Date:         Fri, 3 Mar 1995 00:09:03 -0500
Reply-To:     NancySSCH@AOL.COM
Sender:       Highlander TV show stories <HLFIC-L@PSUVM.PSU.EDU>
From:         "N.L. Cleveland" <NancySSCH@AOL.COM>
Subject:      Mother Love  (1/2) (Song of Ex Spoilers....beware)

This story contains spoilers from Song of the Executioner.....(most
recently)....

"Can we not force from widowed poetry,
Now thou art dead....one elegy
to crown thy hearse?

.....the flame
Of thy brave soul, that shot such heat and light
As burnt our earth and made our darkness bright,
Committed holy rapes upon our will,
Did through the eye the melting heart distill,
And the deep knowledge of dark truths so teach
As sense might judge what fancy could not reach...."

Thomas Carew
An Elegy...

OK, folks. It's no contest.
This guy is  a MUCH
better writer than me.
It's just to make the
spoiler space fill out a bit.
So try to lower your expectations
when you read the story, ok?

Mother Love

c 1995 N.L. Cleveland

The gun lay on the table. It was a dull gray steel. Boxy and flat. A
semi-automatic. She reached for it.  Took the cold heavy shape into her
hands. The warmth of her skin chilling against the metal. A nick on the
barrel caught the light, as she stared down at the weapon. Weighing her
options. Weighing the price of grief. Of her life.

There would be no going back. Not now. But there was no going back already.
The others would eventually put it all together. Would eventually realize
that it was more than just coincidence that Ian was dead. More than just
chance that he'd never returned from his last conversation with her.

Her life, as she had known it, was over. Her vows to the Watchers were
broken. Meaningless. The heart of her existence...*her* Immortal...her
eternal youth...her beloved Christian, was dead. Dead, despite all she had
done to keep him alive. Despite all the deaths she had offered up to him. All
the precautions she had taken. All the trust she had betrayed.

Her life was over. But she still had one last decision to make.

The bullets were in a small paper box, sitting on the formica table. She
fumbled with the box, with their so familiar size and shape. She'd killed
before, with this gun. Horton had taught her how. He had taught her many
things. Taught her how to cleanse her grief, to end the unfair, unholy
excesses of life these undeserving men and women had somehow gained. But she
had other plans, even then. And once she'd found the boy, the one she'd
sought, the one who deserved a chance at Immortality, she had used her
connections to help him, while shedding the blood, ending the lives, of those
others. For him. For her boy.

Her hand shook, and the bullets spilled in a scatter of tiny promises across
the table. Like Cupid's arrows, but bearing a different message. Tipped with
poison, this time. She dropped the first one, and heard it roll, out of
sight, across the linoleum floor. Put the second one firmly into the empty
clip of the gun. It snicked into place.

The first option. One bullet would be enough, for that.

She sat. Like a stone. Her mind blank. Exploring the inner reaches of her
heart. Savoring the different flavors, different textures of sorrow, and
loss, and pain.

Remembering the laughing golden boy, the youth she'd sold her soul to
preserve. To protect, forever. Forever living, forever loving, forever
existing in this world...while her own son rotted in his grave. Christian had
been the eternal spirit, chosen, blessed,  to carry on her child's too short,
unfinished life. Now there were two graves. Two dead children. Cut off in
their budding youth. And soon, very soon, she would join them both. Be mother
to them both, in the next world.

It  would be easy to join them. Easy as the kiss of death, the touch of cold
steel to her temple. Experimentally, she lifted the gun. Let the hard shape
of the barrel caress her flesh. Running the metal slowly up and down the side
of her face. Very easy.

But not yet. Not just yet.

Her other hand crawled out of her lap, like a mindless animal emerging from
its burrow. Crawled across the table while she watched in dull amazement. Her
pale slender fingers...they must be her fingers, but she had no sense of
conscious control...plucked a second bullet from among the deadly metal tubes
scattered across the table. Pushed it into the open, empty clip. Snicked it
into place. And reached for another. And yet another.

The second option, then.

The decision was made. Christian, and Robert...little Robbie...so long gone,
so long ago...would have to wait. Just a little longer. Just a tiny little
bit longer. They could wait. Of course they could. They were brave boys. Big,
brave boys. And mother would be with them soon. She hummed a snatch of a
lullaby....Rock a Bye Baby....Robbie's favorite, when he'd been small.... as
she loaded the spare clip of bullets and stuffed it into the pocket of her
cardigan. Stood and moved to the door of her Winnebago. Snapped off the
light, stepped outside and locked the door behind her.

