Methos had known that there would be a wake of unrest in the world they had left behind. The race to leave Seacouver and take the injured Duncan someplace safe had overwhelmed all other considerations. Only Joe knew how serious the situation was and he didn't know where they had gone. In fact he had insisted on not knowing.

        "Wherever you're going, the fewer people who know the better." The Watcher had stated.

        Everyone who cared about Duncan was oblivious to his injury, thinking that he had only gone away to recover his soul, as the popular song said.

        No one knew.

        Almost.

        When she had walked away from Methos at Duncan's request, Cassandra had known that he was right. She had to heal from the pain and anger that had swallowed her soul for so long. When she had found Grace in Switzerland, she had joined her on her mercy mission. The two had become sisters again, as they had been during the time of the Great Plague.Laughing into the night and sharing the knowledge of healing during the day, Grace was slowly mending Cassandra's bruised heart. She had been a warrior for so long, so bent on the destruction of the Horsemen, that she had forgotten how to be a woman, how to be a healer.

        Grace was all of the parts of Cassandra that had been missing. Her love and her mercy knew no regrets, and took away Cassandra's. That evening they sat in front of the little fire before their tent and watched the sunset. The pollution from an oil well fire turned the sun burgundy- brown, a shade that reminded both women of another time and a safer place, where a voluminus robe had embraced them and taken them to Holy Ground.

        "I miss Darius." They sighed in union, then smiled at each other and laid their heads together as the night faded.

        "You are my grace and my heart," Cassandra whispered to her. Grace only smiled her beatific smile and placed her arm around Cassandra's shoulders.

        Cassandra sat up suddenly, ignoring Grace's reaching hand. She breathed deeply and focused, her mind crying out for her Scottish warrior. Where his mind had been lately;in the closed off, shuttered world he had made for himself; there was only a chaotic sensation, as though something had taken his place. Through all of his darkest times, Cassandra had known him, felt him. Now she couldn't recognize the feeling that reached her. He wasn't dead, but he wasn't there either.

        "What is it?" Grace sat up,listening intently to the world outside. All sounded as normal as it ever did in that corner of the world."Cass, what's wrong?"

        Not wanting to worry Grace unnecessarily, Cassandra lay back down. "I'm sure it's nothing. Go back to sleep, love."

        But she lay awake into the night, thinking about the odd sensation she had recieved. She had relied on her intuition too long to ignore the fact that something was terribly, desperately wrong. Perhaps he's in some state of meditation, she tried to soothe herself. Or was thoroughly intoxicated at that cruddy blues bar that he so loved. Or maybe he was having a nightmare. Or maybe...

        As dawn broke, Cassandra knew that all of the maybes didn't add up. Over their MRE breakfast, she took a deep breath and looked Grace in the eye. "Can you manage without me for a while?"

        Grace looked startled, the deer-in-the-headlights look that Cassandra so hated to see. "How long?"

        "Grace..." Cassandra breathed in again. "Something is wrong. I have to go find someone and I don't know how long it will take."

        Jealousy got the better of her and Grace couldn't hold back the next question. "Who?"

        "Duncan MacLeod."

        Grace immediately turned pale under her desert tan. "Is he all right?"

        "That's what I have to find out.  Can you manage without me?"

        Resolutely, Grace stood up."We have a long way to go then. I'll just radio the Red Cross for replacements..."

        Cassandra stood and blocked her path. "I need you to stay here."

        "Nonsense. If Duncan is in trouble..." She stopped when she saw the solid blackness that came into Cassandra's beautiful, exotic eyes.

        Cassandra couldn't explain. She didn't have the words to tell her how much she needed to know that Grace was safe and well, that she was the only sanity in Cassandra's insane world. Instead, she made  a simple plea. "Please, Grace, let me go. I will let you know as soon I know what's happened."

        "Will you keep in touch?"

        Cassandra nodded. "I won't lose you again, Grace."

