=========================================================================
Date:         Tue, 2 Apr 1996 07:38:48 -0500
Reply-To:     Sandra1012@AOL.COM
Sender:       Highlander TV show stories <HLFIC-L@PSUVM.PSU.EDU>
From:         Sandra McDonald <Sandra1012@AOL.COM>
Subject:      Seeds 2/2

Continued warning for language, sex, etc but it's probably not
an R, just a strong PG-13.


Part two

Amanda made a phone call, shut off the water in the sink and
showers, found a mop.  Dawson made it to the dojo faster than
she'd expected, but brought with him three burly men who took the
Hunters' bodies away with barely a glance at her.

"I knew them," Dawson sighed.  "Used to be Good Watchers."

"No offense, Joe," Amanda said, "but now they're good worm
fodder."

Dawson nodded towards where Richie sat in the office, draped
with a thick blue terry-cloth robe Amanda had found in one of the
lockers.  "He okay?"

Amanda wiped the last of the floor clean.  In retrospect, she should
have made the Watchers do it.  "Watchers give him the creeps, and
Hunters just tried to kill him.  Go ask him."

Dawson went into the office.  Amanda watched the men exchange
a few words.  Dawson put his hand on Richie's shoulder.  Richie
didn't brush it aside.  A few more words, and Dawson came out.

"Take care of him," he told Amanda, with a mixture of fondness
and sadness, and he limped with his cane across the dojo floor to
the doors.

Amanda turned back to see Richie framed in the doorway, leaning
as if his injuries still hurt.  She supposed they might, because
although he'd physically healed, sometimes wounds went deeper
than skin and bone.

"I want to go home," he complained.

"You're going upstairs," she said firmly.  "You can't go out into the
streets looking like that.  Come on."

Up in Duncan's loft she pushed him into the bathroom, had him
strip down while she averted her gaze, and got him into the
shower.  He came out awhile later, wrapped in one of MacLeod's
bathrobes this time, and some of the shock had left his eyes and
pale expression.

Amanda made him sit on the edge of Duncan's bed with her.

"You're cold," she said, her arm around his shoulder.

He gazed at something she couldn't see.  "Bastards," he said, in a
dull voice. "Why don't they just leave us alone?"

"I don't know," she said truthfully.

"I should have been the one to kill them," he said, suddenly angry,
and broke from her to pace back and forth in the room.  "I should
have taken my sword and cut out their fucking little hearts."

For a few more minutes he ranted, verbally dumping out the
adrenaline and fear that had fueled his last few minutes before the
Hunter had killed him, and Amanda listened patiently.  When he
was done she went to him, held him, let him breathe the scent of
her.

"I know," she said.

He shifted a little in her arms, but not from discomfort.  Amanda
slid one hand up his back, lightly across his neck, to the back of his
skull.  She kissed him gently, with none of the naked hunger of
that afternoon, and his arm around her waist tightened.

"I don't understand," he said, his eyes closed, his body shivering, as
she planted more kisses on his eyelids, his cheeks, his chin.
"Amanda, why?"

"Why not?" she asked.

He shook his head, even though he wasn't letting go yet.  He
opened his eyes to stare into hers.  "But what about . . . "

"No buts," she said.  "Would you, Richie, if tonight were the last
night of your life?"

"Yes," he said instantly.

"Who knows?" Amanda asked.  No pretense, no lies.  "Richie, you
could have died tonight.  I could have.  Tomorrow is too far away
to worry about."

She took his hands and led him and backed up to the bed.  He
looked at it, at her, and doubt crossed his face again.

"That's Duncan's bed," he said.  "You and him. . . him and others . .
.it would be too weird."

Amanda managed a slow smile.  She yanked the thick down
comforter off MacLeod's bed and spread it on the Persian rug
beneath their feet.  She dropped some pillows down for extra
comfort.  "That's MacLeod's floor," she said.

Then she dropped her dress, under which she'd conveniently worn
nothing.  The chill air of the loft caressed her skin, but she wanted
his hands instead.

"Any more problems?" she asked.

Richie smiled.  "Not at all," he said, coming to her, taking her, and
they went to MacLeod's floor together.

***

He was everything she expected and needed.  Of course he was
young and enthusiastic and maybe a little rushed, but by the third
time she'd taught him to slow down, prolong, enjoy, then let go.
He was very eager to please her, which she found pleasantly
surprising, and very strong.  If he wasn't as expert as Duncan, or as
able to anticipate what she wanted, it wasn't for lack of trying.

On the deliciously soft comforter he cupped her breasts, put down
a trail of kisses from her throat to hips, explored every inch of her
mouth.  In turn, she used her tongue on every sensitive spot, and
her fingers to gently squeeze and fondle him.  He knew exactly
three positions, so she doubled his repertoire.  She made him groan
and laugh and whisper her name.  By the fifth time he was
exhausted, laying face down beside her, chest heaving, skin sleek,
eyes fixed on hers.

"I'm not getting up again for a week," he vowed.

"We'll see about that," she said.  Her own hair was damp, her body
gleaming, her skin tingling.  Amanda nestled against him, and
traced her hand around his firm, well-shaped backside.   "I thought
you had a lot of stamina."

