Date: Sat, 4 Mar 1995 18:29:34 -0500 Reply-To: NancySSCH@AOL.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: Mother Love: Epilogue c 1995 N. L. Cleveland (recap of the last page....and Epilogue.....) "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 him, 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 figure one last time. Seeing the naked 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, exchanged one final, searing glance, and then looked away. "Now go, before I remember what you did to my friends." There was a long, silent pause. The skin on the back of his neck crawled. She could shoot him any time. Shoot him as he knelt there. Then her footsteps started, stopped, and finally 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. * * * * * The gun was a cold, heavy weight, in her pocket. Pulling the soft knit wool fabric down as her fingers sought out its reassuring, familiar shape. She sat in her car, smoking a long, slender cigarette, watching the door to the dojo. Watching the lights gleaming from the windows high above. The boy was not ready to believe her, now. But he would. He would. She would arrange things so he could not fail to see. And then he'd come to her. He'd come to her, as he must. As any child must, eventually, turn to its mother for understanding, for guidance, and for help. And she'd be waiting. She'd be ready. For she had found a reason to live now. A child, to protect. To make her own, once she rescued him from the company he now kept. To make her own, and to cherish close to her heart. To love. Like any mother would. Love, until the day she died. =========================================================================