"And if my wisdom should some day forsake me: -- alas!  It loves to fly away! -- may my pride then fly with my folly!

        Then began Zarathustra's down-going.
 

        "Thus Spake Zarathustra," Friedrick Nietzsche

        Shepard sat in the strip joint he owned, sipping at the only unwatered drink that had been served that night, watching the undulating dancers in their titillating costumes, remarkable only in how they managed to stay on.   He felt itchy, irritable, humiliated that he had been bested so easily by a man who refused to fight the way Immortals were intended to fight, blade to blade.  The strong siren call of the other man's power had germinated an almost lustful greed.  The call of the Gathering.  He didn't know it for what it was, but it moved him, out the door and into the night, prowling the streets.  He went door to door, neighbor to neighbor, asking, looking, bribing, cajoling for information about the stranger.  Even though there were lots of strangers in the bustling port town, there couldn't be that many that had such a memorable face, such a powerful presence.  The next afternoon one of his inquiries struck pay dirt.  He got a name. David M. Laird had checked into a motel for one night.  Hadn't given a home address.  Paid with cash.  Shepard smiled with grim satisfaction.  He would have to move fast, though, ships moved in and out all the time and even if Laird had found another place to stay, it was feasible that he could already be on his way out of port.

        Laird expertly packed up his duffel bag.  It was amazing how easy it was now that he didn't have to contend with the katana anymore.  The random thought made his lips press together.  The ancient weapon had been entrusted to him by an honorable man and he had left it lying in his murdered student's blood.  Did anyone think to clean it, to treat it with the proper respect, he wondered.  He pushed the thought away.  He had no right to worry.  The weapon was no longer his.  Methos had been there.  Methos could take care of it.  Or not.  It was no longer his concern.

        He slipped out of the motel walking through trash-strewn alleys towards the docks.  The ship was scheduled to sail that evening and he had a couple of hours to get back aboard and get the engines checked out.  He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and quickly slipped behind a fence, waiting. After a moment, light footsteps could be heard coming quickly down the alley.  As they drew abreast of his position, Laird stepped out, catching a thin arm and spinning the running boy against the fence.  It was Paulo.

        "Why are you following me?" he growled into the boy's terrified face.

        "I . . . I saw . . . this guy . . . last night," Paulo gasped, out of breath.  "The guy with the huge knife.  Ever since he's been asking around for you.  I thought . . . I thought you needed someone to look out for you," the boy finished lamely, shrinking into himself with embarrassment.

        Laird stepped back, letting the boy go.  He closed his eyes, shaking his head.  "I told you to stay away from me, Paulo.  I don't need or want your help or protection.  Now go away and leave me alone!"  He stepped back behind the fence, hiked his duffel bag up to his shoulder and walked away.

        "Wait!" the boy cried, running up behind him.  "I'm headed to the ship, too, so we might as well walk together."

        Laird rounded on him in anger.  "Look, lad, I'm nae your friend.  I'm nae your teacher.  I'm nae your protector.  Ye'r a fool to go back to that ship, but it's not up to me to try to stop ya.  I am, however, telling you to stay away from me.  Got it?"

        The look Laird gave the boy made his heart pound alarmingly.  Paulo nodded jerkily then stood and watched as Laird walked angrily away.  Paulo had to fight back tears. The only reason he had joined the ship's company was in a desperate move to escape his father, who derided him, abused him, had made his life an unending hell.  Laird had stepped in to protect him when no one else would and Paulo was certain he was tormented by the same terrible self-hate.  How could the man not accept his friendship?  Paulo was also only now realizing something else, a feeling that went beyond gratitude that he felt whenever he saw that remarkable face.  He was deeply, impossibly infatuated.

        Laird could sense the boy trailing along behind him and cursed himself for stepping in when he had.  He should never, never get involved with the affairs of mortals.  The neon signs were beginning to flicker on as he reached the strip joints closer to the docks.  He quickened his pace once he got beyond them, trying to lose Paulo in the process, cutting across the train tracks feeding the shipping yard, then stopped, feeling a familiar rush of sensation.  He closed his eyes and sighed. Damn.  It must be Shepard.  He put down the duffel bag and carefully scanned his surroundings, spotting the other Immortal as he stepped out from between two train cars.

        "I told you to leave me alone!" Laird called out.

        "Oh, I don't think so," the man replied, moving closer, holding his rapier out to the side.  "Are you still weaponless?  How foolish of you."

        Laird's mind was a whirl of contradictory signals.  For 400 years he had responded to such challenges straight on.  It had been a point of honor. Now, without a weapon, with a decision made not to kill, what he ought to do was run. But his feet would not budge.  It was dishonorable to run, his mind told him.  But how could he claim any honor, his conscience shouted, having killed his student, someone he had thought of as his own son?  Shepard moved closer.

        "Do you have a name, yet?" the man asked, taunting him.   "I'd hate to kill you and not even know who you are."

        Confusion and doubt sparked the ever-present anger that smoldered at his core.  "Don't come after me," Laird growled.  "Ye don't know what yer takin' on.  Ye'r daft if ye think ye can handle it."

        Shepard's eyes narrowed as he paused, then circled around.  Then he stopped with an intake of breath.  "The Highlander," he murmured.

        The name sent the man over the edge of anger into incoherent rage as he stepped forward with a cry and, ignoring the long rapier the man held, backhanded him in a blow that sent him flying onto his back.  Laird stood trembling, looking down at the frightened, white face in the gathering dusk. He swallowed and looked up at the sky, trying to manage his anger, to resist the compulsion to kill.  He took one step back, and then another.  Then turned to walk away.

        Shepard rolled to his feet in a quick, practiced move and lunged forward.  The slight noise eventually registered above the roar of rage in his ears, and Laird turned and sidestepped, but caught the point of the rapier deep in his side.  Shepard yanked his blade free and pulled the sword back for a clean, fatal cut.

        The blade swung and Laird closed his eyes, making no more effort to avoid this fate, his face registering more relief than fear . . . but the final blow never came. When he allowed himself to look, the blade was slowly tumbling out of Shepard's hand, his eyes full of confusion and pain.  The man's legs gave out underneath him and he collapsed with a soft sigh as Laird twisted out of his way, sinking to his knees as his own wound doubled him over.  Paulo stood wide-eyed over the two bloody figures, Shepard's blood staining his hand and the long knife it held.

        "I . . . killed him," Paulo whispered.

        Laird struggled to his feet, not able to straighten up completely, one hand trying to staunch the dark spreading stain on his shirt.  "Come on, Paulo.  We've got to get you ought of here,"

        But Paulo wouldn't budge.  He just stood there looking at Shepard, whose dead, gray eyes stared up at them.

        "I can't believe I killed him."

        "Now, Paulo!  We have to leave now," Laird insisted, trying to turn him, but the young man twisted away with a cry.

        "My father was right!  I am a degenerate!  I can't believe I killed him," the boy whispered again.

        "Trust me, Paulo, this will be okay, now let's go!" Laird grabbed the boy by the collar and pulled him toward the docks.  They only got a few stumbling steps with Laird literally dragging the boy away when there was a noise behind them.  Laird tried to hurry them along, but Paulo turned.

        "You can't get away from me that easily, Highlander!" came Shepard's strangled shout.  The dead man stood, weaving slightly, but getting stronger by the second, and advanced towards them.  Paulo had frozen in place, a look of utter incomprehension on his face.

        Then both older men stiffened and looked around as three figures emerged from behind the rows of freight cars enclosing the space.

        "He's not carrying a weapon, Shepard.  That's not an honorable challenge," a tall, thin man with dark hair said quietly.  "I think you'd best walk away."

        "But I have a weapon," said the lithe, beautiful woman next to him said seductively. A sword appeared in her hand from underneath her coat. "I'll be happy to oblige if you're looking for a little . . . action."

        The third figure, a gray-haired, bearded man with a cane, just watched.

        Laird scanned the scene, turned and walked away toward the docks.

        "MacLeod!" The gray-haired man finally spoke.  "You walked away once before.  Is that your only answer?  Just to walk away?"

        Shepard, his eyes wide, stumbled back under the weight of the sheer combined Immortal power.  "Who are you people?" he asked.

        The tall, thin man advanced on him with a small smile.  He spoke with an impeccably cultured British accent.  "I think you're in a little over your head on this one, don't you?" he asked sweetly.

        Shepard nodded spasmodically, carefully tucked his rapier in his coat and slipped quietly away, wanting nothing more in life at that moment than to celebrate his continued existence over a stiff drink.

        Amanda turned, taking long strides after the quickly retreating back of the man they had called Highlander.

        "Mac!" she called after him, but he ignored her.  Finally she broke into a run, circling in front of him, but he brushed past her.  "Duncan!" she called in frustration, "Stop this!  You're acting like a child!"

