Methos woke with a cry in the middle of the night, rolling out of bed and crouching on the floor as sparkling points of pain danced under his skin. It lasted . . . and lasted, until he was gasping with it, hugging himself.  It hurt, at least as much because of remembered pain as actual pain. Remembrance of so many, many times he had endured the unique agony and exhausting ecstasy of a Quickening. When it was finallly over he sat on the floor, arms draped around his long legs and slowly, elaborately and imaginatively cursed Muñoz, himself and MacLeod all at once.   At least he was close, he told himself at last, savoring the irony as he pulled himself painfully up off the floor.

        It took him too long to pull himself together. His muscles trembled and his coordination was off. It took awhile to get dressed, then took several tries to get the car started. He guessed Mac would head back to his apartment and he almost made it in time. He could feel that distinctive presence as he neared, only to watch as an oversized 4x4 jeep peeled away from the garage. He followed, but the jeep accelerated, quickly losing him in the winding small streets of the old city. Mac could certainly feel him, even knew who it was who followed, but he probably wasn't truly aware of just how strong their connection was, especially so soon after a Quickening. So Methos kept driving, following his instincts as to direction, and soon found himself at the northern edge of town, heading into the dark countryside. He sped up, trying to catch his prey, travelling so fast that he almost overshot the mark. The sun was well over the horizon when Mac's presence washed over him and he spied the jeep parked outside a small grocery store. Sure enough, there he was, dressed in sweat-stained khaki shirt and pants, stepping out of the store carrying a big carton, looking suspiciously up and down the road. His focus quickly honed in on Methos' rented car as he did a quick U-turn and circled back.

        By the time Methos had managed to park, Mac was putting a last carton in the back of his vehicle and headed toward the driver’s side, pulling his keys out of his pocket.

        "Mac, wait!"

        "What the hell are you doing here, Methos," Mac snarled. He looked haggard and tired. He was also generally unkempt, hair long and shaggy, and a bedraggled mustache disguised a portion of his all-too-memorable face. "Trying to get videos so you can take out television ads announcing my whereabouts?" Except for the heavily muscled athlete's physique, he could easily have passed for a local compesino.

        "Mac, that wasn't supposed to happen."

        "Tell that to the jerk who challenged me last night."

        "I was just trying to find you, not lead anyone to you! You know that."

        "Yeah, well, nice to see you, Methos. We must do this again sometime, but right now I'm running behind schedule." He climbed into the jeep and slammed the door.

        "Mac!" Methos shouted after the car as tires spit gravel and mud, wheels spun and the jeep sped away. "Damn!"

        He caught up to him about twenty miles later, having taken one wrong turn before sensing they were getting further apart as Mac wove north into deepening tropical forests. Rain battered against the windshield and Methos gunned the engine, accelerating into the twists and turns, catching sight of Mac's truck once again. The rented sedan wasn't made for mountain driving, but was probably faster on the straight-aways, and he pressed his advantage, pulling closer. If he could pass him, he might be able to force him to stop and talk. Otherwise, the man might disappear into the jungles for a long time and he had absolutely no desire to follow him there.

        He pulled up close behind, then swerved and gunned the engine, pulling alongside. Mac's look over to him was hard and angry, but Methos ignored it, pressing down further on the gas. He looked over and Mac was shouting something at him and gesturing, and suddenly the jeep fell back. At the same instant his brain synapses finally closed and he realized that Mac had been yelling at him to slow down, the road took a stomach lurching dip and sharp turn to the left . . .

        The high-pitched whining in his ears was almost as painful as the throbbing headache that slammed like a pinball repeatedly from his forehead to behind his ears and forward again with each wild beat of his heart. He barely managed to open his eyes, blinking and tearing as light speared his wavering vision. Methos instinctively raised a shaky hand to his face to ward off the brightness, but his fingers came away wet and bloody. The blinding pain in his head was quickly replaced in priority of sensation by the jerk on his arm, almost pulling it out of its socket as he was dragged bodily from the car. He yowled an objection, but that only got him picked up by the collar and dragged further into the mud and leaves underneath the high canopy of tropical forest. Then a concussive explosion and heat seared the back of his neck until a heavy body dropped on top of him, crushing the air out of his lungs. After a minute or so of having his face squashed against the disgusting mire of the forest floor, and listening to MacLeod’s heavy breathing in his ear against the background of the periodic whomp of explosions evidently coming from the conflagration that used to be his car, followed by raining, smoking debris, he rebelled.

        "You trying to save me or smother me?" he growled. "Get off!" The weight lifted and Methos rolled over with a gasp for air, feeling his clothes squish with mud as he did. "Dammit, MacLeod, why didn’t you just throw me in a mud hole and sit on me?" He held his aching head with one hand while he brushed ineffectually at the dripping, odiferous brown plaster of mud and half-decayed leaves, crawling insects and God-knew-what-else now completely painting his front.

        When he didn’t get the expected rise out of the Scot, Methos glanced over at him. He was squatting in the pelting rain a few feet away, his face scratched and dirt-smeared, his clothes torn and bloody, his expression a dark thundercloud ready to swirl into tornado force.

        "Maybe I should have left ye there, ye bloody Sassenach busibody! Serve ya right," the burr muddied his speech, already at a barely audible low growl.

        "I’m not English!" Methos sniffed haughtily in his best Eton accent, swiping at his cheek as warm liquid continued to trickle down his face. Great. Now he was smeared with blood and dirt.

        But Mac was not interested in conversation. He rose off his heels and turned to walk away.

        Not again, Methos moaned to himself. "Wait a minute!" Methos shouted. He struggled to his feet, slipping in the leaves and mud before he gained enough purchase to actually take a step. "Oh!" he gasped quietly, as the pain in his head enlarged and expanded to epic proportions. The forest tilted around him, the high green canopy coming into sharp view for a few seconds before dark suddenly and definitively closed in.

        Mac was halfway to his own car, fully intending to leave the Oldest Immortal sitting in the mud by the roadside when his sensitive hearing picked up the ancient’s small exclamation. He turned and watched as the tall, thin man wavered for a second, his lean frame tilting as though a high gust of wind had unexpectedly come along, then he slowly toppled backwards with a definitive squish of damp earth and vegetation.

        Mac stood over the unconscious form for several minutes arguing with himself. He had not asked the old man to follow him. As a matter of fact, the whole point of his leaving the way he had was to get rid of the obnoxious, stubborn pest. But he looked so pathetic lying there, half sunk in mud and leaves, blood smearing half his face from a deep cut on his forehead. He probably fractured his damn skull, Mac thought. Serves him right. I really ought to just walk away. It’s not like he won’t wake up in awhile. Have a hell of a headache, but he’d get over it. And getting stranded out here in the middle of nowhere . . . then Mac pictured the variety of pursuers, mortal and Immortal, that might very well be stalking him, possibly finding the Oldest Immortal still dazed and helpless by the side of the road. That is, if anyone came along at all. The old fart probably hadn’t a clue how to survive in the tropical jungle on his own. For the last century, ‘roughing it’ for Methos probably meant staying in a hotel without room service. With a grimace of distaste, Mac leaned down, grabbed both thin, elegant wrists, and with a grunt pulled the long frame over his shoulder, struggling through the mud with his unwelcome burden.

        He deposited the old man in the back seat of the jeep, then went back for the satchel and sword he had risked life and limb to extract from the back of the burning automobile before the gas tank exploded. They, too, were covered with muck. By that time, he was thoroughly soaked from the heavy rain that had been falling in this part of the world for what seemed like the past decade, and he was cursing Methos and himself. What was he thinking? He should walk away. Of course the ancient could take care of himself. He had survived for 5,000 years. What made him think he knew more about survival than the legendary Methos? What was the whole purpose of changing his ways, his identity, if it wasn’t for just such times as these? All the time the angry thoughts whirled in his brain he was putting Methos’ things in the back, pulling out a blanket, a roll of paper towels and a canteen and finally getting back into the jeep, slamming the door shut, starting it up and pulling away with a spray of mud and squeal of tires.

        About five miles further down the road, a low groan sounded from the back of the Jeep and Mac heard the body stir.

        "Ge-yods. What a bloody mess!"

        "There are some paper towels and a canteen of water on the seat, and you can use the blanket to dry off. Your satchel is behind you if you want to change clothes. I’d appreciate it if you’d wrap the dirty ones in a garbage bag. They’re in the back, too."

        "Right. The boy scout. Always prepared," he heard growled behind him. Then all he could hear was the rustling of clothing and paper towels and he could feel the jeep tilt and rock as evidently Methos was taking him up on the suggestion to change clothes. He really didn’t have a choice since the stench of rotting vegetation combined with the thorough coating of mud was making the inside of the vehicle almost uninhabitable.

        "There’s a first aid kit under the seat if you need aspirin for your headache."

        "It’s almost gone. I’ll live."

        "There’s a big surprise."

        "Look, MacLeod . . ."