"Not that much," he smiled wearily.  "But for you, my lady  . . . "

One more time, and she was happy.

The world beyond the windows was very dark and very quiet, and
she wondered what time it was.  The hunger inside her, satiated
now, would transform soon.  Richie wasn't going to be a part of
that.  She kissed his cheek.  He stirred sweetly in his sleep,  his
face peaceful with whatever dreams she'd brought him, his body
long and lax and warm beside her.  He had old scars on the back of
his legs, from his rough childhood no doubt, and she traced them
with the tip of her finger.  She didn't know what kind of mother
could abandon a helpless child, but all Immortals were foundlings.
Sitting up, pushing away disturbing thoughts, she arranged part of
the comforter over him to shelter him from the cool air, pulled her
dress back on, and then slipped out the door with her shoes and
coat and sword.

She climbed into her car and drove north, stopping at two gas
stations for Twinkies, Ring Dings, Hostess Chocolate Cupcakes,
Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, and several jugs of Diet Pepsi.   She
was driving on instinct, knowing she had to get as far from the city
and Richie as she could.  Time was gaining swiftly on her.  At
noon she found a roadside motel at the base of the mountains, with
cabins spreading back through thick pines and spruce trees to a
small river.

The couple checking in ahead of her had two toddlers and a six-
month-old.  The motel owner, a pleasant-looking man in his
forties, cooed over the baby.

"Helen and I have been trying for years," he confided as he signed
the couple in and handed them keys.  "One day . . . "

Amanda hadn't reserved a cabin, but he had several open.  She
chose the one furthest back in the woods and made him give her a
telephone list of all the restaurants in the area that delivered.

For several hours she did nothing but lay in the small cabin in a
wide, lumpy bed and watch talk shows.  She ordered and ate two
pizzas and three cartons of Chinese food.  Her dress barely fit
anymore.  When darkness outside brought the moon, she took off
her clothes and started up  the mountain.  Brush, thorns and rocks
cut her legs and feet open, but she healed so quickly she didn't
even notice.

Occasionally, consumed by the hunger, she would scoop a handful
of fresh soil from the ground and shove it into her mouth, chewing
furiously.

She had no thoughts or plans, just instinct, just wildness, and when
the time came she stood in a clearing and raised her hands to the
sky.  She waited, outstretched, breasts and ribs and swollen belly
all taut, the wind whirling leaves around her feet, the night animals
all quiet, the clouds boiling across the moon.

The Quickening came.

Came in white hot waves of silver and blue, came with bolts of
energy that transformed her, transfixed her, ripped out screams,
broke the water, brought the blood.  The Quickening that came
from inside her, culmination of a secret cycle that had been
perpetuating through a thousands of centuries.

The Quickening that pulled the baby down between her legs.

That severed the cord as neatly as a sword across her neck.

And when it was done, when the woods were soft again with
crickets and owls and leaves murmuring high above, Amanda lay
down with her daughter.

***

The newborn fed greedily, slurping at her breast.  Amanda watched
her in the moonlight as resounding chords of memory played deep
within her chest.  Only during these next precious hours would she
be granted memories of her other children, born like this one.
Only during this time, the time she jokingly referred to as the
Mothering when she was able to remember it at all, could she
regain her awareness of the role all female Immortals played, time
and time again.

Her body was already healing itself from the strain of transforming
Richie's immortal seed into a full grown infant in so short a time.
Her uterus was reshaping, her hormones readjusting, her torn
pelvic muscles fusing back together.  In a few minutes, no autopsy
would ever be able to identify signs of pregnancy or childbirth.  In
a few hours, the instinct to separate herself from her child would
become all-consuming.  If she didn't find the baby a home by then,
she would be driven without conscious thought to leave it in a
garbage can, a roadside rest stop, a department store bathroom.
The instinct and forgetting were vital to the continued existence of
Immortals everywhere, but for the moment she felt a deep sorrow,
a deep loss.

Amanda kissed the infant's head - her small, perfect head, with
traces of peach fuzz as hair.  Although the air was cold, the
afterglow of the Mothering kept both of them warm.  The baby
stopped sucking finally, and opened startling blue eyes to fix on
her mother.

Eyes like her father's.

"I should tell you about him," Amanda said, "but in a little while I
won't even remember you're my daughter.  And he'll never know
you exist."

The baby scrunched her face and waved a tiny fist.

Amanda smiled.  "All right, since you insist. . . "

She told the baby everything she knew about Richie Ryan, and
then about her brothers and sisters scattered around the world and
through the centuries.  "If you knew," she murmured, stroking the
baby's soft, wrinkled skin, "how could you fight them?  How could
there be only one if you came face to face with your own father, or
sister, or brother, or mother?"

A decade earlier, while visiting Rebecca in France, both women
had gone into the Mothering.  Over the course of a few precious
hours they'd been able to share the experience, to actually hear
another woman speak aloud the same loss and sorrow,  the
amazing wonder.  But the knowledge always fled.

"I may not remember you," Amanda whispered now, "and a kid
would cramp my style, you know - but I'll always love you."