        He stopped and turned, suddenly advancing on her. The look on his face made him almost unrecognizable as the man she had known and loved for almost 350 years. "You don't get it, do you, Amanda? I never want to see you again," he declared with ice in his voice. "I never want to see him again," he gestured toward Methos, who was coming up behind her. "We are through, got it? Done. I am nae the person you thought I was, or that you wanted me ta be," he addressed all three of them. "All I ask is that you leave . . . me . . . alone!" Behind the trio he could see Paulo, slowing walking towards them.

        He turned again and stalked away, but heard the telltale whisper of metal against material behind him. He swirled back around. "Don't do it!" he shouted, pointing at the tall, wiry man.

        But Methos had his hands spread wide and empty, his face full of innocence.  "MacLeod," he said, sounding hurt, "would I do that? Twice?"

        The Highlander looked suspiciously at the oldest Immortal, backed away a few steps, then turned to leave.

        "Duncan?" Amanda called.  He turned.  She fired the dart gun even as he attempted to spin out of the way, anticipating his move, catching him deep in his shoulder. Even as he pulled the dart out and tried to turn away, he felt his arms and legs begin to tingle and grow numb. Amanda stepped close, catching a little of his weight on one side as Methos grabbed the other.  MacLeod was vaguely aware of a long, black car pulling up nearby.

        "Just because he wouldn't do it, doesn't mean I wouldn't, mon cher."  Amanda said gently.

        "Paulo," he whispered.

        She staggered under his increasing weight as the drug took firmer hold. "God, you are such pain in the ass, MacLeod!" was the last thing he heard before everything faded into darkness.

        The first thing he was aware of was the dry, nasty, medicinal taste in his mouth and a pounding headache.  The second was a desperate need to visit the john.  The third was noise, a loud, steady hum of engine.  He forced his eyes open.  It took a great deal of effort to move his head, but he finally managed to lift his chin far enough to see the back of a tan upholstered seat in front of him.  Airplane.  He was on an airplane.  He slowly turned his head to the side.  Amanda was seated across the aisle from him, reading a book. A romance novel from the look of it.  He tried to clear his throat, but only managed a guttural groan.

        He felt a softness against his face.  He had faded away again, and Amanda was stroking his cheek.

        "Mac?" she said.  "Here."  She held a glass of water to his lips and he drank eagerly.  Amazingly, his hands were free, but his movements were slow and clumsy.  His thoughts were a little more clear this time, but his head still ached. He still needed to go to the bathroom.  He blinked, trying to clear his mind and his vision.  The anger that had become part of his nature these days lurked just beneath the surface and he had to struggle to contain the desire to strike out, but the surge of adrenaline helped to clear his brain.  The plane was small, probably a private jet.  It was night.  There was only blackness outside the windows.  Paulo.  What had they done about Paulo, was his first concern.  Second.  How dare they? What gave them the right?  The hand he had used to hold the cup trembled and he vaguely heard Amanda saying words of reassurance, not realizing the tremor was not out of weakness.

        He felt his body quickly clear itself of the drug and he breathed deeply, concentrating on gaining emotional and physical control.  Then he unbuckled his seat belt.

        "Mac?" Amanda said. "I don't think . . ."

        "You don't think," he interrupted, his words coming out slightly slurred. "That's your problem. Excuse me, Amanda, but there are certain things even you can't help me with," he said dryly as he stepped into the small aisle. He had to hold on to a seat back for a minute as his equilibrium betrayed him and he swayed. A strong, helpful hand gripped his arm and he looked down to see Joe Dawson seated in the next seat. He pried his arm away without comment and stumbled to the rear lavatory.

        Amanda and Joe exchanged looks as the lavatory 'occupied' sign went on.

        "He doesn't look very happy," Joe observed.

        "Gracious gratitude has never been a strong MacLeod character trait," came a clipped comment from the front. Methos stood up as far as the small space would allow, stretching his long legs and bracing both hands on the seatbacks on each side of the aisle.

        "Gratitude? Drugging and kidnapping is not usually considered a reasonable cause for celebration, Adam," Joe replied.

        "Just let me talk to him awhile," Amanda reassured them. "I can be very . . . persuasive, sometimes."

        Methos looked at her with an expressive raised eyebrow. "I don't think sex is going to solve this problem, Amanda. Regardless of how compelling the experience might be," he added with a smile.

        The lavatory door opened and MacLeod emerged, glowering.

        "Ah, the prince awakens," Methos observed. He invisibly steeled himself for violence, given the dark look from the younger man's face, but there was only a moment of silence.

        "Where's Paulo?" he asked.

        Methos gestured with a tilt of his head toward the front of the plane. MacLeod stalked past him to the bulkhead seat of the 12-passenger jet with one seat on each side of the aisle. Paulo was unconscious, his head resting on a pillow up against the window. Mac checked his pulse and his pupils.

        "You seemed concerned about the boy, so we thought we'd bring him along," Methos said quietly. "Besides, he's seen a little too much."

        "And now I'm supposed to explain hijacking him onto a private airplane going who knows where?" MacLeod growled, brushing his palm across the youngster's curly hair. The head moved under his hand and the sleeping figure took a deep breath as he attempted to awaken. The dark eyes slowly opened halfway.

        "It's okay, Paulo," Mac murmured. "Just sleep. You're safe."

        The boy settled further down on the pillow as his eyes closed again, comforted by the sound of MacLeod's voice.

        Mac stood and backed away, retreating to the back of the aircraft, leaned up against the back bulkhead, his arms crossed. The other three watched and waited, expecting an explosion.

        "Where are we headed?" MacLeod asked calmly.

        "Seacouver," Amanda replied. "We didn't figure we could get you through customs while you were drugged."

        "How long til we're there?"

        She checked her watch. "About another hour and a half. Mac . . ."

        He put his hand up to stop her words. "I will get off this plane and you will let me go," he instructed. "Now listen to me very carefully because I will only say this one more time." His eyes traveled to each of their faces. The only one who could hold his stare was Methos. "Leave. Me. Alone." He sat in the last seat, inclined the back as far as it would go and closed his eyes.

        The two other Immortals and the gray-haired mortal stared at each other, moving to the front of the aircraft.

        "Now what, Adam? This was your idea," Dawson asked quietly.

        "We go to Plan A. This irresistible force is going to meet that immovable object," Methos said. He moved to sit across the aisle from the recumbent Scot.

        He let several minutes pass, listening only to the deep, vibrating hum of the plane's engines as he gathered his thoughts.

        "How about the boy, Highlander?" he asked.

        "Don't call me that."

        "Don't call you what?"

        "Let the boy go. Give him a ticket to wherever he wants and enough money to solve his problems once he gets there."

        "Don't call you what, MacLeod?"

        Silence.

        "You are the most bizarre creature, MacLeod. You accumulate people who depend on you like most people accumulate . . . dust bunnies."

        "Dust bunnies?"

        "Yeah. Dust bunnies. You know those things that gather underneath the bed while you're not looking. Dust bunnies."

        "Go away, Methos."

        Methos sat forward, leaning toward the figure across the aisle. "Running like this is a huge mistake, MacLeod."

        "Don't use that name. Please." The voice was a whispered plea that could barely be heard above the engine noise.

        "What? MacLeod?" Methos watched as the handsome face twitched. Then understanding dawned. He drew a slow breath. This was going to be at least as painful as he had feared.

        "Ah," he sighed. "Rejected our past, have we?" he asked rhetorically. "What should I call you?"

        "Nothing."

        "Well, Mr. Nothing, where do you intend to go from here?"

        "Not your affair."

        "Don't you think you owe some explanation to the boy?"

        Silence.

        Methos got up and joined his two companions several rows forward.

        "Well, this is going to be interesting," he reported. "It seems our friend no longer wishes to be called by the name by which he has been known for 400 years. Stubbornness was, I believe, invented and perfected by the Scots and this one has been honing his skills for a very, very long time."

        "Let me talk to him," Amanda offered. "I have other ways of persuasion that have always worked. Duncan is a very . . . physical person."

        Methos chuckled, a little sadly. Waving her towards the stone faced Scot. "Ahh. Plan B. I don't think that approach will get you very far, fair lady, but I would be the last person to deny the possibility." He gestured grandly toward the rear of the plane, accepting her brief brush of a kiss as she squeezed by in the narrow aisle.

        He had watched through slitted lids, quickly closed them, heard the gentle swish of her legs and caught an early whiff of Chanel just before he felt a soft weight on his lap. He determinedly kept his eyes closed and his arms crossed as she leaned up against him, touching his hair, an unconscious acknowledgement of the loss of the shoulder-length mane she had always enjoyed toying with.

        "Duncan?" she whispered close to his ear. "I know you're hurting, but running away isn't going to help. You need to be with your friends." He felt her hand on his cheek. "You look so tired. Let me take care of you, just for a little while." Her lips brushed his face.
 
 

        He sighed and unfolded his arms, putting them around her as she leaned into his familiar muscular bulk. Then he unceremoniously lifted her out of his lap and dumped her into the aisle with a painful thud.

