Letting Go

Friday, 22 January 2044, Basel, Switzerland

When she got off the train in Basel at noon, Elena felt another Immortal nearby. "!Cono!" she swore. Not now. Not already. But the Game was the Game, and you didn't get to pick and choose. She scanned the busy station: families, commuters, people with huge bags, vendors with carts of food. It all disappeared from her view the instant she saw her potential enemy… Duncan MacLeod.

Even though she had been thinking about going to see Duncan, his actual presence was like a blow to the solar plexus, and for a split second Elena found herself unable to breathe. He was standing, tall, ramrod straight, as graceful as she remembered, his long black trench coat hiding the sword within. But she knew what was under that coat: broad shoulders, narrow hips. The lion-like power of the man was palpable—she'd always felt it. He was wearing his hair cut above the collar, but long enough to have some curl—and to wrap her fingers through.

When he saw her he smiled, a smile that could have melted her bones. At that moment Elena realized that she loved Duncan MacLeod. That she always had. More than anything at this moment Elena wanted to rush into his arms. Discipline was the only thing that kept her calm. That, and avoiding his warm brown eyes.

They walked toward each other, both smiling, but Elena stopped a few paces away. "How—"

"Connor told me you were traveling," Duncan explained. He looked at her with soft concern. "I thought you could use a friend right now."

Elena found herself smiling through sudden tears, and she dared to reach out and take his hand. Good thing they were both wearing gloves. "Ay, Duncan, I know I can always count on you."

Duncan insisted on carrying her bag to a taxi, saw her checked into a hotel, then took her to lunch. That afternoon he waited while she went to the bank then talked to her lawyer, the one that only Lorenzo and she had known about.

"How did it go?" Duncan asked as they walked along the street back to the hotel. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon, and so not too cold.

"He had a packet for Luz Marina Gutierrez. Inside was my husband's last gift to me." Elena lightly touched her choker, sterling silver with the silhouette of a silver-maned black horse with a tiny diamond for an eye.

"It's beautiful," Duncan said, tilting his head to see, then smiled a little. "Lorenzo knew you well."

Elena nodded fiercely. Lorenzo knew how much she loved horses, and that she would never wear a long necklace, as an opponent might grab it in a duel. He'd also known not to give her rings, which might interfere with her swordplay. But she was wearing the emerald bracelet, too. She touched that again, as she'd been touching it ever since the plane went down, thirteen days ago. Elena took a deep breath and went on, "There was also a letter for me. In that letter, Lorenzo said I could tell Marcellino about Immortality. Except for the fighting and decapitating part. Lorenzo didn't want me to mention that."

Duncan looked at her, surprised. "Hmm," he said.

She nodded. "So you see, Lorenzo in the end did agree to tell Marcellino my secret," she said, hoping Duncan would agree with her.

They walked for a moment in silence then Duncan said, "He might have done it to please you, if he thought that's what you wanted. But it might still not be the best idea for Marcellino."

She sighed. "I know you're right, Duncan. You're probably right."

They crossed a street and walked a block before Duncan said, "After 'Mark Johnson' died, I wanted to go back to see my granddaughter in a ballet, and to see Paula and Tom, too, if only from a distance. Methos told me to 'Let that life go.' I went anyway."

"What happened?" Elena asked.

Duncan shrugged slightly, but his smile was achingly wistful. "Methos was right." Duncan looked at Elena. "He's a regular font of wisdom, as you know."

Elena knew very well that Methos was wise. But that didn't mean he was right, not this time. "I raised Marcellino from a baby," she said. "I may not even let him see me, but I… I need to at least look at him. Then I can decide, right? Whether to contact him or not." She leaned closer to Duncan. "As the plane was going down, Lorenzo asked me to give our son a message. A message of love. I might just do it."

Duncan nodded. "If you think it's right."

"I don't know if it's wise or right, or best. Duncan, I don't know anything."

He laughed at that then said "So, on to Rome tomorrow?"

She nodded. "On to Rome. I'm definitely going to say goodbye to Lorenzo. I just hope I don't run into any old-timers," she said, running her hand through her short hair. "They might recognize me, even with my clever disguise."

Duncan looked her over, and she shifted under his gaze. "I meant to tell you," he said. "You look beautiful. I like the short cut. And blonde hair suits you."

Lorenzo liked it too, she thought. Had liked it. Maybe she would leave a lock on his grave.