        "No, you look, dammit. I didn’t ask you to follow me. If I had the sense God gave a gnat I would have left you back there in that ditch."

        "Well, we certainly agree on one thing."

        "And that is?"

        "That you don’t have the sense God gave a gnat."

        Methos finally crawled into the front passenger seat and Mac stole a look at him. The deep cut was almost healed and he had gotten most of the blood and mud off of his face except for a few spots in his hair and behind his ears. His normally alabaster complexion was even more pale than usual. It really had been a bad head injury, Mac knew, as Methos rubbed at his temples. The pain and sometimes the confusion from those lingered longer than a simple flesh wound. "That aspirin will help, Adam. Take the edge off."

        Methos shot him a sharp look. "I’m fine, Highlander. You don’t have to mother me. You never did."

        "Fine."

        Methos stole a look at MacLeod. His hair and clothes were soaked and clung wetly to his body. His face was still streaked with dirt and blood and his shirt looked burned through in a couple of places. Throwing himself on top of him had evidently been to protect him from flying, burning debris.

        "Maybe you ought to change clothes, as well. I could drive while you do."

        "I’m fine. And I’ve seen enough of a demonstration of your driving skills today."

        They drove in tense silence for a long while, Mac concentrating on maneuvering through the twisting, tight turns on narrow roads in heavy rain while Methos sank down into his seat, either sleeping or thinking, Mac couldn’t tell. The man was like a large cat, eyes half open, unfocused. You just couldn’t tell what was going on in that ancient brain. Cataloguing all my shortcomings, no doubt, Mac surmised. He finally stirred when Mac pulled off the main road and they and their vehicle were immediately smothered in the rich jungle foliage as it whapped against the sides of the truck, marking a staccato beat to accompany the bouncing, jerking rhythm of the rutted track they were attempting to follow.

        "Wha? What the hell are you doing? Where are we going?" Methos started up, grabbing for handholds.

        "Now you ask?" Mac said, disgust dripping from his voice.

        "Look, MacLeod, I'm really not interested in tagging along on one of your adventures to get a new merit badge. Why don't you just take me back to the road and I'll hitch a ride out of here."

        "Hitch a ride?" Mac barked a bitter laugh. "Good luck. The main road has been closed for three weeks, allegedly because of the weather, but actually because the army has been moving against the guerillas back in these hills. In the meantime, of course, mudslides have devastated the local villages caught between the two forces."

        "And you took it upon yourself to run supplies to them. I'm just sure this little truck full of toilet paper and canned milk will make all the difference in the world."

        Mac refused to respond to Methos' baiting, concentrating on his driving. It took over an hour of increasingly rough trails before he finally pulled to a stop. Methos, who had been hanging on for dear life the entire time, was grateful for the sudden silence and cessation of the violent bouncing.

        Without a word, Mac got out of the jeep and began unloading it in the quickly dimming light, carrying box after box into a heavily camouflaged storage shed hidden at the edge of the small clearing. Eventually Methos got out, grateful that it had finally stopped raining, and stretched to work the kinks and bruises out of his muscles, watching until Mac finished his chore.

        "That's it?" Methos asked "You drove all the way up here to deliver groceries?"

        "No. We have a few items to take back with us."

        "Great." Methos looked around, swatting at the mosquitoes beginning to gather at the scent of a fresh victim. He hated mosquitoes. His fair, delicate skin was a magnet for the creatures. The dark skinned Scot didn't even seem to notice.

        "Okay, so where do we pick up what needs to be picked up?" He slapped his forearm, missing his intended six-legged target. "I'd like to get outta here."

        "It'll take me awhile, Methos. You can stay with the truck." Mac was slinging the canteen over his shoulder and retying the laces on his boots. Not a good sign.

        "Where are you going? How long are you going to be gone?"

        "As long as it takes." And in a few long, silent strides the Highlander disappeared completely into the dense greenery.

        "Shit!" Methos whispered to himself, slapping again at the elusive, nearly invisible pests he could hear buzzing around him. He crawled back into the jeep and rolled up the windows, but there was already an infestation of the blood sucking creatures inside, and the hot humid air quickly became almost suffocating, so he rolled a window back down. That seemed to let in a whole new invasion of mosquitoes. Finally, he found the mud covered blanket and draped himself in it, scrunching down in the backseat in what he was certain would be a futile effort to get some sleep.

        Some hours later some sixth sense brought him out of his not-quite-somnolent stupor. He opened his eyes, vaguely aware that he itched, smelled bad and that a full quarter of his left lower side had gone numb from poor circulation. As his eyes adjusted to the unfamiliar surroundings they met and locked with a set of dark orbs staring at him through the opposite window. Adrenaline shot through his system, making his skin suddenly flush and his heart pound uncomfortably in his ears, but a few thousand years of strict self-discipline kept him absolutely still. It was a child, gender unknown, round cheeks streaked with crusted dirt, upper lip shiny with unwiped mucus, expression only mildly curious.

        It was the tap on the window above his head that finally startled Methos into movement. He lurched to a sitting position, his hand closing on the hilt of the sword resting on the truck floor.

        A short, dark man stepped back away from the vehicle, his eyes wide with fear as the pale giant rose up brandishing a huge blade that made his own machete look puny by comparison. He waived his free hand frantically.

        "Amigo! Amigo! Estoy uno amigo de Señor Montoya!" He continued to backpedal straight into the low foliage, finally slipping and falling into the mud.

        Methos had emerged from the jeep so quickly the man had hardly had time to register his presence before the Ivanhoe's keen edge was caressing his neck. Then a small tug on the sleeve of Methos' sweater turned his attention to the child, who looked up at him with eyes that seemed to absorb the night's darkness.

        "Donda esta Tio Roberto?" the small voice asked disconsolately.

        "Tio Roberto?" Ah, the child was asking about Duncan.

        "He went to fetch something," Methos replied in Spanish. "He will be back soon."

        The man underneath his blade slowly levered himself to a sitting position. "We knew he was coming, and I . . . I need him to . . . he needs to take Hilda with him."

        "With him? Uh, wait a minute. What do you mean?"

        "No time. I cannot stay, they are watching the village and they will notice if I am gone too long. Tell him we will say prayers for him and for Hilda every night," and before Methos even had a change to formulate a protest, the man disappeared into the darkness as though he had never existed. Except of course for what he had left behind.

        Methos looked down at the child, who looked back up at him with utter fearlessness, almost a sense of surrender, of resignation to a fate over which she had absolutely no control. Torn from her family, thrown into the care of a complete stranger, yet there were no tears, no protests, just silent acceptance.

        Something in that helpless acceptance of whatever fate held moved the Oldest Immortal in a way he hadn't felt in a very, very long time. He folded his long frame down until he was at face level with the dark-eyed creature.

        "Hello, Hilda. My name is Adam." He held out his hand. It was a long, long moment before she placed her tiny digits in his palm. The arm was bruised and scratched, and when he took it to inspect it more closely, the child hissed and drew back. "It's okay, Hilda. I just want to see, to help you. Maybe I can make it feel better."

        "I want Tio Roberto," she said softly, hesitantly. "Papa said he would keep me safe."

        "I am Tio Roberto's friend," Methos reassured her. "He will be here soon. Here, let me just look, okay?"

        Her eyes were wide with fear, but she allowed him to look at her arms even so. His lips grew thin and his eyes hard as he inspected the deep bruises and scratches on her arms, around her mouth and on her neck.

        "How old are you, Hilda?"

        "I don't know, eleven I think," her voice was so soft he had to strain to hear.

        "How did you get these bruises? Did someone hurt you?"

        The small chin rose and fell once.

        "Who hurt you, Hilda?"

        "The soldados. Papa said I had to leave, that it would be safer. That if I didn't the soldados would . . . just hurt me again."

        A cold anger started somewhere in Methos gut and crawled upward. His fingers itched to use his sword, to do something ugly and violent. It was an old, familiar urge and it took a real effort to just kneel there. Finally, he made himself rise, search in the truck for a flashlight, then look among the supplies MacLeod had left in the small shelter for bandages and antiseptic. Undoubtedly the child had been raped as well, but this was neither the time or place for treatment of those wounds, and he was not the one to minister to her needs.

        After he gently cleaned her more obvious hurts, he sat with her in the back of the jeep, holding her, telling her every fable of love and patience and forgiveness his long memory could dredge up, until she finally slept.

        He dozed as well until he finally felt an Immortal presence intrude on his dreams and the comfortable familiarity of Duncan's strong signature thrum settled in his mind. He carefully levered Hilda off his lap and onto the seat. She barely stirred, having drifted so far into exhausted sleep as to be nearly unconscious.

        The Highlander's approach was not nearly so silent as his exit, accompanied as it was by rustling steps, sniffles and soft high voices, moderated by one deep one. They broke into the clearing, first one small body stumbling through, then another, and another, and finally the clan chief himself, one small child draped on his back and carrying another in each arm. The three who reached the clearing first came to a panic-stricken halt at Metho's feet, staring up at him as though he were the Angel of Death himself.