        "Ow!" she yelped, shooting her lover an angry, frustrated look, rubbing her fanny where it had taken the brunt of the seat arm on her way to hitting the deck. She clumsily writhed to her feet in the small space and frowned down at the apparently unconcerned Scot. "Not funny, MacLeod! I was just trying to help."

        The look he gave her as he opened one eye was sufficient reminder that he had demanded to be left alone.

        Methos shrugged at her upon her heavy-footed arrival back at the front of the plane.

        "Told you."

        Before she had seen the stark fear in Methos face, she would have angrily told him to shut up, but now she knew his flippancy was a facade, a defense against pain. The look she gave him was one of hurt, dark eyes, close to tears. He reached out and squeezed her shoulder in apology.

        "Look guys," Dawson intervened, having now watched these two ancients be summarily rejected in their overtures. "I know you two have a *great* deal more experience in such things than I do, but it seems to me we have to figure out something that he wants enough to give us a little effort here, a little commitment of time."

        "I already tried that," Amanda pouted.

        "Amanda," Joe growled, "I'm sure having sex with you is a life altering experience, but it clearly isn't what he's looking for at the moment."

        They all paused, each lost in thought.

        Paulo stirred and mumbled again in his sleep, the tranquilizer evidently beginning to wear off. Mac had been observing the trio interact even though the conversation was muffled by the engine noise, and saw them turn towards Paulo. He steeled himself to do nothing, but when he heard a small cry, against his own better judgment, MacLeod moved forward, pushing past the other three to kneel by Paulo's side as the boy sat up, wide-eyed and confused.

        "Wha. . ? Where am I?" Paulo eyes traveled around the small compartment. He had never been in a private plane before and had no reference points for understanding.

        Mac's big hand circled the boy's thin wrist, pushing him back into his seat. "Relax, Paulo. You're on a private plane. We're headed Northwest. I'm sorry you've gotten dragged into this, son, but you'll be alright, I promise." His tone was soothing, even, calm, and had the desired effect.

        Paulo turned his big, dark eyes on him. "That man. I killed him. But then he got up. And you. He . . . he stabbed you. He was going to kill you, Laird! I couldn't let him kill you!" The boy's voice rose as the memory threatened to trigger hysteria.

        Mac took the boy by the shoulders, looking deep into his eyes. "I am okay, Paulo. The man is okay. Nobody died. You don't need to understand any more than that."

        Paulo looked down at Mac's shirt, still ripped and stained with a wide circle of blood. He reached out and touched him. "You're okay? You saw a doctor?"

        Mac stood, hating the necessity to lie, wanting to distance himself from this child, to get him out of range of the ugly violence of his life. "I'm fine, Paulo."

        The boy leaped up and grabbed MacLeod around the neck with a sob. "Don't leave me. Please! I thought . . . I was afraid he had killed you!"

        Mac let him weep against his chest for a moment before taking him by the shoulders and pushing him away. "We'll talk about this later. Right now, you need some food." He pushed the boy gently down into the seat, went into the tiny galley to find several bags of peanuts and some orange juice and brought them back. The few moments of privacy had given Paulo a chance to regain his composure and as Mac handed him the snacks, Paulo ducked his head in embarrassment for his outburst.

        "I'm sorry. I . . . I didn't mean . . ."

        "Don't worry about it, Paulo."

        As Mac moved back to his far rear seat, Dawson rose, moving to sit beside the boy, to be there if he needed someone to talk to. Mac nodded to Joe in gratitude, found his seat and leaned back, closing his eyes with a deep, frustrated sigh.

        Methos and Amanda had observed the exchange, trading knowing glances as MacLeod angrily brushed by them in both directions.

        Methos turned to Amanda and Joe, leaning forward, arms against two seat backs. Methos' face had gone hard and cold. "You're right, Amanda. He doesn't know who he is anymore, and I can think of only one thing to offer him that he really, truly wants."

        Amanda shot him a hard look. "That's your Plan C?" She asked angrily. "Over my dead body," she hissed. "I know you think I'm a shallow n'er do well, Me...*Adam*, and maybe you're right. But there are a few things in this world I do care about and *he's* the most important among them."

         Methos put his hand out and laid it gently on her arm. "Amanda, it's the only thing we have to bargain with! What would you have us do? Let him walk away, defenseless, knowing he is the second most hunted Immortal of the Gathering?" He stood, but the Immortal woman grabbed his elbow to stop him.

        Methos held her by the shoulders, his gold and green eyes looking deep into her dark brown ones shining with tears of desperation. "It isn't the first time I've made a pact with the devil. I wouldn't do it if I thought there was any other way," he said quietly before he released her and walked down the aisle, again sitting against the arm of the seat across from MacLeod, who had all the appearance of being asleep.

        After a few minutes, Methos, murmured something unintelligible over the engine noise.

        "What?" MacLeod asked.

        "Just thinking about your friend Paulo and dust bunnies."

        "Dammit, Methos! I've been wearing this face for 400 years. People react to it whether I want them to or not. Paulo sees something he thinks he wants. Everyone does. What do you think Amanda wants from me? What do you think *you* want from me? I can't control that. I can't control Paulo or you or Amanda or Joe. Shit, I can't even control myself."

        "And you didn't do anything that might lead your young friend to think you might be something more than just another pretty face? You didn't, all unwilling, step in to help him at some point, despite all your protestations of non-involvement?"

        MacLeod was silent, but hunched further down in his seat, crossed his arms and closed his eyes, determined to sever ties with these people.

        Methos sat for a moment, fearful, reluctant to continue. Finally he breathed deep and spoke. "I'm here to make a bargain with you, Duncan." There was no response except the slightest twitch at the unwelcome use of his name. "If you will go with us, help us discover what really happened when Richie died . ."

        "When I murdered him, you mean," was the tense interruption.

         "I guess that's what we'll find out, isn't it? But you have to commit to full participation in the investigation of what happened, of why it happened, until we have the answers. If you will do that, Duncan MacLeod, I will give you what you most desire."

        MacLeod's body went absolutely still as his breath stopped. A hand darted out and grabbed Methos' forearm in a bone-breaking grip. "On your honor, Methos?" came the whispered, ironic question.

        Methos throat closed at the desperate hope he saw in those expressive brown eyes and he couldn't answer.

        "No, Methos, if we do this you have to swear on the honor of Duncan MacLeod, in the memory of the person you thought he was!"

        Their eyes met, and the oldest Immortal saw near-elation in the Highlander's eyes and it made him heartsick. Methos' hand was tingling as the grip of the big, square hand on his arm cut off circulation. "On the honor of Duncan MacLeod, then, you bastard!" Methos ripped his arm away, rubbing it to restore sensation.

        He stood and turned his back, holding on to the overhead compartment as he fought back the bile rising in his throat. If he ever had to carry through on his oath, it would undoubtedly be the blackest day in his existence, and given the opportunities given and taken for black days over his 5,000 years, the concept was too painful to contemplate.

        "Well, Dr. Pierson. You have yourself a deal." The voice was close to his ear. He turned and MacLeod had stood. In place of the walled off anger was sudden relief, even a small smile.

        "Damn you, MacLeod!" Methos growled. He thought he had shielded himself from this kind of hurt a long time ago. But ever since this man had appeared in his life, turning it upside down and inside out, his heart had taken a beating. And now, he could almost hear it crack at the horrible sight of that perfect face, suddenly made happy at the prospect of his own death.

        The drive to the loft was a silent one, Paulo's protests still sharp in MacLeod's ears as he was coaxed into going with Joe to sleep in the man's guest bedroom. The Immortals made no effort at small talk. Amanda uneasy between the two men, MacLeod silent but noticeably less tense and Methos driving with all the concentration usually reserved for diffusing bombs.

        Once there they got out quickly, maneuvering through the dark dojo carefully and then waiting while MacLeod found the lights. The loft smelled slightly musty, needing an airing, but it was clean and familiar.

        "What are you doing?" Amanda asked as Duncan pulled out blankets and sheets from the chest to make up the sofa.

        "Getting ready for bed," MacLeod said, staring at her.

        "There's a perfectly good bed right here," Amanda said, plopping her trim fanny on the mattress.

        "It makes more sense for you and Methos to share it," he said matter-of-factly.

        "Excuse me?" Methos said and something in the strain of that usually calm voice caught MacLeod's attention.

        MacLeod stood up, staring at the pair of them. Was it at all possible they thought he didn't realize they'd become lovers? Amanda stared at him with a world full of hurt in her eyes and Methos....

        The expression in the ancient eyes promised less than murder, more than pain and MacLeod wondered what he'd said to elicit such a reaction.

        "Oh, please!" he said wearily. "We are adults and you two obviously are..."

        "Are what, MacLeod?" Methos said with a preternatural calm.

        "As you said, Amanda is free to date who she pleases...I don't own her."

        "Nice to know I have the freedom of choice," Amanda said icily.

        "Any other orders from the Chieftain, MacLeod?" Methos said quietly.

        "That's not what I meant," he said wearily. "I dinna' care who either of ye sleep with. But I want *sleep* and I've a better chance of getting it here..."