Elena and Duncan had dinner together that night, telling each other stories from the past forty years. Duncan talked of his life with Susan and their two children. It seemed to come easily; he'd been a widower for over a decade. Elena shared a few stories about Lorenzo, and found that remembering him with a friend did help to ease the tears.

Duncan saw her to her room, and he kissed her hand as he said goodnight. But Elena couldn't let him go. "I need to talk to you about something," she said, making that part clear right away. "Please come in." At least they weren't in his room, she thought as she unlocked her room door. The room was like a million other hotel rooms: a double bed, a dresser built against the wall, two chairs and a small table in front of the lone window, a painting of a duck on the wall, and the smell of cold dust and fake flowers.

"Duncan," she said, sitting on the chair, decidedly not on the double bed, "thank you for coming, for helping."

"I'm glad to see you." He sat down on the edge of the bed, facing her, almost close enough to touch. "I'm very sorry about Lorenzo."

Duncan's soft brown eyes and nearness made her uncomfortable, but she took a deep breath and said, "Thank you, Duncan."

He leaned forward, just a little, to ask, "How are you? I mean, besides the obvious."

"Grieving. Hurting. But ready to move on. And to fight again. Connor thought so, too."

Duncan nodded. "He has good instincts."

Talk of Connor could wait. Other things couldn't. "And thank you for coming to my rescue."

He shrugged it off, saying with a smile, "Search and rescue is my job these days."

Fighting duels to the death was their real job. And that meant she should just tell him, just tell him. Just in case. The Game could come at anytime. Also, "the truth between us, always" was a phrase they'd often used. She had to tell him the truth now.

"Thank you also for killing that pelon," she began, and Duncan shrugged that off, too. Elena went on, "The one thing I need to tell you now is… I saw you in Menorca. Fighting him."

Duncan nodded. "When Connor told me where you had called from, I realized that it was you I had sensed during the fight. And I know you were scared, and running, and didn't have a sword."

"I did have my sword," Elena said, admitting her weakness. "And I still ran anyway."

"Oh," he said but then shrugged one shoulder. "You weren't ready to fight, not after what happened. We've all been there, Elena, believe me," he said, trying—how sweet of him—to ease her shame. "So I understand why you left before the fight was over, before you knew it was me."

He didn't understand. He hadn't heard what she'd really said. She took a deep breath before clarifying, "I did stay until it was over. And I did know it was you."

"Did you?" Duncan stared at her for a long time, his brows slowly coming together then asked, "Then why didn't you stay around after the fight? Why didn't you let me know you were all right? I spent five more hours looking for you that night, combing the streets, going to every single church and temple and cemetery I could find." Duncan shot to his feet, looming over her, as angry as she had been when a sixteen-year-old Marcellino had been four hours late coming home and never even bothered to call. "Where the hell were you!" Duncan demanded, "And what the hell were you thinking?"

!Cono! "Thinking!" she yelled in return, standing up, and now they were close together, almost nose to nose, and she stepped back because anger was another kind of passion. "I wasn't thinking, Duncan. I'm talking about raw emotions! I panicked and ran, but I was coming back, sword in hand. To see who was fighting. Maybe even… Then you beheaded him, and I ran from you—"

"From me?" Duncan broke in, his face going blank with shock. "You ran from me? Did you think I would…" His eyes narrowed. "Were you afraid I'd taken a Dark Quickening?"

"No! I ran because… because I couldn't face you! I was afraid of what might happen, of what I wanted to happen," she cried out, pointing at herself, "and I felt so guilty, so full of…"

Duncan was shaking his head in confusion. "Full of what?"

She paced in the small space, knowing that she had thrown away his sacrifice, ignored him, walked away; actually run away. She owed him an explanation. She sat down again, spreading her hands out in front of her, then looked up at him with a plaintive smile. "Full of lust."

Duncan blinked in surprise then slowly sat down, facing her again.

She also owed him an apology. "Duncan, I'm sorry," she said. "I should have at least told you I was all right. When I did calm down I was still afraid to see you. Because you know how it's always been between us. The heat, Duncan. The attraction. The first time we met we fought, and then…"

"I was there, remember?" Duncan agreed a bit testily. "But, Elena, your husband had just died. I would never have—"

"I wouldn't either," Elena broke in. Duncan was still leaning towards her. His anger had dissipated somewhat. Now his eyes were bright. He was aroused, !Dios mio! She could feel the pulse throbbing in her neck. She really wanted him. The hotel room was claustrophobic, so small that he could easily reach and take her hands. Or she could take his. But she couldn't possibly touch him, not now.

