14 April 2046, Rome, Italy

Early in the day on the fourteenth of April, Elena went to her husband's grave. No flowers from Marcellino yet. Once again, she stood in front of the crypt, remembering the good times with Lorenzo. She told him about the horse she was training and about how she had learned to climb walls. She told him of a family of ducks she had seen last week, and other little things in her life. She didn't mention Duncan; that was a separate part of her life. But this year she didn't cry.

Then she walked to the gate of the cemetery and settled in to wait. It wasn't the best place or the best day to meet Marcellino, but she knew a stranger couldn't get an appointment to see him, and if he were out in town his guards would keep people away. Today, it was likely he would be alone. One day every month Marcellino went off by himself, to be alone, without even his bodyguards. He'd been doing it since he was fifteen years old. She was betting he would do it today.

It was nearly noon when a very familiar figure came walking toward the cemetery, a bunch of lilacs in his hand. He was alone, as she had hoped. She turned away, facing another crypt, to give him time to visit Lorenzo's grave and to give herself time, too. Marcellino walked on by.

Elena kept sneaking glances at him as he stood at the family crypt. He seemed thinner, though it was hard to tell under his coat. His hair was definitely longer. It suited him. She ached to rush over and hug him, but she forced herself to wait, just a bit more.

After a time, Marcellino bowed his head, taking those deep calming breaths of his, then walked briskly toward the gate. Elena stepped out onto the same path, and he slowed and asked, "Mi scussi, posso auitarla?"

He wanted to help her. How kind… and how unnerving. She'd come here today to see him, and suddenly she wasn't sure if she should talk to him. Maybe not. Probably not. Maybe Cassandra and Methos and Duncan had been right, and she was wrong. But Elena did want to talk to him, dammit! This was her son. She raised her head and looked into his eyes, saying, "Hello, Marcellino."

Marcellino stared at her, obviously surprised she knew his name. Elena knew she looked much different from what Marcellino would remember. She was still thin, dark from the hours spent outside with horses, with short black hair instead of a gray wig. Even her form-fitting black clothes and cape were different from the middle-aged style that Elena Duran-Ponti had worn that last decade or so. "It's me, Marcellino," she said, hoping he would recognize her voice. "Your Mamma."

"My mother's dead," he said bluntly and started to walk on.

Elena moved in front of him. "I am Elena Duran-Ponti," she declared. "Don't you recognize my voice? I'm your mamma. Lorenzo Ponti's wife. I came to wish him a happy birthday too."

Marcellino stared at her for a moment; then he shook his head, his lips tightening. Gently he said, "It's true you do resemble her when she was younger, but you are not Elena Ponti. You cannot be. She would have turned seventy this year, and as I said, she is dead. You need help, signora."

He thought she was mad, Elena realized. A stalker, trying to take over a dead woman's life. "I am Elena," she said again, trying to be calm. If she remained calm, she might be able to convince him, although what she really wanted to do was burst into tears. "Your favorite book as a child was an Italian translation of Dr. Seuss' The Cat in the Hat," she told him. "You had a cat, Romeo, and then another cat, Sofia. We had to stop you from feeding the barn cats. And you didn't like our dogs at all."

He sighed. "All the household staff knew that." Already he was walking away.

"When you were eight," she called after him, "you told your mother you were afraid of rabbits. She promised she would never tell another living soul."

He swung around to face her, his face quiet and set.

"And I never did," she said softly.

He swallowed thickly then demanded, "Who are you?"

"I'm your mamma," she said again. "And I can explain." But a graveyard was no place to speak of immortality. "Maybe we can go somewhere and talk? How about your favorite little bar, Giorgio's, the one with the tiramisu?" He was looking intrigued now instead of exasperated, and she gestured, not quite daring to touch him, and said, "Come. Where's your Spider? If you still have it."

His eyes narrowed, but he answered evenly, "I sold it. Last year." He studied her then abruptly said, "This way," and led her to a dark blue rental car, a good choice for a man hiding from paparazzi. He even opened the door for her.