        "Then sleep well, Highlander," Methos said evenly.  "I'll be back in awhile, Amanda. I, for one, will need coffee in the morning and possibly something to eat. I'll run to the store. If he tries to leave, do us all a favor and shoot him. Again." The older Immortal said not a word more, leaving by the outside door, keys ringing in his hand.

        "You son of a bitch!" Amanda said coldly, rising and stalking toward him.  Her hand lashed out before he could register the extent of her anger, the slap nearly spinning him to the side. It caught him so off guard he could only stare at her, rubbing his cheek. "Jealousy doesn't sit well with you, Duncan."

        "What? I'm not..." he returned, genuinely startled by the accusation. "I'm not jealous. I'm actually rather glad.  I think it...you two will be good for each other."

        "When? After you are dead?" she said. " Do I get left to someone in your will, Mac? Or am I just the spoils of war after your best friend takes your head?"

        "I didn't mean it that way," he said, face and voice tightening.

        "Then how did you mean it, Duncan?" She said, large dark eyes glittering with unshed tears.  "He made that bargain to keep you alive. To bring you back to us -- not to dance on your grave."

        MacLeod's head was reeling. Now with the promise of a point where his existence might finally end, he found himself only causing more pain. He had done, unthinkingly, the very thing he most abhorred about himself, overreaching in trying to arrange other people's lives, to settle them, make them a little better.

        Meddling.

        He had meant only to let them know he was not bothered by their relationship, give them opportunity to distance themselves from him and he from them.  As if he had a say in it at all, as if their lives were something he could approve or disapprove of in his arrogance.

        He sat down heavily on the sofa. The urge for it all to be over had only grown, but as willingly, as necessary as it was for him to cut these people out of his life, out of his awareness -- the reverse was evidently not true.  They refused to see how everything had changed, to see the danger he represented to them, to everyone.

        Compassion could not weaken his resolve. He steeled himself against it. Rebuilt those walls of anger and despair only to have them nearly torn down again when he looked at Amanda. She was still waiting on an answer.

        "He made that bargain for his own reasons. Just as you make your own choices, Amanda. I am responsible for neither," he said coldly and turned his back on her, pulling the blankets back and settling himself down onto the sofa. Amanda remained sitting on the coffee table for long moments while he closed his eyes and ignored her. He was aware when she finally moved away but the desperately desired sleep would not come.

        It was perhaps a quarter of an hour later when he tensed, feeling the approach of another Immortal, unable to stop himself from rising and turning. But even as he did, he recognized the heavy, elongated signature, the sound that wasn't quite sound that he had come to associate with Methos. Amanda did not have his insight, however, and her body poised with sword raised close to the door.

        "It's Methos," MacLeod said to reassure her and despite her double take at his easy identification, it did. The sword moved down and away when the older Immortal entered. His eyes met MacLeod's evenly then looked away as Mac lay back down, trying not to listen as their voices slipped to whispers as the few meager supplies were put away.

        And then they stopped and he heard the light quick tread approaching.

        "You're not asleep, MacLeod, so you may as well open your eyes and listen to what I have to say," Methos said with a cool edge of steel to his voice. Knowing the old man would keep talking anyway, MacLeod complied, sitting up with a resigned sigh.

        "I've heard what you have to say, Methos.  I and I didn't...wasn't trying to imply that you or Amanda need my permission or blessing..."

        "Shut up," Methos said. "I don't give a rat's ass for your blessing.  We had a bargain, but I think you missed your side of it. Full participation, Highlander," Methos said and ignored the protest.  "That means you set aside your bloody suicidal yearnings long enough to help us find the answers. That means that until we have those answers you have to damn well find a way to live with yourself."

        "You manipulative bastard," MacLeod snapped. "And *you* decide when we've looked long enough. You swore--"

        "I know what I swore. No, MacLeod, you get to decide if we've looked long enough and hard enough. I get to decide if you actually put some heart into it," Methos said, the smile on his face neither pretty nor understanding.

        "I'll hold you to that, old man," MacLeod said harshly.

        "I expect you will, Mac," Methos said, his tone changing slightly.  "Now get off my fucking couch.  I'm bloody tired."

        MacLeod looked back and forth between the two older Immortals.  Both of their expressions were closed and angry.  What a stubborn lot they are, he thought.  They just don't get it. Finally, under the weight of all those eyes, he threw back the covers, grabbed his pillow and stomped to his own bed.

        Nobody slept much.

        Joe watched Paulo closely as they gathered the luggage and found their way to the cabstand.  The youngster had wanted desperately to stay with MacLeod, but had reluctantly accepted his instructions to stay with Joe until they made arrangements to get back to Paris.  But Joe knew Paulo had to be in some kind of emotional shock.  Believing he had seen MacLeod killed, then believing he had stabbed a man to death.  Drugged, hijacked, now thousands of miles away in a foreign country among people he didn't know and had no reason to trust.

        All because he had attached himself to Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Sometimes Joe felt he actually began to understand the frustration of MacLeod, who seemed to draw people to himself whether he wanted it or not. Part of it was his physical presence.  But most of it was that whenever MacLeod turned his attention to someone, he became involved, he cared.  He couldn't help himself.  It was part and parcel of his nature, one of his most compelling qualities.  But the results could be devastating when it came to the inevitable conflict between the very different realities of the two separate, seemingly irreconcilable worlds of Immortals and mortals.  Since the day MacLeod had blithely walked into his bookstore and directly into his life, Joe Dawson had, more than once, personally endured the suffering caused by those conflicts.

        But what to do with Paulo?  He had already seen too much to dismiss the events as delusion or mistake.

        They climbed the steps to his small house and Joe showed him the bathroom and spare bedroom, then wandered into the kitchen to fix a late snack.  They sat at the small kitchen table where Joe usually ate his solitary meals.

        "You need to ask me some questions, Paulo. You can't just sit there and stew about it," Joe said quietly.

        Paulo took a drink of his beer and ate another chip.  "I don't know what to ask," he whispered.

        But then he did ask.  The questions poured out and Joe answered them.  About Shepard, that he didn't die because he had a miraculous capacity to heal himself. That MacLeod could also do the same thing.  Told him about Immortals.  Told him that Laird was really Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, born over 400 years ago in the Highlands of Scotland.

        "We watch them, Paulo.  From a distance usually.  You got caught up in a particularly difficult situation.  MacLeod is, well he's different, even from most Immortals and we're trying to get him back to Paris to solve a special problem.  We're his friends, Paulo, even though it may not seem like it.  We're trying to do what's right for him."

        "I knew he was different from the moment I saw him," Paulo said quietly.  "He's very unhappy.  I knew that from the first, too.  There's something that happened to him.  Something terrible that made him hate himself.  Like me.  All I wanted to do was help him."

        Dawson nodded, impressed by the boy's perceptions.  "Now that I've told you all this, Paulo, I have to ask you something.  It may be the most important question you'll ever have to answer in your life, so I want you to think about it, really hard.

        Joe paused.  He'd been thinking about this since the moment he had watched the boy kill Shepard, seen his reaction, watched him with MacLeod.  He knew of only one way, short of killing the kid -- an unacceptable option -- to deal with this.

        "We need Watchers, Paulo. We need people who care about Immortals, who are willing to dedicate their time, their life, their livelihood to understanding them. It's hard, sometimes boring, sometimes lonely work. And you *don't* get to know the Immortals. That's very important for you to understand. We watch from a distance, unseen, anonymous."

        Paulo's dark brown, almost black eyes looked at Dawson curiously.  "Are you asking me if I want to be a Watcher?"

        "Paulo, you're smart, you're observant, you're fast on your feet, you've got courage.  And you already know a large portion of the secrets we have to keep. And I get the feeling that you're used to keeping secrets," Joe said compassionately, placing his big, rough hand lightly on the young man's arm.

        The young man shook his head, smiling sadly.  "I don't think so, Mr. Dawson.  You don't know what I am."

        "What you are?" Joe queried.  "What do you mean?"

        Paulo's coffee colored skin flushed even darker.  He looked away, running his hand over his tightly curled hair.  "Mr. Dawson, I . . . I'm gay, a homosexual."  Paulo laughed uncomfortably.  "My father went berserk when he found out.  In Italy it's not . . . acceptable.  When you're black and Italian, it's . . . unthinkable.  He thought if he beat me enough, punished me, I would change.  That's why I finally ran away, joined the ship.  I'm not even really 21, Mr. Dawson.  I'm only 19," Paulo finished his confession, scraping obsessively at the beer label with his fingernail.

        Joe picked up the beer bottle and moved it out of reach.  "Well, then I guess I won't be serving you any liquor yet," he said with a smile.  "Are you going to think about it?"

        "But . . ."

