Date: Fri, 3 Mar 1995 00:17:57 -0500 Reply-To: NancySSCH@AOL.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: Mother Love (2/2) He'd wandered into Joe's bar a bit early, looking for someone to commiserate with on his latest failed attempt to break into the music promotion business, and found instead the Watcher lying on the floor, covered with blood. Unconscious, barely breathing, near death. He had summoned the ambulance, yelling into the phone for them to hurry, and then knelt by his mortal friend's side, holding his still, limp hands. Trying to infuse his fading life force with strength, by sheer determination. He been ready to ride with Dawson to the hospital. But Joe had revived, for a brief lucid moment, under the rough, hurriedly professional ministrations of the emergency mobile team. Had opened his eyes, focused on Richie's concerned face hovering behind the intent paramedic crew and had reached out and grabbed Richie's hand, pulled him close again, and whispered Rita's name to the youth. And Duncan's. Richie didn't need to be told twice. He'd given his mortal friend's arm a last, firm clasp, counting on the gods to ensure they would meet each other in this life again. Had tried immediately to call Duncan, to warn him. Had spent a full precious minute trying to get the operator to interrupt the busy signal, only to have the polite voice tell him that the line was out of order, now. At that he'd slammed the phone down and run. Run as if the hounds of hell were on his tail. Only to arrive...possibly... too late... He burst through the doorway, staring wild eyed around the room, the sound of his harsh, panting breath the loudest thing in the silent, almost bare, loft. Boxes and crates were stacked neatly, labeled for Paris, or for sale, and a remaining few pieces of furniture sat awkwardly, the scattered leavings of a man's life. A sharp powdery smell lingered in the air. Cordite. Some of the boxes were splintered, tiny holes gouged deep into their sides as if attacked by a mad swarm of termites. He recognized the source. Bullet holes. No one, mortal or Immortal, could dodge bullets. He could not sense any aura, any flicker of another Immortal's presence. The absence frightened him. Left a dark, empty hole in his heart that he could not yet bear to examine. Could not yet bear to feel. The phone line, he saw, had been cut. His last remaining spark of hope extinguished in his breast. "Mac?" He called out, tentatively, and moved into the loft, his eyes darting rapidly from shadow to shadow, his sword in his hands, like a talisman against death. He saw the crumpled, bloody body, wearing the familiar bathrobe, its still shape lying half hidden between some crates. Richie froze, in horror and in pain. Tears stinging his eyes. Not wanting to look, not wanting to see any more. Unable to shut off the images coming to his brain. Unable to look away. He moved forward, staring at death. Staring at fate. Staring at the end of his friend's life. He could not see clearly, through the tears welling in his eyes. Could only see the blood, and sense the utter emptiness, utter lack of another Immortal's presence. "Mac.... "Oh....no." He murmured the words, half plea, half requiem. Not wanting to believe. Not wanting to accept that the man was dead. His Quickening, gone. Everything he was and had been, lost. Lost forever. Like Darius. It was worse than death, for an Immortal, To be lost to the Quickening...as if he had never lived.... An empty shell casing rolled under his foot and he almost slipped, catching his balance and turning abruptly to face the flicker of motion and sound he'd half seen, half heard from beside, and behind. His sword swinging forward automatically, his lips pulled back in a snarl of grief and rage. A target, at last. Someone, something, to blame. To hold to account. To exact revenge from. The woman faced him. The one he'd seen in the bar. At Joe's. Barely recognizable. Her face smeared with blood from a jagged cut along her cheek. Her eyes wild, insane. MacLeod's sword held in one hand, dripping with red gore, a small gray steel gun in her other. Aimed at him. Richie stepped towards her deliberately, holding her eyes with his. Matching the fury in her eyes with his own rage. His sword pointed at her heart. "You....you're just a boy." Her voice wavered, steadied, as she lowered the gun, the expression on her face changing into the parody of a smile. A smile that sent shivers crawling icily up Richie's back, as her mad eyes sharpened, focused, on his. "You barely know how to fight, Richie Ryan." She spread her arms wide, the gun, the red bloody sword swinging in her hands. "I can help you." She stepped towards him, now. Her eyes dancing with a crazed glee. "There's no one else for you now. You're all alone. How long do you think you'll last? But I can help you win. Help you survive. I can keep you alive, forever." Crooning the words at him, like a mother to a recalcitrant child. "Let me help you, Richie. Little Richie....I can be the mother you never had. I'll never leave you. I'll never abandon you. I'll protect you with my life. I'll love you like your own parents never did. I'll never let you go. I'll make you strong. Invincible.You'll see." She moved closer, her arms held out as if to enfold, as if to embrace him. Sickened, horrified, unsure of what to do, Richie