  v.watts and macgeorge |
v.watts and macgeorge |
The Soothsayer
"A doctrine appeared, a faith ran beside it: All is empty, all is alike, all has been!"
"And from all hills there re-echoed: All is empty, all is alike, all has been!"
"To be sure we have harvested: but why have all our fruits become rotten and brown? What was it that fell last night from the evil moon?
"In vain was all our labor, poison has our wine become, the evil eye has singed yellow our fields and hearts.
"Arid have we all become; and fire falling upon us, then do we turn dust like ashes: -- yes, the fire itself have we made tired.
"All our fountains have dried up, even the sea has receded. All the ground tries to gape, but the depth will not swallow!
" Alas! Where is there still a sea in which one could be drowned?' so sounds our plaint-- across shallow swamps.
"Indeed, even for dying have we become too weary; now do we keep wake and live on--in sepulchers."
..
EPILOGUE: Archangel
The man had walked for hours in the cold and dark, without a coat, eyes
burning in despair and distraction. His long hair had become tangled
and wild in the wind created by his long strides. He was beyond tears,
beyond grief, beyond guilt. There was only self-loathing. His entire
long life, every value he ever espoused, every wrong he had ever attempted
to right, every good thing he had ever touched, had crumbled and gone to
dust in the single cut of a sword. He at last found himself in front
of a familiar ancient stone sanctuary, but couldn't bring himself to go
in. To do so would be a betrayal of the person who used to occupy
that space, who had loved him, who believed in the essence that had been
Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. But Duncan MacLeod, if he had
ever really existed at all, was dead and gone, replaced by an anonymous
anathema of a man, a murderer.
He remembered the bitterness of a 400-year-old hurt, when the man he had grown up believing was his father rejected him, turned him out as a demon, denying him his birthright - membership in and leadership of the Clan MacLeod. Ian MacLeod had been right. Whatever he was, demon or man, he had no right to claim any such title. The man stood before the sanctuary on the deserted street, reached into his pocket and found a tool that he methodically opened to a sharp blade. Reaching up to his neck he took hold of his long, dark hair and cut it, slicing again and again, hard, violent. The blade bit into his skin and he relished the pain, welcomed feeling the warm blood trickle down his neck. He dropped the long locks in the street, watching the symbol of his manhood, his honor, his ancient identity, blow away in the cold winter wind. As they did, the man's face grew calm, cold, empty. Then he turned and disappeared into the shadows.
Adam Pierson picked up Duncan's katana from the concrete next to Richie
Ryan's body, its blade still sticky with the boy's blood, then picked up
Richie's sleek sword - the one Duncan had given him. Despite his
long, long experience at dealing with death, this one came hard. After
5,000 years of living and losing, the man the world knew as Adam Pierson
rarely formed attachments close enough to cause him personal pain.
But the boy had meant a great deal to MacLeod and to Joe Dawson, who stood
at a distance, facing away, still shuddering with grief. Adam only
felt numb, confused and desperately concerned for MacLeod. The Highlander
had been distracted, almost frantic with worry for Richie when he had left
the barge. The past few days MacLeod had been drawn into a bizarre
conspiracy theory, had reported seeing and talking to enemies long dead,
and had begun believing there was an undefined evil stalking him.
Whatever delusion had led the man to kill Richie Ryan, his student, the
young Immortal he had come to think of as his own son, the act itself was
likely to drive him mad. MacLeod had seen far more than his share
of death in the past five years, but this - this, Adam knew, could destroy
him. And the consequences for them all of that destruction were incalculable.
Adam, known to precious few by his real name of Methos, the oldest Immortal,
had to work at controlling his own dark despair for the Scotsman he had
come to believe was the best of their kind.
After beseeching Methos to take his life in forfeit for that terrible death, and being summarily refused, MacLeod had stalked away, murmuring incoherently in Lakota. He had even left behind his precious katana, the blade that had hardly left his possession for over 200 years. Methos knew his first priority was to find MacLeod, but he couldn't abandon Joe there, trembling, weeping. It was hours before he felt he could leave his mortal friend sedated with a bottle of scotch at his hotel. Methos went to MacLeod's barge, but there was no evidence that he had returned, no clothes packed, nothing moved or out of order. Not even the battered, leather bound journal of a dead archeologist whose contact with the Scot had somehow triggered all this tragedy. Mac's car had been left at the track, so he was on foot, weaponless, defenseless against any Immortal looking to take the powerful Quickening of the legendary Highlander. Joe had set the Watchers on the lookout, and all Methos could do was wait.
The lanky form with the short dark-hair and strong hawk-like features was stretched fully clothed on the couch, snoring gently, with the sun shining weakly through the portholes when the phone rang. Methos started awake, exhaustion and tension written on his face. He dove for the phone.
"Duncan?" a female voice sounded questioning.
"He's not here. Amanda?"
"Oh. Methos," she said, sounding slightly annoyed. "Where's Duncan?"
For once, Methos couldn't think of what to say.
Amanda's voice cut into the long pause, sharp and urgent. "Methos! Where's Duncan?" she insisted.
"Richie's dead, Amanda."
He could hear her held breath. Then, "How is he?"
"Amanda," Methos again couldn't find words.
"Methos, what's happened?" she whispered in dread.
"It . . . Mac's been . . . he's been convinced lately that . . . that there are spirits after him, the dead haunting him. Richie . . . Richie evidently was mistaken for one of those . . . spirits."
"Are you trying to tell me that Duncan . . ?"
"Mac killed him, Amanda. He's gone. Disappeared. Left his sword behind and walked away. He never came back to the barge and no one knows where he is." There. He'd said it. His chest hurt. An unwelcome sensation. One he'd felt all too often since he'd started to care again. Since he'd met Duncan MacLeod.
He could hear uneven intakes of breath on the other end of the line. There was a long pause. "We . . . we have to do something. Jesus, Methos. This will kill him. We have to do something," she repeated softly.
"I know, Amanda," he said. "I just don't have a clue as to where he is, what he'll do or how to help him." The line went dead in his hand.
The man without a name sat under a bridge by the river until the sun came
up, then visited a safe deposit box at one of the many banks in the center
of town. He took some papers out of the box, stopped at a surplus
store to purchase a duffel bag and some gear, and took a cab to the docks.
He sat in the employment office for the next 10 hours, eventually taking
the first job offered. It was on a tramp freighter headed to South
America. For a brief, painful moment he thought about calling someone.
Methos? Joe? But he rejected it. They would worry, but it was
for someone who no longer existed. Perhaps for someone who never
did exist. All he was to them now was a threat, a danger, a killer.
The new crewman who boarded the Liberian freighter at the last minute was dark and muscular and kept to himself, not an easy task in the close and grimy confines of the crew's quarters. The others left him alone, recognizing something dangerous about him, even in the company of a crew made up almost entirely of either the criminally inclined or mentally deficient. An edge of barely contained violence hovered around the man, discouraging anything but absolutely necessary conversation. But like many of his countrymen, the Scot knew the ways of engines and worked tirelessly and without complaint, only sleeping a few hours a night. If anything, the others disliked him because he was so willing to take double shifts, making the rest of the motley bunch look like the slackers they were. By the time they made the long cross-Atlantic trip and put in at Guaira, Venezuela, the captain and the crew knew no more about him than when he boarded, and that was the name on his passport, David M. Laird.