        Dawson raised his finger to stop Paulo's protest.  "Only one thing, my friend.  I've seen the way you look at Mac, but he's off limits. He's an Immortal," Joe said sternly, then softened his words with a smile as Paulo blushed furiously.  "You're hardly the first to fall for him, Paulo.  That's one reason I got assigned to him in the first place.  Nobody believed an old fart like me would succumb to his considerable charms." Dawson laughed and shook his head.  "The problem is, everyone always, always underestimates Duncan MacLeod."

        When Paulo's eyes grew wide, Dawson blushed, then waived his hands in denial.  "Oh, it's not that," he said with a chuckle.  "He found me.  Discovered the Watchers. I got dragged into his world and have been there ever since, unwilling to walk away.  He's a very, very hard man to walk away from," Joe said softly, almost to himself, then turned his attention back to the young man.  "You didn't answer my question, Paulo.  Are you willing to think about it?"

        Paulo, who seemed to not really know how to smile, extended his hand solemnly.  "Oh, I don't need to think about it, Mr. Dawson."   Joe took it, and the two shook hands.

        It seemed to all of them like they had been travelling forever.  Mac came down the stairs of the barge, dumping his duffel bag near the door and eyeing with distaste the untidy piles of papers, coffee cups and empty food containers strewn across his desk, the couch and the big coffee table.  As the others piled through the door and collapsed on the furniture, he began gathering and stacking the papers, and cleaning the room.

        "What did you people do in here?" he asked. "Start a business? Throw a party?"

        "Oh, can it, MacLeod," Amanda spat. "We're not all Mr. Perfect neatniks like you."

        "Well, at least I don't live as though the world exists to clean up after me," Duncan growled.

        "No, MacLeod, you hardly live at all," Amanda mumbled.

        "That's Enough!" Joe Dawson roared from the bottom of the stairs, looking at the three Immortals in profound disgust. Mac noticed with a guilty start that the mortal was gray with exhaustion, that he leaned heavily on his cane and moved slowly, all signs that his prosthetics were giving him considerable pain. "I've been listening to you guys snipe and trash each other for three solid days and I am getting royally sick of it!"

        "Here, here," Methos murmured from his position slumped in a chair.

        But the cane raised up to point at him and for a moment the oldest Immortal was afraid it was going to be used as a club. "Don't you say a word, Adam," Joe growled. "You're just as guilty as they are. Sly jokes here, innuendoes there. Anything to piss Mac off. We're here to find out what happen to Richie Ryan, remember? The boy who died?"

        The room was silent.

        "Now MacLeod, we've agreed that at least two of us need to be with you at all times." He raised his hand against the Scot's angry protest. "No, Mac, you know what happened before. Do you really want to risk something like that happening again?" Mac was silent, uncomfortable as all eyes in the room looked at him.

        Paulo's face was tight with concern, exhausted from the strain of confusion and change. All he knew was that his hero was somehow in trouble, threatened. Nobody would tell him anything else.

        "I'll stay with him," Paulo said quietly. He had remained almost silent for two days, even when Joe or Amanda had tried to draw him out a little.

        Mac closed his eyes tightly. What was he going to do with this boy? It was time to get him out of the picture, out of harm's way. He went to him and put his broad hands on slim shoulders. "I want you to go with Joe."

        "No, Mac, please. Don't send me away!"

        "You're going to be a Watcher, Paulo. You have to learn discipline, to know when to do what you're told. It's time to grow up, Paulo. I am Immortal. You and I cannot be friends." His voice was hard and direct, his grip on the boy's shoulders painful.

        "You're friends with Joe!" he protested.

        "That was an accident, Paulo. It never should have happened." The Watcher and the Immortal locked gazes across the room as the comment landed a stinging blow. "I will not let it happen again." MacLeod deliberately turned the boy and pushed him toward Dawson.

        Joe put his hand on the boy's trembling shoulder. "You've gotten to be a real hard ass haven't you, MacLeod?" Dawson said coldly.

        "I do what's necessary. It's better this way."

        "Better for who? Are you so damn sure of the outcome of this little investigation that you can afford to throw away your friends?"

        "Isn't it better than taking them down with me?"

        "That's self-sacrificing bullshit, Duncan MacLeod. God, you're a stubborn son-of-a-bitch!"

        "*I'm* stubborn!" Mac moved closer, challenging the statement . . ..

        "Alright, alright," Methos stepped in. "I thought we'd had enough of that for one night. Joe, take Paulo to the hotel. We'll sort this out tomorrow when we're not all prepared to tear out each other's throats. Amanda and I will stay with Mac."

        Once the two mortals left, the three of them moved warily around the space, all of them bone tired, communicating in short, minimal sentences, sharing the bathroom, suddenly overly polite. Moving toward their separate sleeping accommodations like lions establishing their territory.

        Amanda lay in the darkness next to MacLeod, listening for his breathing to change, for him to finally sleep.  She knew this man, this body, almost as well as she knew her own.  She ached to hold him, to have him hold her.  But he had turned away, his broad shoulders her only view.  His breathing slowed at last and he rolled onto his back as she had known he would.  Amanda gently moved close into a familiar posture curled next to his body, hand laid across the softly furred chest.  In sleep his arm moved to circle her shoulders in a habitual gesture formed over several lifetimes.  Tears slipped down and dampened her pillow. She didn't know how much more of this she could take. She was not a person of great emotional endurance, but MacLeod had always been there for her through the centuries.  Even when she'd done something stupid and wrong, he found a way to make it right.  She breathed deep, looking longingly at his face, seeming so much younger without the harsh tension and anger that had taken up residence there, telling herself again that it was worth it, that he was worth it, that she would not run. She would not abandon him no matter how hard he tried to push her away.  With that determined thought and against the warm comfort of his closeness, she finally slept.

        Heat.  Anger.  Fear.  Fear most of all.  Desperate, tingling, bowel-loosening fear.  And pain.  Lots and lots of pain.

        "Meeethos!" an inhuman voice called, beckoning, compelling.  A giant, looming figure.  An axe, swinging like a scythe, whistling in the wind.  And the smell.  Decay, death, disease.  That voice.  That terrible voice.  Oh, God!  This is worse than death!  This is the living embodiment of every horror man had ever visited upon himself . . .

        Amanda awoke.  The room was bone cold, dark.  There was a sense of . . . something indefinable in the room, not a scent exactly, but a presence in the air. She didn't realize what had awakened her until she felt MacLeod jerk in the bed next to her. His face and torso were damp and shiny with sweat as he moved his head from side to side, murmuring in his sleep, arm and chest muscles twitching.  God, it was cold, she thought, shivering. She debated whether to wake him.  There had been nightmares before where he had come out of it in a killing rage, and MacLeod didn't necessarily need a sword in his hand to kill with one blow.

        Then she heard a low groan coming from the couch.  She slipped out of bed, trembling violently with the chill and with . . . that something else, some nameless fear that permeated her skin.  She leaned over the couch, then started back.  Methos' eyes were wide open, pupils dilated to total blackness, his face shining stark white, luminescent in the darkness.

        "Kronos!"  The shout behind her made her swirl around.  Duncan was coming down the steps, eyes fierce, focused on some point in the middle of the room, fists raised as though he had a sword in his hands.

        "I'll keep killing you as long as it takes until you stay dead!" Duncan growled, stepping forward and swinging his imaginary sword in a powerful arc.

        Amanda stepped closer, but not too close.  "Duncan!" she called.  "Duncan there's nothing there!"  But her words did not penetrate whatever vision was in his mind.  Then his body language shifted.  The sword was dropped.

        "Richie?" Duncan murmured, turning toward the couch.  He reached out his hand . . .

         . . as Methos rose up with a howl of fury and pain, his hand closing on his blade lying on the floor.

        "No!  Methos . . . Don't!" Amanda screamed diving for his sword arm.  But she was too late.  The blade swung and cut deep into MacLeod's chest.

        The men's eyes met, awareness and recognition coming in the instant when it was too late to take back the fatal blow.

        Amanda moved to Duncan, who instinctively clutched at the wide gash where blood poured over his hands.  She caught him as he sank to his knees.  His face quickly going from white to gray even as his chest muscles spasmodically worked to compensate for his paralyzed diaphragm.

        "Methos, what have you done?!" Amanda cried, her hands and nightgown quickly staining with MacLeod's blood.

        But Methos just stood in shock, every muscle trembling, sweat soaking his tee-shirt until it clung wetly to his body.

        MacLeod moved out of Amanda's arms, crawling painfully away.

        "What?"  Was he rejecting her, even now?  He couldn't even let her hold him as he died?

        "Damn you, MacLeod," she sobbed, as he leaned up against the wall, having left a wide smear of blood across the floor.  She knelt and pulled him to her.  "You won't shut me out, you bastard."

        He murmured something unintelligible, as his lips began to turn blue. "What, my love?" she asked softly, leaning close.

        "Just . . . trying . . . to get . . . off . . . carpet," he sighed, just before his heart stopped.

        Methos swallowed the terrible dryness in his mouth.  "What did he say?"  Methos asked, afraid of the answer.

        Amanda's mouth curved.  "He didn't want to bleed on the rug."

