Disclaimer: Rysher and friends own 'em, I'm just playing with them. Nachman, Miriam and Larry are mine. This story takes place in the second season, between Under Color of Authority and The Prodigal.
Richie kicked the motorcycle in frustration. The damn thing had died on him, a faulty spark plug, and now he was stranded miles from any garage where he could get a new one. He would just have to flag down a ride, preferably one with a roof rack for the bike. As a Range Rover came up to him, he stuck out his thumb, then froze when he felt the Buzz.
The car braked and pulled over smoothly. The driver got out and came around to where Richie was. Richie got his sword out just in case. The driver was a heavyset man in conservative black clothes and a black newsboy cap. His beard was grizzled, and he wore a pair of reading glasses. "I'm Rav Nachman Ben Pardes. What seems to be the trouble?"
Richie blinked a moment. He had been expecting a challenge, not an offer of assistance, but somehow the man seemed trustworthy. The clothes and the name seemed Jewish, as did the light Yiddish accent, and Richie wondered how old this man was. "Richie Ryan. I just need a spark plug, but I don't have it on me."
Nachman frowned. "That I can't help you with, sorry. But if you wait here with your bike, I'll go down the road and get one for you, and come back. Hold on." In a half an hour he was back, and handed over the requisite plug.
Richie put the new plug in, disposed of the old one, and stood up. "What do I owe you?"
The man made a sound of refusal. "You owe me nothing. But it might be nice to have some company for dinner tonight, if you're not headed anywhere."
Richie felt awkward accepting charity, but the man was so easygoing about it that he didn't want to make a stink. "No, I'm just wandering."
Nachman smiled. "That I've done a bit of in my time. Hope you don't mind chicken and rice."
Richie hauled his bike up with a grin. "Sure, just hope you have enough to feed a small army."
"We'll manage," Nachman replied with a cheerful shrug. "Follow me on your bike, it's about ten minutes from here."
Ten minutes later they arrived at a snug little cottage in a town off the main highway. It had a Tudor exterior and a trellis around the door which would bear roses in summer, and a garden that, though currently dead, looked well-tended. The interior of the house was almost completely decorated in wood and earth tones, with shelves upon shelves of books, and both religious and artistic prints. It was so homey that it almost made Richie squirm. He had thought it was awkward being amidst the obvious class of the antique shop, it was almost harder to be somewhere so ... peaceful. So much a home that wasn't his.
Nachman invited him into the kitchen and started taking out ingredients for dinner. "My niece, Miriam, is out tonight, which leaves me to cook as best I know how."
"Your niece?" Richie was a little unsure how that was supposed to work.
"A few centuries ago I befriended another rabbi. His daughter decided to become my companion, my first 'niece'. Ever since then, I've helped raise the children, and when they're grown I've looked after the daughters of that family, and they've looked after me. There have been a few generations when none of them would stay with me, and a few when two decided to stay instead of one, but the boys all go off, and usually one girl insists on following me."
"So you and this girl--" Richie started, trying to figure out what the relationship was.
"No. She has a right to make her own life, have children and a husband she can grow old with. It's not for me to get in the way of her happiness." Nachman looked away while he took out the chicken and rice, looking at Richie and taking out another portion of chicken. "So you seem to be a new Immortal, from your manner. You haven't become cynical yet. You also seem to know how to handle yourself. Who was your teacher?"
"You picked that up from looking at me?"
"I'm a rabbi. Nowadays that doesn't have the legal dimension of being a judge, so I'm a counselor. You learn to read signals. So nu, who's your teacher?"
"New?" Richie asked, confused. It took several minutes before Nachman managed to explain the Yiddish term to the boy. "Duncan MacLeod," Richie finally explained.
"Ah, the younger MacLeod. I've never met him, but I knew his teacher, Darius. The two of us go back a long way."
"Makes sense, since he's a priest and you're a rabbi." Richie eyed the aluminum tray apprehensively as Nachman mixed almonds, currants, turmeric, chicken and a vast array of spices.
"Yes, though the two of us never really saw eye to eye on the things that matter."
"Well yeah, since he's Christian and you're Jewish, that's understandable."