stopped. Stumbled back, away from this demented figure advancing inexorably towards him. His sword held out to protect himself, now. A slender steel barrier, to fend her off, to keep her away. Wanting to run. Run far away from the naked hunger in her face, the insane, demented need that burned out from her eyes. Unable to kill her, now. Unable to kill the woman..the woman who had just murdered his best friend....because she had touched a tiny, half forgotten part of his own heart. Had reached out and seized on the only vulnerability she could have used, to stop him cold. To douse the vengeful rage in his breast and leave confusion and revulsion, mixed with pity, there instead. "Richie...let me be your mother now. Let me be your teacher. I could love you, Richie." She was very close now. He could feel her warm breath, smell the coppery sharp tang of blood and sweat and excitement all mixed together on her skin. Her face loomed in front of his, her lips trembling, her eyes feverish and bright. Her arms reached for him, as if to embrace him, as if to enfold and draw him to her breast. Her voice was seductive, now. Promising the ultimate extension, the ultimate boyhood fantasy of a mother's total, all encompassing love. "I would love you, Richie. Love you forever. Love you like my lost, dead son, like my own child. Better. Far better than MacLeod ever did." "No!" He shoved her away, violently, with his free hand. "You killed him. He was my friend." He reminded himself, and fanned his own rage again. Watched as her eyes darkened, clouded, as anger crept across her face for a moment, then smoothed away into the frightening, demented smile. It was too much. He had no where to go, no where to escape. She had backed him to the wall and given him the choice. And raised Mac's name. Had scorned the dead. Had dismissed his friend, his mentor, his teacher, the only man who'd ever given a damn for him. As if he'd never mattered. Never been. He breathed shallowly, fighting the nausea that swept through his gut. Her very presence made him ill, tore his mind, his emotions, apart. She had killed Mac. She had murdered his friend. She deserved to die. She knew too much about him, and about other Immortals, to be safe, alive. But she was clearly insane. Insane...from the loss of her long dead child....insane with grief....out of control...and deadly. He raised his sword. Faced her. Ready to kill, or be killed. He thought. "Oh, Richie, you don't need to use that sword against me. I'll never hurt you. Never let anyone else hurt you. Never again." She stood staring at him, smiling. Her eyes boring into his. "Think, child. Think! What hope do you have? Against Kallas? Against the others? You won't last a week and you know it, without me." He flinched, at the thought of Kallas. At the vision of MacLeod's twisted body lying bloody and still in the theater. Defeated. Dead. Saved only by chance and Kallas's flight. And MacLeod had had 400 years to learn to fight. It was a frightening reality. There was triumph in her eyes, as she saw she'd scored a hit with her words. Her voice wheedling now, as she saw hesitation on his face. "I can help you. I can be your teacher. And you'll never have to wonder if I might want your head, some day. Never have to wonder if I'll betray you, never have to wonder if I'll be frightened that you might become a better fighter than I am, someday." She played so neatly on his hidden fears, dredged up the deeply buried nightmares and brought them out into the light. He could only stand and listen, amazed. "Richie, haven't you ever wondered why MacLeod has never introduced you to any of his other pupils?" Her voice was so sweet, so reasonable. He shivered again, and fought against the seductive logic of her words. Fought to hold onto his loyalty to the man who'd helped him. Who'd pulled him off the the streets and given him a life. "Haven't you ever wondered what happened to them?" "No, I've never wondered." He damned himself for the lie. Damned himself for even debating the issue with her. She'd just killed his friend. And now, now she was trying to make him believe that his teacher had been planning to kill him, instead. It was unreal. But he found himself leaning towards her, his curiosity burning through his soul, and he damned himself again as his traitorous tongue and lips betrayed the memory of his friend, and asked her the question a part of him just *had* to know. "What did happen to them?" He felt he'd fallen, just for asking. Fallen from faith, fallen from trust. Fallen from all the hopes and dreams his mentor had had for him. But that other part, that cynical streetwise questioning part, that voice inside that had mocked and sneered and watched as he'd lived this newfound life, and accepted MacLeod's tutelage, unquestioningly...that part crowed now. And moved into control. "What do you think?" She posed the question, and answered it with a knowing smirk. A wink, and a nod of acknowledgement at the shock that passed over his face. "You're just making this up. I don't believe you!" He shouted his denial. Shouted his loyalty to the man, to the memory of the man he'd known. Thought he'd known, the inner voice reminded. "Richie...Richie....why would I lie to you? You could always find out the truth." She leaned her head to one side, and watched him. Calculating how far he'd come. How far she had