tell you that Arthur
wasn't half the person you are./

     <He didn't have to be.  Everyone talks about him like he was
a god.>

     /He was a god.  That's the point.  He was never human.  You are.
They confide in you.  They tell you things and expect things they
never would with Arthur.  He was their lord.  You are their friend.
They'll never forget that, even if you sometimes do./

     <I didn't know.  How could I?  They treat me like I remember
everything.>

     /His lover and his best friend are in the next room.  Talk to them.
And remember how different you are./

     <Thanks, Es.>

     /Anytime, my love./

     Richie sighed contentedly on the couch, as he always did
after talking with Esmerelda.  The buzz and the boots on the
wood floor betrayed Gregor's approach.  "Hey, Red.  Are you
all right?" the photographer asked, leaning into the room.
Concern shone from his eyes.

     "Yeah.  It's just hearing the story again..." Richie began,
not really needing to finish the thought.  They'd had several
talks on the subject, none very conclusive.

     Gregor at least understood the need for solitude.  "Duncan
needs to run a few errands, and I've agreed to chauffeur.  We'll
be back in time to get ready."  He turned to leave.

     "No hurry," Richie called after him.  "Plenty of time." <Time
that I don't have to be reminded who everyone expects me to be!>
The elevator soon wheezed in its descent, and he decided to take
advantage of the quiet.  As he left the sanctuary, Joe was on the
sofa, finishing a conversation with Amanda with another yawn.
At a look from Richie, he glared.

     "Yes, mother, I'll take a nap.  Heck, you're as bad as Jeremiah..."
Dawson intoned, barely shivering at naming the dead.  A twang of
guilt shot through Richie's heart, but he was glad the Watcher
was going away.  He jumped off the main floor and landed on the
sunken couch, inches from the sultry Amanda.

     They looked at each other, wondering who would be the first
to make the opening overtures.  Richie kept thinking up different
ways to ask about Arthur, but none felt comfortable.  He just sat
there opening and closing his mouth like a fish.  A smirk crossed
Amanda's face, and she gave in to her capricious nature.  "You've
managed to get rid of everybody.  Want another roll in the hay?"

     Richie went from shock, to disgust, to embarrassment, his face
turning shades of red to match his hair.  He tried vainly to sink
lower into...

< < < < < Friday, June 7, 1996 < < < < <

     ...the chair as Duncan brought the brandy glasses from the
cabinet, handing Richie's to him.  The visitor set it untasted
on the side table as he continued.  "The Cordova finally sold,
and added to the swords, your take is $25,000, more or less.
I'm still working on the cavalry saber, and the burial masks."
Richie finished, closing his portfolio and setting it on the floor.
He leaned across the space between them, and handed Duncan a
check.  The brightly lit apartment reminded him of times past,
when he spent many an evening with Duncan.  <Oh, for the good
old days.>

     Duncan took a swallow and set his glass on the coffee table.
"Very nice.  And you made excellent money off the deals.  My
congratulations.  But you didn't fly three thousand miles to hand
me a check," he stated, as he moved to the cabinet again.

     "I want the pistol set, Duncan," Richie blurted, leaning back
into the massive chair.  <This isn't going to be easy, Esmerelda.
How do I bring it up?>

         /Since when have you ever called MacLeod easy?  Just be
patient.  The right moment will come./

     Duncan waited until the check was safely put away before
replying with a hint of anger.  "Just because I decide to sell a
few of my less memorable keepsakes doesn't give you the right
to pick and choose over what I still have."  He turned to look at
Richie, a grin of challenge on his lips.  "If you think I'm as easy
a mark as your buyers, give it up.  I've been in the antique business
longer than Connor."

     "You don't even display the stuff.  Hell, you don't even look
at it.  Why do you keep it?" Richie argued, finally reaching for
his glass.

     "I don't have to look at things for them to be a part of me.
It's enough to know they are there, within my reach," was
Duncan's only defense.  "I don't need a showroom to announce
who I am.  Or what I've done.  But some things...  I don't think
I could handle them being with someone else."

     "Like Tessa's bracelet?"  Richie quietly asked.  <Somehow,
this has gotten way too painful.>

         /If you are to help him, it will have to get worse./

     "Why are you here?" Duncan asked again, finally sitting in
the other chair.  He looked straight ahead, jaw clenched.  He
grabbed the brandy glass and clutched it like a possessive lover.

     Richie leaned forward, hoping to catch Duncan's eyes peripherally.
"To bring you peace."  He waited for a sign, anything from Duncan,
but got nothing.  Sitting back, he continued, "We found the punk
who killed Tessa.  In Florida.  He was appropriately punished."

     Duncan closed his eyes.  All he said was "How did you find him?"

     "Jeremiah has a virus program that scanned mug shots when
they were stored on the police net.  It was matched to a sketch
of the guy I had someone draw.  A quick flight to Tampa, and it
was done."