"No, that's not it. Besides, Darius has been a priest for religions other than Christianity. But he lay down his weapons forever, and I've always been ready to kill when necessary. I was part of the Bar Kochba revolt, the Warsaw Ghetto uprising, and a hundred less famous battles. I've done my time defending the kibbutzs of Israel and smuggling Jews out of Poland. I don't live by the sword, but when it's called for, when my people say that that's what they need, a thousand times I'll die to keep them alive." The fierceness in his eyes, in his voice, spoke of centuries of love and devotion that Richie wondered if he would ever feel for anything.
The chicken was in the oven, and the rice on the stove, and Nachman sat down at the table across from Richie. "So you're traveling now. You want maybe to talk about it?"
"There's nothing to talk about, really. I took my first Quickening, and I wanted to get away for a while."
"It's a hard thing to kill a man," Nachman agreed. "And Duncan?"
"He thought it would be good if I went away for a while." The rejection still stung, Richie felt like the man he had looked up to as a father didn't want him any more.
A hand touched Richie's arm. "Give him time. He's done worse than that, I'm certain. It's just that you never stop seeing your students as your children; sometimes it's hard to realize that they're all grown up. Although, if you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t seem ready to leave the nest yet. If I can help, maybe?"
Richie looked into the eyes of the older man and wanted so badly to trust him, something Richie didn't do easily. He knew he should bridle at the suggestion that he wasn’t all grown up, that he couldn’t handle everything on his own, but Nachman’s gentle words had cut too close to the bone. He desperately needed a father, someone he could love and trust. Duncan’s rejection had made it clear he would never find anyone to fill that need.
Nachman got up then and took out the chicken and the rice, serving it up on two plates. Richie's stomach rumbled appreciatively, and he was glad that not only was Nachman a good cook, but he was also the sort who didn't mix food and conversation, allowing Richie to enjoy each separately. Seconds were served on request, and then thirds. Then Nachman got out some bakery sweets from the cupboard and shared them with the appreciative teenager.
"So your first death was how long ago?" Nachman asked.
"Just a few months, but I've known about Immortals for more than a year. Duncan and his girlfriend Tessa took me in after I tried to rob his antique shop, and then I got shot when Tessa died..." He trailed off, unhappy at the memory. He kept thinking over and over in his head, if he had known he wouldn't die, might he have moved a second faster and protected her?
Nachman was about to ask the boy more about his past when the door opened and a young woman with dark hair and a round, cheerful face walked in. "I'm home, uncle Nachman!"
"We have company, Miriam," Nachman informed her. "Miriam, Richie Ryan. Richie, Miriam Himmelfarb. Richie is from Pardes."
"Ah," she replied, instantly understanding. "Good to meet you, Richie."
"Good to meet you too. What's this Pardes thing, though? You said that was your last name, but does it mean anything?"
Nachman smiled, it was obviously a favorite subject. "Genesis. Adam and Eve were thrown out of the garden, not for eating of the tree of knowledge, but because God feared they would eat from the tree of life and become immortal. So when I revived from the dead, my foster father declared me 'Ben Pardes', son of the garden."
Richie grinned. "Really? I never read the bible, they weren't big on that in the foster homes I grew up in." He looked Miriam over. She was a little on the short side and curvaceous, her dark hair and eyes making lovely contrast with her pale skin. She couldn't have been more than twenty-seven. She was dressed in an emerald green mini dress, and had on the lightest touches of makeup. She had obviously just been out on a date. There seemed to be a tension in her, as though she was expecting a fight, and Nachman displayed the same tension. Richie filed that away for later thought. "So, Miriam, what do you do?"
"Aside from taking care of uncle Nachman?" she asked, teasing the older man. "I work in public relations for a magazine called The Press. And you?"
"Oh, I'm...between jobs." Richie flushed. He had never had a real job, aside from working for Mac, he wasn't even sure how he was going to manage much longer as he was with no income.
"Ah, uncle Nachman, you brought home another stray, did you?" She teased.
"Hey, all my strays turn out to be good people, or almost all of them," he protested.