        Grace smiled, "Then God speed, Cassandra."

        The Army hum-vee pulled away from the camp in a cloud of sandy dust and, although Cassandra stared through it until her eyes stung,she couldn't see Grace, standing by the fence waving her Red Cross cap in a goodbye salute.

        As he pulled out a bottom drawer, he saw a small wooden box, intricately carved. It read in Gaelic, "For Amanda, On my death."

        Methos shuddered as he read those words. For Amanda, Duncan may as well be dead.There was a sorrow for the feisty little thief, and a touch of jealousy. Duncan had loved her. They had the opportunity to know a love that Methos was doomed to never know. It was with a fierce surge of sorrow and envy that he opened the box, and looked at the contents.

        Inside, on a red-velvet cushion, lay a key. Beneath it was a map,and letter with one word, also in Gaelic. "Refuge."

        His mind was turning, reeling as he thought about the possibilities. To an immortal there was only one refuge. Holy Ground.Duncan had a place that was a refuge! He had wondered where they could go, where he could keep him safe. Methos himself owned an old abbey in Ireland, but it was falling down and it would be difficult to care for the now inept Duncan in.

        He looked at the map, his mind churning with the possibilities. He could get them there, hire a plane to take them through the wilds to the remote island. There, they would be safe, and perhaps... Methos forced himself to shut down that hope, although it was always present.

        Duncan MacLeod was a child now. There was nothing on earth that would change that. He would never again be the man he was. A part of Methos still denied that.The truth was too painful to bear alone. Joe had been great. Strong and understanding. But the truth was that he was mortal. Joe had spent time in the VA hospitals watching men, soldiers, deteriorate from the effects of similar wounds. He would never understand how hard it was for Methos to watch his friend crawling on the floor, playing with building blocks, watching TV vacantly while Big Bird sang about the letter M.

        And every immortal on the planet would be looking for him as soon as the word got out. His friends would want answers and his enemies would want his head. How many of his friends would come to the same conclusion as that damned Watcher woman had? No, he had to protect Duncan, and he was the master at disappearing. It would be harder to get lost with a two hundred pound three year old, but he could do it.

        He finished packing Duncan's things, setting aside a duffle bag of clothes. At the last minute, he reopened one of the boxes and took out a picture. It was Tessa and Ritchie, smiling in the Parisian sunshine with the Eiffel Tower behind them. Even if Duncan didn't remember them, perhaps one day hewould want it. He stowed it in his coat pocket and left, locking the door behind him. Methos doubted if he would ever walk into the dojo again.

        The small pontoon plane skimmed across the water and came to a rest near the cabin that had barely been visible from the air. Methos had held his breath until it came into sight. The sturdy log cabin looked like a Currier&Ives lithograph stamped against the green backdrop of the northern forest. Methos heaved a sigh of relief.

        Duncan had clung to his hand for the entire trip, Joe's rag teddy bear clutched against his chest. His eyes were wide as he stared out the window of the little plane. Methos had prayed that he wouldn't get airsick, but he only seemed frightened and unsure.

        The burly pilot had assured Methos that, other than his plane, the only access was a long hike and a canoe trip. He  made a contract to fly supplies to them once a month, and told Methos that he could cb-radio anytime for an emergency. The cabin was accessible most of the year but there could be adverse weather conditions in the winter when he couldn't fly up.

        "You'll be on your own most of November through January. There's an Indian man. Lives across there," And he pointed vaguely to the south, "You get to his place and he can help you out, if you need anything."

        Methos thanked the man, and paid him. Then he added an extra hundred dollars. "No one knows we're here."

        The pilot nodded. "And they won't learn it from me."

        As the plane lifted off of the lake in a shower of spray, Methos carried the supplies up the hill towards the cabin. Duncan sat in the grass at the water's edge until Methos went back for him.

        "Come on, old man. Are you hungry?"

