Adam Pierson sat unobtrusively among the Watcher crowd nursing his beer. The loose-limbed, lanky graduate student with the aquiline features and short dark hair was only a researcher and not considered to have had the types of interesting adventures the "real" Watchers were famous for. There was a great irony to the fact that Adam Pierson was, in point of fact, an immortal himself. Not only had he managed to hide among the secretive ranks of Watchers, his true identity was that of Methos, the oldest immortal, the oldest man on earth, the one they had been searching for practically since the beginning of the existence of the Watchers. Of course, Adam had contrived to get himself assigned as a researcher to the Methos Chronicles. More irony. He enjoyed irony. It was among his favorite emotions.

        Every once in awhile Joe would catch Pierson's eye and the two would share a knowing glance. Few of the Watchers truly understood the race of beings they so diligently observed. Most had stayed on the fringes of immortal existence for thousands of years, recording the details of their lives without understanding their impact or ramification. Only Dawson had seen immortal existence close up and personal. His rule-breaking relationship with the immortal Highlander, Duncan MacLeod, had been instigated out of necessity when MacLeod had discovered the existence of the secret organization.

        That relationship, difficult, rocky and tense as it had been, had taught Dawson more about immortals, about life itself, in that short time than in the previous twenty years of distant observation and study. It was even MacLeod who discovered that Adam Pierson was really Methos, since immortals could always sense the nearby presence of one of their own. It was a warning system that allowed them time to prepare for battle, the battle that, at its ultimate conclusion, would leave only one of them alive to carry the accumulated power of every immortal who ever lived. Joe saw Adam sit forward and carefully, casually look toward the door.

        A moment later a chill wind freshened the room as a well-built young man of medium height with short reddish-blond hair slammed in, taking off his motorcycle jacket and giving Joe an eager wave. The noise in the room diminished slightly at his entrance as the Watchers recognized the young immortal Richie Ryan, MacLeod's protege. Then the door opened again and the room went almost silent as a tall figure stepped in from the cold, winter evening. He wore a long, heavy leather coat and snow lightly dusted his dark, shoulder length hair, pulled neatly back with an ornate silver tie. The conversation gradually rose again as Watchers whispered together, shifting uncomfortably in the presence of an immortal who knew so many of their secrets. MacLeod stepped to the bar to stand beside Joe Dawson, who leaned on the cane that helped him keep his balance on the artificial legs which had replaced the ones he lost in the jungles of Vietnam.

        "Sorry, Joe," MacLeod said with a twinkle in his eye. "I guess I really know how to kill a party."

        "Hey, Mac. They're still trying to get used to the idea," Joe replied with a smile. "But I don't think I'll introduce you around, if you don't mind." Joe signaled to the bartender to get two glasses of their best single malt scotch. "Glad you could come, anyway. When you didn't make your usual winter pilgrimage to Paris, I thought you might enjoy the company. Christmas can be a bitch without a family around."

        Duncan took a slow, appreciative sip of his scotch and surveyed the crowd, careful to ignore Adam Pierson's presence among the Watchers. "I appreciate the sentiment, Joe, but I learned to deal with such things a long time ago."

        "Well, my friend, it's sometimes better if you don't have to deal with it," Joe replied quietly.

        Richie approached the two older men. During the past two years of life as an immortal, Richie had been forced into early maturity. Even though he would always have the appearance of a 19-year-old, the look in his eyes was now that of an older man. Experience, unfortunately, would never diminish his perpetually aroused libido.

        "Hey, Joe. Is that a new waitress?" Richie asked, pointing to a slender young woman with a long, auburn French braid down her back .

        "Her name is Samantha, Richie. And she has a boyfriend," Joe replied with a protective frown.

        "That is not necessarily an obstacle." Richie flashed a mischievous grin and maneuvered his way among the tables to arrange an encounter with the lady.