Caracas, and its companion port city, Guaira, had changed a great deal in the 150 years or so since the man had last been there. The sleepy towns, dusty roads and ramshackle huts had been transformed into modern cities with superhighways and high rise office buildings. After the ship had been unloaded of its cargo of spare parts and tractors, and while waiting for the final delivery of coffee beans, the crew scattered, most heading for the bars along the waterfront. Laird first attended to the purchases of spare parts desperately needed by the limping engines, haggling hard to stay within the pittance provided by the Captain. Finally he finished the chore and found a dark, dingy bar, retreating to a dark corner to contemplate several shot glasses of their best, if almost undrinkable, Scotch.
Laird sat and closed his eyes, consciously suppressing the unease at the absence of the katana which had hardly left his possession in over 200 years. He waited, clearing his mind, opening it to the possibility, the hope, that another of his sad, sick race would find him, would be strong enough, decent enough to take his worthless head and be done with it. He was a blight, a death-dealing cancer on the face of the earth. It would be a blessing to be done, to not worry every minute that his control would slip, that he would blindly, randomly kill again. What was truly depressing was that it couldn't be just any Immortal Tom, Dick or Jane. The blackness he carried inside would destroy any vestige of decency in the weak of heart.
He felt a gentle presence beside him and opened his eyes. His ever-present, barely suppressed anger rose on its haunches like a threatened animal as the young mulatto cabin boy, Paulo, smiled at him. The boy was a walking tragedy waiting to happen, small, effeminate, his coffee colored skin splotched with various palettes of lighter and darker pigment. The boy had been leered at, fondled, demeaned and belittled in a dozen languages, most of which he didn't know, but Laird did. He had heard, had witnessed, and done nothing. The child should never have come on board, shouldn't be here. Like Laird, he was an outcast, a misfit, only worse. He was helpless, defenseless. It made Laird angry just to be around him.
"Hi," Paulo said with a shy smile.
Laird said nothing, returning his gaze to his glass.
"I, uh, don't know this city at all and, well, I assumed you knew the places to go, so . . . anyway, that's why I'm here."
"I haven't been here in a long, long time, boy. Whatever I knew is irrelevant," Laird said quietly in a tense, soft, indefinably accented baritone.
Paulo sat on the stool next to him and ordered a beer, watching Laird out of the corner of his eye. Despite the cold, haunted look he always wore, he was devilishly handsome. Dark brown eyes, classic chiseled features, black hair roughly cut and curling gently around his face, softening his harsh expression a little. Even now, the women in the bar were staring at him, whispering. Paulo needed a protector, and this man seemed the only viable candidate. He leaned toward him, giving him his most endearing smile.
"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked.
Laird turned and gave him a long look and, just for a second, a flash of bitter amusement appeared behind the eyes, changing the face completely, but before Paulo could draw breath in surprise, he closed down again.
"Sorry. Not my type."
Paulo sighed. "I was afraid of that," he said sadly, "but . . . I decided it was worth the risk. You didn't seem . . . like the others."
Laird took a small sip of his drink. "They're a cruel lot, lad. You don't belong there," he said quietly.
Paulo was quiet for a moment. "I know I don't fit in very well, and the guys, they sometimes give me a hard time and I noticed that they generally give you a wide berth, so . . . I thought . . ."
"You thought if you became my lover they'd be afraid of me and leave you alone," Laird said harshly. "Well forget it, lad, I've neither the inclination nor the interest."
His immediate grasp of the situation momentarily stunned the young man into silence. He watched as Laird carefully put the small cigar he'd been smoking out in an ashtray and stood, finishing his drink in one gulp and left without another word.
It was a week later when Laird came up on deck from the engine room, taking a momentary break from the dank smell, the noise and the dark, wiping his oil-stained hands on a rag, when he heard raucous laughter, accompanied by small, desperate, painful cries.
He closed his eyes, wishing the noise away, but it didn't stop. Finally, with a sigh he sought it out, discovering four crew members jammed in a small storage room off the companionway. They had Paulo bent over, pants ripped down to his knees. Two of them were holding him while a third had his hands around the boy's slim waist as he rhythmically jammed his cock up Paulo's blood-smeared backside.
The Spaniard named Mario, his eyes bright with drink or drugs, his broad, unshaven face running with sweat, looked up at Laird, finished his business with a grunt, pulled away and casually zipped up his pants. His eyes were guarded, addressing the tall Scot with more than a little fear. "Ya want some of the boy?" he asked with a leer. "He's got a tight little ass, and he's been waivin' it aroun' here for weeks!" The man chuckled nervously, wiping the sweat from his upper lip. With a smooth motion Laird smacked him hard with his elbow. The others initially tried to scatter, but Laird's arm snaked out, catching one by the shirt, turned him and sent him flying to the deck with the heel of his palm. The other two grabbed him from behind, but found themselves grabbing air as Laird spun, kicking one full in the chest, then falling underneath the blow of the second, scissoring his legs to pull the man's feet out from under him before rolling back to his feet and catching the man's chin with his heel. The whole thing was over in about ten seconds, and Laird wasn't even breathing hard.
"Tell the others, boys," he said to the four men scattered on the deck. "Tell them to leave Paulo alone." The tone was rough with tension as Laird clenched and unclenched large hands that seemed to want to do even more violence. He briefly caught Paulo's frightened, pain filled eyes but quickly looked away. He had been too late to do anything other than punish the bastards. Too late to make a difference. Disgust at himself, at them, at Paulo, squeezed his chest and bile rose in his throat at the vivid reminder of his true nature. He forced it down and took a calming breath. He would wait. He had to wait. If there were any justice, any mercy, it would be over soon. With that thought his heart slowed, his blood cooled and he turned and walked away.
Paulo had turned and seen Laird standing over the groaning men like a dark avenging angel. As he painfully gathered up his clothes and stumbled to the nearest bathroom he wept silent tears, both for himself and for Laird. What he had seen on the man's face was stark agony, as though his existence was too painful to bear. That pain was too close to his own not to recognize for what it was - near suicidal self-loathing.
Paulo found him that night on the deck after dinner, smoking one of his little cigars, looking out to sea. "Thank you," he said, leaning up against the rail, looking up into the man's face.
Laird didn't look at him. "You don't have anything to thank me for, lad. They might just decide to wait till I'm gone and hurt you even more." He wished the boy away.
Paulo's chin lifted as pulled a long knife out of his shirt, ostentatiously cleaning his dirty fingernails with it. His voice was cold and angry. "I'll do what I have to do to protect myself."
The dark figure didn't respond, and Paulo looked out over the gray expanse of water, gathering his courage in the face of the cold hostility of this formidable man. "Could you teach me how to do what you did?"
Laird drew himself up with a hiss of breath. "I don't teach, boy. Stay away from me!"
Paulo flinched at the force behind those words but didn't back away. "Just a little," he pressed. "Just enough to make them leave me alone!"
"It'll be just enough to get you killed!" he said harshly. "Or turn you into a killer," he added with a whisper. "Knowing how to kill so easily somehow makes it more . . . acceptable. I stepped in out of instinct, and habit, but I warn you, it won't happen again. I won't hurt anyone again." He threw the remains of his cigar out into the churning water and walked away.
Joe looked up from his bar stool at Maurice's restaurant, squinting at the unwelcome light from the opening door. He had, for all practical purposes, taken up permanent residence here and now considered this place, this stool, home, and he didn't appreciate any uninvited guests coming in. Methos slouched in, stopping in the entrance, his long, dark overcoat seeming to swallow his thin form. The atmosphere of the place had become oppressive lately. Joe was drinking way too much and Maurice had become a pouting shrew at being left out of the loop, again. And Amanda . . . Amanda had arrived within hours of her phone call, swooping down like the Wicked Witch of the West, certain that Methos or the dreadful Watchers had *done* something to drive her beloved Mac around the bend. Her faith that MacLeod would simply never have done what Methos and Joe had seen him do had made understanding what had happened or finding a plan to deal with it all the more difficult.