        Duncan lumbered along beside him, pausing every now and then to look around him. He stopped suddenly, looking at the great monolithic pillar that stood in front of the cabin. His hand reached out to it, his expression puzzled.

        Methos laid down the packs he was carrying and walked over. A gentle smile lit his face as he laid his hand over Duncan's against the cool stone. "That's right, Duncan. Those are going to keep us safe. No one can hurt you here."

        Duncan smiled at his protector; an innocent, loving smile and Methos steeled his heart against the hurt it caused. Only a month ago he would have given his head to have Duncan look at him that way. Now it was an agony he could hardly bear. He took Duncan's hand in his own, and led him up towards the cabin.

        "Shall we see what kind of mess you've left for us?" Methos asked, jovially scooping up one of the packs. Duncan only nodded his vacant smile.

        Inside, the cabin was clean and spacious. The kitchen looked as though a squirrel or mouse had been in and about, and there was dust, but it was nowhere near as primitive as Methos had feared. The bonus point was the Roman style bath built off the back of the kitchen. Made of stone and mortar, it could be filled then heated from a fire pit beneath. It's size would make bathing the giant easy in the extreme. A little exploration uncovered a generator but no fuel, and he made a note to radio his pilot. There were three bedrooms and a study, as well as a kitchen and dining area. Most of the furniture was handmade and spartan, carved from the living woods around them. There were mattresses rolled at the corners of each bed and Methos dragged them out onto the porch to air.

        Duncan's burst of laughter distracted him, and he pushed the door open to find that Duncan had unpacked one of the bags by dumping it in the middle of the floor. He was settled on the woven rug, happily playing with Methos' clothes. A pair of underwear graced his head and a sweater was tangled around his too-broad arms. He tried to disentangle himself, and realized he was trapped. Letting out a fierce grunt, he started to struggle, succeeding in ripping the entire sleeve off of the sweater.

        The 5000 year old man grimaced,and counted to ten before kneeling down and gently taking back the pieces of the sweater. As he pulled his underwear off of Duncan's head, he bit his lips together, trying not to laugh at the idiocy of it. He and Joe had learned the hard way that Duncan wouldn't tolerate being laughed at. "Why don't we find you some toys to play with, hmm?"

        He ran back to the lakeside and found the box with the plastic building blocks that stuck together. Legos, Joe had called them. They seemed to occupy Duncan for at least 15 minutes more than the other toys. For the first time since leaving Seacouver, Methos realized that he would have to deal with Duncan's avid curiousity without a television. Well, he'd lived 5000 years without television, and raised a few fine foster children in that time as well. But never alone. And never forever.

        The two settled into an easy routine in their hide-away. Methos found parenting a fully grown man frustrating and challenging, but he knew that his love for Duncan was to great to ever let him go. The reward of Duncan's laughter was enough to sustain him. He taught him to fish, and swim. He read him stories at night. He wasn't sure that Duncan ever understood the words, so he read everything from Dr. Seuss to Shakespeare. Duncan smiled and nodded and patted Methos' arm. Then they would go through the nightly out-house routine, which Duncan was finally starting to comprehend. Methos would tuck him gently into bed, kissing his temple and placing Teddy in his arms, where he himself so longed to be.

        She had been in Europe three weeks. All of the places where he might have been,he wasn't. She called people all over the world. Antique dealers he knew, museum curators, Rachel's inn in Glenfinnan.  Finally, she boarded a plane to Edinburgh,and drove into the Highlands.

        Connor met her in front of his cottage, katana in hand. She laughed at him and pulled her own broadsword. She met his lunge with an even parry and the game was on. They swung, ducked, parried, and dove. He chuckled as she stumbled over an exposed root.

        "Your age is showing, Cassandra." His deep accent bubbled with good humor.

        She gave him an evil glare, cushioned by a following smile as she drove forward, swinging her sword for his crotch. Connor leaped backwards, his smile fading.

"Hey, what was that for?"