        "It's okay," he heard Duncan call. "This is Tio Adam. He's my friend." Mac knelt to deposit the small boy he had been clinging to his back, but the child had a firm grip around his neck and wouldn't let go. "Get down now, Tomas," Mac instructed, his voice strained as the boy hung on for dear life, choking his benefactor. But the boy was panic stricken and only tightened his arms even more. Mac's strained expression was turning gray when Methos finally overcame his shock at the sudden presence of all the small bodies.

        "Here, Tomas," Methos whispered, his voice soft and unthreatening. "Come to Tio Adam." He pried the small hands loose and lifted him off Duncan's back. Mac knelt for a second, taking deep breaths as he set the two smallest on the ground. Neither could have been more than three years old and Tomas was not much bigger.

        Mac opened the back of the jeep and deposited his two youngest charges in the back before he made his way to the shed.

        "Here, Adam," he instructed brusquely, his voice hoarse and strained. "They need food." He pulled out a box of high protein bars, tossing it in Methos' direction and assuming they would be caught. "We need to conserve what water is left in the canteens but I think . . . here it is." He pulled a few cans of milk out of another box and headed back to the jeep.

        "Mac, there's . . ." but the exhausted Highlander was functioning on a very basic level, paying only marginal attention to the Oldest Immortal.

        "I didn't expect to have so many, but this may be the last trip I can make. With the troops moving in from the north, this whole area will be inaccessible." He pulled his leatherman out of his pocket and punched holes in the cans, handing them to the children one by one, finally taking the smallest in his lap and feeding her sip by sip. Remarkably, the children were quiet and still, their eyes large, their faces pale behind the dirt streaks. Methos had seen it before. Battle fatigue in the very, very young.

        "Mac there's one more."

        "What?" He was concentrating on the task at hand. "What do you mean?"

        "A little girl. Hilda."

        "Hilda?" He looked up in sudden concern.

        "A man brought her a couple of hours after you left. He said the troops had come through the village and that she wasn't safe there. He left before I could ask him any more questions."

        Mac stood, handing Methos the child he had been feeding. For a moment the small child and the oldest man in the world looked into each other's eyes and time stopped for them both. How odd, Methos thought. His expression is just like mine.

        Mac found Hilda in the back of the truck. "Hilda? Niña? His big hand engulfed the side of her face and she woke with a gasp, looking wildly around, then her eyes fixed on the man she knew as Tio Roberto and she threw herself into his strong arms. Only then did she weep. Great silent sobs, shuddering so hard it seemed the small body must surely fall apart. "Pobrecita," Mac murmured, taking in the dark bruises and cuts on her arms and neck. He looked up at Methos. "What happened?"

        Methos shook his head slightly, but Mac read all he needed to in that look. His arms tightened around the slight child. "She was the eldest of eight children. Their mother was killed six months ago," Mac whispered. "I'd taken them all to the orphanage except her because she insisted on staying to care for her Papa." He shushed her sobbing, rocking her gently. "It will be alright, niña," he whispered. "I'll take you to your brothers and sisters." She nodded against his shoulder. "But we have to leave quickly. Will you help me with the others? Keep them calm and quiet?" She pulled away and Methos could see the strength gather in the narrow shoulders as she solemnly nodded.

        "Si, Tio Roberto. I will be strong and brave, like you."

        "No, Hilda," Mac whispered, kissing her gently on the forehead. "We will all try to be strong and brave, like you."

        They gathered the children, loading them into the back storage area and back seat of the truck where Hilda easily had them quiet and still. Light was just beginning to turn the dark forest into shadows of gray and green when Mac maneuvered the truck around to head back down the trail.

        It took over three hours to make it back as Mac maneuvered far more carefully and slowly with his precious cargo through a trail that was barely perceptible in the pre-dawn light. When they finally made it to the main road, Mac stopped, turning off the ignition.

        "What's wrong?" Methos asked.

        "I started too late and I've taken too long. If the troops are moving in, they'll probably have set up a roadblock at the juncture where this road feeds into the highway." He sighed and put his forehead on the steering wheel. "This truck can't make it through the back trails and these kids will never have the stamina to cross sixty miles of jungle on foot."

        They sat in silence. Well, old man, he asked himself, are you here just along for the ride, or do you have something constructive to offer?

        "How about a diversion?"

        Mac looked up from the steering wheel. "A what?"

        "A diversion. You look a little too much like a native, Mac, and they will no doubt detain you and the kids. But I'm obviously only a stupid gringo. They would have to take their time, figure out who I am . . ."

        "…Before they killed you. Methos, we're in the middle of a very dirty, very secret war here. They are going to have very little patience or take very little trouble, even with a stupid gringo like yourself. Of course, they could just haul your ass away and lock you up in some really unpleasant dark hole for the next 50 years or so."

        "In which case you would undoubtedly come on your white charger to rescue me. Look, MacLeod, I want to get out of this hellhole before the mosquitoes carry me off. If they kill me, they kill me. If they don't, you can come back for me later. Either way it's the only opportunity you'll have to distract them enough to sneak the kids past them. I assume you do have some weapons stashed away, by the way?"

        "Under the floor in the back. Two AK-47's. But that kind of noise would draw all kinds of unwanted attention."

        "Then I guess if things get out of hand, your specialized skills in the quieter martial arts will be necessary."

        Mac sat and thought for a moment. "Okay," he finally said. "I guess our options are limited." He started the ignition and pulled out onto the main road.

        "Thanks for the vote of confidence," Methos murmured.

        The children all fell asleep as soon as they got to a relatively smooth road surface, except for Hilda, whose dark eyes stared out of the jeep with an expression that was impossible to read. After almost an hour, Mac pulled over and stopped the truck once more. With hissed instructions to stay quiet, he quickly vanished into the jungle for a reconnaissance trip.

        Methos sat quietly, turning Mac’s recent actions and attitude over in his mind. Totally self-contained. Never asking for help, only reluctantly accepting it when offered. Disappearing once again by himself into the jungle. While the man may have been utterly unable to change his fundamental nature he had still managed to shut himself off. There was no camaraderie, no sense of shared responsibility for their safety. He was in full Lone Ranger mode, not out of charity, but out of fear. Fear that pulling others into his life would compromise or endanger them. But the Highlander had only gone halfway down his road to utter isolation. He could no more ignore injustice or walk away from someone in need than he could fly. A real dilemma, an irreconcilable conflict that nurtured the seeds of his own destruction since, in his arrogant isolation, he ignored the inevitable impact of his actions and his example on the lives of others.

        The sun had reached the tops of the high green overhead canopy when Mac finally returned, filthy and drenched in sweat. "Okay," he gasped, swiping at the rivulets tickling his face and neck. "There’s a barely passable trail that comes out about a quarter mile beyond the check point. With the kids, it’ll take about two hours to be sure we’re there, and get into place so I can be there when you arrive. Adam," he instructed, "you’ll have to wait here, then drive up to the barrier. I saw five guards. If you can’t talk your way through, I’ll be watching and move in."

        "Shall we synchronize our watches, Oh Fearless Leader?" Methos asked snidely.

        "You have a better plan, Old Man?" Mac asked harshly.

        "Only one suggestion, Mac," Methos said quietly. "That you sit down, catch about a hour of sleep at least. We’ll survive that long. By the time we get there it will be mid-afternoon. It will be hot, the soldiers will be sleepy and feeling lazy. They will be more likely to be taken off guard and you won’t be at risk of exhausted collapse."

        "But the children . . ."

        "Are tougher than they look. They’re survivors, MacLeod. Are you? Or is this just about your capacity for heroics? You don’t have anything to prove to me or to these kids, Mac. We just want to get them all out of here in one piece."

        "We?" Mac asked derisively. "Since when did this become your mission in life?"

        "We, MacLeod. And that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for years, but you only hear what is convenient for you to hear. You have this . . . this irresistible urge to "do" something, to change things, to make them better. Sometimes it’s an absolutely misguided effort because what constitutes "better", or when the best thing to "do" is nothing at all. That’s where we frequently disagree. But even in engaging in the discussion the rest of us are enriched by it. Enlarged by it. If we are willing to pay the price, who are you to deny us that right?"

        Mac sagged against the truck and closed his eyes. "You chose the strangest times to give me lectures, Methos," he sighed. "And what if the price for my ‘misguided effort’ is death? What if the price is Joe’s life being cut short by poor health? What if the price is your identity being discovered and being forced back into the Game? What if, Methos, the price is my losing my best friends, the people that mean the most in the world to me?"

        "That’s Joe’s choice, and mine, Duncan. It was Fitzcairne’s choice. It was Richie’s choice. It was Tessa’s choice. Not yours." Methos moved closer, crowding the Highlander. "Not yours," he repeated softly, emphasizing his point with a long finger into MacLeod's chest. "That’s something you’ll just have to suck up and live with."