Their fifteen-minute car trip was remarkably silent; this conversation was too important to carry on while one of them was driving and they couldn't even look in each other's faces, or really touch. Elena had been a touching person for centuries, and Marcellino had thrived under her affection. So far they hadn't touched at all.

She looked around her when they walked into the bar, and he waved his hand dismissively. "Don't worry, no paparazzi; I pay for my privacy here."

She didn't tell him she was looking around for an escape route, as she always did, being an experienced Immortal. Instead she decided to just answer his questions directly, one at a time. They sat facing each other in a private booth, still silent.

After the waiter took their drink order, Marcellino said, "I have a thousand questions." She nodded, reminding herself to answer them one at a time, and he began, "How is this possible?"

"I am an Immortal. I've lived for centuries."

"How many?"

"More than four." He hissed in disbelief and she continued quickly, "I was born sometime around 1610 in Argentina. I have died several times," she whispered, leaning closer to him across the booth. "But after the first time, I have not aged," she continued. "I've lived many different lives, but my life with your father was wonderful, and you are the only son I've ever had, and I love you and I always will."

He hadn't asked her that, but it was important, the most important thing in the world. She reached out her hands to him across the table, and after a moment he took them in his own. Then she waited, not wanting to flood him with information.

"Are there other … Immortals?" he asked.

"Yes."

"My father? Was he…?"

She shook her head. "Your papa was not an Immortal." She knew that Marcellino had basically worshipped his papa and wondered if Marcellino would have preferred that she had died rather than Lorenzo. Then she put that thought aside and added, "Neither are you. Only me, and some others."

"How many?"

"I don't know," she told him. "I've met dozens; I've heard of hundreds."

"You said you've died several times. How can you die, and yet be here?"

She shrugged. "I don't know how it happens. If I'm hurt, I heal. If I die, I heal until I'm alive again."

There was a long silence. "This is so … bizarre," he said finally. "But it does explain an argument I heard when I was a boy. I thought Papa was just making a joke, when he said that you were immortal, and yet were acting like a child. And you and Papa must have known I'd heard something, because afterwards Papa told me you were talking about your immortal souls."

"I remember that argument," Elena said with a rueful smile. "Your father was right. I do sometimes act like a child."

"And you always look young?" he asked.

"I don't age," she confirmed.

"So when you 'got older,' you were pretending. It was makeup."

"And a wig," she admitted. "Yes, it's wonderful to never age, never get sick and die. I've had some fantastic times and great adventures. On the other hand, I've suffered all the losses…," she paused, her eyes filling with tears, then she caught her breath and went on, "… all the losses every person has, disappointments over and over again, loved ones dying, like your father. And then I'm left alone."

She brightened and leaned toward him, her hands tightening on his. "For a long time I've wanted to tell you, for years, and your papa said no, but now I especially want you to know. So you'd know that you hadn't lost all your family, that your mother was still here, and so I could still have some sort of relationship with you. You are not alone, and neither am I."

"No, neither are you," he repeated softly then pulled his hands away before saying, "Until I get old and die."

She leaned back. "Yes."

He nodded then said slowly, "Or until you get a new family. Do you have a new husband? A new son? Or a daughter?"

Elena really didn't want to bring Duncan into this. "I am not married," she stated. "And you are my only son, Marcellino." Her eyes filled with tears. "My only child, m'hijo."

At that familiar endearment he closed his eyes and put his face in his hands. She reached over and touched his hair, but he pulled back and said, "But I am still alone, Mamma. I can't acknowledge you. We can only meet in dark rooms like this, or cemeteries." He looked off into the distance, looking into his own future. "I can never tell anyone…"

Well, he'd certainly put his finger one of the worst parts for him of knowing about her immortality. Smart kid. "Yes. It's a secret. You can't tell anyone, not even Angelina." He looked at her angrily, and she realized her mistake. Well, it couldn't be helped.

"Angelina is my wife!" he declared. "You're asking me to keep a secret from my wife."