Elena stood again to move away, put some distance between them. She glanced out the window at the cold dark night then turned back to face him. She could smell his unique Duncan scent, and it brought back memories that excited her. 'God help me!' she thought, then tried again to explain. "But I wanted to. I really did, Duncan," she admitted, her voice shaking a little. "I still… even now…"

"Oh." He shook his head. "Look, Elena—"

"No, don't say it. I know I'm a terrible person. A slut." Exactly what Connor had called her years ago, she clearly remembered. And Cassandra. And Methos, too. But not Duncan; never Duncan.

"No—," Duncan began.

"I loved my husband, Duncan," Elena went on. "I did. He was buried only yesterday. Still, seeing you there on the island, I just wanted you, even though I knew it wasn't right. But I've realized…" She put her hands together in front of her body, as if warding him off, though he hadn't moved. "I love you, Duncan," she declared, from her heart. "I've always loved you. I would never have left Lorenzo, or betrayed him, but the fact is I love you, since that first day and forever. Forever for us."

Duncan looked down at his feet, taking several long breaths. She wondered what he was thinking. He had such a generous heart; hopefully he'd forgive her. After all, she had just told him he was irresistibly sexy. Which he was. And that she loved him, which she did. Was he even still angry with her? Would he reject her? Even if he did, she wasn't really ready for another relationship now. They had time. She could wait; she would wait for him. Duncan MacLeod was worth waiting for.

Finally he stood, his eyes intent upon her, his hands still down by his sides, and called to her softly, "Querida."

At that familiar endearment, Elena closed her eyes and let out a deep sigh. He loved her and he was forgiving her! She felt herself swaying towards him. But instead she opened her eyes and went to the door, shaking her head, stopping him before he could approach her. He smiled a little, understanding, then walked into the hall. He turned back just beyond the threshold, carefully not touching her. "Elena. I love you, too."

She smiled happily, joyously, a smile she reserved only for a man she loved… a smile only Lorenzo had seen in decades. Ah, hell. There was no fighting her feelings. But she could make damn sure she didn't act on those feelings. Not now, anyway. Not yet. Later, maybe… "Thank you, Duncan," she said. "Good night." She closed the door behind him and went to bed alone.

The next day on the train to Rome, she said, "Duncan, about what we said to each other last night… I meant it."

"Me, too."

"But now's not the time. You understand? I need to grieve. Lorenzo… it's been only two weeks."

Duncan nodded. "You need time. I know how you feel; when Susan died…" He stared off into space for a moment, lost in remembrance.

Elena took a deep shuddering breath. "We just keep losing them, and not just the mortals. Immortals we love die too, only with fireworks." She looked out the window at the snowy mountains. "Maybe I should go to that convent in France after all."

He smiled then reached up to touch her face but lowered his hand. "It would be a peaceful place for you."

"Maybe later." She didn't feel peaceful right now. But she was at ease with Duncan as a friend. She sat in comfortable silence next to him, watching the countryside roll by.

They arrived in Rome just before dusk, checked their bags at the Termini station, then took a taxi to the Vatican. As she had hoped, the cemetery was deserted. They went to nearby graves before cautiously making their way to the Ponti family crypt. In comparison with the large, gleaming marble burial sites of popes, cardinals and princes, the Ponti granite crypt was almost humble, with only a life-size statue of St. Michael the Archangel holding a sword. The location inside Vatican City, however, was a prime piece of real estate for the deceased of only very important Roman families. Elena looked around. No relatives and no reporters. No one to recognize her. Good.

Elena didn't have the key to get inside. She'd have to be content with gazing at Lorenzo and Gina's final resting place from the outside. Elena and Duncan stood side by side without speaking, surrounded by the all the beautiful statuary of the various crypts, tombs, and mausoleums. They were surrounded by angels, crosses, saints, and Madonnas, but Elena felt no comfort. Instead, again the sad tears came.

"I feel lost and alone," she said.

"I know," Duncan said.

The words were simple, but the feeling was immense. And he did know. All Immortals knew this particular feeling. Many mortals knew it too, just not over and over again. She took Duncan's arm and leaned her head against the outside of his shoulder. She didn't dare do what she really wanted, bury her face in his chest and bawl her eyes out. She'd already cried in her hotel room, but seeing the crypt made it totally real.

Lorenzo was gone, his brown eyes, his slightly crooked smile, his zest for life. His obvious and passionate love for his family, for their son, for his four sisters and their families, even for the always difficult Gina. His love for her, Elena. Oh, she'd cry again. Alone. The kind of comfort Duncan could give was decidedly not what she needed at this time.