        "Do I look like an old woman to you?" she asked teasingly, knowing that Connor would reply that she looked as beautiful as always.

        He lowered his sword and studied his old friend for a moment. Even under the overcast sky, with her hair loose and wind tossed, and her defiant stance she was beautiful and unnerving. And a Scotsman's hottest summer dream. He chuckled again. "Well, now that you mention it..."

        She threw her sword away with a frown. "I don't have time for games today, Connor."

        "What's the matter, Quean?" He laid aside the katana and came to sit on a boulder beside her, taking her deceptively soft hand in his own.

        Even the use of his old endearment didn't bring a smile to her lips, though her hand squeezed his lightly.

        "I'm looking for Duncan."

        Eyes like ice looked up at her in sudden concern. "You're worried?"

        "Something's wrong. I feel it in my heart."

        Connor shrugged it off. "He probably just wanted some time alone. He's had a rough time of it since Tessa died. And what happened with Richie."

        He still couldn't bring himself to say 'since he killed Richie.' The memory of the tow-headed, bandana wearing thief of the past was still too clear. When he had heard of the happenings in Paris the previous year, he had gone to see the grave for himself. Duncan had already left Paris and there had been no one to tell him firsthand what had truly happened.

        Cassandra shook her head, her dark hair leaving tendrils across her face. "Ihave to find him, Connor."

        "Did you try the States? Seacouver?"

        "Not yet." She paused. "You know him better than anyone, Connor. If he was in trouble, where would he go?"

        Connor shrugged again. "Stay for dinner. Tomorrow, go to Seacouver. He might be there. If you don't find him, call me, and I'll come."

        "You would?" Cassandra knew that Connor had a live-and-let-live philosophy that he worked hard to maintain. Even when one of his proteges was in trouble. He liked fun and, when he didn't want fun, he wanted solitude. That was all.

        "He's my kinsman!" Connor said in a ringing voice before standing and striding towards the cottage.

        Kinsman. Clan loyalty. How foolish of her to have forgotten. She had lived in the north of Scotland for nearly 500 years and watched clans rise and fall. She had watched both MacLeods grow to men and rise from the dead. She had watched the MacLeods and MacDonells and MacLennans battle over and over again for the sake of an insult. Of course if Duncan needed him, Connor would come.

        She walked into the little cottage and settled herself at the table. Connor was banging pots and pans in the kitchen, letting out his Highland temper. Cassandra reached over and toyed with the ivory chess pieces on the little gaming table before speaking.

        "Connor," She said softly.

        He put down the pan in his hand and turned toward her.

        "I'm sorry."

        He took one look at her deceptively innocent eyes and was under her spell. Taking her hands in his, he knelt at her feet. "Oh, Quean. You've nothing to be sorry for."

        She kissed his lips lightly and he looked up at her with a mix of wonder and fear.

        "You still leave me in awe, after all these years."

        She smiled mysteriously, once again the Witch of Donan Woods from legend.  "Awe or not,I'm hungry, clansman."

        They cooked and ate together. As it always was with them, it was an uneasy time. Connor was overwhelmed by her very presence and she struggled to put him at ease. He didn't share his space often and, while she knew she was always welcome, she couldn't help but feel like it was only because the boy in him was afraid she would turn him into a sheep.

        But the man in her arms that night was no frightened boy and she gave herself willingly to the passion he so often kept chained inside. When morning came,hours too soon, she slipped away from him.

        "I'll call if I need you." She promised.

        He smiled a relaxed smile, watching her exquisite form as she dressed. "I'll be here."

        The bar, too, was closed, but the sign said it would open at 4:00. She decided to wait.

        Joe arrived at 3:30 and she stepped in front of him.

        "We're closed." Joe stated firmly, waving one hand at the sign and fumbling with his cane and keys with the other.

        "Mr. Dawson?" Cassandra said in her softest voice.