Her motions were quick and precise now. No hesitation in her step. She knew
where she was going. And what she had to do, before she found her own rest.
One last chore, to clean up after the boys. But that's what mothers were for.
To clean up, after their children. To fix the messes the little ones could
not handle on their own. To make things right. And she would make things
right. Perfectly all right. Forever.

* * * * *

The phone rang shrilly next to his ear, startling him. Cutting through the
taped jazz he'd been listening to while he worked. Joe Dawson set down the
bottles of imported German beer he was unpacking from the shipping crate and
grabbed at the offending instrument, knocking it off the wall in his haste,
then swearing as he kicked the receiver under the bar when he stooped
awkwardly to pick it up.

"Damn it, I'm not open for another four hours...."  He huffed his annoyance
into the phone, then swallowed it, wishing he could have called back even
those few words, the tone of voice....anything...

"MacLeod." He acknowledged the caller.  Listened silently for a moment, then
rubbed his hand across his face. Trying to rub away the tension that gathered
between his eyes.

It was starting again. Another Immortal on the run. Forced to drop his life,
his identity. To leave his friends and his home. He'd seen it before. Had
read the Chronicles, knew of hundreds of instances. Knew, intellectually,
 that some turned out well, some thrived in the chaos of change. While others
never adjusted to the life in the shadows, to the constant loss and secrecy.
Some merely withered away like plants with their roots pulled too many times
from the earth.

And he knew, based on his observations and those of other Watchers before him
that the one he spoke with now had always been resilient. That he would
probably do fine, as he had before. Probably find another life, another
lover, other friends. But this time it was different. This time,  this
Immortal,  this man,  was a friend. There was a special poignancy, a special
regret, he felt, this close to home. This close to his heart.

He *had* lost his perspective. It mattered far too much.  Ian had been right.
 He should have asked for another assignment. Perhaps now was the time to do
it, too. A neat, convenient reason for a break.

"Yeah, I know.  Richie told me...."

Dawson closed his eyes. Listening hard to the unspoken words, the subtext of
the conversation that meant more than the superficial discussion, to both
men. MacLeod had called to say goodbye. Dawson was saying goodbye too, in
another way. They both sensed this was the final break in something that
they'd both enjoyed. Something both had grown comfortable, too comfortable
with. A luxury, friendship, Especially between and Immortal and a Watcher. An
unheard of luxury. Forbidden.

"I'm sorry too, Mac. Really sorry."

There were no more words to say. They both knew the rules. Knew they had
pushed them to the limit more than one time. Knew that someday there would be
a price to pay, for that daring. For that bond they'd forged between them.
This was the first down payment. The pang of loss. Of parting , knowing it
could be, probably would be,  forever, from a friend.

The sharp, staccato pounding at the outside door broke through his
concentration. He put his hand over the receiver and yelled up the stairs.
"We're closed. Come back at 10."

The pounding continued, and he heard a woman's voice, faintly, shouting his
name. He spoke into the phone, not wanting to cut off this last moment, but
knowing this was as good an excuse to end the conversation as any. Before it
went too far. Before either of them said things that could be regretted,
later.

"I've got a visitor. She sounds pretty upset. I'd better go see what's up.
Best of luck to you, MacLeod." He listened to his friend's voice for the last
time. Remembering how surprised and upset he'd been when the man he'd been
watching, been following for years, in secret and unsuspected, had walked
right into his book shop and confronted him with Darius' fragment of the
Chronicles. The two of them had covered a lot of ground since then. A
lifetime of ground. He nodded sharply, his forehead creased in pain, and
finished the call.

"Right.

"Goodbye.

"Take care of yourself, friend."

The pounding outside matched the rhythm of the ache between his temples, now.
He replaced the phone carelessly on its hook, leaving it dangling
precariously half on and half off, as he turned to the new problem facing him
outside. At least it would take his mind off MacLeod. For a moment or two.
Maybe.

"I'm coming, damn it. Hold your horses." He limped up the stairs, and
unbolted the door. Threw it open and stood stunned for a moment as he took in
Rita's tear streaked face, her normally impeccably coiffed hair in wild
disarray, her once neatly manicured hands bloody and torn, where she'd
battered them against the peeling metal and paint.