"Do you have it?" Joe growled.
Methos examined the Watcher as he moved closer and his eyes adjusted to the dim interior. Joe had aged ten years during the past week. This was the heavy price he had paid for becoming more than a Watcher, even more than a friend, to Immortals. Richie Ryan had also felt a little like the son Joe had never had. A son Joe had every reason to believe would long outlive him. His death may have destroyed the Immortal Duncan MacLeod, but it had also damn near destroyed the merely mortal, painfully human Joe Dawson.
But Joe, stalwart that he was, inveterate, dedicated Watcher, had crawled out of his bottle a couple of days ago and started bugging Methos about the damn book MacLeod had been so obsessed with, convinced that it held some vital clue that would help them all understand either why Duncan had gone mad, or, if not mad, at least what had driven him to murder his own student.
Methos had looked at it, thumbed through it, and found it disgusting, superstitious drivel. The whole notion that some ancient religion had some power over today's events and actions was absurd, and Methos had quickly decided that the issue was not worth pursuing. What they needed to do was find Mac, hog-tie him, if necessary, and get him some serious psychiatric help.
"Here," Methos laid the heavy, leather bound volume on the bar with a thump. "You want it, you got it. Now, what have the Watchers heard?"
Joe pulled the book to himself and flipped it open. It was more of an artist's journal, really. Full of drawings and hieroglyphs, disconnected phrases and the seemingly random thoughts of Jason Landry, archeologist. Methos put his hand over the book to get Joe's attention then quickly took it away, almost as though its touch brought him discomfort.
"Answer me, Joe. What have you heard?"
"Nothing, dammit! I would have told you if I'd heard anything. Everyone's on the lookout, but, Christ, the man's had 400 years of experience traveling the world and he knows we'll be looking for him. What, you think he couldn't disappear even from us if he really wanted to?" The two friends glared at each other in open hostility until Methos head snapped up and then he turned toward the door.
. . . which swung open and Amanda breezed in, dumping her tiny purse on the bar.
In an odd, random thought, Methos wondered why she bothered to carry a bag that wasn't even large enough to hold a cellphone. <<Probably because she couldn't afford to have any pockets since all her clothes look like they were painted on,>> he decided. She shrugged out of her coat and, sure enough, was wearing a teeshirt that showed her midriff and pants that she had to have buttoned up while lying flat on the floor. Of course, Methos had to admit in admiration, she had the figure to get away with it.
"All right, gentlemen," she announced, "Have you found him yet?"
Joe sighed and slammed the book closed. "No! We haven't found him yet, all right? And you don't need to yell at me about it anymore, Amanda. We're doing the best we can. All we can do is wait and see if there's anything here that will help us understand what's going on." He tapped the elaborately embossed leather cover under his hand.
"There's nothing in that book that will help anybody, Joe," Methos said derisively. "It's the pathetic ramblings of a deluded old man and I can't believe you're going to spend precious time and effort on it when we should be tracking Duncan down! You know the damage he can do if he's let loose on the world in a killing rage."
Joe struggled to his feet. Standing, Joe Dawson was taller and wider than the Oldest Immortal and, when riled, he could be just as loud and almost as stubborn. "Yes, I know," he said coldly. "I also know that Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, without a sword, is an irresistible target for every hunting Immortal in the world. Either way, we *have* to find him. But we also have to understand what's happened if we're going to help him. And that's what I plan to do, and *this*," he said clutching the book, "is all I've got to work with." He cocked his head at the Oldest Immortal. "So you're not going to help us with it?" he asked coldly. "The world's greatest expert in ancient languages, myths and history doesn't want to bother giving us a hand? What is it with you, Methos?"
Methos face took on an annoyingly familiar expression of unreadable cynicism. "Well, if you won't do your job, Watcher, I guess I'll have to do it on my own. In the unlikely event you find him, I'll be at my apartment, doing my own research." He turned on his heel and left, his coat billowing behind him as he threw open the door and disappeared.
"Well!" Amanda said, cupping her heart-shaped face in her hand as she perched on a barstool. "I wonder what burr crawled up his ass."
Laird could achieve numbness here deep in the engine room, the machines
thrumming in his ears, the constant, steady vibrations settling in his
bones until there was no room for thought, for feeling. Here there
was no day or night, only duty, only work. The others didn't like
working in the bowels of the ship. It was dirty and dangerous, the equipment
old and requiring constant tinkering to keep it running smoothly.
So he tinkered, oiled, adjusted, cleaned and tuned until the huge engines
were running more efficiently and smoothly than they had in years.
There was some small satisfaction in that achievement. There were
even moments when the engines' pitch and hum was almost musical and he
nearly forgot what he was. Then a face would intrude, a smile imprint
itself behind his eyes, the memory of young, innocent blue eyes looking
into his, trusting him. Believing in him, believing in the myth of
Duncan . . . he couldn't finish the thought. His mind refused to
encompass the loss of what he had once thought he was. Friendship,
loyalty, honor, a capacity to help others, to make a difference in their
lives, everything that had defined his life seemed to have evaporated.
To have killed so many, to have killed Richie in some bizarre moment of
delusion, it was beyond unthinkable. It turned him into everything
he feared and despised. Each time the memories of who he cared about,
who he loved, rose up, all he could find was terrible, gut wrenching fear
that he would do to them what he had done to Richie. Now, all he
could do was mentally close the door against the memory, against the pain.
Shut it out. His only mission now was to protect them from what he
had become. His only solace was that if he waited, if he was patient, an
end could be found. Death was just around the corner. All he
had to do was find the right dealer.
They ultimately docked in Galveston, Texas -- a sad, stale place, it's beaches washed with gray sand by tired waves. Of course, the first thing the crew headed for once the cargo was off-loaded was the local strip of bars and dance joints.
Laird stayed on board for awhile, cleaning the engine room until it looked like a surgical area. He didn't want to go ashore. The states were too . . . normal, too familiar. Finally, though, the call of a little privacy, a hot shower and a decent bed was too strong and he gathered his duffel bag and made his way down the gangplank. The sun was hot and the air close and humid. Twentieth Century Southeast Texas smelled vaguely like an unpleasant chemical perfume of swamps and refineries, especially when the air was still. He found a relatively cheap motel within walking distance and checked in, allowing himself the luxury of a long shower in the small, dim bathroom, then he cranked up the window air conditioner and crawled under the cool sheets of a double bed, determined to sleep for several hours, something he had never achieved in the cramped and noisy ship's quarters.
But the dreams came, shadows from the past, coming at him from out of the darkness, and this time the door wouldn't close. Bright blades slicing soundlessly through the air. Old, dead faces and one new one. A face looming out of the shadows, sandy hair, blue eyes, then blood and more blood. He woke with a shout, gasping, his heart pounding, sheets soaked with sweat. It was the worst nightmare he had had since he had left Paris. It must be the quiet, he thought in frustration, throwing the covers back and sitting up. No distractions. He rose and dressed, walking through the warm, humid night, on a restless, futile search for his lost soul.
"Then spoke the devil to me, once upon a time: 'Even God has his hell: it is his love for humankind.'
The computer screen stared back at the hazel eyes so fixated on it. Both uninterrupt- able contemplations blind and unseeing. It was not until his eyes started to water that Methos realized he had been staring at the monitor for the better part of a quarter hour without really seeing it.