        He looked up then, and realized suddenly that an ancient woman was requesting an audience with him. Warning bells went off. The woman loved Duncan and hated Methos. What could he possibly tell her?

        He unlocked the door and gestured inside. Cassandra slipped past him into the darkness of the bar.

        "I'm looking for MacLeod, " she said softly, again in that reasonable tone that had to be listened to.

        "Connor? He's probably in Scotland. It's summertime, you know."

        Cassandra wasn't fooled by the bluff. "Duncan MacLeod."

        Joe shook his head. "Haven't seen him in about a month."

        "Do you know where he might have gone?"

        Joe bustled behind the counter, setting up the bar for the night. "Nope. Look,I gotta lot of work to do around here, lady."

        Cassandra stepped to the bar, keeping her voice still and even. "And you can get to it in just a moment. I'm only asking for a little help."

        "Yeah, a little help." Joe looked around him, suddenly wishing he had a little help.

        "I need to know where MacLeod is."

        "I want to know, too." Joe said sadly, "But I don't know. He didn't tell me."

        Cassandra sensed that he wasn't talking about Duncan. "Who didn't tell you?"

        Lost in the emotions that were surfacing, Joe didn't answer right away. "I told him not to tell me, because nobody can know. It's not safe. No one can know where they went."

        "Dawson, where who went?"

        "Methos and MacLeod."

        At the name, Cassandra stiffened, almost losing her tenuous control over the watcher. She forced herself to take a deep breath. "Dawson, what did Methos do to Duncan?"

        Joe was still shaking his head sadly, the grim expression never leaving his face. "Helped him."

        "Helped him? Where did he take him?"

        "There was an accident and MacLeod..."Joe's voice slipped, "Mac..."

        "What happened to MacLeod?" Cassandra prodded gently, but tears welled up in the big veteran's eyes.

        "There was an accident," he repeated, like a broken record.

        Cassandra sighed. "All right. It will be all right, Dawson. Just forget I was here."

        She stood and moved to go before her hypnosis left him completely. She was almost to the door and nearly didn't hear Joe's words.

        "He said Refuge."

        She turned back. Refuge. Refuge. "Thank you, Joe."

        She let the door swing shut behind her. And Joe stood at the counter, wipingtears from his stubbled cheeks, gazing at the empty bar,and wondering if he was having some kind of breakdown.

        Connor's phone rang eight times before he answered.

        "Refuge.What would that mean to Duncan?"

        "Refuge?" Connor thought a long minute, then replied, "I don't know, but I think I can guess. Why, what did you find out?"

        Her voice was colder than a Highland frost. "Methos took him."

        "You mean took his head?" Connor's voice was stunned with pain, and Cassandra rushed to explain.

        "No, he's alive. All Dawson would say was that there was an accident. Something is wrong. Methos helped him. He took him somewhere. He said 'refuge'. "

        The days of searching,international flights, and lack of sleep had began to strain on the sorceress and she was close to tears as the words rushed out of her mouth.

        "I'm on the next flight. We'll find him, Cassandra. In the meantime, check into a hotel and get some sleep. I will be there soon."

        She gave the name of a hotel listed in the phone book and hung up, weary andworried to the bone. In her hotel room she called and had a telegram sent to Grace. "Still no Duncan. Connor coming.  Send word when we know. Love.C."

        Then she fell into the bed and directly to sleep. Her dreams were fraught with terrible images. Duncan, scarred and mutilated, writhing on the floor of some dark place. Duncan being endlessly tortured by a Horseman in blue paint. Duncan weeping forlornly in a hidden cell, reduced from all sanity. When Connor arrived the next day, she had slept for 14 hours straight but she wasn't rested.

        He was wearing his usual jeans and sneakers, his tan overcoat hiding his katana in its folds. His face was haggard and unshaven after his flight, but he was ready to go.

        "Do you have sturdy boots?" he asked her as she dressed in jeans and a cotton camp shirt. She showed him her military style boots that she had found so practical when working with Grace.