        The music was great, the drink was superior and MacLeod took pleasure in being out among people who were enjoying themselves. He eventually found an out-of-the way table on the balcony overlooking the bar and let his mind drift with the pleasant buzz of several glasses of whiskey. When he worked at it, he could compartmentalize his life, choosing to live in the moment, setting aside the grief, guilt and regret of 400 years of combat, of watching the people he loved die. Besides he had always been a happy drunk, one personality trait for which he was particularly grateful. He had other quirks, he knew, which were less fortunate. He was pulled back from a pleasant reverie about an encounter with two lovely immortal women almost 350 years before when the music stopped. He looked down and realized that the crowd had thinned considerably and Joe was serving the last round of drinks. Mac stood, holding the back of his chair for a moment as he assessed just how drunk he was. After a second he decided that, due to a particularly high tolerance level, he was only moderately sloshed and made his way carefully down the metal staircase to the main floor of the bar.

        The staff was cleaning up but Joe stopped them, calling them together for a brief speech about how much he appreciated their work, then handed them each an envelope with a bonus check inside. The bartenders and the wait staff were positively beaming with gratitude and the cleaning effort sped up considerably. Within a few minutes only Joe, Mac, Richie and Adam Pierson were sitting in the suddenly quiet and empty bar. Mac chose that moment to locate his coat, pulling three small packages from its deep pockets.

        "Here," he said. "Not that any of you guys deserve anything, but, well, it's been a pretty difficult year and I know I haven't been the easiest person to be around. Anyway, I wanted to . . . well, here." He was not usually so inarticulate, and he flushed slightly with embarrassment as he handed the carefully wrapped gifts to his three friends.

        He had gotten each of them a CD. Adam's was of an obscure heavy metal band, Richie's was of his favorite rock guitarist, and Joe's was a collection of rare archived recordings of early jazz greats. The three men looked pleased and embarrassed at MacLeod's thoughtfulness.

        Adam/Methos, ever implacable, smiled at MacLeod's choice. "Well, I see you've finally dragged yourself into the 20th Century. How'd you know I'd like this one?" he asked. "You never listen to this stuff."

        "I asked the sales clerk which was the worst band she had ever heard," Mac responded with a corresponding smirk. Joe pulled out a bottle of scotch and poured them each a last drink, but Mac declined, figuring he had had enough and was driving home.

        Richie sat in thoughtful silence for a minute, then reached into his coat pocket and brought out a narrow box just as Mac turned to leave. "Uh, Mac? I was gonna give you this on Christmas day, and . . . well, I haven't wrapped it yet, but . . . I got it last summer while I traveled down in Mexico. At the time I was still pissed off at you for . . . well, anyway," Richie sighed in frustration at his inability to say way he wanted. "It was in an old trading store. I figured it belonged to you at some time. So, well . . . here." He pushed the box over toward his mentor.

        Mac looked at the box for a minute, oddly reluctant to open it. His relationship with Richie had taken some awkward turns over the past year or so. He loved the boy like a son, but his affection was always colored with the grim knowledge that their lives were fated to clash, possibly in combat fatal to one of them. He had made it much worse the year before when he had been overcome by a twisted version of the Quickening -- the storehouse of energy that was absorbed by the survivor of combat between two immortals that was normally a benign, if overwhelming, experience.

        But this Quickening had been unique, had been a nightmare, had been only a bottomless well of evil, a Dark Quickening previously only theorized in Watcher lore. In minutes his world had changed, his history, his values, his precious sense of honor, were all lost and all he knew was blind hate, a need to strike out, a desperate hunger to kill. Unfortunately the first Immortal he encountered had been his student, young Richie Ryan. If Joe Dawson hadn't stepped in . . . a chill ran over him every time that memory replayed itself.

        Richie, impatient at Duncan's reluctance, reached over and opened the box for him. Nestled inside on a bed of black velvet, was a hunting knife, its lethal-looking eight-inch blade gleaming in the low light. The simple, well-formed handle was of ivory, yellow with age, with the initials DML ornately carved in overlapping letters along its side. Richie watched Mac's face go still and pale as he stared at the object. Mac wordlessly picked the knife up, holding it flat in both hands, then slowly closed his right hand around the handle. Richie glanced in confusion at Adam and Joe. They shared curious glances at the Highlander's reaction, then started at an unexpected noise. Blood was dripping in a continuous stream from Mac's hand onto the table as he stared grimly at the object he was holding in a white-knuckled grip.