Musings leading to nowhere, he decided and shut the system down without another thought. His gaze shifted to the papers and books spread across his desk, notes, and comments... all of it half finished, inconclusive. Half-hearted.
He was obsessing. He recognized all the signs. Days, actually weeks now, spent in pointless research going nowhere, waffling between furious hacking into every obscure travel and reservation computer he could find, looking for any name, any description, any pattern that might identify the missing, mad Scot, and poking about in old myths of millennia cycles, also research that seemed to go nowhere. His brain more and more seemed to have gone either on vacation or on overload, wandering off into irrelevant musings and memories.
He covered his eyes for a brief moment, letting the sparkle of strained corneas distract him for a long moment then pulled them away to study his own hands. They were long, slender, tapered fingers curling with a surprising strength, the palms callused permanently, calluses built before his first death and long before he ever picked up a sword with any knowledge of how to use one. Swords had been rare commodities during his early life: blade and pike, ax and adz the preferred killing force. Not easy to take an opponent's head when the most available weapon was a spear.
He tried to remember when the short broad blades had first come into common use, a soldier's use first, never an item for the masses. The arenas? What battlefield had seen them first? Surely he had been there? His fingers closed as he tried to summon the memory of the first time he ever felt the hilt of one in his hands.
And found himself tensing, shoulders aching as if he had just come out of a particularly brutal spar with MacLeod. Amazing that the Scotsman could make him work harder for practice and the simple joy of physical movement and competition than any fight he'd ever been in.
Save Silas. The patrician features dropped into the elegant hands, slowing the memories. Not the same as killing your son... but still. Silas had been no more or less evil than the others save in one respect.
He had not known the difference. Kronos and Caspian had made evil, cruelty, and power a choice in their lives -- as he had. Silas had simply been. Silas.
And he had simply killed him. No. Not simply. Anymore than MacLeod had simply killed Richie.
But if it wasn't simple, then what was it? The mind so blank and uninvolved suddenly woke up again. Staring once more at his notes and papers, mind reaching out to recapture the images and texts from Landry's journal. Superstitious nonsense.
His mind slowed again, only this time he was aware of the shift. His mind only did that when there was something he was trying desperately not to remember. He had encountered the phenomena enough over the centuries to know he had reached an edge of his memory bank the rest of his brain thought better to avoid.
Rising to his feet he began the systematic and familiar cataloguing of his memories, noting the blind spots. Anything before he took his first head brought a feeling of dread that he skimmed past quickly. The near century before he met Kronos. Those years immediately following. Most of the 4th century Anno Dominus. The 7th century primarily because of the pitiable food and that damned.... contemplation of Ireland was not to be borne... not then. Scatterings of blank spots that he could only barely edge around. What he could recall came with the stark clarity all Immortals experienced.
The rest was there as well, he knew, had he the courage to face them, and he might for MacLeod's sake if he but knew where to look. The millennium cycles. In 1000 AD he had been where? Not in Europe, he thought, or Brittany, not participant to the petty rise and fall of warrior chieftains as they struggled their way into a monarchy. But he had returned there to make that fateful voyage. And in Anno Dominus prime?
That gained him a headache and the resurgence of his role as Death on a Horse. He had left that episode behind on a journey to take him anywhere that meeting up with Kronos, if he lived, would be unlikely. Taken him to climes not so arid, where breezes cooled the skin rather than robbed it of any moisture, where sunlight could be filtered through the branches of olive and pomegranate trees, cobalt blue waters and lush hillsides, where civilizations meant people and learning and the day to day experiences of marketplaces and meeting grounds, where devotions laid at the feet of deities were expected to be answered, and temples were as graceful as the effigies they housed.
Pleasant though the thoughts were they led him nowhere. Somewhere in the Mediterranean or the Aegean or the fertile crescent. He would have to check his own journals to be sure and turned to reach for the marked tome of his life only to be swept up by a weariness that made him sway on his feet. Blurry eyes looked at the clock over his desk, barely able to mark the time.
Two weeks. Two weeks since he had left Joe with the worthless diary and swept out in full disgust at the Watcher's lack of progress in finding MacLeod and annoyed that the diary had given him so little that was of real use. He had been pushing himself almost non-stop since, and his spare apartment was littered with dirty coffee cups and bits of leftover carryout food, the sustenance he had depended on while trying, single-handedly, to find an answer, to find his friend before it was too late.
No wonder he could no longer think clearly. Immortal or no, his body was otherwise human and his mind certainly so. The idea of sleep suddenly overrode all else and he headed for the bathroom to shower first, sitting on the bed to strip. Unbuttoning his shirt was the last activity he could remember.
"There's still no answer," Amanda said petulantly and Joe gave her barely a glance.
"He's probably at one of the libraries," Joe commented.
"For two days? What have you found?"
Ignoring her, Joe sifted through the thick sheaf of fax pages he had finally received from the Watcher research library, sorting them into piles on Duncan's desk. They had ended up using the barge as a central meeting point since Amanda had taken up residence there. Methos had more sophisticated computer equipment and special high speed phone lines installed, but he had arranged the space for himself alone, one chair, one bed, one desk. Joe and Amanda had dropped by a couple of times to find the prickly oldest Immortal hunched over his computer, determined to find MacLeod his own way, determined to discount anything to do with Landry's work. MacLeod's barge, however, had space and accommodations to spread out and work. It occurred to Amanda as she paced the floor, thinking about Methos, worrying about Duncan, that the spaces reflected the people that occupied them. Methos was a solitary bastard, keeping everyone at a distance, not wanting to let anyone in his life, while Duncan had always wanted his 'clan' around so he could keep an eye on them.
"I'm waiting, Joe," Amanda insisted, again. "It's been weeks! Haven't they come up with anything useful? Maybe Methos is right."
Joe scratched his beard, puzzling over the enigmatic material the Watcher researchers had provided.
"Well, according to their analysis and translations of the Middle Persian texts Landry had in his journal, the Zoroastrians believe all of world history encompasses 12,000 years, and that we are currently in the . . ." he paused, thumbing through the papers, then found what he was looking for, "Iron Age."
"I thought we got through that one awhile back," Amanda said in irritation, flopping down onto the couch. This didn't seem like it was getting them anywhere.
"Be patient, Amanda! I'm trying to piece this together. There's something in here about doing battle with a demon every thousand years. There's a bunch of names here, whether they're gods or men or whatever I can't tell, but it talks about something called Angra Mainyu, some real bad ass who has to be put down every thousand years. There are other names here and I can't really tell if its more bad characters or the same one. Ahriman . . . Druj. Called the 'leader of the demonic hordes.' The creator of non-life. Says he resides in the 'House of the Lie.' That he's been bound in some metaphysical prison in Mount Demarend in Iraq."
Joe paused as he read. "You know what's creepy about some of this is that it relates some of these legends to recent events. It says that the end of the cycle of the Iron Age will be preceded by an attack on Persia, that the area will disintegrate economically and religiously. There will be no respect for truth or family."
He looked up, and their eyes met.
"The Gulf War," Amanda said quietly. "Saddam Hussein and his subjugation of an entire country." She rose and came around to stand behind Dawson, looking over his shoulder.
"What about this . . . this demon guy? How does Duncan get pulled into this?"
Joe took a deep breath. "According to this, the Zoroastrian god, Ohrmazd, has his helpers called the Amesha Spentas, translated as . . ." Joe paused, read the notes again and swallowed, "The Bounteous Immortals."
"They mention us?" Amanda's voice almost squeaked.