        The look he got from the tired and distracted Scot was unreadable, which surprised the Oldest Immortal, who was expecting anger, resentment, maybe even self-pity or guilt. But it was as though a door shuttered closed behind those dark eyes. Methos wondered what portion of his words MacLeod had actually heard as Mac crawled into the front seat of the truck, put the seat back and closed his eyes, appearing to sleep within seconds.

        The children had fallen into an exhausted tumble of sleepy bodies in the back of the vehicle, and Methos was left alone, sitting at the side of the road, swatting ineffectually at the seemingly infinite variety of annoying and biting creatures that inhabited this particularly unpleasant corner of the planet, and wondering what the fuck he was doing there. Mac probably only heard what he was pre-disposed to hear, felt what he was pre-disposed to feel - guilt and responsibility and self-recrimination. A trend which had grown to near-epic proportions over the last few years.

        His own mind had begun to wander as heat and weariness claimed him. He jerked awake when he heard Mac speaking quietly, gently waking the exhausted young ones. As Hilda herded the others off to the side of the road, handing them more high protein bars to keep them occupied and quiet, Mac and Methos conferred quietly in English.

        "It will take about an hour for me to get the kids around to the other side of blockade. Then I'll move in and wait for you. I'll have to keep the children fairly close, so try not to die anywhere they can see you, okay?" Mac's voice was harsh and impatient.

        "Don't worry about me, MacLeod. You just be there when the excitement starts. I doubt the check point will be heavily manned anyway and between the two of us we ought to be able to deal with it."

        "Just be careful, Adam. Please. No unnecessary heroics."

        Methos laughed. "Hell of an admonition coming from you, MacLeod. And you know it’s not my style. Not my style at all."

        A tiny glint of amusement broke through Mac’s expression. "So you keep telling me, Dr. Pierson."

        There was only one chore left. Mac retrieved the two weapons from underneath the floorboards in the back of the truck, slinging one over his shoulder and giving Hilda the other to carry. It would leave Methos without a weapon, but if they left them in the truck they would either be inaccessible and therefore useless, or they would be found and dangerously incriminating.

        Then Mac was loaded up with the smallest bodies like a pack mule while Hilda carefully instructed the other children to stay close and hold hands if possible, and off they went, rustling through the undergrowth until they were quickly swallowed by the heavy vegetation.

        Methos sat in the truck, glancing frequently at his watch, visions of one of those small children getting separated from the others, wandering lost in the jungle, creeping all-unwanted into his mind’s eye. At the end of an interminable hour and a half he wiped the accumulated perspiration from the palms of his hands, started the truck and pulled out.

        "How did you get into this area?" the corporal demanded. His uniform was stained with sweat, he looked tired and bored and undoubtedly suspicious as he perused Adam Pierson’s documentation.

        "I’m not exactly sure," Adam replied in badly accented, broken Spanish, after making the poor corporal repeat himself several times. "I took off on a side road, and ended up somewhere back there," Adam gestured vaguely behind him. "I was so glad to finally get back to a main road. I was afraid I’d never get back to civilization." Adam mopped at his brow, grinning idiotically at the soldiers. "I just wanted to get out of the city, see a little of the countryside, you know? Guess I won’t do that again!"

        "Get out of the car!" the man ordered officiously, gesturing with his rifle.

        Adam exited carefully, keeping his hands in sight at all times, maintaining a constant stream of chatty, deliberately indecipherable pseudo-Spanish conversation going. He could hear the other two soldiers in his line of sight making derogatory comments about his language skills, driving skills, navigation skills and other unrelated, but much-denigrated attributes about sexual prowess and size. That meant there was one more soldier somewhere nearby.

        He relaxed only slightly when he felt the distinct sense of MacLeod’s proximity. As he spoke with the surly corporal he could finally see the other soldier out of the corner of his eye as he came out of the undergrowth on the far side of the truck and circled it warily. Then he was made to stand against the small temporary building they had erected in the middle of the road while the truck doors were opened and they peered in.

        Mac watched, still and invisible in the dark green vegetation at the side of the road. If anyone could carry this off, it was Methos, he reassured himself. The man was a chameleon, molding himself to fit any situation. He watched as the Oldest Immortal alternately annoyed and amused the soldiers with his fractured Spanish, putting them at ease, but Mac tensed when the guard who normally stayed out of sight began searching the truck. He was joined by another, and they pulled everything out of Methos' battered and dirty knapsack, found some discarded powerbar wrappers, looked over the truck papers stowed in the glove compartment, then moved to the back, pulling up the carpet over the wheel well. Not finding anything there, they appeared to be satisfied, and one of the guards reported back to the corporal that the vehicle appeared to contain no contraband.

        The other continued to poke in and around the car, feeling over the seats, checking for suspicious lumps. He quickly ran his hand across the crease, but then pulled back with a pained yelp, and Mac almost rose off his haunches, but forced himself to stay still.

        The guard looked in surprise at his finger, where a long cut had mysteriously appeared. He shouted to his compadres and reached more carefully into the seam where the backrest joined the seat.

        "Shit!" MacLeod whispered to himself, nervously shifting the AK-47 he had slung across his shoulders. Methos' sword. He had cut himself on the Ivanhoe blade the Old Man had tucked in the crevice. Mac should have carried it with him, he scolded himself in anger. He had forgotten about the damn blade since he hadn't been carrying his own katana. He was slipping badly to have forgotten something so basic.

        Sure enough, after only a few seconds of groping, and another neatly sliced finger, the soldiers pulled the gleaming, heavy sword from its hiding place.

        Duncan moved in slightly closer. Watching. Listening.

        "Que es esta?" the corporal demanded, brandishing the blade a little closer to Methos' neck than made the ancient comfortable.

        "Uh . . . a big knife?" Methos answered with a boyish, innocent smile.

        "Adam!" Mac thought to himself in exasperation, wanting desperately to move, to act, but forced to wait while events paraded by, out of his control.

        The sarcastic response was rewarded with a backhanded blow to the face. An ominous dark anger flashed for less than a second across the ascetic features before it was immediately hidden beneath a confused, almost childlike façade.

        "Yo no se! I don't know!" Methos whined defensively, his hands raised to ward off any more blows. "The guy who owns the truck is an antique dealer, sometimes buys ancient weapons. Maybe he was smuggling it somewhere. Why on earth would I be carrying a sword around, for God's sake?"

        "A weapons dealer?" the corporal demanded. "I thought you said Roberto Montoya repaired cars."

        "Si. Yes. But his real name is Duncan MacLeod. I knew him in the states. He took off several months ago and I ran into him down here, using the name Roberto Montoya and working in a garage. Look, corporal, I don't know what the hell that thing was doing there. I'm just a graduate student from the Sorbonne. You can check it out!"

        In answer, the corporal turned the tall white man, throwing him roughly against the wall of the temporary guardhouse and calling for one of his subordinates to tie the gringo up while he radioed headquarters. That does it, MacLeod thought. They report this and we're sunk.

        In two long, silent strides, he was behind the corporal, his arm around him in a headlock, squeezing to cut off air. A quick twist and the man would be dead, but the Scot was careful, only disabling the man slightly.

        "Freeze!" he shouted in Spanish. "Stop or he dies!" With his free hand he aimed the AK-47 at the other four soldiers scattered in an arc to each side of the other Immortal.

        The other soldiers turned and stopped in shock and surprise at the magical appearance of the intruder. Adam quickly moved to circle to the left and behind, snatching the nearest soldier's rifle before he had a chance to react.

        "Drop your weapons," Methos instructed gruffly in perfectly accented Spanish. "Now what, Lone Ranger?" he asked, gliding into a posture that managed to be simultaneously totally alert and completely at ease.

        Mac sighed and blinked to clear his mind and get his brain to function. "I guess we tie them up in the guardhouse, break the radio and get the hell outta Dodge. Thanks for giving my name up like that, old man."

        The man shrugged with a sheepish smile. "Just killing time, Highlander. Waiting for you to finally get your ass in gear and come rescue me. Besides, Duncan MacLeod is dead, isn't he?"

        "I seriously considered letting you sit there and stew in your own juice!" MacLeod growled as he let go of the corporal and forced him to stand with the others.

        "Ah, but I knew you wouldn't, MacLeod," Methos said, gathering up the rope they had intended to use on him and preparing to tie up their captives, who had all lowered their weapons to the ground and looked distinctly unwilling to give their lives for two crazy gringos and an old jeep truck. "A leopard can't change his spots, and your coloration is all "Boy Scout" green." Methos put down his weapon and managed to quickly and firmly bind the hands of the nearest soldier. "I assume your young charges haven't gotten eaten by some giant jungle insect by now?" he asked, swatting again at the latest invasion of the creatures attacking him unmercifully.