Elena thought carefully what to say, remembering what Cassandra had told her about Sara's keeping that secret from her husband, and how badly that had turned out. But it didn't have to be like that, if they were careful. "It will not only not help Angelina to know," Elena said, "it will hurt her. And you. And me. There's no good reason to share this with her, and every reason not to. Besides," she added, "it's my business, not hers."

"It's not really my business either," he said, a little coldly.

"Right," she agreed. "Look, I know you need to think about this. And I know seeing me has been a shock. You need some time."

"A shock?" he repeated with a painful laugh. "Mamma, I feel like you've dropped a bomb into my life. I even feel weird calling you Mamma."

"I know." And that hurt. "Just please trust me."

"Trust you? Mamma, you've been lying to me my whole life. With your appearance, with your words … all these years. Lies."

"Si," she admitted sadly. He was right.

"Papa too," he said softly.

Elena could see on his face how much her own 'betrayal' had hurt him. But to have his beloved papa lie to him was too much for him. Maybe Cassandra was right. Maybe Elena should never have come. But she was here now, and had to make the best of it. She shook her head, breathed a silent prayer. "We had to—"

"Who else knew?" he broke in.

"Only your father and I knew, and right or wrong, we were trying to protect you. You have to believe that we did it for your own good, Marcellino," she tried to explain.

He shook his head. She could see the disbelief, the stress on his face. But Elena kept her own face friendly, soft. She let her love for him show through her eyes, bathed him in it. He was not reacting with happiness or excitement, as she had hoped, but he was still in shock. This could still be salvaged.

For a moment they were both quiet as the waiter placed a plate of olives and cheese and their drinks on the table, espresso for her and Campari for him. "We're not ready to order," Marcellino told the waiter, and the man bowed his head and backed off.

Elena took a sip of her coffee then sighed. "Are you saying you would rather not have known?" she asked, a little hurt by that too, but determined to be as honest as possible with him.

He shrugged. "I don't know. I just don't know what to think."

"Yes, I can see that. And it's not easy for me either."

"Where have you been?" he asked, the question bursting out of him. "These past two years?"

"Australia. And lately I've been living in France." He loved horses; she would tell him about Mignone. "There's a—"

"Why come here now?" he broke in. "After all this time? Why did you leave the plane?"

"I…," Elena began. "When the plane went down…" She drew a deep breath, trying to think of how to explain.

"What happened that day?" Marcellino demanded, leaning forward. "In the crash?"

This, she could answer. "The engines quit, we couldn't start them, we went down. Your father stayed calm throughout, and he landed the plane on the water. He was wonderful, but it was … a rough landing. He didn't survive it."

Marcello's jaw tightened but he said only, "And my grandmother?"

"She was mortally wounded in the crash and died soon after. We spoke of angels before she died. Your father and grandmother didn't drown," Elena reassured him.

He waved it away. "The autopsies told us that. What happened to you?"

"I was hurt, too, but I healed. When I saw that your father and grandmother were dead, I decided it was a good time for me to disappear."

"A good time?" he repeated incredulously then again, loud enough so that heads turned to look at them. "A good time?"

"I couldn't have explained how I had survived the crash without a mark on me," Elena said reasonably. "And the 'aging' was getting harder to fake every year."

"Mio Dio!" he exclaimed, shaking his head. "This is unbelievable."

All right, she had expected this. He was totally overwhelmed. "It is difficult to believe, to accept; but it's true, Marcellino," she said. "I am your loving mother, as I have always been. That will never change."

He was shaking his head, that familiar obstinate expression on his face. "I don't know who you are, or how you know what you know, or why you look like her, but you are not my mother."

She flinched, tears springing to her eyes as she reached out to him. "Marcellino, please—"

"Don't call me that," he practically snarled. "Only my family calls me that." He took a deep breath and continued, "My mamma called me that, and my mamma would never have left me alone to bury my father and my grandmother—and my mother, too!—just because putting on some make up was too fucking hard. If she were alive, my mamma would never have disappeared for more than two years without a single word. If she were alive, my mamma would have moved heaven and earth to come to my wedding."