"I know. I just think it's cute. Every lost soul in a fifty mile radius seems to gravitate here." She grinned and tousled Richie's hair, something he would normally have pulled away from with protest, but coming from her was ready to deal with. She wasn't anything like Tessa, but somehow he was reacting to her in the same way. "If you want to stick around here for a while, you're welcome to, Richie."
"I wouldn't want to be in the way--"
"Richie, it's fine." Nachman interrupted with a grin. "Stay as long as you like, leave when you like. If you feel like you need to work to pay us back, which you seem to, there's plenty of things you can do around here. An imposition it's not."
Richie paused a long moment, then smiled. "Thanks, Nachman. You too, Miriam."
"Our pleasure," Miriam replied. "I'll show you the guest bedroom and the bathroom, if you like."
Richie picked up his bag and followed her up the stairs, setting down his bag in the cozy guest bedroom. Then Miriam went back downstairs, and Richie went to the bathroom. It was there that he realized that the heating grate allowed him to hear what was going on in the kitchen.
"Well?" Miriam asked as she returned to the kitchen.
"Well what?" Nachman replied.
"Aren't you going to ask me?" she pushed. Their voices were stressed and strained.
"You need to brag maybe?" He made his Yiddish accent a little worse on purpose, as if mocking her.
"Look, uncle Nachman, you're the one who always pressures me to go out on these dates, try and meet people. Why is it that whenever I do, you shut down on me? I'm tired of your mixed messages and mind games, all right?"
In a very restrained voice, "I'm sorry. How was your date?"
"It was good. Larry was very sweet."
"Where did you go?"
"We went to the Palisade again, we were in the mood for Italian."
"Good."
"Good. I'm seeing him again tomorrow."
"It's supposed to rain tomorrow, Miriam," he reminded her.
"So we'll stay at his place and play checkers, or something." She sounded exasperated. "Don't look at me like that, uncle Nachman, this is the nineties. I don't have to answer to you about what I do with my life! Jesus, if you gave Mom this rough a time, it's a wonder she stayed. Hell, it's a wonder *I* stay!"
"Don't swear, Miriam..."
"Or what, some lightning bolt will come out of the sky and blast me to smithereens? Let's test it, shall we? Fuck! As in: Larry fucked me the other day. Is that what you want to hear?"
There was a sound of a chair being knocked over. "Miriam, you're a lady, you don't do things like that, you don't say things like that!"
"I'm my own person, and I have the right to do as I please! I'm not going to live my life around what you will and won't allow!"
There was a long silence. Then, almost strangled, "I'm...sorry, Miriam. This was selfish of me. It's just hard for me, it would be easier if you just saw one man, if he was the one you were going to marry. Then we could talk, man to man, and clear the air, decide where we stand. I was never good at sitting back while my nieces go on dates. I'm sorry."
"Apology accepted." She replied quietly. "Look, I've got work I have to get to, we'll talk in the morning."
Convinced that the conversation was over, Richie did his business and went to bed, wondering what to make of his host's contradictory behavior. He wondered if Nachman had felt this way about his other nieces too. It must be a torturous way to spend centuries, no love, no sex, no one who was really close to you. Then the long day caught up with him, and Richie tabled further thought for the morning.
In the morning Richie awoke late to the sound of heavy rain against the windows. He went downstairs and found the house empty and a note on the fridge. Richie, Miriam and I had to go to work, help yourself to anything in the fridge, as long as it's dairy, don't go near the meat or the cupboards with red tape on the handles. I can explain Kashrut to you later so you can eat what you like, until then err on the side of caution. I'll be back at supper time. You can reach me at this number if you need anything or you want someone to talk to.
Richie ate and went out on his bike to explore the area. There didn't seem to be much -- it was a small town -- so he went out along the highway and just enjoyed the ride, even in the rain it felt good. It was a quiet place, too quiet for his tastes; he would have to move on soon or die of boredom. But he wanted to stay a little while anyway and see if he could help Nachman and Miriam.
At dinner time he headed back and found Nachman cooking dinner again. Lamb and lentils this time, with currants. All of this cooking stuff went over Richie's head, but he was glad Nachman seemed to enjoy cooking as much as Richie enjoyed eating. The rain was coming down harder now, and Nachman's cheer was a little forced. Richie could guess why. "Look Nachman, why don't you tell her?"