        "Excuse me?"  The tension eased out of those wide shoulders.

        Amanda gestured toward the oriental carpet that lay in the middle of the room.  "He didn't want to stain the carpet," and she started to giggle.

        Methos collapsed bonelessly onto the couch, listening numbly to Amanda's chuckling.  Then he smiled.  He couldn't help himself as a laugh bubbled up out of all the fear and anger that had overlaid every waking moment of the past month.

        Duncan made a painful, gasping awakening to find his two friends howling in laughter, Amanda literally rolling on the floor as Methos lay back on the couch, wiping his eyes.

        "Glad I am such a source of amusement," MacLeod said in annoyance after listening to them for a moment, waiting for the lingering pain to subside. Amanda was still giggling, the sound just this side of hysteria.   "But it would have been better if you'd aimed a little higher and finished it."

        Suddenly Amanda was alone in her laughter as Mac shifted his gaze to Methos, the bitterness of his nightmare still raw in his mind.

        MacLeod regretted his ugly words immediately, his anger fading at the look in those shadowed eyes.  Without a word, Methos rose up again and stepped past them, heading toward the deck. Amanda, unaware of what MacLeod had said, staring after him in dumbfounded shock. "Oh no," she murmured torn between staying with MacLeod, still blood soaked and tense with pain, and going after the other man, realizing with his absence that the older Immortal's nightmares had overcome him once more.

        As Mac's had.

        "There's something very wrong," She murmured and turned to Mac, her dark eyes luminous in the deep blue shadows of the barge. "You had a nightmare."

        "No kidding.  It's become par for the course," MacLeod said gruffly, lurching to his feet unsteadily to search for something to wipe his blood up with.

        "No, Mac. You don't understand. Methos has been having them, too. The last one...I could have taken his head if I'd wanted it," she said, her voice as chill as the sudden shiver that ran down MacLeod's spine.

        "What do you mean? When?" He asked concerned in spite of himself, fighting for the memory of the expression in Methos' eyes just before he'd swung his blade.  Fear? No, something more akin to terror. He had not recognized MacLeod until after the blood fell. Mac had no doubts about Methos' reluctance to take his head -- so what then, could have cut such a swath of horror through the ancient Immortal that he would take what could have as easily been a truly fatal blow?

        "The night he and I...the night before we found you. He was...terrified of something and he couldn't speak of it..." Amanda said softly.  "Talk to him, Mac. What if you and he are having..."

        "I doubt seriously if Methos is having nightmares about taking....about taking his student's head." Mac said unable to say Richie's name aloud.

        "No, but he might be having nightmares about taking yours." Amanda said softly and pulled the towels from him to finish cleaning the blood.

        MacLeod stared at her for a moment and then rose.  Not following her train of thought exactly, but his own. If Methos were spooked enough to run, that promise might go unkept for a long time. With that grim thought in mind he grabbed a blanket off the couch headed topside.

        Methos was sitting on the cabin roof, long legs folded under him in a lotus position, arms wrapped around his chest against the chill air. He was calm, glancing up at MacLeod as he emerged.

        Mac draped the blanket across the thinner man's shoulders.  "I really don't mean to keep slapping you in the face with your promise," Mac began and stopped. It was not at all what he had intended to say.

        "Yes, you do. Don't worry, MacLeod. Ignoring fools has become second nature," the older Immortal said and uncrossed his legs to draw them up, wrapping his arms around them loosely.

        MacLeod had to smile faintly, staring out at the river, at the lights, unconsciously rubbing his chest where healing was not yet complete.

        "Amanda said you've been having nightmares."

        "After 5000 years I think I'm entitled to a few," Methos said softly.  "And yours...never mind. I can guess."

        "I wish you understood, Methos.  This situation is untenable, for all of us.  I can't live like this," Duncan said quietly, not looking at him.

        "Yes, you can, Highlander. You just don't want to." Methos replied eyeing him. "And I do understand a hell of a lot better than you think.  Did you think you were the first to lose or a student or even to kill one?  And you won't be the last.  I can't speak to your grief, MacLeod." A soft sigh brought MacLeod's attention around only to find Methos looking away.  "You'd be amazed at what kind of grief you can survive. Or inflict and still survive it."

        "I can survive grief, Methos.  It's the infliction of it that can't be borne."

        Methos looked at MacLeod evenly, the bright eyes fixing once more on his companion's face. "I have seen the worst of you, Duncan MacLeod. Don't forget that. I know exactly what you are capable of in your right mind and out of it. What happened to Richie was no more your fault than it was mine.  Maybe less so," he added bitterly.  "Had I paid more attention to you....to what you were saying...," his voice trailed off.

        "It...it's not just... Richie.." MacLeod said softly, sitting on the cabin roof beside him, wrapping his arms around his bare chest against the cold. "You know that better than anyone.  I have become what I hate most, a killer. A judgmental killer. I'd rather die..."

        "No. You'd rather someone take the decision from you. I know the feeling, Mac. I pushed you into it once."

        "Kronos."

        "In a way. Maybe Byron as well."

        "He was your friend. Don't you see? I judged your friend and I killed him."

        "As I judged Kristin. Knowing someone has become...evil past redemption is not the same as being able to judge and pass sentence, Mac. Killing a friend should never become easy."

        "So you couldn't kill Kronos because he was your friend?" MacLeod's voice was heavy with disgust.

        "No. I couldn't kill Kronos because I couldn't beat him," Methos said coldly. "But I could beat, Silas. Barely."

        "A friend."

        Methos unfolded his long limbs and stood up, face expressionless.  "No, Mac. A student," he said, throwing off the blanket and disappearing back into the barge.

        Stunned, MacLeod could not even speak. He sat in the darkness, shivering in the cold, for a long while before he realized Methos had never told him what his nightmare had been about.

        Joe carefully made his way up the barge gangway. He just couldn't seem to slough off the weariness of soul and body that had dragged him down since that black moment he had seen MacLeod standing over Richie's lifeless, dismembered body, and witnessed his agonized offer of his own life in an attempt at redemption. He had turned Paulo over to the local Watcher headquarters for some initial indoctrination, with the promise that he could join them back at the barge at the end of the day. Joe refused to let MacLeod dictate who was in and out of his life. The man was too damn determined to push everyone away and they were just going to have to push back -- hard. The disintegration of the relationships between Methos, Duncan and Amanda was as painful as anything he had ever witnessed and Joe dreaded spending the day in their disgruntled, unhappy midst.

        The morning sun shown dimly through the haze, muting colors into blurred shades of gray and brown and Joe started and almost tripped as one of those colors moved. He looked down to find MacLeod sitting on the deck, arms wrapped around his knees, blanket pulled over his shoulders. Mac's bleary eyes looked up at him, then he slowly rose to his feet.  Joe's eyes narrowed as he saw the dried blood streaking his chest and staining the front of his sweatpants.

        "Bad night?" Joe asked.

        "I've had better."

        "Where are Amanda and Adam?"

        "You mean my keepers? I assume they're downstairs."

        Joe turned to go inside, but turned back. Mac had moved away, facing the river, the blanket pulled around his shoulders.

        "Mac," he said softly. "Why are you doing this? Don't you know how much pain you're causing Methos? Causing us all?"

        Mac's head went down as he studied the deck. The face he finally turned towards his watcher was cold and hard. "My question to you, Dawson, is why are *you* doing this? Don't you know how much more pain I could cause just by being alive? You have convinced yourselves that just because I look the same, talk the same, that I am this mythic Highlander you had decided I was. I honestly don't know if that person ever really existed except in your imaginations and my wishful thinking. I do know he doesn't exist any more." He moved closer and Dawson saw the darkness under his eyes, the tension around his mouth. "Don't delude yourself, Dawson. I am a deadly threat. To you, to them, to everyone and everything you care about."

        Joe met the hard stare with his own. "You don't scare me, Duncan MacLeod. But you can be the most unforgiving son of a bitch I've ever known. But then most of the time, the shortcomings you can't handle are your own."

        Joe turned and made his way inside, pausing at the bottom of the steps. Methos was curled up on the couch, face buried in his arm, and Amanda was stretched out on the bed, an alarming length of bare leg draped over the top of the covers.

        "Boy, you guys would never make it as Watchers," he said loudly.

        Methos' head raised up, eyes as shadowed and bleary as MacLeod's had been. Amanda didn't stir.

        A pile of bloodstained towels littered the bottom of the steps.

        "What the hell happened, Adam?" Joe asked quietly as he sat heavily in Mac's big leather side chair.

        "Bad dreams."

        "I think you're going to have to be a little more specific. This bad dream appears to have spilled a fair amount of blood."

        Methos slowly sat up, rubbing his face heavily, running his fingers through his tousled hair. He looked around, saw that Amanda was alone on the bed and a frown crossed his face.

        "Where's MacLeod?"

        "Evidently he spent the night on deck."

        Methos cocked his head, his eyes losing focus for a minute as he sought an awareness of MacLeod's presence, then he sighed. "Don't worry, Joe. I would have known it if he had left the barge."