He opened his mouth to ask her what she wanted, what she was doing here, and
noticed, suddenly, the gray metal barrel of the gun gleaming in her hand.
Threw his arms up, instinctively, as the automatic spat out its burden of
death. Spat out its lead tipped missiles and spun him around, their force of
impact punching him back, pushing him down, as he stumbled, tripped and fell,
rolling helplessly down the hard metal stairs.

The edge of a metal step hitting the back of his head, his arms flopping
uselessly, his body falling limp and flaccid, as he lost consciousness, and
slid into a silent, unmoving heap at the bottom of the stairs.

Blood ran freely from Dawson's  mouth, and nose, and ears, as Rita stood at
the top of the steps.  Looking down. Watching him die. The automatic still
clutched in her hand.

* * * * *

Duncan held the phone, not wanting to cut off that last connection with this
life, just yet. Staring at it, hearing the faint background noise, Dawson's
footsteps mounting the metal stairs, the smoky saxophone music from the David
Sanbourne tape still echoing tinily from the receiver in his hand. He could
almost see the bar, and Dawson's face. He sighed, and reached towards the
wall, hooking the white plastic instrument back onto its holder.

The final click of the receiver signifying a larger end. An end to Duncan
MacLeod. To the identity and lifestyle he'd grown too easy and careless with.
This time he would go far away, and craft a life and a history that even the
Watchers could not ferret out. He intended to truly disappear. And that meant
leaving behind Joe, as well. There had been a finality in their last goodbye
that both had sensed. Dawson knew what MacLeod intended to do. Guessed, at
least. And they both knew it was unlikely they'd ever meet again,
intentionally. The world was still a large enough place that a determined man
could get lost. For at least one life time.

And Anne. He didn't even want to think about Anne. He knew Richie believed he
was being a coward, and he admitted even to himself that he *was* afraid to
open his heart, afraid to trust and share the truth of his existence with
another lover. Tessa had been the first mortal he'd shared himself with to
this extent, and while the wracking grief of her death had faded with time,
he still still felt a sharp stab of pain in his heart when ever he was
reminded, unexpectedly, of her. And many things reminded him of her. Too
many.

He knew he had kept Anne out, throughout their relationship. Had held her at
arms length, emotionally, and yet he could not force himself to act any
differently. It was best, for her, this way. Best that she not know. Best
that if she truly loved him, loved him as much as he thought, perhaps, he
could have loved her, that she not have to endure the constant terror, the
constant fear, that had torn at Tessa so often and so cruelly. Best for them
both, that he not have to guard and shelter her against attacks by the
unscrupulous few who concentrated in larger numbers among the victors, now
that the Gathering was drawing near.

Kallas was not the only old enemy waiting in the wings. There were others,
some at least as unprincipled, some even more so. Some who would be willing,
eager, to find he had a mortal lover and offer him the trade of her life, for
his. Love, like friendship, was a luxury for an Immortal. A weakness, in the
constant war. A war he was in the thick of, now.

Duncan ran his fingers through his hair. It fell loosely around his face,
curling slightly from the damp. He'd worked up a sweat, finishing his
packing. Labeling all the items he wanted put in storage in Paris, separating
them out from the rest that Richie would take care of disposing for him. He'd
made arrangements to pay the youth a hefty fee for executing this part of his
estate. Enough so the young immortal would have no need for a job, for a
while. Enough so that he could travel, or go to college, or set himself up in
business, if he chose.

It was his choice, now. Duncan would be stepping out of his role as mentor
and teacher,  as well. Leaving the youth,  along with all the other friends,
and companions, from this life. Unless Richie chose to come with him. But he
would not force him to make that choice, by even offering it. He intended to
slip quietly away, tonight. He'd told the youth he was leaving tomorrow, and
expected the offer of companionship to be made more as an obligation than by
true choice. There was no reason for Richie to leave.

Kallas was after Duncan, now. The other Immortal knew he'd dislodged Duncan
from his life, stripped him of all his mortal friends, driven him from his
home, just as Duncan had once done to him, and now he would pursue. To commit
the final part of his long planned revenge. And Duncan had left him a
message. Oblique enough to make it seem like he was only running in fear.
Direct enough that the man could not miss his trail. A trail taking him far
away from here and from those Duncan still cared about.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead and turned back to his final packing.
The last details, still to finish, then a shower, and he'd leave. He'd left
the katanas out, until the end. Some misplaced romanticism, he supposed.
After all, he only needed one, for himself. The others...well....the others
he'd take with him, too. Perhaps he'd find another student, after he finished
with Kallas..or Kallas finished with him.