        "Damnit, Mac, watch what you're doing!" Methos cried, standing and taking MacLeod's arms. "Let go!" he said firmly, gently shaking his friend. Mac started, as though he had been unaware of their presence, and the knife thumped onto the table as it fell from his clinched fist.

        "Sit!" Methos ordered, pushing MacLeod into a chair. Methos forced open Mac's left hand where the knife blade had sliced cleanly through his skin to the bones beneath. In a few seconds, the wound closed, but not before a significant puddle of blood had formed on the table. Joe went behind the bar, bringing back handfuls of paper towels and a sponge to clean up the mess.

        "You've stained the sleeve of your sweater, Mac. You know how hard it is to get blood out of cashmere," Methos said matter-of-factly, wiping the blood off his friend's broad, callused palm.

        Richie sat in shock, staring at Mac's damp, white face. "God, Mac. Is something . . . did I do something wrong?"

        Mac suddenly shivered, his eyes coming into focus on the concerned faces around him. "I . . . It's a very thoughtful gift, Richie," he said, almost in a whisper. "I don't know why I did that." He sounded confused, looking in puzzlement at the thin red line on his palm that was all that was left of the deep cut.

        Richie let out a breath, relieved that the bizarre incident was over. "It was a shock to find it, just sitting there in a glass case in Monterrey, Mexico. The guy said it was at least 150 years old, but he didn't know where it had come from. I knew you had been in Mexico during the revolution, so I took a chance it might have been yours." Richie babbled nervously about the bargaining he had had to do to pay for the weapon.

        Mac sat and listened, a distant smile on his strained, pale face. In a few minutes, he made his excuses and left. Richie exchanged a long silent look with the oldest Immortal and the Watcher.

        "You think he's okay?" he asked.

        "Sure, kid," Methos responded, taking a sip from his scotch. "Mac was probably just remembering the serial murders he committed with that knife a couple hundred years ago. Not to worry."

        Richie glared at the irritatingly irreverent oldest man, gathered his jacket and new CD and left.

        "Well," Methos said quietly, as Richie noisily slammed out the door, "That was odd. I've never seen MacLeod react like that before. Do you know anything about the knife and what it might mean?"

        Joe rose, gathering the empty glasses and taking them behind the bar. "I haven't a clue. We lost him for several months toward the end of the Mexican revolution. He was off scouting for Juarez and the Watcher lost his trail. He was finally spotted in Texas working as a scout. Nobody recorded anything in particular about a knife."

        "Hmm," Methos murmured thoughtfully. "Well, I guess I'll call it a night, old friend." He unwound his long wiry frame from his chair and sauntered out into the early morning chill.

        Joe finished the cleanup, then, restless and curious, went upstairs to his office where he stored the Chronicles of Duncan MacLeod. He eventually fell asleep on the couch while re-reading the 19th Century entries.

        Mac's footsteps echoed hollowly in the dark and empty dojo on the way to the freight elevator up to his loft apartment. He felt odd, distant, as though he had somehow stepped outside of himself and was just an observer. He knew what he had done tonight was bizarre. He was an expert in handling knives of every size and configuration. To slice himself open like that was . . . very strange. The knife was his. He had carried it for over 50 years during his travels in the New World. What was equally odd was that he couldn't remember where he had lost it or the last time he used it. Immortals were both cursed and blessed with rich and detailed memories, but when Mac sifted back through them, there was . . . nothing . . . about the loss of the knife. As the elevator rattled its way up to his apartment, he shook himself, attributing the memory lapse and odd sensations to too little sleep and too much booze.

        Heat . . . dust . . . thirst. A woman's dark eyes looming above him . . . pain beyond belief . . .