        "Then lets go."

        "Go where?"

        Connor held up his map to show the small island he had circled. "We have to
hike in and canoe over. It takes about a day and a half, less if we hurry."

        "Like hell!" Cassandra snapped and picked up the phone.
 

Two hours later she was taxiing away from the Aviation dock in a chartered seaplane. "This will get us there much faster," she assured Connor as she pulled up on the stick and the plane angled sharply into the sky. He clung to his seat, looking disconcerted.

        "How many hours do you have in one of these?" He asked again, as she radioedair traffic control.

        She smiled her witchiest smile. "Do want to go to sleep now, lovee?"

        "Like hell!" He snarled, crouching down in his seat as they broke the low cloud cover and headed north.

        They sat together at the water's edge. Duncan was intently trying to pile rocks together in a stack and Methos watched him with gentle amusement. Without bidding it, he started to talk to Duncan as he once would have. Man to man.

        "We'll go fishing tomorrow and see if we can catch a salmon. I miss restaurants, don't you?  Do you remember when we were in Paris that time and Amanda took us to that place with the blue tables and everything?  That was the best seafood I have ever eaten. And Amanda had that poor waiter so stirred up he didn't know whether he was serving or bussing. The poor man. I know how he feels. "

        Methos looked up to find Duncan's soulful eyes focused on him."That was a good night. Even the opera you dragged us to wasn't half bad."

        "Al..Al.." Duncan stammered softly.

        Absently, Methos replied "Yes. Alexa was with me. It was our only night in Paris." Suddenly, he realized what happened and leaned toward Duncan, taking in every detail of his friends face.

        "Duncan?"

        For a second, Duncan's eyes were focused, then they wandered out over the water. His hands toyed with his rocks.

        "Duncan, look at me." Methos' voice was strained with agony and hope.

        Duncan looked back at him and laughed, pushing his rock pile over.

        Methos sat back, dashing back the tears along with the suddenly crushed hope.  Nothing had changed. It had just been his baby babbles that Methos had mistaken for Alexa's name. Tears welled up in earnest. God, he missed her. He missed MacLeod. He was the loneliest man on earth. He leaned his forehead on his knees, and fought for control against the hopeless sorrow that threatened to overwhelm him. There was a sudden splash as Duncan threw a rock into the water and Methos raised his head, reminded that the child-man needed him.

        Together, they threw rocks into the water. Methos found flat ones and tried to get Duncan to skip them along the surface. That was what they were doing when he heard the distant hum of the approaching seaplane.

        Quickly, he grabbed Duncan's hand and ran for the cabin. Duncan thought it was a fun game and raced along beside him. Inside, Methos took out his sword and got Duncan to sit on the floor.

        "Here's Teddy and your blanket. I need you to stay right here, where you'll be safe. All right?"

        Duncan stuck his thumb in his mouth, a habit Methos had been unable to break him of. "You'll be safe here. No matter what, do not come outside."

        Methos knew he had a zero chance of being obeyed, but he had to try.

        As he opened the cabin door to leave, he looked back in time to see Duncan nodding. Was it at him? Had he understood? Impossible. Methos locked the  door behind him.

        The seaplane taxied in, and came to a rest with one pontoon touching the sandy beach. Cassandra cut the engine and leaped out, not bothering that the water splashed up her legs as she sloshed onto the beach, her sword hanging loosely in her hand.

        "Oh, damn." Methos muttered. Why did it have to be her? He waited by one of the monoliths, the symbol that this was holy ground and inviolable.

        She was beautiful. Her anger flared in her eyes. It was in her stance. She had never been more beautiful than when she was defying him, and she was defying him now. Defying him to stand between her and her goal.

        She would take Duncan from him, if he let her. Methos let his soul go hard. Protect the babe. That he would do with his life. But who was that following her?  The fair warrior in the faded jeans and t-shirt with the Japanese sword in his hand. No. He stopped at the beach edge and planted it in the sand. A gesture of peace.