After a while she straightened up, and they slowly walked out of the ancient cemetery. By the time they got to the cemetery gates their slow movement and being in the January Roman climate near sundown had made her cold. She shivered, and Duncan turned to her.

"I'm fine," she answered his unspoken question. "I think I know where I… where we might find Marcellino tonight. If he's not home, there are several places he likes to go unwind, unless I'm out of date."

"Lead the way."

Elena and Duncan were almost to the first establishment, a tiny and eclectic bar in the outskirts of Rome with a great array of wines and the best tiramisus in the city (Gina Ponti had introduced her grandson to the place), when Elena spotted her son walking on the other side of the street. She tensed, grabbed Duncan's arm and squeezed, and he put his hand over hers in a loving, friendly, comforting gesture. They shifted location so that she could see her son's face then stood at a distance.

Marcellino was arm in arm with his pretty blonde fiancée, Angelina. They were both wearing furs—fake, of course—against the cold night, and he had on that favorite fedora of his. Elena was glad to see him with the woman he loved. Unlike his father, Elena didn't think Marcellino had it in him to stray; plus, at a time of sorrow like this, people clung to their loved ones fiercely. Marcellino had learned this lesson from her when his much loved Nonno, Lorenzo's father, had died.

Elena wanted to cling to her beloved son fiercely. The longing to just hug him was so strong she started to pull away from Duncan. His grip on her arm tightened for an instant. Then he released her. It was, after all, her decision. She made her decision and stayed where she was.

Marcellino looked as sad as she felt. She sighed. She couldn't talk to him in her current emotional state—not to mention his current emotional state—plus she could NOT reveal herself to Angelina. If only he'd been alone.

Then, just before the couple went in the door, they stopped briefly. Angelina said something low, and he inclined his head to hear then smiled at her. He still looked sad, but now Elena was glad he was not alone. Angelina had made him smile. Elena had clearly seen their love for each other just last month, when Marcellino had announced their upcoming wedding to his family, a wedding Elena would unfortunately miss. What Elena would give to be able to… Well, Marcellino was in good hands. And he certainly did not need or deserve his 'dead' mother throwing a bomb into his life then leaving, which is what Elena would have to do. They both had to grieve; unfortunately they couldn't do it together.

At least she'd seen him. Her heart felt heavy in her chest. Maybe she could talk to him another time. Or maybe not at all. Not ever. She sighed. She didn't have to make this difficult, painful decision now. What would be best for her now, and for Marcellino also, was a little distance. And a little time. Time did indeed heal even emotional wounds, or at least turn them from critical agony to a dull ache. But right now she felt it almost hard to breathe. It seemed that Cassandra, and Methos, and Duncan had all been right. So Elena would leave. For now.

Duncan, ever attentive, steered her away. "Shall I find a hotel?" he asked. "Or do you want to go eat dinner, or just talk?"

Talking did sound good, but she suddenly wished Cassandra were with her instead of Duncan. Elena could talk to Cassandra with no… complications. "Thank you, Duncan, for everything. But I just want to leave here. Tonight. Right now." She put her hand lightly on his forearm and looked into his eyes before saying, "And I think I need to go on alone."

Duncan nodded and gently squeezed her hand. "Since you're ready."

She agreed with a short nod then got into the taxi he called, leaning back and closing her eyes. The ride back to Termini station was silent, except for the driver's various curses at the brutal traffic and idiot drivers. Elena and Duncan got their bags and took the express train to Fiumicino airport. She didn't talk then either. She'd run out of words.

But once they were at the airport, she had to say goodbye. She didn't set down her bag, though; she didn't want to hug. " Duncan, gracias, che," she said, looking into his beautiful eyes. "For coming to rescue me, for putting up with me, for loving me. I know I can always count on you."

"I feel the same. And you're welcome, querida," he replied. He took her hand and kissed it. Then as she turned to walk away, he asked, "Convent in France?"

She shook her head. "Uluru."

"Australia?" He considered. "Walkabout would be good, and you've done it before."

She nodded. "I need the silence, and the aloneness."

He nodded then said, "Hasta la proxima."

"Until we meet again, Duncan." They shared a promise with their smiles. "Que Dios os guarde."

Translations:

Seiza (Jap) – sitting on the ground with one's feet underneath

Cono (Span) – damn

Que Dios os guarde (Span) – God keep you