yet to go, to win him now. "You can check with the other Watchers. Joe knew." Richie staggered, inside, at her words. "And he let you go like a lamb to the slaughter." She hammered at him with her words, hammered at his faith, at his innocence. "MacLeod was his *friend,* remember? Ask Amanda about Charles Danton sometime. She'll know. And there were others." "I don't believe you...." His voice trailed off, miserably unsure. His world was spinning. The rock, the solid core of integrity he'd always seen in MacLeod, that he'd modeled on himself....was it truly rotten, truly all a lie? He didn't know what to believe, what to think. Amanda had known, too? But then, she'd been MacLeod's lover, not his. Had always treated him like a child..or someone she knew wouldn't be around long. Yes, the suspicion had hardened into a seed, more than a seed of doubt, now, in his heart. "Believe me. Please. Believe yourself. You already wondered. You already knew." She made such perfect sense, it was driving him wild. He shook his head, unable to voice another negation. Unable to speak at all, now, through the lump of sorrow and loss rising in his throat. It was almost worse to lose the image of the man, than to lose the man himself. Almost worse to lose the belief he'd had in his hero, than to accept that the man's life alone was gone. The point of his sword drooped as he stared at the floor, unable to meet her eyes anymore. Unable to defend his friend, anymore. Hating his own uncertainty. She put the katana down. Let it clatter to the wooden floor. He looked up at the sound. Watched silently as she stuffed her gun into the sagging pocket of her cardigan and moved forward to touch his shoulder, her hand resting lightly on his arm. He recoiled from her touch, like a wild colt. She quirked her lips and smiled at him, the smile more relaxed, more serene, than any he could summon at the moment. "You did know. You just couldn't face it. Just couldn't admit it to yourself. It's understandable." Her voice was soft, consoling. She touched his arm again, and this time he didn't move. Suffered her touch, yearning for any comfort in the suddenly empty, cold world he inhabited. Where he had to question all the motives of those he'd thought had been his friends. Still unable to totally believe, but unable to doubt, as well. She hardened her tone, admonishing, this time. "Don't blame yourself. Just remember, you have to learn from this situation. So you don't ever make the same mistake again." He was numb, his ears ringing. His breath catching in his throat. Her words floated past him, and he had to grasp at them to hear and understand their meaning. Her soft hands touched him, held him, as he stood, in shock. Trying to reconcile this new vision of his life, and of his world. She slapped his face. Lightly. He stared at her, the sudden sharp stinging giving him focus, giving him an anchor to grab onto, a hook back from the paths of his memories, into the present reality. "Listen to me, Richie." Her voice was commanding, strong. "Listen to what I say, if you want to survive." He rubbed his cheek, wondering at his lack of anger, his lack of any emotional response at all. "I'm listening." His voice was surly, but he was talking to her. She had his belief, his attention, fully, now. She had opened his eyes to something he had willed himself not to see. He could at least listen to what else she had to say. "Richie, I can give you something that will help you survive. Give you skills you'd need a dozen years to acquire. Something you need, right now. Are you interested?" Her lips curved invitingly up, and her eyes glowed as she examined him. He nodded, grudgingly. Yes, he was interested. In this world where no one, nothing, were what they seemed to be, you could damn well bet he was interested. She had her arms around him now, her warm body pressed close. He noticed she was quite attractive, in a more mature way. Quite appealing, really, for an older woman. Quite sexy, in fact. She looked him in the eyes and kissed him, once, lingeringly, on the lips. He let her pull away, his mind, his heart, in turmoil. His body still, his face flushed. His loins throbbing with sudden, sexual heat. Ashamed, confused, and titillated, all at once. She turned her body, moved to his side, and guided his steps in tandem with hers, holding him firmly as she steered him towards the piled boxes where MacLeod's huddled form lay. He could feel the soft outline of her breast, pressing against his ribs. Followed her, passively. And looked down, at the pale, bare legs sprawled across the floor. He felt a rush of anger, mixed with helpless pity, for his friend. Anger, so hard to reconcile the anger with the other emotions he'd always felt. But it was there, twisting around his heart, choking out the love and warmth he'd once shared with this man. This man...who had planned to use him, and to kill him. Or so it now seemed. A dull aching pain began between his temples, and he closed his eyes for a second to try and dim the ache, to still the pain. "You can take his Quickening, Richie." Her hands were on his face, now, caressing his cheeks, his lips. Running softly across his temples, and through his hair. He shivered, and opened his eyes. Uncertain of what he'd heard. Unwilling to believe his own ears, now. Her expression was serious, as she watched him. "I