        "Are you going to tell me what happened?"

        "Look, Joe. Both of us are a little tightly wound right now. I didn't mean to hurt him, it just happened, okay? Let it go."

        "Let it go? You know how much this sounds like what MacLeod was going through? Attacking friends in some moment of dream or hallucination? Adam, this is important!"

        "It's not the same! It was an old memory, an ancient battle. It has nothing to do with what's happening now."

        Methos rose and stomped to the bathroom. His angry retort had disturbed Amanda who sat up, looking deceptively frail and beautiful in her clinging silk nightgown, except that it, too, was awash with rust colored stains.

        "Where is everybody?" she said, yawning and stretching in a manner that was very distracting.

        "Adam is in the bathroom and MacLeod is on deck. Are you going to tell me what happened? Or are all of you going to pretend it wasn't important?" Joe asked.

        Amanda shrugged. The sense of urgency and fear she had felt the night before had faded in the morning light. "They both had nightmares, Methos swung, Duncan died." She slipped off the bed and pulled on a robe. As she remembered, her concern about Methos began to return. "You know, Methos had another nightmare, the night we . . . the night I went to find him. It was a real doozie. Want some coffee?"

        Joe nodded and by the time Methos emerged, showered and changed, Amanda had managed to put together coffee and toast on the table. She filled a cup and went to find MacLeod. They could hear him moving around, evidently doing some form of exercise out on deck.

        Amanda stood and watched, always entranced by the sight of Duncan MacLeod in motion. Eventually he slowed his kata and stopped, his breath almost immediately returning to normal. For just a moment his face was serene, relaxed. She approached him, handing him the coffee. Their hands brushed. She reached up, holding his face and for a brief second all was as it had been as he leaned slightly into her touch. Then he stopped himself, his eyes closed and his expression hardened as he turned away.

        "Don't," he whispered.

        They had finally settled in, organized the Watchers' notes and started to explore the overall conclusions that had been reached. Joe recited the general outline, that there were three champions, each fighting some terrible demon at the turning of the millennia.

        "Some of this stuff is so cryptic, I have no idea if it's been translated accurately. There's one quote here, evidently from the Avesta." Joe read from the book, "Thus the Self of the Liar destroys for himself the assurance of the right Way; whose soul shall tremble at the Revelation on the Bridge of the Separator, having turned aside with deeds and tongue from the Path of Right." Joe shrugged, "The part about the Bridge of the Separator is underlined, and there's a note in the margin that looks like 'the answer', with an arrow pointing to the words 'turned aside.'"

        Joe looked at Methos, hoping for an explanation or at least an attempt at interpretation, but got stony silence in response.

        Amanda lost patience with the incomprehensible text.   "So the first Champion failed and what? What was the evil? What happened?" Amanda asked. "I'm not great on ancient history," she said looking pointedly at Methos.

        He made a face. "You don't have to have lived it to know some of it -- it was probably one of the bloodiest periods of mankind's growing pains. Titus was crucifying people by the millions at Jerusalem, nearly the entire population of Pompeii and Herculaneum died under the explosion of Vesuvio, and about three centuries later the Roman empire was falling apart. Anything particular you're looking for Amanda?" he asked, dead serious.

        "What? The prophecy says great evil was let loose on the world. That sounds pretty damn evil to me," she snapped back.

        "Wait. Wait!" Joe said. "You know there was a Watcher Chronicle that speculated that Pompeii might have been caused by two Immortals fighting on Holy Ground."

        "Oh, please!" Methos said, face tight and tense. "Maybe there were two of us in some woodsy chapel when Mount St. Helen's blew as well!"

        "It's a theory, Adam. That's all," Joe tiring of the older Immortal's angry, unhelpful responses. "If Landry's translations were right, then it *is* Immortals fighting these battles."

        "Landry was a bloody idiot!" Methos snarled and MacLeod glanced at him, looking away from Joe's notes. What he saw was troubling. He had barely been following the conversation but it did seem that Methos' reaction was entirely out of proportion to the topic.

        "You keep saying that, but the man knew something was going on. And I refuse to believe, unlike some," Joe said, with a hard look at MacLeod who had been studiously ignoring their sniping, "that Landry's warning and death, followed by Mac's hallucinations and Richie's death were all pure coincidence," Joe persisted. "Come on, Adam. You are the one man who can put the myths aside and tell us what happened."

        "Ancient I may be, Joe, but I still can only be in one place at a time. The world was a chaotic mess -- empires and emperors were rising and falling daily."

        "So what was going on where you were?" MacLeod interjected calmly, keeping his tone soothing.

        "I...I don't remember..." Methos said after a moment, well aware that three sets of eyes were watching him in disbelief. "I had just left Kronos... maybe fifty years earlier. Spent some time in Jerusalem and the middle east when... when the prophets were rising and then took . . . a . . uh . . vacation."

        Amanda gave a nervous giggle at his phrasing. "A holiday? Where? The Riviera? Cote d'Azur? The Mediterranean?"

        Methos stared at her, the blood draining from his face and Mac rose, suddenly alarmed.

        "In Italy..." he said softly and then stared at MacLeod, that same expression of abject horror on his face when he had cut into the Highlander in the midst of his nightmare. And then he was gone, whirling on his heels and heading for the deck and out.

        "What the..." Joe began and then stared at the chair Methos had been sitting in, his coat still draped across the back, one side weighted... "He didn't take his sword," Joe breathed.

        MacLeod hesitated another second then snatched up the coat and ran after his friend, Amanda staring blankly at Joe. "Something I said?" she asked in perfect honesty.

        MacLeod found him, arms pressed against the stone retaining wall near the bridge. His entire body was vibrating with tension. As Methos heard steps behind him he swirled away in a panic.

        MacLeod grabbed his arms, keeping him from escaping and realized suddenly that he was keeping Methos from falling more than anything. "Adam. Methos! Snap out of it man! What is it?"

        Methos did collapse then, MacLeod going down with him as the other man slid against the wall. That boneless posture so often remarked upon by his friends, now near boneless in truth. His lips were moving but no sound emerged, the whisper in Greek or something that almost sounded Italian but not quite. Suddenly the long fingers were digging into MacLeod's arm painfully. "I was there..." The ragged admission came. "The burning... I couldn't... the pain was....is all I can remember." The hazel eyes were shuttered away, the body tight as if remembering the agony.

        "You were where, Methos?" Mac prompted softly, not sure if this had anything to do with their search but something had triggered these terrible memories. Methos was the only Immortal MacLeod had ever met that had lapses of memory when other Immortals recalled every day in detail. But then, Methos was older than any of the others.

        "Pompeii. When Vesuvio erupted. I was there." His voice was stronger. "I must have been caught in it... The nightmares... I can remember being carried to a boat but I don't know by who or why... all I can hear are the screams and the stench of burning... the temple was burning... "

        "What temple?"

        "Diana. I had gone to steal food... from the offerings at the temple. It must've collapsed when the eruption came.

        "Why now? What has brought all this up, now. Who were you fighting last night?"

        Strength was returning to the thin body, panic receding under the calm insistent voice. "I haven't thought of any of this in centuries. It may have started to come up when Kronos reappeared. Why I left... when I left Horsemen. But it was still a nightmare...all of it. I know at the time I thought Vesuvio was the end of the world."

        His voice had grown calm but there was something more...something in the strained look in the older Immortal's eyes that made MacLeod believe there was more to this story -- but unsure if it were worth pushing Methos into his memories again. He had done that once with a friend, with Warren, and they had both regretted it. The guilt from that bit of meddling was especially sharp now.

        "Up?" he asked instead and offered a hand when Methos nodded, pulling himself and his friend to their feet. "Come back to the barge and get some food or rest."

        "Gee, Mac, I thought you were determined not to care," Methos said quietly but there was no mocking in his voice. "No. I need to some time to think... to try and work through this -- maybe check my own journals."

        The fear was back, lurking around the edges of the hazel eyes but Mac just nodded and offered the coat. "You need this," he said and Methos took it, feeling the weight of his sword. "Are you going to be all right?"

        "The sun is up, MacLeod," Methos said. "Demons only come out in the darkness," he said tonelessly and turned away, heading for the stairs.

        It was on the tip on Mac's tongue to call him back but he remained silent and waited until Methos disappeared before turning back to the barge. Methos' fears were every bit as real as MacLeod's own and yet the man kept going. He could envy the strength without jealousy of the source. Counted on that strength.

        Prayed it would be enough when it came time to banish his own demons to never-ending darkness.

        The Watcher and the two remaining Immortals sat in silence, reading, each occupied in their own dark thoughts, struggling to concentrate. Mac kept seeing the look of stark terror on Methos' face. Fear like that wasn't about physical pain, he knew. All Immortals learned to deal with pain as a part of life. This fear went deeper, much deeper. So deep his mind had buried the memory away until now. Why now, he wondered, thumbing through Landry's book one more time.