"I don't know! That's just what it says," Joe growled. "Some of these translations are very iffy and are from a Middle Persian translation of the original text. We could really use Methos in this. Damn him!" Joe whispered, almost to himself. "Their bible is called the Avesta. I sent one of our best people to see it in the original text in the Bodleian Library in Oxford to see if there was anything else we can learn."
"Anyway, Landry's notes mention three heroes, associating with these Bounteous Immortals. There's a Vohu-Manah or, its hard to read his writing here because he has a note there that looks a little like . . . Mata or Matos. Describes him as the first to meet the demon. Other notes describe him as "first born" . . . "keeper of the journals." I don't know, that one is very unclear."
"Joe!" Amanda said impatiently, pacing away again, arms crossed in irritation.
"I'm getting to it! Then there's a second hero. This one is even more vague. There are a lot of question marks here. One by something called the Khshathra Vairya, with something about metals. I don't know." Joe sighed. "Okay, okay, here we go. It describes the next warrior and MacLeod's name is printed in large letters across the page. There are references to Asha, representing righteousness or truth, that his element is the light or fire. "Asha," Joe read, "is the most beautiful of the Immortals, representing moral order in the world. The opposite of untruth."
"The rest of this is about this demon, Ahriman. A real nasty character," Joe observed.
"You ought to see me when I get ticked off," she said sharply.
Joe stared at her. "What do you want me to say, Amanda?" he snapped. "Whatever MacLeod was up against is here somewhere - hopefully. But while I may be a historian of sorts, ancient Persian Mythology is not my particular expertise."
She had the grace to look abashed and crossed to him, settling into a crouch in one fluid graceful movement to lay her tiny hands on Joe's knees. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm no Rhodes Scholar, either, Joe, and this makes less sense to me than it does to you. And I can't help you. A thousand years ago I was stealing bread for a living not far from here. If there were world shattering events going on, I wasn't aware of them--I was too busy trying to survive to the next sunrise."
She gave him a tiny, worried little smile and reached up to stroke the smooth gray of his beard. "So, while I could stay here and keep you company, I think I'd do better to find you someone who knows about ancient Persian Mythology."
"Methos."
She nodded. "I don't know what's wrong with him -- I haven't a clue as to what goes on in that labyrinth of a mind of his. But I know he cares about Mac and you. Let me see if the personal approach doesn't get his attention," she said with a saucy smile and Joe felt his face actually stretch into a grin for the first time in weeks.
"It would me."
She winked and rose brushing his cheek with a kiss. "The predictability of males has always been a useful asset," she said with a little wriggle and scampered up the steps.
Joe chuckled again, wondering if time might indeed have given the oldest living Immortal some resistance. He wasn't likely to lay money on it.
It was brilliantly clear. The sweet-salt scent of an ocean brushed across his face as he contemplated the temple. Holy Ground. If he were lucky, there would be offerings of food within that could quell the perpetual emptiness in his belly.
Diana stared across the expanse, beautiful, blank marble eyes oblivious to his presence and uncaring as he did indeed find fruit and grain, other tokens. The fruit was beginning to soften but it was edible, and the grain -- a few dry mouthfuls and he actually felt closer to full than starvation. A jar revealed wine, which he spat out. No favors for the giver then when it was so close to vinegar. Another jar produced something more potable.
Hunger and thirst satisfied he sought a dark corner, tucking his lean frame behind a low bench where he could see without being seen and sought sleep.
It would not come. Kronos kept prodding his rest with all-too-vivid memories of his kicks and pricks of his sword. Of muttered accusations of betrayal and cowardice. The latter easy to ignore. The former undeniable. If he were lucky the only pursuit Kronos was capable of mounting any longer *was* through his dreams.
Never again. It came unbidden to him as his stomach ached, either from bad wine or bad fruit or bad memories. There had been a time, not so long ago, when only bad food would have turned his stomach. No longer. Nor was it the first time he questioned his own sanity during the last thousand years.
Diana stood silent witness to his oath. Sentinel but not champion. That soulless extraction of blind faith had never nor would ever lay one eternal finger down to help anyone... and more men had died under her aegis than had ever lain their throats to his sword.... a wonder the very marble of her effigy did not reek of carrion....
The scent was with him...he realized, stirring from his hard stone nest. That reek of decay not from spoiled offerings of food, but the wretched stench of battle meat lain too long in the sun... and he heard the sound, near quailing as he contemplated how Kronos could possibly have found him so quickly...that sudden surge across his senses that indicated the presence of another Immortal. He was far weaker or more fatigued than he had realized not to have sensed the approach earlier.
"Methos. Meeeee-thooos!" A canting, teasing call and his fingers closed around his blade tightly then relaxed. They were on Holy Ground. Madman Kronos might be, but even he would not treat that rule so carelessly. He emerged without responding, letting the trod of his sandals on stone herald his arrival. But the steps were heavy, each one bringing him closer to an undeniable dread, and the Mediterranean climate did nothing to ease the chill of his skin, nor dispel that reek of rotten flesh and excrement that had invaded the temple. The man turned but the face was unfamiliar... as was the signature of his presence, the throaty undercurrent unlike any he had ever heard.
"A Champion of mankind stealing food from a temple.... how utterly appropriate," The stranger said and Methos understood nothing... that retched scent distracting him... as the man neared... and without a word drove his blade into Methos' chest...shock and pain ripping through him like no agony he had ever know. The blade seemed made of ice, cold stealing into blood as he stared up at the unknown face--and yet the ice shard piercing his heart burned like liquid fire....
...he was burned, badly. To the bone and beyond, his entire side one sheet of agonized flesh. There were other pains as well but that was the worst. The stench of his own blackened skin made him nauseated and then he howled again as he was jostled, moved.
"This man is alive!"
An unknown face and voice as he slid into a state of semi-consciousness that did nothing to alleviate the pain. The ground shuddered and there were more screams, the smell of burning, of fear, the sky blackened so that not even a haze of light broke through. The end of the world had come...
"Methos...." the voice was disgusted and amused.....
He surged back, not to life but to wakefulness, the dream fading in the wash of very real pain in his chest, of the very real presence of another Immortal, and the sound of his own name...
"Methos!" Amanda's voice was sharp and harsh with concern, her fingers on his arms and he lurched away from her, hand automatically reaching for the sword he kept under his pillows, lunging back across the bed to hold it up in front of him like a talisman against evil.
She rose as well, her own blade out, not understanding his reactions. She had arrived to find no answer to her knock but the very definite signature of the oldest Immortal present. The door had offered no effective resistance to her lock picking, every second of her effort expecting Methos to greet her as he had before, sword in hand.
Only to find him unaware of her at all, the muted lighting of the single large room still on and the man himself, half dressed and twisting on the bed in the grip of either a convulsion or a nightmare. It chilled her to know that the oldest of them was abjectly helpless should anyone seeking his head come calling. Methos was the most cautious Immortal she knew and catching him unawares was unheard of. That whatever dream possessed him should so strip him of his first and best defense at the same time MacLeod had vanished in a haze of mad grief seemed an unlikely coincidence. These two men were tied by something she understood not at all, a bond that had sparked jealousy in her more than once, but one she had been prepared to use when it suited her purposes. The notion that MacLeod's madness might have spilled over to taint the mental stability of the oldest living Immortal was more of a horrifying possibility than she wished to contemplate, much less deal with.
Only it was not madness she saw in the dilated pupils and ashen face of the Immortal facing her across the bed, but undiluted terror -- fear whose depths spilled over into her less-than-imaginative mind. Creative and clever she was, but she was not one to draw up horrors without cause.