        Mac turned and gave a sharp, piercing whistle that cut through the air like a siren. At Methos' surprised look, Mac shrugged. "New York. 1950's. The only way to find a cab."

        There was a rustling in the thick undergrowth until the small herd of children suddenly stumbled out of the roadside vegetation, stopping short and standing, wide-eyed, staring at the soldiers. Hilda came up the rear, her small body burdened with the second AK-47.

        "It's okay, chicas," Mac called to them reassuringly. "Get into the truck and wait for us."

        Mac kept a close eye on the soldiers, listening to the children climb into the truck behind him while Methos tied up the second soldier.

        Methos turned to tie up the third and stopped as his eyes widened. "Hilda, No!"

        A sudden, startling cough of gunfire exploded in Mac's ears as he watched the corporal jerk and jerk again, blood spurting from his chest, then his shoulder.  Bullets peppered the guardhouse as the spray of fire moved out of control. He spun around and lunged toward Hilda, whose face was a study in hate and anger that should never have been felt by someone so young.

        The children screamed and dove into the bottom of the truck, and he heard Methos shout a warning behind him just as he grabbed the over-heated muzzle of the automatic weapon, wrenching it out of her hands. He reached for her, intending to pull her down, taking the weapon away, but was thrown off balance by a hot, hard blow to his side that turned him, spinning to the ground, stealing his breath. He struggled back to his feet, but Hilda was already down to the ground, lying on her back.

        More gunfire grabbed his attention and he rolled, ignoring the pain that had spread from his back to his front. He could feel blood soaking his shirt but he had no time to think about it as he saw Methos struggling with one of the guards while the other two reached for their weapons and for dove for cover, one in the guardhouse and the other behind it.

        He moved in front of Hilda, blocking her with his body. "Stay down, Hilda. Stay still!" he ordered, pinning her dark, frightened eyes with his own. Then he moved forward and fired, deliberately drawing the guards’ attention away from the other two most obvious targets, one of whom was only a child and the other momentarily unarmed.

        He ran, rolled, then ran again. Gunfire whapped rhythmically into the ground and whistled through the air around him as he circled the guardhouse to the right, peripherally aware that Methos had cold-cocked the guard, grabbed a weapon and ducked past the door to the left. And I'll get to Scotland a'fore ya, Mac thought nonsensically, his ears buzzing as he felt his body try to heal whatever damage had been done to his side even while he was moving, tearing the wound open further.

        Methos pressed himself against the far side of the guardhouse, able to practically smell the fear of the man not five feet away. He did a quick inventory in his mind, one dead, one tied up, one unconscious. That left two, this one outside the guardhouse and the other one inside. And Mac had taken a bullet. Methos didn’t know how bad it was, but the "run and roll" Mac had executed to draw the guards’ fire had probably not helped the healing process much.

        Well, two could play that game, he decided, stilling himself, listening, then moving quickly away from the building, heading for the vegetation at the side of the road. The guard at the back of the house turned at the movement and raised his gun to fire, getting off one spray of bullets before Mac’s gunbutt slammed into the back of his head took him down.

        The gunfire drew the other armed guard to the door and out, firing in Methos’ direction, but by that time, the Oldest Immortal had mysteriously disappeared, only to reappear impossibly ninety degrees to the north, stepping calmly out of the greenery without disturbing the movement of a single fern leaf.

        "Alto!" he ordered. He saw MacLeod circling back to the right of the guardhouse, moving out to cover the guard from the rear. The man hesitated, frozen in indecision. In that instant, the last guard, freed from his bonds, popped up out of the door, aiming straight at Methos. Faster than thought, MacLeod had lashed out with his foot, and the weapon flew away, but the distraction provided the other soldier with his final opportunity and he opened fire, raking over Methos’ position with a wide spray that caught him in the left thigh and right side of his groin, sending him to the pavement with a scream of agony, which he quickly clamped shut while he rolled awkwardly towards the cover of the jungle, pausing to raise his rifle. For a fraction of a second the two men’s eyes met, dark and light, brown and green, fearful and absolutely steady. Then Methos fired, catching the soldier in the upper body and face, throwing him back and back and back again until he was an unrecognizable mass of bloody flesh.

        In the sudden silence that followed, hot, intense, searing pain filled Methos’ entire midsection. He doubled over, unable to contain a whimpering groan as he writhed on the broken pavement. He lay there, panting, aware only that if he could stand it, just for a few minutes, the pain would pass, but not really sure if he could stand it for one more second, as each second relentlessly ticked by anyway. He had never known the healing process to take so long, for time to move so slowly. Or at least it had been a long, long time since anything had hurt this bad. That distracting thought didn’t help, somehow.

        It seemed an eon before he felt Duncan’s hands on his, trying to pull them away from his groin.

        "Sorry, Adam," he said breathlessly. "I had to tie them up and see to Hilda. Let me see, dammit!" He forced his friend’s hands away from the wound, making him hiss and groan again as he moved blood soaked fabric to see the extent of the damage, then he sighed. "Don’t worry, old man. All the equipment is still intact, although it looks like it was a close call." He slapped Methos’ jovially on the hip, generating a complaining grunt. "Although I wouldn’t try anything fancy for a few hours, at least, or even try to take a leak."

        The pain had retreated from utterly intolerable to just excruciating, and Methos managed to pant, "Not funny, MacLeod! God, it hurts!"

        "I know," Mac said with genuine sympathy in his voice. "But I need to you up and around, and fast. Hilda’s hurt and I have to get her to a doctor."

        That caught his attention. "She’s hurt? How bad?" Methos gasped as he forced the pain away, pushing it to the back of his awareness and trying to at least rise to his elbows. That bit of movement was a mistake and for a second he thought he was going to pass out.

        "Easy, Adam," Duncan’s voice seemed to come from a long distance. "Don’t push it too fast or I’ll end up carrying you to the truck. I’ve had a rough couple of days and might just drop you. Then you’d really hurt."

        "Is that a threat?"

        He felt rather than saw Duncan shrug. "Whatever. I’m going to check on the guards and Hilda. As soon as you can I need you to stay with her."

        "Okay," Methos tried again, reaching for Mac’s thick arm to leverage himself up. This time he made it by pure effort and will. Mac helped him limp towards the truck where he crawled into the back seat where the woman/child was lying silent and still. The other children were either crying in fear, or hanging silently over the back of the seat, looking down at Hilda with wide, frightened eyes.

        The front of her worn, tattered calico print dress was torn and covered with blood where a large shallow wound had bitten into her side. She must have caught the bullet that slammed through the Highlander, despite his attempt to shield her. He carefully moved the dressing Mac had made from torn strips of her dress and could actually see a portion of the flattened bullet protruding from her flesh. He decided it was best to leave the bullet in place and let doctors extract it once they got her to a hospital. The main problem was bleeding, which was slow at the moment and would remain so as long as she lay very still.

        "How do you feel, Hilda?" he asked gently.

        "It hurts, Tio Adam. And I’m cold." The voice was so soft he had to lean over to catch her words.

        "I’m so sorry, nina, but I want you to lie very, very still, even when you want to move.

        The ride back was agonizing for everyone. Mac was trying to be both fast and gentle, with Methos simultaneously trying to keep Hilda still and the children quiet. He hadn't realized he knew so many stories, but desperation jogged his memory again and again until they finally pulled through the gates of the Little Sisters of the Poor orphanage.

        Mac watched Methos circulate among the beds of the infirmary. A gentle touch of his graceful, elegant hands here, a quiet word there. He was a terrific doctor, Mac was certain. All the barriers and artifice fell away and the warm smile eased fears of those whose lives he touched, small and large. Including mine, Mac thought. Methos' very presence had been a healing balm so many times, always with just the right words to bring him back from despair, to make him see his own failings before they carried him too far down a self-destructive path. He could only thank whatever gods there were that the Oldest Immortal, a man out of time, a veritable myth, had dropped into his life when he had. How would he have made it through the Dark Quickening? How many more would he have killed, how many lives would he have destroyed if Methos had not risked everything to stop him?

        As always, the memories of the Dark Quickening sent chills running across his skin and a mild sense of panic in his gut. Up to that point in his long life he had had the arrogance to believe he was a "good" man, a virtuous man. Ever since then he knew there was an evil ugliness lurking in his soul, a demon kept leashed only by force of will. He could never afford to completely trust his own instincts again. He shook himself, trying to shrug off the dark shroud of depression that sometimes felt like it was going to smother him. It was worse when he was tired, and he was really pretty tired, he admitted to himself, something he had pushed away until it could be ignored no longer.

        Even the tireless Methos was beginning to flag as he sat on a small stool next to Hilda's bed, leaning back against the wall. His eyes drooped closed and his face relaxed. He looked about 20 years old, Mac thought with a smile. The world's oldest man had all the outward appearance of an innocent child.