        He knew what this place was then. There was only one man who this could be. The legendary Connor MacLeod, come looking for his missing kinsman. He didn't look like his Watcher file photo. He looked leaner, smoother, somehow. Pity they had to meet like this instead of in some pub with a good draft between them.

        As Cassandra approached, Methos held up his hand. "This is Holy Ground." He had almost added "Woman" on the end, but stopped himself just in time. This was no time to bring up old grievances.

        "Where's MacLeod, Methos?"  The witch's voice was fiercer than he had ever heard it before. There would be no tricks here, no attempts to cajole or hypnotise. This was war, loud and clashing.

        Methos sighed, looking down at the ground in the way he had when facing a difficult issue. When he spoke, his voice was low and regretful. "Let him be, Cassandra. You can't help him now."

        Her sword was still in her hand. "What have you done to him?"

        The myriad of emotions that flooded Methos' face were unfamiliar to Cassandra. She no longer knew him well enough to recognize the emotions of disbelief, sorrow, loyalty, and grief that Methos was capable of. He had let those emotions in only recently. For the first time since leaving Grace, she faltered.

        "Let him be," he repeated, praying that she would and knowing that she wouldn't.

        Connor stood silently behind her. He had no quarrel with this man. He had no idea that Cassandra still harbored her anger for the remaining Horseman until that moment. If she killed Methos, they may never know what had happened to Duncan. He stepped forward and laid his hand over Cassandra's sword arm. She lowered her blade, allowing Connor to take it from her and place it on the ground.

        "Methos." Connor's word was a greeting, a respect for the ancient one.

        "Connor." Methos replied, trying to say in that one word all that he wanted to say out loud.

        Connor nodded."We want to see Duncan."

        Methos raised his head, his eyes narrowing."Are you certain? How much do you know about what happened?"

        Connor shook his head. "Only that there was an accident."

        Methos' voice turned hard as steel, both to get his point across and to hide the pain of reliving that awful day. That day had begun with such hope and then ended with such a painful acceptance of Duncan's fate. The words came out as a hard-bitten syllables. "He was shot. In the head. At close range."

        Cassandra took a step back, Connor's hand steadying her,

        "How bad is it?" she asked, her eyes wide. She already knew the chaos that existed where his mind had been, although it had seemed better the night before. Perhaps she had been fooling herself. She had felt it, but she needed to know, to hear it out loud.

        Methos was reminded of his years as a doctor. The faces of all the anxious parents who had ever waited for the good news that he could never give them played through his mind. Cassandra and Connor stood before him now, guardians facing the Good Doctor with the strain of worry in their eyes. The little part of him that still loved Cassandra ached to see her like this. He drew in a shuddering breath. "He's like a child."

        The admission came hard. He saw the disbelief on both of their faces, the desire to not hear him. So he continued, letting the voice of the physician speak over the sorrow of his own broken heart. "He has the mental abilities of a three year old. He can't speak. I brought him here to protect him, care for him."

        The Good Doctor was deserting him, and his next words were hushed with the agony of the man beneath. "Please, if you love him at all, let him be."

        "Can I see him?" Cassandra's voice was a softly pleading whisper, no longer demanding. Her mind was churning. She had always seen Methos as the strong one, the selfish one. Now, in the space of a few whispered words, Death's mask was falling away. Methos had given up the world to care for Duncan. If he had cared that much...

        He handed her the key to the cabin. "He's inside. Don't frighten him."

        She gave him a look of disgust. As if she would frighten a child!

        The two men walked slowly behind her, lost in the turmoil of their own thoughts.

        Cassandra approached the cabin cautiously, feeling the ringing between her ears that signified an Immortal within. She slowly turned the key and opened the door. She called softly,"Duncan?"