Better to assume there'd be a future, than not. So...after he finished with
Kallas, he'd find himself a fledgling and settle down. Enjoy the role of
teacher for a while. He bent to the task at hand, letting the mindless work
drive out his concerns, for the moment.

He glanced again at the clock. He hadn't realized how much time had passed.
The last crates were ready, but it was far later than he'd expected. Almost
ten. He felt a sudden urge to visit Joe's bar, one last time. Suppressed it,
and headed for the shower. Leaning his katana on the wall next to the clear
plastic shower curtain, just in case. He'd have  to look over his shoulders
in all directions, until the final confrontation was over. But at least he
would always have enough warning, as long as the attack was directed at him.
Enough time, to reach his weapon and at least *try* to defend himself.

He still felt the memory of the pain, from the sword Kallas had punched
though his guts. He'd died many times before, but never been so close to
dying from another Immortal's blow. The fall from the balcony had been his
only way out. And he hadn't exactly enjoyed the landing, either. That move
that had cost him his sword, Kallas's characteristic method of disarming his
opponents...Duncan needed to find a counter to that, to learn a block or a
way to turn it to his own advantage. He needed, above all, to be able to hold
on to his own sword, and maintain his mental equilibrium, knowing that this
man had almost defeated him again.

The streaming hot water running down his back eased his muscles, but not the
tension inside. That would remain, until Kallas...or he.... died. Duncan
blinked the soap from his eyes and stepped from the tub, groping for the
towel he'd left handing from the wall rack. His fingertips brushed the soft
terry fabric and he wrapped the absorbent cloth around his body, patting
himself dry, then vigorously toweled his hair, soaking up most of the water
that dripped across his face and shoulders.

An Immortal's aura touched his own. Still distant, but moving closer. Duncan
stiffened, dropping the towel, grabbing a dark maroon silk robe that lay
nearby, belting it rapidly and slipping the katana into his hand. Could
Kallas have come, so soon, for his final revenge? He stepped cautiously from
the bathroom, his sword at the ready.

Something was different about the larger room. The warm steamy air from the
bath eddied in a cold sharp breeze that cut across the loft. The door was
open, to the outside. Someone had come in. But no Immortal stood nearby. Only
that distant aura, moving ever closer, pressed on the back of his mind. He
glanced around quickly. The phone lay on the butcher block table, its white
curled cord cut neatly in half, Duncan's Japanese meat cleaver still buried
in the soft wood where the white plastic had parted. A set of bright shining
new keys, a set he'd never seen before, rested next to them.

Keys to his door.

And standing behind the table, a woman's form. So still. Frozen in space and
time. He stared at her, caught up in the flaming power of her insane, glaring
eyes. Her distorted, hate filled face snapping into focus, suddenly. She was
the Watcher. The woman. The one Richie had told him about.

She raised her hands as he moved towards her. He saw the gun in her grasp
just as she started to fire. He leaped, his body flattening into a spinning
roll, his sword reaching towards her face as the automatic emptied its clip
into and around his flying shape The slugs tearing at his chest, shattering
his wrist, ripping through his pelvis and thigh. He pushed the sword towards
her, threw it at her wavering outline, as he fell, clutching at his side, his
legs sagging, his muscles turning to water underneath him, his breath
burbling wetly in his throat.

He had prepared, had planned, for the wrong attack. The wrong attacker. And
now, he felt his final doom moving in on him. Saw the woman...Rita...that was
her name.. coming towards him, her face streaked with red now,  as if she'd
daubed her skin with a Sioux warrior's spirit paint. His katana held firmly
in her grasp, the blade shimmering like ice in the fading, darkening room.
No, the room was not darkening. It was only his vision. His eyes, fading,
darkening, as he kneeled and fell forward, into a soft, warm pool of his own
blood.

* * * * *

Richie skidded down the alley, kicked free, dropping his motorbike hard on
its side, heedless of the damage to the paint, and bolted up the stairs to
MacLeod's loft, pulling himself up two steps at a time. He only hoped,
prayed, he was not too late. He saw the shaft of golden light spilling out of
the open door before him and his heart plummeted into his gut. She was
already here. Already inside.
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