"I wanted to come," Elena said. "Oh, I wanted to, but—"

"Chiudere," he interrupted, silencing her. He leaned back, away from her, his eyes cold, his mouth tight. "Whoever you are," he said, slowly and deliberately, "you are not my mother."

"I am," she whispered, swallowing hard. "Please, remember what you heard your father say," she pleaded. "I am centuries old. I am your mother." He wasn't listening to her anymore; she could tell. He had believed her; he knew it was her. He wasn't denying it. Instead he was rejecting her. She took a deep shuddering breath. All right. Another time; she could try another time. Right now this meeting had to end. There was really nothing else she could tell him now, and she herself was in too much pain. So was he. "Please, think on this. Pray on this. Then you tell me what you want to do."

She reached into her handbag for a notebook, where she wrote the name Luz Gutierrez and her telephone number then tore off the page. She offered it to him, but he didn't take it. She blinked back more tears and placed it on the table. "This is the name I'm using now. You can call me at this number anytime."

He said nothing. He wasn't even looking at her anymore. She put on her sweater then reached for her purse. "Call me if you need to, or want to," she said, standing up. "Anytime."

He closed his eyes briefly, his lips pressed tight, then looked up at her. He used to look up at her like that when he was little, when he had to reach up just to hold her hand.

Elena hesitated, aching to touch him, to hug him. Her hand lifted, reaching out to him, as she whispered, "M'hijo…"

"Leave," her son told her, in a voice as cold as ice. "Now."

Over the centuries, Elena had faced sword-wielding madmen, Inquisition bonfires, bloody conflicts, dying children, her own demise. She prided herself on her courage, on not retreating. But this was her son, and he didn't want her anymore. Eyes blinded by tears, Elena fled.

Caen, France

By the time Duncan got home from work, Elena had already started on her second bottle of wine. He sat down beside her on the couch and held out his arms. She crawled into the comfort of his embrace and wept. Duncan said nothing, just stroked her hair and held her tight.

"He didn't believe me at first," she said, her voice quivering. "But he finally realized it was me. He knew who I was, Duncan. He knew, but he still ordered me to leave." She wiped at her eyes with her fist, the way a child might. "And I didn't even get to tell him his father's last words," she almost wailed. The tears started again.

"I'm sorry," Duncan said softly.

"I expected him to be skeptical at first, but I convinced him," Elena repeated. "He even called me Mamma." Elena sat up straighter so she could look at Duncan. "But then he got angry. He said his mother would never have left him alone for more than two years. He just plain rejected me." She shook her head, getting angry herself. "I would have gone right away, if you and Cassandra and Connor hadn't told me not to go. I only waited because of what you said."

"Elena," Duncan said, "I never told you 'not to go.' Two years ago, or now. I just said I wouldn't have told my children. I didn't. But it's always been your decision."

"But you didn't think I should go," she pointed out and when Duncan didn't answer, she got angrier still. "You don't have to say, 'I told you so.' I can see it in your face."

His lips tightened, and he glanced at the empty bottle of wine on the floor and then at her wine glass, still half full. "You're hurting right now."

He meant she was drunk, Elena knew. He didn't have to say that, either.

"We'll talk later," he said, patting her hand, being kind and compassionate and sweet—and fucking annoying. He must have noticed the annoyance on her face, because he stood and announced, "I'm going running," and disappeared into the bedroom to change clothes.

She took her wine with her to the courtyard and didn't look up when he went out the door. She didn't look up when he got back, either, and she said "No, thank you" when he asked her if she wanted dinner. So he fixed himself a plate of leftovers and ate by himself.

He went to bed by himself, too. Elena sat in the darkness outside and opened a third bottle of wine.

"Damn the consequences," Elena muttered. That's what she'd said to Cassandra two years ago, when they'd talked about telling Marcellino the truth, and how hard it might be. Elena wiped the tears from her cheeks. "Damn, damn, damn, damn."

Next: Elena visits an old friend and an old enemy