        Then she saw him. He was curled on the floor under the window, a patchwork teddy bear pulled over one ear and his thumb in his mouth. Her heart sank.Her mind plummeted back 400 years to the memory of the cold Highland morning when she had first seen the little boy, crouched in the corner of his mother's doorway with a woolen blanket pulled up to his face, sucking his thumb. It was a disturbing image, the infant's face imprinted over the face of the grown man whom she had come to love.

        "Duncan, it's all right," she called softly. She dropped to her knees and crawled over to him."It's Cass. I won't hurt you."

        He held out the arm holding the bear and she moved into it, pulling him across her lap. He smiled up at her, the angelic smile of a baby. But it was without recognition, or was it? Cassandra stared into his face, certain that she had seen a flicker of something. Something... but she didn't know what. Behind her, the two men entered the cabin.

        Connor's face was stoic, trying to assimilate the scene before he allowed any emotion to surface. Methos' reaction was a barely disguised jealous rage. He marched into the kitchen, digging beer out of the icebox and handing one to Connor.

        The two men watched as Cassandra disentangled herself from Duncan and sat beside him, cross-legged on the floor. She somehow got him to sit across from her and looked into the brown depths of his eyes.  They sat that way for a long time, Cassandra making a game out of moving his hands in the air, following her movements. At last, she stopped and moved away from him. Duncan noticed Methos and smiled his innocent smile in a hello.

        "Hey, old man. " Methos ruffled his hair affectionately and handed him a graham cracker.

        Cassandra leaned against the rough hewn table, confidentially speaking to the 'adults' in the room. "He's in there. I can feel him."

        "So what do we do?" Connor asked helplessly."Will he ever heal?"

        "I don't think so." Methos said sadly. "A neurologist saw him in Seacouver. She said it would be best to..."

        He let his voice fade off, unwilling to let that idea even enter his head.

        " A 'mortal' neurologist," Cassandra said briefly. Duncan had climbed onto the bench beside her and was breaking his graham cracker into bite-size pieces. "What do they know? What do any of us know for certain?"

        It was the hope that Methos had been denying himself, not letting himself face for how much it could hurt him. The roles had reversed. He was the guardian with all hope crushed and Cassandra was the healer who could bring it back to him.

        Duncan was holding out a bite of graham cracker to him and Methos took it, looking down at him, feeling his chest ache and tighten. If he could recover? If he was going to recover? He remembered the moment when he thought that Duncan had tried to say Alexa's name. Could he have been wrong? He chewed the cracker slowly, letting his mind begin to mull the possibility that Duncan could heal. Somewhere inside, silently,he began to hope again.

        Duncan placed a second piece of cracker in Cassandra's hand, then shyly held one out towards Connor.

        Connor took it with a gentle thank-you. It was the first word he had spoken to Duncan in six long years.

        "Uncome." Duncan said through his mouthful of cracker. The three stared.

        "Did you say 'You're welcome'?" Cassandra asked softly, her hand stroking his head. Duncan nodded and tried again.

        "Wuncome."

        Cassandra felt tears of relief rush to her eyes and moved to embrace him. But something in her heart stopped her. This was Methos' moment. His final triumph over her. Duncan's destiny had become his destiny. It was a triumph that she allowed him willingly.

        She stepped back, her eyes meeting Methos' over Duncan's head.

        Methos stared at her for a second in disbelief, then rushed forward, pulling Duncan to him with a hug. "That's wonderful!" He murmured,letting the tears come at last. "You're so wonderful!"

        Connor watched Cassandra restrain herself, and move away to let Methos embrace his love. He saw the tears well up in Methos' eyes as he acknowledged the acquiescence of the one woman he had ever had need to fear. Connor stepped back, biting into the cracker in his hand, trying to absorb the dynamics of the situation through his own relief and amazement.

        Suddenly,he looked down at the bit of graham cracker in his hand. What had just  happened? He needed no one to tell him the answer. Even incomplete, Duncan could bring peace back to broken people. Ancient enemies had broken bread together, and not even realized it.