"Tell her what?" Nachman asked, avoiding Richie's eyes.
"That you love her. I mean it's obvious you're crazy about her--"
"No Richie, I told you I don't do that. I saw what this does to a mortal woman once, and I won't watch it again. Living without children, growing old while I stay young, it eats them up inside. I won't put Miriam or anyone else through that."
"Yeah, but Nachman--"
"Richie, please, just leave it."
Richie sighed and went back to his food. "This stuff tastes great, Nachman, where did you learn to cook?"
"At one point I had to run from the law, when the Romans found out that I was Immortal. I hid out with a group of ... well I guess you would call them a gang, but they were such nice young men. They taught me how, they said that if you want to live off the land when you're in hiding, you have to know something about cooking. The rest is my own experimentation."
Richie dug in more appreciatively, then sat back. "I'm probably going to go on soon."
"I understand," Nachman replied. "Remember, you always have a place here, if you need someone to talk to or a place to stay." His smile was genuine this time, and Richie returned it. "Here, Richie, hold on. I want to -- where is that blasted thing?" He leapt up and started searching the shelves until he found a battered, thick, old, hand-bound book. "Take it. You look like you'll benefit from it as much as I did."
Richie wanted to say that he didn't need gifts, but he was curious about the nature of the book. "What is it?"
"It's a book of writings and speculations by Immortal philosophers. We each write what we've learned and pass the book on when we feel it's time. Darius gave it to me, and I'm giving it to you. It's a copy, periodically they fall apart and have to be remade, but not a word is ever changed."
"I wouldn't want to take it from you," Richie protested, his hands already fingering the leather, though books were usually the last thing from his mind.
"Don't worry, I made a copy of it for myself against this day. And don't worry about understanding it, each person who recopies it puts the original words on one side and the modern vernacular on the opposite page. Yours is in English. Just be sure to get someone to make a direct translation from the original if you have to use a new vernacular, to make sure the older words lose none of their power with too much translation."
"Why me?" Richie asked, confused. "I'm no philosopher."
"You think maybe all philosophers are old, with beards and many years? You should see what I look like when I shave this monstrosity." He tapped his beard with one hand and then put a hand on Richie's shoulder. "You aren't there yet, but I sense the fire in you. You see the truth behind things, and one day you will be able to speak it as well as see it. You just have to stop trying to be what you think others see you as."
Richie opened the book and saw words in languages he did not recognize at all, with Nachman's neat pen marks on the opposite pages. Each spark of wisdom was signed by another Immortal, some he had heard of or met, some he had not. The monk Darius killed. A man named Methos, whom Duncan had referred to as a legend. Darius himself, writing in Latin. Sean Burns. And at the end, passages of what Richie assumed to be Hebrew signed by Nachman. Each Immortal seemed to write when the mood struck him, sign below whatever they had just written, and then write more later, dating each passage.
"It’s an easy read. What's written here is what comes out when you stop being pretentious and guarded."
"Thank you," Richie murmured, more than a little awed by the gift. He was a street kid, a tough guy, ignorant, careless, always in trouble with Mac yelling at him. It felt very strange and a little off, somehow, to be called a budding philosopher. Richie wondered if he would ever grow to fill those shoes.
They sat that night and talked, argued, about everything from the best motorcycles to why Immortals were really put on Earth. Richie found himself talking about his foster homes, relaxing enough to trust Nachman with intimate details of his life. Nachman told him in turn about his own long life, the losses and the joys and the constant battle to protect his people from whatever threat arose by whatever means necessary. It was a little hard to believe some of the stuff this man who talked like Yoda with a Yiddish accent had done in his time. Nachman was so frank and open, with such a gentle manner, that Richie found himself opening up as he never had to anyone, talking about how much it had hurt him when Mac had sent him away, and how guilty he felt about Tessa's death.
Nachman's manner was to listen in silence, his eyes bright with gentle interest, then to say something so simple and honest that, whether it was advice or words of comfort, it had the same healing affect on Richie. He couldn't believe he had known Nachman for a little more than a day, it felt like they had known each other for years.