        Mac pulled himself to his feet and crossed to his friend, touching him on the shoulder. "Hey, old man," he whispered. The hazel eyes raised to his own and held his gaze. No, Methos was not innocent. The fathomless sorrow of the ages was reflected in that golden stare. Lessons learned, wisdom acquired through many, many lifetimes of loss and pain and error. "Time to get you home," Mac said, tugging on the other man's arm.

        Methos leaned his head back against the wall of the orphanage, letting his mind wander. The children had been a balm of a sort, a way of centering himself in the present, of only thinking about the "now." In the warm satisfaction of knowing Hilda would be okay and that he had made a difference, for a moment he wondered that he avoided such involvement. It could be so satisfying. And so painful, he reminded himself. What if Hilda had died? That was why he kept his distance. They all died.

        Stop it, he chastised himself. You're starting to sound like MacLeod.

        The object of his thoughts could be heard telling him it was time to go. He opened his eyes and looked up. The man looked like shit. Hadn't slept in days. Probably hadn't eaten anything either except those disgusting power bars. MacLeod definitely needed a keeper.

        He let Mac help him to his feet with an offer to take him back to his hotel, and he tried to think of a barb to lighten the exhaustion written in the Highlander's face.

        "If they haven't thrown me out of my hotel room," Methos murmured. "I spent one night there and haven't been back since."

        "If you put it on a credit card, I'm sure they are delighted to continue to charge you," MacLeod replied practically.  "Or me, I guess, to be more accurate."

        They made it to the jeep and Duncan drove him to his hotel. As Methos wearily climbed out, he paused and turned back. "And where are you going to stay?"

        "I live twenty minutes from here, Dr. Pierson."

        "And you really think the police aren't going to figure out that you might have been involved in their, what did you call it? Dirty Little War? Don't forget, MacLeod, your picture has been tacked up over half the city by now."

        Mac sat for a minute, cold anger forming a knot in his stomach. In the upheaval of the last couple of days he had forgotten that little bit of unwelcome meddling in his life. Methos was right. Returning to his apartment would be folly. "Shit!" he growled. "Thanks a lot, Methos!" He slammed the jeep into gear and reached over to pull the passenger door closed, but Methos blocked it.

        "They won't find you here, Mac. I've got two beds in my room. At least you can wash up, get some sleep and figure out what you're going to do from here."

        "I had all that planned out very nicely, Methos, until you showed up and decided to rearrange my life!"

        "How does it feel, MacLeod? To have someone else decide what's best for you?" Methos spat back. Then his voice softened a little, "Look, this way there is no record of where you are. Come on, park the jeep on a side street and come on up."

        Mac sat stubbornly for a full five minutes, fuming, thinking, while Methos waited patiently in silence. There were really no viable options available, Mac conceded. He was beginning to realize just how tired he was, and that his brain was starting to slow down. It felt like he was moving through mud. Finally, he nodded and Methos gave him his room number.

        Mac awoke very slowly, slipping gently in and out again of misty, half-remembered dreams. His body felt heavy, weighted down in the covers. It wanted to be left alone, undisturbed, unabused. But a vague headache intruded despite his efforts to ignore it. He slipped into a meditation exercise in an attempt to make it go away, but the discomfort persisted, and the mental exercise made him even more aware of Methos’ proximity. That brought memory and emotion into disconcertingly sharp focus, and at last he forced his reluctant muscles to move, turning over, untangling himself from the covers and gradually focusing on his surroundings.

        A hotel room. Late morning. He vaguely remembered a quick shower before he tumbled into bed in the near-dawn hours. His stomach trumpeted a noisy, protesting gurgle. Ah, that was the reason for his headache. That and the room's cold, dry over-conditioned air. He pulled his protesting legs over the side of the bed and sat up, rubbing his face, trying to get some circulation going, some constructive mental process in action. He could see Methos’ shadow outline out on the balcony. He ran his fingers through his hair, encountering a multitude of tight tangles along the way. Damn. He should just cut it all off. But his life had been so itinerant of late that he tended to go without thinking about it for awhile, then it got unruly, then he usually just decided since it was so close to its familiar shoulder length that he just let it go even more.

        He stumbled into the bathroom, feeling woozy and muddle-headed. Once he took care of the need to relieve his bladder he stuck his head in the shower under a cold blast of water. Whoo. That did it. Cleared the cobwebs right out, even if it did move his headache from annoying to downright painful. He found a small comb and dragged it through his wet tangles, brutalizing them into submission. He looked like shit, he knew. Scraggly mustache and three days' growth of beard. Oh, well. No one was around who had to look at him on a regular basis except Methos, and that was to be corrected very shortly. He had to find a way to get to his stuff in his apartment and clear out of town without the police, the Watchers or Methos on his tail.

        He looked around for his clothes, finding them heaped on the floor on the opposite side of the bed, torn and crusted with mud and dried blood. He could hardly walk out of the hotel with those on.

        "I called the concierge a couple of hours ago and asked them to send up some clothes. I'd lend you mine but I doubt that they'd fit." Methos spoke from the balcony door, letting in the warm, humid breeze from outside. "You can credit the cost against all the times you picked up my bar tab at Joe's." Methos slim jeans-and-tee-shirt clad form was outlined by bright sunlight which had at long last decided to make an appearance

        It was on the tip of Mac's tongue to ask about Joe's well being, but he clamped down on the urge -- again. He had wanted to ask the question the moment Methos had made his unwelcome appearance, but didn't want the old man to see his weakness.

        "I'd thank you, but of course if you hadn't stuck your nose into my business I could have slept in my own bed last night and wouldn't have need of your charity," Mac growled after only a second's hesitation. "How soon will the clothes get here?"

        "In about an hour, I'd guess, but this culture isn't known for speed and efficiency." Methos crossed to the bathroom, reached in and snagged one of the bath towels and threw it at his naked erstwhile guest. "In the meantime, you ought to be perfectly comfortable in a skirt, right? And Joe is fine, by the way. Completely recovered, except for the nearly fatal boredom in his life right now."

        Mac ignored the last comment as he stood and wrapped the towel around his waist. It was on the risque side of skimpy. "At least a kilt takes a little more skill to wear than a toga, Methos, so I wouldn't go there, if I were you."

        "Skill?! A garishly colored fabric held on by an oversized diaper pin? Puleeze!"

        Mac rose to the bait as Methos knew he would. "A philabeg is as much a symbol of wealth and status of a warrior and his clan as is the subtle meaning of the colors and pattern of the plaid! And you call us barbarians!" But there was a smile in his voice as he huffed his response to the insult. "You're just jealous because I look better in a kilt than you ever looked in a roman dress."

        "With those great hairy legs? And who says I ever wore a toga anyway?"

        "You did. Didn't you tell me a story once about watching Christians being eaten by lions in the Coliseum? I can just picture you seated on a pillow with a slave girl feeding you peeled grapes."

        "Actually, as I recall, I was the one peeling the grapes, but your point is taken. Speaking of grapes, there's a lovely breakfast spread out on the balcony."

        MacLeod rose, but hesitated. "Uh, I think I’m a little underdressed to eat outside. How about bringing me a little something?" His plaintive request was accompanied by appropriate sound effects emitting from his long-empty stomach.

        Methos crossed his arms, a small smile warming his face. "And deprive the world of the sight of Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod semi-nude? I wouldn't dream of it!"

        "Methos, come on! I really need to eat something, then I'll get out of your hair, okay?"

        The Oldest Immortal just stood and looked at him with a Methos-smirk painted on his face, leaning casually against the wall.

        At last, Mac rose to his feet and faced off with his ungracious host, who spotted an unusual glint of mischief in the Scot's dark eyes. "Alright, Oh Ancient One. You want a kilt-boy? You'll get one." At that, he turned and stripped the sheet off of the bed in one motion. Then he pulled the belt from his torn and filthy jeans, laid it on the floor, then in a few practiced, precise moves, folded and draped the sheet across it. As Methos watched in amused amazement, the Highlander lay on the floor, pulled the folded material across his body from each side, fastened the buckle on his belt and rose from the floor like a vision strait out of the mists of Glenfinnen, adjusting the excess material over one bronzed, well-muscled shoulder. A perfectly pleated, folded kilt.

        "And that's how it's done toga-boy. Care to peel me a grape?" Mac asked with his own version of a Methos-smirk, then turned and glided regally out to the balcony for breakfast.

        Methos watched Mac scarf down eggs and fruit and bread and coffee as though he hadn’t eaten in a week. Conversation bubbled up naturally about the orphanage, about the garage Mac had been running, and about Mexican buying and driving habits. The exchange evolved to an uncomfortable discussion of the recent battle Mac had been forced to fight, but then Methos tried to lighten the mood by telling Mac about Amanda’s latest adventure, about meeting Grace Chantal, Kit O’Brady and the infamous Benny What’s-His-Name. When Mac made an off-handed complaint about his shaggy hair, the old man reminded him that he had once been a surgeon in the 15th Century, qualifying him as a barber. That prompted a number of jokes, but ended with a full barbering treatment, leaving Mac clean-shaven, his thick dark hair trimmed neatly below his ears, although Methos couldn’t seem to tame the Scot's unruly widow's peak cowlick.