They slept in the dirt, with moonlight shining on their faces.  When
Amanda woke she stared at the infant, wondering where in the
world it had come from.  It was very late, and very cold.  She took
the child in her arms and found her way back to the cabin.  Once
inside, grimacing with disgust, she managed to clean the baby of
blood and afterbirth and dirt, and wrapped it in a bathroom towel.
She didn't like the way it watched her, as if she owed it something.
Eager to be rid of the burden, she slipped across the grounds to the
motel owner's door, rang the bell loudly and shrilly, left the baby,
and ran away.

She snagged an extra towel from the housekeeper's unlocked closet
on her way back to her own cabin.  Showered, went to bed.  Woke
around noon, feeling refreshed and energetic.  When she checked
out, police were in the lobby interviewing people and the motel
owner and his wife were juggling a newborn girl the owner said
had been abandoned during the night.

Amanda peered at the baby.  Pink, pretty, with gorgeous blue eyes
that reminded of someone, but she wasn't sure who.  Luckily she'd
never been the maternal type herself, or she could have fallen for
the kid.  "It's a shame what some people do," she did say.

One of the policemen asked, "Do you know anything about the
baby or her parents?"

"No," Amanda said truthfully.

She also told the police she hadn't heard or seen anything unusual
in the night - more truth, since she'd slept like a log.  Since it was
obvious she herself hadn't had a baby, they thanked her for her
time and wished her a safe trip back to Seacouver.

***

Amanda felt two Immortals as she crossed the dojo, but saw only
Richie.  He was sitting on the desk, lit by the late afternoon sun
streaming through the office windows.  The dojo was full of
muscle boys trying to show off, and she ignored their obvious
posturing.  Richie watched her approach with an expression of
affection and wariness and appreciation that made him seem very
young, and very dear.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi," he said.

"How's it going?"

"Same old, same old."  He was wearing soft jeans and a clean
white T-shirt, and had recently showered.  Amanda felt a deep
wave of affection - she clearly remembered their night together -
but the urge to throw herself at him had disappeared.

"Good," she said.

"You left without saying goodbye," he said.

"I do that," Amanda admitted.  "But I had a great time."

He laughed.  "Yeah, me too.  You were . . . great.  Amazing.  I'm
still sore."

Amanda smiled and gave a little bow of her head.  "Impossible.
But thank you.  You should know, Richie . . . it probably won't
happen again for awhile, if at all."

He nodded.  "I kinda figured that."

"Really?  How?"

"Because I told him," Duncan said from the doorway.  He'd pulled
his long dark hair back, and was wearing her favorite black
turtleneck beneath his crossed arms.  The hint of a smile played
around the edges of his mouth, and his eyes had a glint in them she
knew only too well.

Amanda narrowed her gaze.  "Told him what?"

"That's you're unpredictable, and wild, and amazing."  Duncan
walked around behind Richie and put a hand on the younger
Immortal's shoulder.  "That it's one day at a time with you, and you
reserve the right to change your mind at any time."

"True," Amanda said, although she wasn't sure she liked this show
of solidarity between them.  She turned her attention to Richie,
who shrugged and put up his hands.

"I'm staying out of it," he announced, with a trace of pink in his
cheeks.  "I'll just be the relief pitcher, if you don't mind."

"If that's what you prefer," Amanda said loftily.  Then, abruptly,
she said, "Do you think the three of us could - "

"No," they both chimed simultaneously.

Amanda smiled.  A quick thought flashed through her brain, like a
tiny silver fish darting through a fathomless ocean, gone before she
could grasp it.  She couldn't remember, of course, but Rebecca had
told her during their shared time that in the last months of 1974
she'd gone into the first stages of Mothering and sought out the
nearest Immortal to provide the seed - Duncan MacLeod.  They'd
been in New York City, MacLeod was drunk, and Rebecca gave
birth eighteen hours later to their child.  She didn't remember
where she'd left him, but she did remember he'd been born with her
red hair.

Neither Rebecca, Amanda or Duncan had any way of knowing that
Rebecca had left her baby at a rest stop off the New Jersey
turnpike, where a young childless couple heading west found him
and took him.  The couple died in a car accident when their
foundling was only two years old, spinning the boy into
Seacouver's welfare system and placing him in a series of homes
until, at the age of seventeen, instinct or destiny brought him to his
father's shop with larceny in his heart.

Duncan had once confided in Amanda that it was hard sometimes,
to not think of Richie as a son, to not treat him as one.

But Richie was Duncan's son.  And last night, Richie had become a
father, Duncan a grandfather.

They would never know.

"You didn't know what I was going to say," Amanda chided them
now, the secret father and secret son, as they smiled at her.  She
picked up MacLeod's car keys from the desk.  "I was going to say,
"Do you think the three of us could go out to dinner?  Because,
frankly, I'm starving."

                                         THE END

Author's Notes:  So how come Immortals are all foundlings? (I've
read the debates about that last statement, and side with the
foundlings.)  Janette92, esteemed beta-reader, said this probably
belongs in the second season timeline.  She turned this around
in less than seven hours, while the rest of the world slept. Thanks
Janette!  And thanks to her and all my wonderful FWs!  Sandra