However, as it got later and later and Miriam did not return, Richie could see that Nachman's genuine interest in his company was mingled with unhappiness at the thought of what Miriam might be doing. Richie reached over to touch Nachman's shoulder, without trying to convince him to talk to Miriam, and the older man smiled gratefully at the mute understanding.
That night, sitting up in bed, Richie flipped open the book, admiring the care that had crafted it. He flipped to Darius's words first. These varied from long paragraphs to single sentences. The first sentence was set apart. "To deny what I was is to deny what I am." Richie considered this, knowing what was meant. Darius was a priest, but he had been a warrior, a conqueror. For the first time, Richie realized the agony and soul-searching that must have lead to those words as Darius tried first to ignore his double nature, then to purge it, and finally to accept it.
The last words of Methos's entries were equally affecting, though Richie decided to save the long passages for another time. "I have taken more life than I have lived, I am sick of the killing. Why does everyone expect me to have answers? Why does a man who has lived five hundred years without finding answers think that three thousand years gives me any great truths? I met a mortal man yesterday who had done more with his thirty years than I have with my three thousand." The date, transcribed into the modern measurement from an older calendar, was over two thousand years ago, and Richie swallowed to think of that huge expanse of time. He wondered if this Methos was still alive, and if he had ever found the answers he sought.
He flipped ahead to Nachman's entries. "I look at all these pages of wisdom and fear and pain that have gone before me, and I wonder what I have that's worth writing down. Darius apparently thinks I have something to say, though." Richie smiled at that, it was exactly how he felt now. It was strange to think that Nachman had once been as much of an uncertain smart-alec as he was now. "I want so hard to believe that there is a purpose to all of this, a reason we have this pain that mortals envy, a reason why we only care about is cutting each other's heads off. And all I can think of is that we are meant to serve and to guide. I was a rabbi before I had my first death, I will keep fighting to keep my people alive and wise, and maybe someday I'll forget the look in Shirah's eyes when we learned that it was my fault, not hers, that we couldn't have children, or her voice when she begged me for a divorce. Maybe I'll find some reason behind this, something to explain the pain I have suffered."
It went on after that, but Richie felt himself nodding with agreement and setting the book down. He wanted so badly for there to be a reason behind Immortals, some explanation of why Tessa had to die and why he couldn't grow up and have a normal life.
Idly he found himself wondering what Joe Dawson would do to get a look at this book. He decided not to tell anyone about it, he didn't want anyone analyzing it to death, or Duncan asking why Richie had been given the damn thing when Mac's own name was nowhere to be found in the book.
Richie woke up early this time, and went down to the kitchen to grab some cereal and coffee. He found Nachman already down there, reading the paper and eating sugary cereal, which Richie helped himself to as well. "Morning, Nachman. Where's Miriam?"
"She didn't come home last night," Nachman replied stiffly. "How did you sleep?"
"Good." Richie answered. "You going to work soon?"
"Yeah. That's the problem with being a rabbi, you go to work every day, including weekends. If you want, you can come along, though there's not much to do there."
"Sure," Richie replied.
The two of them took the Range Rover further into town, to a little synagogue that looked like a converted house. The wood carving, both on the door frame and inside the synagogue, was beautiful and well done. When Richie paused to look at some of the more intricate details, Nachman grinned. "Wood carving has been a hobby of mine for centuries, it's my way of making this place my own." He took Richie into the office and set down his bag by the desk. "Have a seat, no one comes in for a while."
Richie looked around and saw bookcases covering every inch of wall space. Over the door was an artistic print of Moses. "Jeez, you have more books than the library of congress," he commented.
"On books the Jews have always spent their wealth. The People of the Book they call us. A funny story about that, actually: a little Orthodox boychik I know went into the Israeli army. Now in Israel there are two kinds of people: the Kibbutzniks and the Hasids, the pioneers and the scholars. So naturally an easy time he didn't have there. But one night the officers left the group out in the desert with no map and told them to find their way back to camp. It was my friend who got them out of that mess. He was so used to memorizing pages of Talmud that he had memorized the map with one look. They never bothered him again." Nachman smiled proudly at that.