"Methos, it's Amanda," she said sharply, whether unnecessarily or not. She could not tell from his expression if he even recognized her. But he was making no move toward her, his entire stance spoke of defense not aggression.
He breathed. Not the mere involuntary intake of air to feed his lungs but as if tasting and smelling and then released that breath on something not unlike a sob.
"Amanda."
Acknowledgment not greeting. A relief so sharp it seemed to cut through him as easily as her sword could have. Her own blade went down without sound onto the bed as she lunged across the expanse to catch him before he fell. Not a faint but a weakness; something she associated with Methos no more than she did MacLeod. His blade hit the floor with a clatter, her speed and quick reaction managing to get him at least partway on the bed.
She pulled back in amazement. His skin was slicked with sweat and ice cold to her touch; the contradiction speaking of illness had he been mortal. Her hands were back in an instant to cup his face and smooth the damp hair back from his forehead as he stared at her blindly for a few seconds, then seemed to find whatever internal anchor he needed and pulled himself upright to lean against the headboard with his long legs drawn up and the graceful hands covering his face for a brief moment while he regained his composure.
Once resettled around his knees, those hands clasped each other until they were white as he contemplated his visitor.
"I ..I didn't hear you come in.." he said, voice carefully casual after an initial test break.
"No kidding. Not your usual style, mon ami," She murmured and lay her hands over his. She had seen this man at the edge of despair during his impassioned speech about the bravery of mortals shortly before Alexa's death. Amanda had realized, even then, that she was one of the rare few who had ever seen through that steely cynicism and into the heart and soul of a man who, even after five thousand years, was still just a man. That despair was present now as well and she wondered once more just how deeply the bond between he and the Highlander ran.
She could not call him old man, as Joe and Duncan did, feminine heart ever
attuned to the physical attributes of the male of the species, and in truth
she had never contemplated Methos as a potential conquest, despite her
brazen plot as presented to Joe. There was nothing ancient looking about
the face or physique, only the eyes and that guarded reserve spoke of his
age. But now, even those seemed to have been masked somehow. He was,
she decided in an idle moment as she chafed his arms to dispel the chill,
attractive in his own right, not to be compared with the Highlander's dark,
smoldering masculine beauty. They were far too different both in body type
and their apparent age. Methos' maturity seemed to slip in and out at his
whim, one moment a brash and inexperienced graduate student and the next,
a man edged and hardened by centuries of battle and bloodshed. Millennia
of them. Enough to give anyone nightmares.
"Do you want to tell me about it?" She asked, plying honest concern for information, however inconsequential. There was real exhaustion haunting the sharp features, shadows under the expressive gold-green eyes which contemplated her now with less guard than gratitude for what had been terror enough to actually shake him out of his usual detachment.
The eyes were shuttered away as he leaned back, the hands finally relaxing and Amanda took them in her own, noting where his own grip had left near-bruises in the pale skin. "I don't remember most of it... I remember being.." his breath caught and he swallowed, pulling one hand from hers to touch his chest, face paling under whatever memory persisted. Amanda followed the palm with both eyes and hand, irrationally glad that the skin seemed to be warming somewhat. He was not so deep chested as MacLeod she saw, having seen him only once before without the obscuring disguises of the loose sweaters he preferred -- camouflaging the strength hidden within the slender frame as her own was under her feminine exterior.
And he was desperately calling on another strength to overcome the return of his fear.
"What do you remember?" she coaxed and shifted beside him on the bed, sliding an arm around the tense shoulders and once more taking his hand in hers.
"It's nothing. A nightmare...just.. a temple.. an Immortal but I can't remember his face or name..." He paled again, and his face closed against the memory and against her intrusion, moving away, only to be caught and pulled back gently.
"It was only a dream," she said. "Give it time to pass...it will come back to you to if it is important to remember."
"You sound like Rebecca," he said but made no further move to escape her comfort.
She chuckled. "There's probably a really good reason for that," she paused, letting her fingers spread his as she studied both. "I came because we've been trying to reach you for a couple of days."
"I turned the ringer off. I'd forgotten," he said. "I haven't found anything of use," he added bitterly and then did escape her, surging off the bed with that sudden explosion of movement she had come to know only to go utterly still again as he crossed the room and gripped the back of his desk chair to stare blindly at the silent computer.
Amanda remained where she was for a moment, eyes narrowed as she watched the tense lean lines of her friend's body as he stretched against the chair. The austere hawkishness of his face never so prominent as it was while in profile. Nor did she move except for a small leap of her muscles when that sudden movement came again, this time to sweep all the research materials, scattered remains of poor meals and nearly the computer onto the floor in one massive expulsion of energy. Not madness then. Frustration and helplessness, not so far from her and Joe's source but far outdistancing them in affect, she noted with the peculiar insights attributed to females as she stared at the broad back. The long arms crossed to grip his upper arms were in such a classic stance of denial he might have been a textbook example of dominant body language.
She came up behind him, making sure he heard her, and laid her hands on the tight shoulders. "Methos. All of us are worried about him and none of us can do this alone, not Joe, not me and not you," she said but he made no acknowledgment that he had heard her until she moved in front of him to find that in his absolute, rigid silence he was crying.
<<I am such a sucker for a sensitive male,>> she thought and not idly, hands lifting to the sharp planes of his cheeks to brush at the tears, not surprised that he still made no movement.
"You need rest," she said and he did shake his head then.
"No. I *need* to find him," he rasped out. "There is nothing, *nothing* in the millennia myths that suggests the kind of madness MacLeod experienced. Or of the old man who gave him the damn prophecy. All any of them speak of is the battle between the forces of good and evil, darkness and light."
"Joe found references to ....uhm..." she sought for the fragment of information. "The Bounteous Immortals in his research and in Landry's journal."
"All gods are considered Immortal, Amanda," he snapped. "It means nothing. Landry was a fool."
"But not all Immortals are considered gods," she said a little sharply. "And only three were called Champions."
"Your point?"
She dropped her hands. That near-alien control had resurfaced in the stark lines of his face.
"I don't know! I do know that assuming that Duncan is a madman seems to do nothing but find ways to prove it! Joe found a name... a demon, like the one Duncan said he was fighting... Armand or Maya Angelou or something and the first champion, Vohu-manah or Mata...."
"Maya Angelou?" Methos said, the smallest of smiles twitching at his lip. "A muse perhaps, but not a demon."
Amanda gave a huge sigh of disgust. "I don't remember, okay? Joe was rattling names off so fast I could barely follow him. Call him! He needs you. Mac needs you," she said and her voice broke just a little and not with her usual hurt kitten 'do what I want or I'll cry' look either.
Just enough honesty in her concern to cut through the self-absorption of his own anxiety. "I will," he said and it was his turn to reach out, just barely touching her hand to slip his fingers through hers.
"I've been afraid ... afraid I'd lose him before," she murmured, eyes intent on the slender fingers laced through hers. "It just feels like.... that he's always been there... always for me, when I needed him -- no matter the reason... It just seems like such .. I never worry too much about being there for people but with Duncan... to not know or be able to help. It makes me feel like such a failure -- as a friend, you know?"
The fingers tightened on hers and she looked up to find the hazel eyes hidden once more, dark lashes damp and the face paling. Her grief, her sense of failure was no less sharp than that of the man before her and his sudden outburst of anger made more sense.