        They were engaged in a series of escalating amusing insults regarding fighting styles when a knock on the door startled them both. The men rose, glancing warily at each other as Methos retrieved the Lugar from his coat pocket and edged to the door.

        "Who is it?" Methos called.

        "The Concierge, Señor Pierson. You ordered some clothes?" They had almost forgotten about Mac's ruined clothing. But their recent experience made them cautious.

        Methos motioned MacLeod to the door as the older man stood to one side, gun at the ready. Mac opened the door a crack, then Methos saw the big shoulders relax and the door opened all the way. In the hallway stood a white-haired, elegant man in a formal hotel uniform holding a garment bag. The dark eyes under the bushy gray eyebrows widened at the bizarre sight that greeted him -- a veritable Greek god draped in soft white folds of fabric, one bronzed shoulder bared showing an expanse of sculpted flesh as though the figure stepped right off some museum pedestal. The statue spoke.

        "Thank you," it said with a charming smile, reaching a large hand to take the garment bag. "You can charge it to the room . . . uh, sir? Could I have the bag?"

        The concierge started, his face flushing bright red. "Oh, of course! Here, sir." He handed the bag over as though it were suddenly hot in his hands.

        "Thank you," the statue said again, pressing a bill into his palm.

        When the man didn't move, just stood there, staring, Mac nodded, smiled again, and slowly closed the door, nodding and smiling the whole way. As far as he knew, the man was still there long after the door was shut.

        Mac turned around and found himself looking into the steady green-gold gaze of the Oldest Immortal. The thin expressive mouth was twisted to one side as the eyes traveled up and down Mac, inspecting him from head to toe.

        "What!?" MacLeod asked.

        The thin man leaned close, putting his hand affectionately on Mac's shoulder. "I think he likes you," he whispered conspiratorially, then pulled away, waltzing around the room, singing. "He's so looovely. Absolutely Loooovely! Yada yada yada . . .oof!" The impromptu concert was cut short by MacLeod's thick forearm wrapped around his long throat.

        "What were we saying about various fighting styles, Methos? Is this a new technique? Caterwauling until the listener is driven to commit suicide?"

        "Usually they just swoon, overcome with the passion of my music."

        "Swoon?" Mac laughed, letting Methos go and unwrapping the clothes. "A real teen idol, eh? I can just see them panting after your body.  Anymore of that breakfast left? I'm hungry."

        "No wonder. It took five hours for them to get your clothes." Methos ordered up some sandwiches while Mac changed. The food arrived much more quickly than the clothes had and they ended up on the balcony again, swapping "Did you ever meet?" stories about other Immortals. The heat of the day was finally passing when Mac asked Methos if he had known Darius. It was a question he had asked before for which he had never received an answer. There was a long silence while the Oldest Immortal contemplated the label on his empty beer bottle.

        "Yes. I knew Darius." Methos scraped his thumbnail along the damp paper, peeling it away from the glass. "And Darius knew me."

        "You mean he knew who you were?"

        "He knew who I was, and what I was."

        Mac sat back in his chair, watching his ancient friend. "And?" he prompted.

        "And he . . . accepted me anyway, in a way no one ever had before or since." Methos looked up with a crooked smile. "That's what he did best, wasn't it?

        Methos and Mac sat in comfortable silence watching the sunset, each lost in a warm memory of the one among their Race whose heart was open to anyone, regardless of their past dark deeds.

        MacLeod finally broke the silence. "Do you really believe, Adam, that Darius was the only one who knew who and what you were, and loved you anyway?"

        Adam’s long, elegant neck twisted very slowly in the Highlander’s direction, eventually meeting the Scot’s smoky brown eyes. "What?"

        The corner of MacLeod’s mouth twitched upward and he shook his head slightly. "You’ve been living your life as best you can, surviving as best you can, for thousands of years. You’re extraordinarily intelligent, insightful, funny, graceful, elegant, courageous, wise and – in your own way – deeply compassionate. How is it possible that you can’t believe that Grace or Kit or Connor or Amanda or anybody else who happens to wander by would see that, wouldn’t find you just as fascinating as I do?"

        Methos felt his face warm. The very fact that he knew he was blushing made him blush even more until it felt like he must radiate heat. Mac chuckled and scooted his chair back.

        "Ha!" he exclaimed in triumph. "I’ve finally rendered you speechless." He put his napkin on the table and rose, stretching his arms and shoulders with a joint-popping grunt. "And on that note, I think it’s time for me to leave."

        "Leave?" Methos asked. "Where will you go?" His emotions were still in a turmoil, uneasily assimilating Mac's words as he followed the man inside, watching as Mac retrieved his wallet, keys and other items from the pockets of his discarded jeans.

        "I’ll find a way to get my stuff from the apartment, then I’ll slip quietly out of the country. I’d appreciate it if you’d let Sister Magdalene know I had to go, but that I’ll be sending her enough money to keep the orphanage going."

        "That doesn’t answer my question, Mac. Where will you go?"

        MacLeod paused for a second before he moved again, counting the bills in his wallet and slipping it into the pocket of his new pants.

        "Duncan, answer me! I didn’t come all the way down here just to have you walk away again!"

        The Scot exhaled a long and gusty sigh. "Adam, we’ve been through this. And it seems to me you’ve slipped very nicely into a relatively normal, fairly peaceful life in Seacouver. Until you blundered into my life down here, I suspect you hadn’t been shot or been in a car wreck since I left! I would think that should have told you something."

        "I’m not living my life, Duncan. I’m living yours," Methos growled.

        Mac shrugged. "Not anymore. Duncan MacLeod is dead. How many times do I have to repeat myself?"

        "Repeating something doesn’t make it right, MacLeod! God! You are the most stubborn, pigheaded, . . ."

        ". . . Blind, foolish, thoughtless, arrogant . . . Yes, I know, Adam. You’ve told me often enough," Mac said with a sad smile. "What absolutely baffles me is why, despite all that, you insist on trying to drag me back into your and Joe’s lives. It seems completely nonsensical." Mac rolled his ruined clothes into a tight ball and stuffed them into the nearest trashcan.

        As Methos watched the Highlander prepare to leave he felt his skin dampen with sweat. The room suddenly felt close and airless and he wanted nothing more than to retreat to the balcony, but then Duncan would just leave and he would have done all this for nothing. He forced himself to perch on the edge of one of the hideous hotel Queen Mary reproduction chairs, the tense position foreign to his whole musculature.

        "Duncan," he said, so softly he wasn’t even sure the noise passed his lips. Then again, just as MacLeod turned to go, "Duncan, sit down. Please."

        "Methos . . ."

        "Please!"

        Mac closed his dark expressive eyes slowly and opened them again. "Adam," he whispered, "Don't . . ."

        "You owe me, Highlander! Now, sit down, goddammit!"

        MacLeod moved stiffly, reluctantly perching on the edge of the bed closest to the door, facing away, ready to flee.

        "I think," Methos began, then hesitated. So far all of his clever words had been thrown up as shield and sword, protecting, defending, attacking, and had succeeded all too well in their assigned task. That's what all his words did and had done for countless years, decades, centuries. It was time for a change of tactics. "I think I've handled this very badly," he admitted slowly, reluctantly. "I've tried to prick your conscience, ignoring the fact that you already have an over-developed guilt complex that would take whatever I say and add it to your own sense that half the ills of the world must be your fault. And all I've managed to do is chase you away."

        "You didn't chase me anywhere, Adam," Mac interjected. "This was my choice, and it was long overdue."

        "If it were anyone else, Mac, I might agree with you. But it's not. We're talking about Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. You didn't keep that identity for 400 years just because you're a stubborn SOB, even though you are. You kept it because remarkably early in your life you formed an incredibly strong sense of who you are, an unshakable faith in your belief that being a good man means more than just avoiding doing evil deeds. You took responsibility, you acted, you touched lives and enlarged them. Including mine. Including Joe's, and Amanda's and Darius' and Richie's and every single person you encountered."

        Methos came up out of the chair and moved to sit by his friend, who was staring uncomfortably at the floor. "Then came Kol'tec, and Ahriman and the Gathering and suddenly that noble, virtuous hero you believed yourself to be turned out to be capable of acts that Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod judged unworthy. So because you must always act when you see such terrible things, you decided to kill him off." He reached out and took the strong jaw in his long fingers and forced him to turn his head until their eyes met. "Welcome to the real world, Duncan. You just gave me a little speech about my difficulty accepting that anyone would find me admirable, despite my ignominious past. But you can't accept that you can be less than perfect and still be worthy of love and respect."