Richie smiled back, happy for the older man. It was funny how the beard and the Yiddish accent made him feel like this man was his grandfather, when he usually only thought of Mac as being a few years older, a cross between a father and a brother. It was amazing what a few visual cues could do to your perception. He relaxed on the couch and Nachman sat down beside him just as his secretary walked in. Nachman talked to her for a few minutes, then she left and Nachman and Richie talked together some more.
"I read some of that book you gave me," Richie started.
"And what did you think?" Nachman asked.
Richie paused a moment with a grin. "I don't think I'll ever be that deep. I was never into that stuff, Nachman."
Nachman smiled. "Give it time. You're what, nineteen, twenty now? When you get to be thirty or forty, it'll start coming. You're not going to be one of those Immortals who spends their first centuries as a spoiled brat, this I know."
Richie looked at him. "It's good to have someone who believes in me again. After Mac sent me away, I got back to thinking I wasn't worth much."
"Richie, Mac just needs some time. That's something you won't believe until you see it, but I promise you it will come." He shook his head. "I can't understand the life you've led. All of us have a hard time, but how could anyone look at you, talk to you for five minutes and not want to give you the world? You're a charmer, Richie Ryan. I just wish you could believe how much you're worth to me and anyone else who sees you this way."
Richie looked away at that, and the phone rang. Nachman was busy intermittently through the day taking calls, counseling people and tutoring kids for their Bar and Bat Mitzvahs, but in the breaks he and Richie talked together.
But that night, coming back to the house, Nachman and Richie both froze as they felt the Buzz from within. There was fear in Nachman's eyes as he found the door unlocked, and they both drew their swords. "I am Rav Nachman Ben Pardes," Nachman called as he opened the door, "and if you've hurt my niece I swear you'll suffer before you die."
There was confusion in the eyes of both the people sitting on the couch as Miriam murmured, "Oh shit," and the gentleman next to her looked up at his attackers with genuine surprise. "Why didn't you tell me you were Immortal, Larry?" Miriam asked angrily.
That was when the look of worry in Nachman's eyes turned to pure rage. "YOU! You son of a diseased monkey, get away from her!" He grabbed the man by the collar and physically tore him away from Miriam. "You snake! You flatulating dog! I won't let you do it again!"
"What are you talking about?" the man asked, confused, "what do you mean 'again'? I've never seen you before."
"Uncle Nachman, I don't care if he's Immortal, I love him, and I'll deal with this myself." Miriam demanded. "Let go of him!"
"The Crusades," Nachman hissed. "You lying, conniving Templar dog, you know exactly what I'm talking about. The conquest of Jerusalem, when you put my family to death, when your men raped my sisters and burned my brothers alive! You had your armies to protect you then, but not today! Today you'll die for it!"
"Whoa, slow down," Richie demanded, throwing himself between them. The man who had called himself Larry was standing there, still passive, but Nachman's rage made him as hard to hold back as a lion. "Larry, you got some input here?" He was hoping this was not all in Nachman's head, that the older Immortal wasn't just making this up out of jealousy over Miriam.
"I was in the Crusades," he admitted. "I was a Templar. But I swear I have never seen this man before today."
"You took Jerusalem. You killed thousands of innocent people whose only crime was living in a city the church wanted. You have a burn scar on your right hand, you had it then--"
"You could have seen that just now!" Larry interrupted in protest.
Nachman clenched his jaw. "You admit to killing all those people in the Crusades? The Arabs and the Jews?"
"I'll admit that, but I've never seen--"
"Then let me kill you for your crimes!" Nachman threw Richie aside like the younger man was made of paper, and drew his sword.
"Any crimes I committed in the Crusades, I committed for the holy church. Any sins that are mine, I paid for at the hands of Philip La Bel when he tortured and burned all of us, though he did it for his own, selfish reasons. I will not pay twice." Larry growled. He fled out the door, and only Miriam's and Richie's combined strength kept Nachman from following him.