<<What are they to one another?>> She wondered again stepping in to wrap her arms around him, not surprised when he returned the embrace as he had done when he let her see his grief for Alexa. And it was the same; that same sense of devastating loss threatened this man who was four times her senior, and looked young enough to almost pass as her son. Maternal instincts were not uppermost in her mind, however as she felt the solid strength with which he clung to her. It was reassuring, the feel of sleek muscle underneath the skin, even with his earlier reaction to his nightmare still evident in the tight lines of his body. That strength was faltering, trembling against her, matching her own fears for the man they both called friend and one called lover.
But both could. That thought came to mind suddenly and unexpectedly. Not in the physical sense, but in all other respects, it would explain much. Methos' reactions were exactly those he had expressed over Alexa, the frustration and desperation, the grief and the sense of hopelessness. <<Oh, my very old friend, what have you opened yourself up to after all your centuries alone?>>
Compounded with the fact that if Duncan were indeed mad, there was possibly only one or two Immortals on the planet that could face him in a final challenge and have any hope of winning.
Richie had not been one of them, nor was she, but Methos....
Oh no. He could no more face that grief alone than she could. That choice... and to have kept himself apart all this time, over the weeks, helping but not helping, searching for MacLeod. Wanting, needing to find him, but desperately afraid of the outcome if he did. Searching for an alternative, any alternative that his steel edged mind could grasp and finding nothing.
It was enough to give her nightmares. And she and Joe needed him as much as he needed them. But for all their sakes he had to release that desperate dependence on his solitude. The instant answer came to her in what had been meant as a joke to Joe, but now seemed less amusing and far less manipulation than necessary alternative.
"You are not alone in this," she murmured against his neck and brushed her lips against the pale skin before pulling back to catch his face in her hands again. "You are not alone at all," she said softly and pulled his mouth down gently to hers. Neither shock nor surprise crossed the gold-green eyes as their lips met and the first foray was, while not exactly chaste, nor particularly intimate.
"Amanda..." he whispered, already prepared to draw back again, to accept compassion but not pity. His hand came to her cheek to allow his thumb to brush her lips gently...
She realized in that brief kiss that she needed the comfort of another as much as he. "I don't want to be alone either. I am very, very frightened," she said in a small voice that was not quite a plea or a promise.
He studied her face for a long moment, hand sweeping up along her cheek to push her short hair back. The hazel eyes searching hers for the reasons behind her sudden need as well as his own. "Me too," he admitted and she leaned in once more catching the last breath of that fear with her mouth. His opened and warmed over her, that first hesitant foray of tongues not forbidden but unexpected as his slender strong hands caught her shoulders and pulled her in closer, almost lifting her upward to meet his height until she slid her arms around his neck to pull him closer to her own.
The reasons for their fears and their need faded somewhat as the comfort was offered and accepted on both sides. Amanda made no comparisons she became intimately aware of the strength in the deceptive body, the way the lean lines fit against her curves and the unanticipated smooth feel of his skin against hers, the silk of the short dark hair as her fingers slipped through it.
Or how his fingers, when they moved to span her waist, were long enough to caress her front and back. By the time they reached the bed her only thought was of how foolish she had been to wait so long to find out if a man who knew so much about love, would know much more about lovemaking.
They moved together naturally, like lovers of long standing, his long, lean frame sliding smoothly against her slim silk. They were both more interested in comfort than passion, solace more than release. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply of her scent, feeling her warmth, burying his face against her neck, hands exploring the slim curves, the small breasts, the warm thighs. She clung to him, pressing her body close, taking him inside, moving together in a subconscious choreography they both knew so well. And release came -- sweet, gentle, welcome, comforting. It satisfied a deep, compelling need for them both, so intensely warm, so completely right, each secretly wept in the dark with relief before they drifted to sleep, held close in each other's arms.
Methos woke to a firm but light pressure on his chest, recognizing the short hair immediately as well as the pixyish curve of cheek he could see without moving. Amanda was curled against him like a limpet, limbs as tangled as the bedclothes. She had one hand tucked under her cheek against his chest and the other vanished under the blankets, but an intake of breath located it close to dangerous territory. That thought threatened to chase others from his brain but he had awakened with a clearer head than he'd had in weeks and steeled himself against any further distractions. Nevertheless he moved cautiously, gentling her stirring form back to sleep when she felt him slip from beneath her, allowing himself only a glimpse of the tantalizing body he now knew intimately before gently pulling the blankets up and over her before heading for the shower.
It was quick and cool and but not icy. Enough to wake him and keep his attention at its prime. By the time he emerged Amanda was awake.
"Coffee?" he queried already setting up the brewer. "And there's hot water left."
"Methos?" Not doubt or regret but curiosity and he came to her, slipping onto the bed next to her to catch her chin and cover her mouth with his own, savoring both the kiss and her presence. She pulled back a little breathlessly to grin at the glittering amusement in his hazel eyes. No regrets. Well, that was all right then.
"Shall I say thank you or you were wonderful?" he asked with just a hint of laughter.
"Just say I'm beautiful."
"No question. You are most definitely beautiful," he said softly.
"Now what?" she asked, turning her body to him and slipping her hand along his cheek to filter the short dark silk. He caught her fingers and kissed the backs of them, hazel eyes alert and bright and focused.
"Now, we find our Highland friend and we find some answers," he said and an adorably boyish smile appeared as he bent down to kiss her again with a hard, firm pressure before pulling her up and out of bed.
She had showered and slipped on one of his large, loose shirts, finding coffee and toast already prepared by the time she emerged. His face was thoughtful, preoccupied as he perched on one of the few chairs in the odd, sharp cornered space he called home, and suddenly she feared he would retreat back into his determined solitude.
She searched for something mundane and normal to say as she retrieved her scattered clothes, bending down to look under the bed for a missing shoe.
"You really ought to get some housekeeping help in here Methos. This place is crawling with dust bunnies."
"I've got rodents under the bed?!" Methos sounded alarmed.
Amanda's mischievous face appeared above the edge of the mattress, her expression dancing with amused astonishment.
"No, you idiot. You know. Those little balls of lint and dirt that just seem to form in all your out of the way places when you're not looking. Dust bunnies. Haven't you ever heard of them before?"
Methos eyes crinkled up delightfully at the corners as he shook his head, and Amanda ducked back down with a smile to retrieve her shoe. <<Men!>> she thought. <<They really are clueless.>> But she had succeeded in bringing him back into contact and they sat in companionable silence as they finished their coffee and toast. Unfortunately, the object of both their concern was a dark hovering presence.
"Methos?"
"Mmmm?"
"Do you really believe Duncan is . . . insane?"
The jaw and neck muscles visibly tensed. "Sanity is a relative thing in an Immortal," he said softly. "But MacLeod has been tested too hard, too fast. He's taken more heads in 400 years than I took in 4,000, and even I never had to contend with a Dark Quickening."
"He's a good man, Methos," Amanda said, reaching out to find his hand and squeeze it. "We've got to give him time. Whatever happened with Richie, it wasn't the real MacLeod."
"How do we know who the real MacLeod is anymore, Amanda?" Methos said harshly, taking his hand away and rising to clear the dishes.
"I know. And so do you. Perhaps the problem is that *he* doesn't know anymore. Maybe that's what we have to concentrate on."
Methos turned and gave her a slow, genuine smile, then crossed and gently cradled her head, kissing her forehead in a move that was heartbreakingly reminiscent of Duncan MacLeod. "Bright girl," he whispered.
Laird's steps took him towards the bright lights of the all-night bars and girly shows, music blaring out of the open doors where strobe lights accented the heavy rhythms that pounded against the skin as he passed by. The sidewalks were peopled with prostitutes, street people, off duty soldiers and seamen. There had been streets like this since time immemorial in every port city around the world. Some things didn't change.
