A Highlander Story by  Jccquie Groom

It was just about the most difficult thing he had ever done.

Taking a deep breath, he stood by the shop door and watched MacLeod get into the car.  Every bone in his body screamed out to run after him.  He didn't want to be left here, alone, his 'family' in tatters, his mind a whirlpool.  He had so many questions ...

As the dark car drove away, Richie Ryan felt as if he was losing his one remaining anchor.  But how could he bother Duncan with questions now ? Not when the immortal had just lost the most important thing in his life.

Richie slipped the key into the lock, and opened the door, his hands trembling slightly.

It all looked so normal inside.  As if Tessa would wander out from her workshop at any moment, smiling, grumbling at him for being late.  As if Mac would stride in with a grin and a hug for the woman he loved.  The cheerful, matter-of-fact, loving atmosphere which had made him feel so much at home.  Gone for ever.

He shivered.  Was it really only three days ago that they had sat up there, feet dangling over the walkway, discussing the wedding ? They had been so happy.  He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the burning behind his eyes.  He glanced about.  So much to do ...

How can you pack up and sell an entire life ? Duncan must have done it dozens of times, he told himself.  Shutting off one life like stepping through a door, starting a new one.  All those years -

And then it hit him again.  The strange, bubbling excitement in the pit of his stomach, mixed with a very real dread.

He was an immortal too.

Duncan must have known.  Mustn't he ? Was that why he gave him a home in the first place?

Richie sank to the ground, his face grave.  There was so much he needed to know.  His mind was overflowing with questions.  But he could not, would not intrude on MacLeod's grief, no matter how deeply he might share it, no matter how much he needed him.  Reaching up, he picked up a photo.  Tessa, her eyes laughing, her blonde hair blowing in the wind.  Tears sprang to his eyes; this time he did not stop them.  Absent-mindedly he wiped his cheeks.    Oh, he missed her, all right, but there was another reason for his tears.

Guilt ! He felt so very responsible for her death.  And so guilty for being alive when she was gone.

But tears would not get the work done.  With a defiant sniff, he stood up, and started to work out what needed to be done.  Luckily the boxes from their return from Paris were still around somewhere.

That night, lying in his old bed for probably the last time, his mind flew relentlessly back to the events of the past days.

If only he did not remember everything so clearly ! Like a video playing over and over in his mind.  A crystal clear, technicolour horror movie.    What had happened to him, the one-time street brat, to bring him, in little over a year, to such a state of complacency ? How could he have let himself be mown down by another youth, someone like he could have so easily become ? Why hadn't he - what, run ? Fought? At least realised the danger they were in ...

So easy to be wise after the event.  He turned over, burying his face in the pillow.  Duncan had trusted him.  Trusted him with that which was most precious to him.  Tessa.

He'd never forget that moment.  The horrible - slowness - of it all.  The awful sound of the shots hitting Tessa.  Watching her crumple to the ground.  Knowing he was next.  The breathlessness, the sudden realisation that he was going to die.  And then the pain as the bullets hit him...

And then waking up.  Opening his eyes, thinking for a moment it had all been a dream.  Then thanking his lucky stars that the shots had not been fatal.  Reaching down, probing for the wounds.  And finding nothing.  Only a hole in his T-shirt, and sticky, drying blood.  But no wound. No gaping hole in his flesh.  But he remembered...  He'd lifted his head, and his eyes had met Duncan's.  And in that deep, dark moment, he'd understood.  He'd felt it, somehow, in his bones.

He was an immortal too.

And as that realisation had dawned, Duncan had held his gaze for a fraction of a second, and then nodded his head.  Acknowledgement.

Richie sat bolt upright in bed.  How could he go through an eternity knowing what he had done, what he had let  happen ?  He got up and prowled around the flat, around the shop.  There were, as always,  some old weapons in a glass case.  He picked up a sword and tried swinging it around.  It felt heavy.  Strange.  Could he ever learn to use a sword with the fluidity and elegance he had observed and secretly so admired in MacLeod ? Could he, Richie Ryan, ever take someone's head ? Or would he just fall prey to the first immortal who happened to be in the neighbourhood ?

"I don't deserve to live," he muttered to himself, putting the sabre back in the case, and collapsing onto a chair.  "Duncan should take my head himself."

And yet ... and yet Duncan must have known.  The way he took him in, cared for him, trusted him.  Even today, even after all that had happened, he had still cared.  "Watch your head," he'd said.  Affectionately. 

Somehow it made things worse, not better.    Richie closed his eyes.  He could hardly bear to think about Duncan and what he must be going through.  He'd been fond of Tessa himself, really fond of her.  She'd taken him in, looked after him, confided in him.  She'd been friend, big sister, and surrogate mother all rolled into one.  He'd miss her so much.  But Duncan ...

Twelve years together.  Not much compared to Duncan's centuries, perhaps, but more than half Richie's lifetime.  To Richie, it seemed like an eternity. And only - was it only yesterday? - Duncan had spoken so intimately of Tessa, spoken of his love, of the way she made him feel.  She made him young again.

Eventually, tears still running down his cheeks, Richie fell asleep, curled uncomfortably up in the old chair. 

"Richie ! Wake up, Richie !"

The voice was insistent, and strangely familiar.  He opened his eyes, searching in the darkness.  "Tess ?" he replied, sleepily.

"You shouldn't sleep out here," she said, mildly chastising him.  "You'll catch cold."

"Don't worry about me -" Richie replied.  And then he remembered.  "Tess ?" he shouted, getting to his feet.  "But you're -"

"Ssh - it doesn't matter.  Sit down again.  Please, Richie !"

And Richie, who had never been renowned for doing as he was told, sat.  "But I let you get killed -" he began, searching in the darkness for her face.

"It's not your fault, Richie," she said soothingly from the shadows.  "Please don't blame yourself.  Promise ?"

"But -" Richie began.  And then he sighed.  "Promise."

"And keep an eye on Duncan for me.  He'll need you, even if he doesn't say so.  Even if he tries to chase you away, stay with him.  For me.  Richie, I need to know you'll do this -"

"Of course," Richie said in a quiet voice.  "I'd do anything for you, Tess.  You know that -"

"Not for me.  For Duncan.  And, Richie ?"

"Yes ?"

"Watch your head."

"Tess ? Did you know ? About me, I mean ..." His voice trailed off, as he realised he was talking to an empty room.  Getting up, he wandered back to his own bed, and fell into a deep, deep sleep.

The sun was shining in when he awoke.  He stretched out, feeling totally relaxed.

And then he remembered.  Not only the accident this time, but the night's strange happenings.  Had it been a dream ? Or something else ?

Whatever it had been, he felt more relaxed, more at ease with himself than he had since that night's terrible events had torn his life apart.  He got up, and found himself some breakfast.  And then began once more on his task of packing up the shop.  But it didn't seem so difficult today.  Somehow he knew that whatever happened, he had a life to get on with.  And Duncan would be a part of his life.  He had a promise to keep.

Picking up a small photo of Tessa, he slipped it in his pocket.  "Thanks, Tess," he said softly.  "I'll never forget you.  Ever."

And it was beginning to look as if, for him at least, forever was going to be a long, long time.