"That pig, that mamzor, is lying," Nachman growled, aflame with a consuming hatred that Richie found himself afraid of. "His name is Gregor, he killed my family--"
"Did he? Are you sure it's the same man?" Miriam demanded, "or are you just so jealous that you're making up reasons to get him away from me?"
"Miriam I swear that is the man. Even if I could forget his face, even if I did not see it every night when I close my eyes, how many Immortals are there with black hair, clipped Saracen beards and mustaches, who were Templars during the Crusades? He admitted to all of that, you both heard him!" Nachman looked around for confirmation.
"I'm going to go talk to him and straighten this out," Miriam started.
"You'll do no such thing! That monster is a killer, he killed little children and old rabbis, housewives, carpenters, you think he won't kill you?"
"What do you expect me to do? I love him uncle Nachman. I won't let the two of you fight, I don't want to lose either of you."
"You love a lie," Nachman whispered tightly. "Everything he told you, everything you thought he was is a lie. His name, his Immortality, his life, you knew nothing about him."
"I'm going," Miriam replied.
"Richie, help me, I won't lose her too," Nachman begged as he reached for Miriam, tightening his grip as she fought him. Richie found himself frozen again, unable to decide what to do. Just like me, he thought bitterly as Miriam broke free and ran out to her car, to freeze when I'm needed. That's why Tessa died.
Nachman was weeping brokenly in the driveway as Miriam drove off, and Richie put his arms around the older Immortal and guided him back into the house. "Richie, I know what I saw," Nachman pleaded, "I'm not going crazy, I swear. Every night when I go to bed I see his face, him and all the other pigs who have slaughtered my family again and again. Do you think I could forget something like that?"
Richie paused for a moment, and experimented. Yes, he could still see every feature of the man who had shot him and Tessa, he would know that man in an instant. But was it too much of a coincidence that Nachman should recognize the man dating Miriam as the man who had done those things centuries before? Was anyone that infallible? "Nachman, just please wait. Let Miriam talk to him, we'll get to the bottom of this. Just calm down. Come on inside, I'll try and make dinner."
"I'm not hungry. I have to find her, I have to find him, I can't leave this alone."
Richie paused a long moment. What was he supposed to do? "All right, come on." He took the car keys from Nachman's pocket and got in the driver's seat of the Range Rover, unlocking the passenger door for Nachman.
It took five hours and twelve minutes before they found the car, parked in a driveway in a larger town twenty minutes from the one they had left. Richie was amazed that the two Immortals hadn't run into each other sooner, but remembered something Miriam had said about Larry being new to the area. They marched up to the door, rewarded by a sensation of the Buzz as Larry opened the door. "Gregor," Nachman growled, "I've come for your head and I'm not leaving without it."
"Uncle Nachman, no!" Miriam protested.
Larry put up his sword. "I'm not going to spend my life running from you. Let's get this over with."
The two of them walked off together to find somewhere abandoned enough to fight, while Richie sat with Miriam, waiting. Time seemed endless in that strange house, and neither of them dared to speak against the deafening silence. It was only half an hour later that Larry returned with a tarp that was sticky with blood and filled with something large. His clothes were slashed and bloody, he looked like he was ready to drop. Miriam was too numb to speak.
"Miriam, I'm sorry, I would have let it alone if he had, but I wasn't going to spend my life running. I thought you'd want the body for burial."
"How did it happen?" Richie asked tightly.
"He was a great fighter, better than me, but he was so intent on torturing me, making me suffer, that he took longer than he should have and missed openings on purpose just to prolong it. It gave me the time I needed."
"Larry?" Miriam asked quietly, "What's your real name?"
"Grigori," he replied. "Miriam, I--"
Richie fled before he could hear the rest, fled back to Nachman's house and threw his stuff in his bag, roared off on his motorcycle with the helmet down to hide his tears. Six hours later, at a rest stop on the highway, he sat with a cup of coffee cooling in front of him and flipped open a leather-bound book made of parchment, borrowing a pen from the waitress. Today I have lost a second friend though hesitation. Why is it that when I hesitate my friends die and when I rush in I always do so without enough information to do the right thing? Do you somehow get better at it as you get older, or do you just stop discussing it? Why is it that my best is never enough and the choices I make are always the wrong ones?
Finis.