        Mac started awake, his own shout echoing in his ears. His heart was pounding in panic and sweat dripped down his neck and pooled on his chest. He lay among the damp, twisted sheets, gasping, waiting for his heart to slow, trying to remember the dream, to figure out what it meant, but it was too fragmentary, slipping away even as he closed his eyes to concentrate on recapturing the elusive images. His time sense told him that it was about 5 o'clock in the morning and his head ached with a mild hangover. He sighed in frustration, deciding the best thing to do was sweat the booze out of his body. Exercise might also help him relax, dispelling the unexplained knots of tension in his shoulders and sitting in the pit of his stomach. He flung aside the covers, dressed in exercise clothes and carefully tidied up the apartment. His comfort with living in a large, single room had always been dependent on everything being in its proper place. As he made his way to the freight elevator he passed the gift box he had left on the kitchen counter the night before. He reached out, but encountered an extraordinary reluctance to touch it. Again, he had the distancing sensation he had felt earlier, the sense of stepping outside himself. His lips thinned in impatience at his lack of understanding, and he slammed down the elevator gate and went to the gym to exercise with a vengeance.

        Richie showed up a little late for work in the dojo the next morning, having drunk a little too much himself the night before without the tolerance for excess that MacLeod had acquired. The morning workout crowd was in full swing by the time he stepped inside and he felt MacLeod's presence well before he came through the door. Mac was in sweatpants and tee-shirt, spotting weights for a big, black man who looked for all the world like an ex-heavyweight champion, but in point of fact, was an accountant with one of the big six accounting firms. Mac looked spent. His shirt was damp and his long hair was dripping with sweat. The two immortals nodded to each other as Richie passed to deposit his bag in the glass-enclosed office in the back of the large room.

        After a few minutes, Mac came in for a bottle of water, downing the contents in a few long gulps. "Glad you could make it," he said wryly.

        Richie smiled wanly and shrugged. "It took me a little longer to get going this morning. It looks like you've been out there for awhile."

        "The best thing for a hangover is to work it out, my friend," Duncan said, opening another bottle of water. "I suggest you warm up and do a serious aerobic workout. You'll feel better." He turned and left, finding an empty corner of the dojo to work with a jump rope.

        "Yeah, right. I feel like shit and the first thing I want to do is go bust my butt in a workout," Richie muttered to himself as he changed his shoes. Half an hour later, he had finished checking the towels in the locker room and straightening the weights, and Mac was still at it with the rope. His clothes were clinging to him and sweat flew off his hair as he kept going at a relentless pace, his focus on some distant point in space.

        He's doing this just to make me feel guilty, Richie thought, relieved when the dark Scot finally stopped. Instead of relaxing and toweling off, Mac went immediately over to the heavy bag. Richie vaguely realized his boss' behavior was bordering on the strange. However, interfering with Duncan MacLeod was almost always a bad idea, a very bad idea, so Richie just watched intermittently out of the corner of his eye as he warmed up doing some curls with some 10 lb. weights. Finally, drawn to his mentor's side by curiosity and concern, he went over to hold the bag while Mac punched and kicked it with brutal intensity. Richie quickly regretted his choice. Trying to hold the bag against the force Mac was putting into the blows was as much of a workout as Richie wanted to get. A couple of the guys whispered together in the corner and were starting to stare at Mac in open concern.

        "Mac?" Richie called. Mac's face was a grim mask of concentration and his pummeling continued. "Mac!" Richie shouted again, to no effect. Richie stepped away from the bag, and his movement threw MacLeod's blow off balance, forcing him to pause for a second. As Richie stepped away, he saw what the others were staring at. Mac's knuckles were raw, and he had left smears of blood all over the canvas bag. "MacLeod!" Richie put himself directly in Duncan's way. The Highlander's dark eyes were fierce and for a second Richie was afraid he was going to get hit.

        "Richie!" Mac said breathlessly, his focus suddenly shifting. "Don't do that, you could get hurt!"

        "Mac!" Richie whispered urgently. "Look at your hands! What're you doing?" MacLeod looked down. In the space of time it had taken to discuss it, the open scrapes were already healing, but his hands were covered with drying blood. For a second, Richie felt like MacLeod had mentally gone somewhere else, just like he had the night before when presented with the gift. Then his face cleared and there was nothing but confusion in his eyes.

        "I guess I got carried away," he said, straining to smile. He pushed a long tendril of damp hair away, leaving a bloody streak on his face. Suddenly, he weaved and almost lost his balance. Richie caught his arm and guided him quickly to the elevator.