     "Is he dead?"  Tears started to form as Duncan clenched his
eyes tighter, as if trying not to see her body lying in the street.

     "No.  I chopped his hands off," Richie curtly replied, emptying
his glass with a healthy swig.

     Duncan's eyes flew open, his remorseful train of thought
completely derailed at the barbaric action Richie had described.
He turned to look at his old student, wonder and loathing etched
on his face.  Richie just shrugged,  "It's no better than what Arthur
used to do.  That's the kind of man you wanted me to become."

     Duncan got up and again went to the cabinet, pouring himself
another healthy dose of alcohol.  "It was never about what I wanted..."

     "...it was all about your damned word," Richie finished for him,
the echo of many other conversations swirling in his head.  Silence
filled the room.  "Why is it we always end up fighting when we're
together more than ten minutes?"  He abruptly stood and grabbed
his portfolio.  "I just came to tell you it's all over.  Get on with
your life, Duncan.  There's nothing left to beat yourself up with."
He turned and made for the elevator as Duncan slammed the cabinet
doors closed.

     "Richie!" Duncan called, filling the room with the name.

     "What now!" Richie yelled, whirling around again, ready for
another fight, either swords, or fists, or words.  <We've played
this game too many times!>

     Duncan had his hand to his forehead, looking like he was trying
to get rid of a headache.  He shook his head and looked at Richie.
"When's your flight?"

     "Whenever I show up," Richie replied, his anger momentarily
deflated by the harmless question.

     Duncan tried to smile.  "Stay awhile.  I promised Dawson I'd
help him for a few hours tonight, but I'd like to talk to you later,
in the morning.  And I promise, no fights," he said, holding his
hands up in surrender.

     "Well..." Richie started, playing it for all it was worth.  "Jerry
can take of the store, and I am kind of tired."  He flashed Duncan
a smile he hadn't used for a long time.  "Besides, you make the
best breakfasts on two coasts."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

     After a relaxing shower and another glass of brandy,  Richie
made himself at home and dived into the bed.  He was fast asleep
before Duncan had even left, and dreaming pleasant dreams of
lovely young women.  He tossed and turned, picturing Janice in
his bedroom in New York.  For some reason he pictured her as
an Immortal, his passion inflamed by the feeling he had when
an Immortal was near.  Moaning his pleasure, he tried many of
the techniques Phillipe had suggested on the teasing coed, who
throatily answered with her own cries.  They writhed on the bed,
heat inflaming their union, as she ran her hands over his chest
and arms.  Slowly, he realized this was more powerful than just
a dream.  Or fantasy.  She was murmuring Duncan's name in his
ear as she licked it.  It was happening.  He could smell her perfume,
taste her hair on his lips, feel the bite of her mouth on many places.
Crying his sweet anguish in turn, he grasped her face in his hands,
his pleasure erupting with hers as...

     ...the lights came on in the apartment.  Richie lay there,
exhausted, and gazed into the lovely face of Amanda, eyes
still closed as her body shook.  She collapsed on top of him,
spent, as both gasped for breath.  The ticking of the clock
pounded in his ears until a roar from across the room shattered
his daze.  "What the HELL is going on?"  The sudden noise jerked
Amanda's head up, her satisfied smile beaming as she opened
her eyes and saw...

     "RICHARD ? !"

     In a flash, she had dived to the right, grabbing the sheet and
rolling away from him.  He belatedly tried to catch the end as it
flew after her, succeeding only in grasping air.  The stomps of
Duncan's feet as he approached the bed drew Richie's attention,
as he realized he was naked.  He slid to the left, trying to cover
himself as Amanda screeched from the other side of the bed,
pointing her finger at him, almost in hysterics.  All he saw was
Duncan jumping on the bed, coming for him, face etched with anger.
He waited until the last second, and threw himself on the floor, as
Duncan sailed over him into the stairway to the roof.  He ran across
the room, grabbing his clothes, heading for the elevator, Amanda
throwing his shoes after him.  He took the emergency stairs down,
not daring to look at the carnage behind him.

     Richie burst through the stairway door to the dojo, black
and silent.  He was struggling with his zipper as he made his
way to the other end, blindly running into equipment.  He reached
the green glow of the emergency sign above the entryway, and
pushed forward.  He ran into a wall, somewhat flexible, feeling
like it was covered in cloth.

     "You haven't had breakfast yet," Duncan said, right in his face,
as he pushed against Duncan's chest with his hands.  Richie yelped
and turned to run, but Duncan grabbed him from behind, lifting his
bare feet from the floor.  "Hold on, hotshot."

     "I didn't know..." Richie wailed, trying to connect his elbow with
Duncan's face.  And kick him.

     "Of course," Duncan replied, setting Richie down.  "I think it's
rather funny.  And it may teach Amanda not to let herself in anymore.
Then again, we are talking about Amanda..."
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