saved it for you. I knew you would come." She smiled at him again, as she ran her fingers around his neck, tickling, promising later carnal delights. "It's my first gift to you. Take it. Now." He shook his head, incredulously. "I don't understand. He's dead. You killed him. Beheaded him. He's gone." She touched her finger to his lips. Silencing his questions, his protests. Took her hand and laid it on his fist, the one still clasping his half forgotten sword. Pulled him forward, one more step, and let him look, in sudden horror, on his dead mentor's body. MacLeod's head was still attached. The neck half severed from his torso. The cut gaping like a huge red grin across his throat. The bone of his spine gleaming whitely in the gore. His blood pooled around his pale, still form. Richie gagged, his stomach threatening to empty itself of all its contents. He fought for control. Fought for mastery of his emotions. Fought to think, to understand what he should do. "I saved it for you. Take it. Now. " Her voice cut through the fog surrounding his brain. Demanding that he act. Or she would act for him. Her hand tightened on his, raising his sword, pulling it up, over the pathetic, helpless body. Over the gaping, raw flesh. Over the head of his teacher. His friend. "What are you waiting for?" Exasperation seeped into her voice. "I can't.....I can't kill him. Not like this. " Richie stammered the words, and tried, half heartedly, to pull his sword arm back. Her fingers were like a band of warm, living steel around his wrist. "Then he'll kill you, if you don't kill him first. You know it's true." The whisper snaked insidiously past his ears, leaving its trail of sweet poison behind. "I don't care if it's true, damn it. I can't kill him." He had found his heart, at last. Found his strength, at last. Shoved her away, shoved her hard, against the crate's splintered edge. Heard her gasp in sudden pain, and felt its mirror in himself. He was cutting himself adrift, now. Gambling on a future he no longer could clearly see. Gambling on the character of a man he no longer understood. Gambling on honor. On faith. On trust. Words that had meant nothing to him, once. Words whose meaning he had only begun to understand. Words that might mean nothing, again. He knelt by his friend's body, laid aside his sword, cradling the cold, stiff form of MacLeod's half severed head. Biting his lips to keep from being sick. Gently pulling the ragged, cut edges of flesh back together. Holding his friend's head and trying to reconnect it to his neck. A wild giggle fought its way up his throat. This was insane. Even more insane than the woman who stood, her fists clenched, watching him. You couldn't put Immortals back together again like rag dolls with all their stuffing knocked out. It simply could not work. Impossible. Yet he knelt there, silent tears streaming down his face, as he willed the impossible to be. To come true. To make this living nightmare into only a passing bad dream. He would wait as long as it took. He would wait forever. "Richie, he'll kill you." Her voice was pleading, once again. He ignored it. Ignored her. All his concentration, all his will, focused on the man lying in his arms. Her honeyed voice continued, the signs of strain only stressing it a bit. "I only want what's best for you. You know that. Please. Don't do this." "Shut up. Leave me alone." He glared up at her, furious. "If you really give a damn about me you'll get out of here right now. So I won't have to kill you, and you won't have to kill me." She gasped, her closed fist going to her mouth. "You don't mean that. You can't. Not after all I've tried to do for you." "I don't need any more of your help." Richie grated out the words, hating her. Hating himself. Hating and loving the man whose body shuddered in his arms. Who was, incredibly, starting to heal even as he watched. Exultation shot through him, mixed with dread. It had worked. The tiny flicker of an immortal aura touched his mind. His friend was coming back. But back to what? To a life where Richie would always have to watch his rear, always live on guard, always wonder if...when... the treacherous stroke would come? He shook his head, but he could not, could not ever shake the doubt from his heart. Rita's gift. Her sharp edged legacy. "I don't need any more of your *presents.* If MacLeod wants to kill me, he's welcome to try. On his own terms." "Don't be a fool. Think about what you're doing. What you're choosing for yourself." Her voice was cold again, and Richie glanced up at her form one last time. Seeing the raw mix of crazed love and yearning and hate that mingled and clashed on her face. Pity, regret, and despair surged through his own heart as he watched. "I'll be careful. I know what I'm doing." He met her eyes, one last time, and then looked away. "Now go, before I remember what you did to my friends." Her footsteps started, stopped, then moved softly away, fading from his hearing, as he stared down at the face of the man he held. Saw the faint, healthy pink blush creeping back into the pale, still features. Heard the door to the loft slam shut. Knew she was gone, for now. With her unwanted gift. Her unwanted love. Wondering if he was making the right choice. Knowing he would always wonder, until the end. =========================================================================