        Mac yanked his face out of Methos' grasp and paced away towards the balcony. The muscles of his jaw twitched as teeth clenched and loosened. "Less than perfect!?" he rasped. "I killed Sean, killed Richie, was responsible for the deaths of Fitzcairne, of Brother Paul, of Don Saltzer, of Sophie Baines, of those four Watchers, of so many, Adam. So many! And they believed in me, depended on me!" He looked sightlessly out at the bright sunshine bathing the tropical scene. "I bought into the myth of the Clan Chieftain more than anyone. I wanted to live up to it, to be what you all expected -- what I expected. But these days every time I look in the mirror, I almost have to laugh. What you see, Adam, is not what you get!"

        "And your answer is to run away and hide? Hardly heroic, Duncan." Methos almost bit his tongue as soon as the words left his mouth. He had vowed he wouldn't use words as weapons.

        "That's right!" MacLeod growled, finally moving from hurt to anger. "Disappointed? Well, get used to it!" He whipped away, his long strides taking him to the door, but Methos was there ahead of him, pushing against his chest, forcing him back into the room.

        "No! You're not leaving until I say what I have to say, Duncan MacLeod! I'm doing a lousy job of it. I keep resorting to anger and cynicism when that's not at all what I need to do. I'm trying, Duncan, please! I know this is hard for you, but I need to say this."

        "Then for God's sake get it over with," Mac said, retreating, leaning up against the wall, his arms crossed.

        "Just hear me out." Methos sat cross-legged on the bed, pulling his long legs under him tightly, giving himself a moment to gather his thoughts, to deliberately, consciously lower his defenses. "When we first met," he began quietly, "you scared the hell out of me. You seemed larger than life, full of energy and compassion, driven by a need to make things better for anyone who crossed your path. It's so easy to become adopted into your clan, Duncan," Methos smiled. "To be the object of all that attention, to be drawn into the circle of your protection is intensely flattering, even while it can also be annoying and even frightening. But the very fact that you would do so much, give so much of your trust shames and inspires us all into being better than we are, don't you see that? If we take risks we wouldn't otherwise take, make sacrifices we would never have even considered before, it's because we know in our hearts that it is the right thing to do. Not for you, but for ourselves. I know I give you a hard time about being a boy scout, but in truth, what you do does matter! The impact you have on all our lives does matter!"

        He unfolded himself and crossed to the other man, laying his hands on either side of the dark face and lifting it up until their eyes met. The dark eyes were liquid and shining with unshed tears. "You don't trust yourself anymore. You have lost faith in your own goodness, your own judgment. I don't know how to help you get it back, Duncan. I can only tell you that the core of what you are has not changed. Living your life, even for only a short while, made it very clear to me just how far flung the Clan MacLeod truly is. Will we survive without you? Of course. But I'd rather not. You have somehow forged us into a community, something I never thought possible among our kind. You make us all better than we would otherwise be, and without you we are diminished in ways I can't begin to describe."

        Methos took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "There. I was beginning to wonder if I could say that," he murmured sheepishly.

        "That's all very . . . flattering," Mac said so soft and low Methos had to lean in to hear. "But . . . I don't want . . . I don't think I can stand losing you, losing Joe. And my life seems to attract violence and mayhem and conflict that puts everyone around me at terrible risk!"

        "People die, Duncan. Immortals die."

        "Not because of me. Not anymore." The dark eyes glittered with remembered pain and guilt and Methos reached out, touching his knuckle to Duncan's cheek where it was damp with spilled tears.

        "They didn't die because of you, Duncan," he said softly. "They died because they believed in something and you happened to believe in it, too. I have no doubt they would do it again. Do you really think you are so much at the center of the universe that their own character would not have led them to their fate, whether at that particular moment or at some other?" He paused, examining MacLeod's sad, strained, devastatingly handsome face with a sigh.

        "You know, MacLeod, sometimes I think there are people put on this earth who are given so much, as you have been given, that the only way the rest of us or fate or the gods can abide that much goodness and beauty and life, is to perpetually punish it in some way, to constantly test to see if you are worthy of those gifts."

        "If this is a test," Duncan chuckled sadly, "I think I failed."

        "No. You falter sometimes. But the Dark Quickening couldn't conquer your spirit, Kronos couldn't defeat your body, and Ahriman was unable to take your soul. There's only one person I know who is likely to defeat Duncan MacLeod, and I'm looking at him."

        Duncan pushed away from the wall, swiping away the moisture on his cheeks and crossed to the door of the balcony, looking back at the sharply defined, lean lines of the Oldest Immortal standing outlined in the golden afternoon sunlight. "Is that what happened to you?"

        "What do you mean?"

        "Your gifts, Adam. You have glided through the ages, beautiful, intelligent, Immortal. You must have seemed like a god to so many. Is that what happened? Were you tested and tested and tested until you finally defeated yourself?"

        It was a stunning comment and question. One he had not expected from this Highland child.

        "Yes," he whispered at last. "Yes, Duncan. I lived and loved and lost again and again, and finally gave into my own despair, my own darkness. I let someone else, someone whose darkness echoed and amplified my own take over my life, my fate and rule it for thousands of years. But there's a big difference between us, MacLeod. I never tried to . . . never wanted to be a hero, an example, to save the world, to make a difference to anyone except myself and those few I let get close. I failed the test from the first."

        "Perhaps it wasn't you who failed, Methos. Perhaps it was the world, gods, the fates, that failed you. Perhaps you didn't have friends and family who let you know that you were loved, that you were valued, that you could make a difference. That you were expected to make a difference. Perhaps that is the only real difference between us."

        Methos smiled and looked at the floor. "How did this conversation suddenly become about me?"

        "This conversation," Duncan turned away from the balcony and crossed to him, suddenly looming over him, "has always been about you . . . about us. It's easier to nurture me, isn't it, to care about me, than to look inside yourself and realize that despite 5,000 years of . . . of terrible testing and sometimes failing, there is someone who can make a difference. I'm only 400 years old, Methos," he whispered. "Whatever I have done, whatever I might someday do, is nothing compared to your capacity to survive, to overcome."

        The air in the room suddenly seemed stifling. Methos bolted out onto the balcony, gripping the rail as he took deep breaths of the damp air.

        "I don't mean to frighten you, Adam," Duncan's soft baritone was just behind him. "But if there ever comes a time when I can live a real life, I'd like to know that when I'm ready, you will still be around to puncture my balloon, to test my limits, to question my motives. I want to be that friend, that family that let's you know you are a person of inestimable worth. Someday," Duncan touched his shoulder and turned him around. The broad hand wandered up to his neck, where he gently cupped his head just behind his ear, lightly stroking his thumb against the white skin. "Someday, when it's not so dangerous, when the Gathering isn't at hand and life is not so volatile that such a thing might tilt the world on its axis . . . someday I'd like to find out just what we could mean to each other."

        Methos closed his eyes and leaned back into that warm hand. His mind stopped functioning at all for a moment as he absorbed the words being said. He felt the soft brush of lips on his cheek, then the hand was gone. He stood very still for a moment, letting the ghost of that touch linger in his memory. When he opened his eyes, the Highlander was gone.

        Methos left his car at the rental return kiosk, grabbing his suitcase and knapsack and heading to the main terminal. He checked his pockets to make sure he had the necessary papers to get his Ivanhoe and short dagger through customs. The Lugar had been acquired locally and would have to be left behind. They were just beginning to board his flight as he arrived at the gate. Since he now had the luxury of travelling first class on MacLeod's "inherited" money, he could board immediately and pushed to the front of the line, pausing as the ominous chill of Immortal presence slammed into him. It was close. It made him smile.

        "Pierson!" a familiar voice echoed across the terminal.

        He turned. A large, angry Scotsman was bearing down on him.

        "Where are my things? What did you do with my trunk, my katana, my books?!" the man growled under his breath once he finally got close.

        "They're on their way to Seacouver where they belong," Methos answered in clipped tones. "Just like their owner." He pulled an extra ticket out of his pocket. "You know, Highlander, you are so worried about what might happen tomorrow or next week or next month, you seem to forget about living today. That's when "real life" takes place, you know." He cocked his head with a smile. "I've missed you, my friend. All of us miss you. Come home. We'll worry about someday . . . some other day."

        Mac stood, drinking in the comfort of Methos' powerful presence. The day they had spent together was the most peaceful, the most fun he had had in a long, long time. Even their travails in the jungle had provided a sense of belonging, of family, that filled an aching emptiness in his soul. He looked at the ticket Methos had handed him.

        "First class! That's my money you're spending, you know, and you didn't even know whether I was going to show!"

        "Of course I did!" the Oldest Immortal caught his eye and held it. "After all, you are Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, aren't you?"

        Mac looked again at the ticket in his hand, the one with his name on it, and looked back at his friend.  "Methos . . ." he started.

        "Aren't you?" Methos demanded again.  He watched as a myriad of emotions washed across MacLeod's face -- longing, loneliness, grief and, at long last, a small measure of peace.

         He looked up at last and his face warmed in a slow, shy smile. "Yes, Old Man, I guess I am."