A familiar chill passed over his mind and he paused like a nervous predator sniffing the wind. He slid into the next alley and waited. A nondescript looking middle aged man in a long raincoat walked by on the sidewalk, warily looking around. Laird held himself very still, watching the man turn, looking up and down the street, then turning towards the alley, walking slowly towards him.
Melvin Shepard looked warily into the deep shadows of the alley. The presence was unlike any he had felt before. It was sharp, intense, a powerful, ice-cold wash across his mind. One of the shadows moved and a man stepped into the reflected pool of the light from the neon sign on the next building. He was in jeans and a blue denim shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. If he was carrying a weapon, it was certainly not a sword, but he was built like a warrior, heavy muscular shoulders and neck, long and lean everywhere else.
Shepard put his hand in his coat, touching the rapier he kept close at all times. He'd only been an Immortal for about 60 years, but his teacher, Alex Cord, had taught him to be wary, to be aggressive, and to take whatever he could, whenever he could.
"Well, well," he said quietly in a soft southern accent, perusing the alley carefully for traps and pitfalls. "New in town?" The man stood quietly without giving an answer. "My name is Melvin Shepard. This is my street, my friend. You have wandered into the wrong place tonight.
Laird watched the man from the shadows, taking his measure. He was relatively young for an Immortal and his eyes nervously flicked back and forth, reflecting both fear and greed. There was no honor here, no strength, no one who could take the power that surged in him like a black tide and use it for anything other than his own mean purposes.
Laird spread his large hands hanging loosely at his sides. "I don't carry a sword, Shepard. I have no quarrel with you."
Shepard cocked his head at the unknown Immortal. "It's customary to introduce yourself, my friend. I've given you my name. What's yours?"
After a long pause, the man said softly, "I have no name, Shepard. Or at least not one you would want to hear." The man stepped closer so Shepard could see his face. What he saw made the hair on the back of his neck rise up.
The man was ethereally handsome, dark-eyed, classic features, but his expression was cold, hard and old. The contrast between the outer beauty and the inner blackness was chilling. Shepard couldn't help himself. He stepped back.
Then paused. The man was unarmed. Whoever he was, there was power here. Lots of power that was his for the taking. "Outstanding!" is what Cord would have said, and the rapier flicked out from underneath his coat, slicing down . . . and found air. The man had somehow slipped out of range.
A voice came out of the shadows deep in the alley. "I can't let you take my head, Shepard. I'm truly sorry about that, actually, but I have to be careful about who inherits my Quickening."
Shepard followed the voice, lunging toward the darkness from whence it came, again finding nothing. As he swung around looking for the elusive shadow he felt a sharp blow on his neck, propelling him into the cold metal surface of a dumpster. Suddenly he was pinned in a steel grip, his sword arm bent behind him until he felt the tendons in his shoulder snap. His hand involuntarily opened and his sword clattered to the ground.
"Let me be, Shepard. For your own sake, let me be," the voice whispered. Then the pressure was gone. When he turned the alley was empty. He waited a moment, clutching his shoulder, taking deep breaths against the pain while he waited for the ripped muscles to heal. Eventually, he tucked the rapier carefully back in his coat and walked into the light of the street, but he could no longer feel that tantalizing tang of Immortal presence.
As Shepard moved off down the street, Paulo also stepped out of the alley. His face was pale and troubled. The boy stood for a moment, deep in thought, then headed for the warm comfort of a bar.
Finally, a third figure emerged, spoke briefly into what appeared to be a tape recorder, and quietly continued following Shepard at a discrete distance.
It was almost noon when Joe carefully stepped up the gangplank to Duncan's barge. It was not a space that was friendly to the mobility impaired, so he always had to take extra precautions that his artificial lower legs were stable underneath him, working his way slowly down the steps into the large living space.
"Good morning, Mr. Dawson."
Joe looked up in surprise at the familiar clipped British accent.
Methos was standing at the top of the steps on the other side of the barge, coffeepot in hand. Amanda was stretched out on the couch in the same clothes she had worn the day before. Joe looked back and forth between the two Immortals in amused relief, his belief that that age was not necessarily a defense against feminine wiles having been confirmed. At least not the wiles of a 1,000 year old thief with the body of a Las Vegas showgirl.
"Welcome to the party, Dr. Pierson," Joe said, taking off his coat and hanging it up. "I assume you're here to give us a hand with our research."
Methos moved back into the galley to grab another coffee cup, returning to pour them each a serving. "I'll do what I can, Joe. I still don't believe there's anything to this Zoroastrian blather, but . . . we're better off doing this together than apart." he said quietly, with a long look at Amanda.
Joe mentally shook his head. He had Watched Immortals for most of his adult life and lived among them for the last five or six, and they continued to surprise him.
They all started at the sound of a muffled chirping noise and each of them dove for their respective cellular phones. Joe dragged his out of the pocket of his overcoat, answering gruffly, listening, asking some inaudible questions, and flipping the phone closed with a look of relieved satisfaction.
"Found!" he declared to the room.
"Found what?" Methos asked, head cocked suspiciously.
"Not what. Who. I think we've located Mac."
"Where? How?" Amanda demanded, coming up off the couch in a bound.
"Galveston, Texas. As least I can only assume it's Mac. One of our guys was following a local by the name of Shepard," Joe said. "The guy did the usual 'stop and look' and ducked into an alley. He met up with a tall, dark-haired Immortal who wouldn't give his name and didn't carry a sword. He said his guy got tossed around pretty good when he tried to take a slice, then the new Immortal just disappeared."
"Nothing more than tall and dark-hair? No accent? No pony tail?" Methos asked dubiously.
"Oh, I'm pretty sure it's him. He said the guy appeared to be in his mid-thirties. Good looking. No mention of long hair, though, but evidently it was late and the light was bad," Joe said. "But the last time MacLeod lit out he headed for a ship. Galveston is a sea port, and we don't have any other explanation for an unknown Immortal," he added hopefully. Both of them were loath to mention that the "last time" was when MacLeod went on a spree of madness, violence and mayhem that almost got Methos killed.
Methos blew the air out of his lungs in sudden, intense relief. Despite the lack of information either he or the Watcher had been able to find about MacLeod, Methos had secretly believed he would know if the Highlander had been killed. The tenuous mental and emotional connection that had been forged between them at the moment of a double Quickening of two ancient Immortals led him to hope that if anything dire had happened, Methos would have sensed it. But he hadn't been certain. Maybe it was that lack of certainty that had caused all his mental turmoil of the last few weeks.
Suddenly he had purpose, suddenly there was something he could do.
"Galveston," Amanda sighed petulantly. "I don't think I've ever been to Galveston. You would have thought he would have at least chosen someplace interesting like San Francisco or New Orleans."
"We still don't have a plan, guys," Dawson reminded them. "Even if we kidnap him to get him back here, we can't hold him against his will. After all, evidently all he's done is decide *not* to kill anybody. The only ones offended by that are those who think he has a critical role to play in the Gathering, like all of us."
"And those of us who don't want to see his head become a trophy for another hunting Immortal, Joe," Amanda reminded him gently.
"Look," Methos said, anxious to be on the move, "we'll think of something. We just need for him to come back here, spend some time with us. Make him look at this crap, if we have to," he said harshly, waving at the piles of research papers, "to convince him that whatever he did, it isn't the end of the world. That life goes on. That *his* life goes on." Methos voice had lowered to almost a whisper, as though he were talking to himself, before picking up the phone to start making the necessary arrangements.