        "What have you found out about this demon? This Ahriman?" MacLeod asked Joe.

        "Not a lot. He's supposed to be the leader of the demon pack, so to speak, the 'Lord of Lies'. A red-eyed monster locked in some psychic prison in a mountain in Iraq. Can't manifest himself physically until the end of the millenium cycle, and then has to take over someone else's body."

        Mac shook his head. "Methos may be right. How can some religious mythic monster have any relevance to what's going on with me? Landry doesn't say how to defeat the thing, just that I'm supposed to be the third warrior to fight it. It's not even the millennium yet."

        "What about what that hermit told you in Scotland?" Amanda interjected. "That you were the chosen one, that he had fought some great evil and you were the next to take it on? It all fits, somehow, Duncan. Look," she rose from her perch on the desk to sit beside him on the couch, "If you want to find yourself guilty, you can, but allow for the possibility that you're not. Please." She reached out, touching his shoulder, but he closed his eyes, shutting away the intended comfort.

        "It just feels like we're grasping at straws, Amanda. Trying to make Landry's fantasies real because they are more pleasant to believe than that I no longer have control over my mind, my reactions. When, in truth, that's what is far more likely. It's not like it hasn't happened before," he said quietly, "and no one accused some red-eyed Zoroastrian demon of the deed then."

        He passed his hand over his eyes, heavily shadowed with fatigue, then absent mindedly patted Amanda on the knee in a familiar gesture. "I'm afraid the demon we're looking for is one I see every time I look in the mirror." He rose and headed out to the deck.

        Joe watched tears slip down Amanda's cheeks. He didn't know how to comfort her, or MacLeod, or even himself. Losing MacLeod was unthinkable. They had all believed in him for so long, it defied his understanding that the man didn't believe in himself. He had always held himself and others to a high moral standard, but was also compassionate in his judgments. Now he seemed to have no compassion left for himself.

        "What are we going to do, Joe?" Amanda asked softly.

        MacLeod retreated to his usual escape, physical activity. Ignoring his weariness, he found a spot under the bridge out of the sight of prying eyes and stretched out, moving into a simple open-hand kata, letting movement dominate his senses. After awhile he sensed he was being watched and he slowed, looking around to find Paulo leaning up against the stone wall, his dark eyes fixed on him. The boy's face was closed and wary.

        Mac breathed deep, trying to expel the frustration and anger that seemed to be the only emotions he was capable of lately. He crossed over to him, leaning up against the wall, wiping his face with a towel. His treatment of the boy the night before weighed heavily on him. The kid had already been rejected more than his fair share for Duncan to add to that burden.

        "How'd it go with the Watchers?" he asked.

        "Fine."

        "Paulo, I'm sorry about what I said last night. I was . . . Things are awkward right now. I'm very moved that you care about what happens to me, but for your sake, please. Let it go."

        Paulo smiled a sad smile and slid down the wall to sit on the cold stones, staring out at the light of the sun setting over Paris, casting long fingers of shadow over the Seine. "I may be young, but I'm not stupid, Duncan MacLeod. And you may be old, but you're not a bad person, no matter what happened," Paulo said. "I've spent a lot of time thinking about stuff like this, and I think I can tell. I knew the first time I saw you that we were alike. I had hoped it was that I sensed that you were . . . really like me, but now I know it was because you have the same terrible self-doubts I do. Why, I don't know, because you seem to me like everything a person ought to be." Paulo raised his hand to stop Mac's protest. "You're going to say I think that because of how you look, or because you stepped in to help me like some knight in shining armor. But it's a lot more than that. You've just stopped believing in it. A person's life is more than just the sum of the events that happened, you know. It's what goes on in here." He pointed to his chest. "You have a good heart, MacLeod. It shines out of you like a beacon."

        Mac had sat down beside him, hugging his knees. He shook his head solemnly. "People see what they want to see," he said quietly. "You, Amanda, Adam, Joe." He took a deep breath. He owed the boy an explanation. "I killed my student, Paulo. A young man only a little older than you are. He was like a son to me," Duncan's voice caught as his throat closed with grief. He couldn't go on and for the first time since Richie's death, tears actually escaped from his eyes. "How . . . how can anyone believe that there is anything worth admiring in someone who could do such a thing?"

        "Because they are convinced that, whatever happened, in your heart, you couldn't and wouldn't have done it. That there must be some other explanation. That's why Joe and Amanda and Adam have been working so hard, isn't it? Because they will never believe that you intended to hurt your student. Now they have to get you to believe it."

        MacLeod sighed, tired of the topic. "You are quite the philosopher, Paulo. It sounds like you need to apply some of that wisdom to yourself."

        "Oh, observing and analyzing others is a lot easier than doing it for yourself. Somehow the mirror is always warped when you try to view yourself."

        "Your father was wrong, Paulo. You know that, don't you?"

        The boy was quiet, solemn.

        "We all are desperate for the approval of our parents, but they are only human. A product of their times, their prejudices. My father rejected me, threw me out."

        Paulo looked at him in surprise.

        Mac smiled. "It was a long time ago. And while I now understand what he did and why, even after four centuries, it still hurts. We'd like to think our parents will love us, no matter what. But parents are just as flawed as we are, it only seems like they should be infallible from a child's perspective." Mac wrapped his arm around Paulo's neck and pulled him close. "Try to forgive him, Paulo. Accept who you are without shame, without reservation, because it's something to be proud of. As you said, it's what's in here that makes us special." He laid his hand on the boy's heart and the tension and fear of the past weeks dissolved as, at Mac's touch, Paulo's iron control finally broke and he sobbed against the older man's chest. They sat like that for a long time, until Paulo's sobs ceased and he just lay in Mac's arms. Finally, he moved, sitting up and carefully wiping away his tears, regaining his composure.  He reached out and touched the Highlander's flawless face. "Are you sure . . . ?" and for the first time, Paulo saw the full force of a genuine smile that had broken more hearts than anyone could count, and his own heart lurched in response.

        Mac laughed. "Yes, my boy. I'm sure. You are hardly the first to ask the question, though." He rose in a smooth motion, holding out his hand to pull the young man to his feet. "I'm cold and hungry. I think its time to go inside."

        Amanda looked up from the couch as Paulo came down the steps, followed closely by MacLeod. Somehow some of the desperate tension had gone out of Mac's face. He seemed to relax a little around the boy, as though his need to care for the lad, at least temporarily, dampened the sharpness of his despair, blunted his grief. Ever the optimist, she let herself hope that, with more time, things would be okay.

        "Has Adam called?" he asked.

        "Joe talked to him awhile ago. He said he's okay, he just wants to do his own research for awhile."

        "Are you sure? Maybe I should go see him."

        "Duncan," Amanda admonished gently. "Being around you doesn't exactly cheer Adam up these days."

        "Then maybe you should go see him."

        Her expression hardened. "I'll pretend you didn't say that."

        "Amanda! That's not what I meant and you know it!"

        "It's exactly what you meant, Duncan MacLeod." She rose to her feet in anger. "I'd appreciate it if you would kindly keep your warped notions of what's *good* for me or for Adam to yourself," she growled.

        Paulo looked back and forth between the two Immortals spitting at each other like angry cats with mild amusement. It would seem that age did not necessarily bring wisdom.

        Duncan moved to her, taking both her hands in his. "I'm sorry, Amanda. But I am worried about him. He was terrified. I've never seen him look like that. It was a memory he'd repressed and you know what it takes for one of us to *not* remember something. Lord knows, there are things I wish I didn't remember. Please? Go see him?"

        Amanda had never, in over three centuries, been able to resist those big, soft brown, pleading eyes. <<God, I'm such a sucker>> she thought. But this time her resolve stiffened. She would not let MacLeod dictate how their lives played out. "No, Duncan. He would interpret my visit as having been sent by you, and it would just piss him off."

        "But I can go," Joe said from the top of the stairs to the galley. "I agree somebody needs to go see him. But right now, we're all going to sit down have Mama Dawson's special meatloaf. We're going to drink wine and talk about art and music and politics and relax a little. Then I'm going to go over to Adam's and you three are going to get a real night's sleep for a change. Nightmares and depression are a lot more likely when you are so tired you're ready to drop." He carefully made his way to the table carrying a loaf pan that smelled delicious, and suddenly they were all ravenous.

        Joe was right. A little food, a little wine and the tension in the air lessened considerably. Paulo told stories of his childhood in Italy, with counterpoints from wild adventures from Amanda's past. Duncan mostly just listened, but his eyes were alternately warm with affection for his friends, and distantly sad. Joe automatically did what he always did -- watched. When he observed MacLeod's eyelids droop heavily, he took that as his cue.

        "Well, my friends. I think I'll be off to see our friend Adam, and let you guys hit the sack. If MacLeod isn't careful he's going to end up with his face in his plate any minute." He made his goodbyes and left the trio. He was right. Mac tried to help them clean up, but Amanda steered him to the bed, taking off his shoes and throwing the cover over him when he fell asleep before he could remove his clothes.