        As soon as Richie raised the gate at the apartment, Mac staggered to the kitchen sink and splashed water on his face while Richie grabbed a bottle of water from Mac's large stash on the kitchen shelves and opened it for him. When Mac at last sank into a chair and was working on his second bottle of water, Richie confronted him.

        "What the hell is going on, Mac?" Richie asked quietly.

        "There's nothing going on, Richie," Mac stated flatly between gulps. "I just got a little dehydrated is all."

        "You know that's not what I mean," Richie said. "Last night, and now downstairs. That's really not like you, man. It's like you were . . . out of it."

        "I don't know what you're talking about, Richie," Mac said, taking another long gulp of water. "I was a little drunk last night, is all. Now . . . don't you have work to do?" Mac inquired pointedly.

        After Richie left, irritated at MacLeod's surly rejection of his concern, Mac sat, trying to figure out for himself what was going on. Something had been triggered, a memory, a dream, a feeling. But every time he reached for it, tried to find the connection, it slipped away like the elusive images from his nightmare. Finally, he took a long, hot shower and started on the phone calls that were his real livelihood-the contacts with the antique dealers around the world that used his knowledge to find and value the truly unique and truly original.

        Adam Pierson, the pseudonym of Methos, the oldest Immortal, was a researcher. He loved it. He loved old books and records. He loved libraries. He loved going back through the dusty archives of forgotten events, reconstructing the lives of the people that experienced them. One of the things that made it so interesting was that he had the ultimate perspective and could assess individual lives in a way that gave them meaning in time and context available to no one else on earth. Even the simplest of lives could have enormous ramifications, he knew. The lives of Immortals, trailing through history in hidden threads, were among the most fascinating of all. The nature of his own life and actions had changed over the millennia. He had gone from actor to observer, from a player upon the stage to a writer/director, or so he perceived himself. Now he was among the Watchers like an Immortal chameleon. The persona of Adam Pierson suited him well, just as serving as a researcher sifting through the Chronicles of his own life suited his sense of irony.

        He had hidden from the Game, from other Immortals, for a long, long time. He had developed an almost impervious hide, or so he had believed. Death, guilt, recrimination, loss, had been successfully compartmentalized and sanitized. Safely ensconced in the relative calm of reclusive academic pursuits, Methos, the world's oldest man, had complete control over his universe. His only Immortal contact for several hundred years had been Darius, the great general-turned-priest. It was a wonderful relationship and absolutely non-threatening. No one would take Darius' head because he never left holy ground, therefore Methos' identity was safe. And of course the monk would never, could never, betray him. He and Darius could talk freely, exchange ideas about the mundane and spiritual, could discuss esoteric and speculative reasons for their immortality for years on end. Darius was a great mind, a great spirit, and the only person with whom Methos felt completely at ease. Methos existed in a neat, sterile world of ideas and intellect, distant, apart from the messy, dangerous and chaotic Game that sullied the life of the other, less fortunate members of his unique race. But then Darius died, murdered on holy ground by rogue Watchers. His Watchers. Methos' mind quickly skittered away from that painful thought. But Darius had left a Methos a legacy, initially unwelcome, but now, oddly, a compelling and necessary part of Methos' life. He had left him Duncan MacLeod.

        "Well, my friend," Darius leaned back in his chair, after long examination of the board, "it would appear you have won. It's only taken you three months, practically a record."

        "That's not true," Methos huffed. "It was only thirty-four years ago that I beat you in only six weeks! Besides, I was out of town for almost 10 days. By the way, I have to go to the States next week. They want me to summarize my findings on the Methos Chronicles for the next board meeting. Then I thought I'd wander up into Canada for awhile. I haven't been to Nova Scotia for almost a century."

        Darius rose, picking up the teacups they had both been using. "Methos, old friend," he said quietly, "there's something I would like for you to do for me." Methos waited patiently. He never acceded to requests automatically, no matter who they came from, and Darius' tone set off mental warning bells. Darius carefully stacked the dishes on a side table and turned, neatly folding his hands into his monk's robe out of long habit. "I want you to keep an eye on Duncan MacLeod for me."

        "What do you mean?" Methos asked suspiciously.

        "I mean, if anything should happen to me, I want you to help him when you can, to keep him on track. I don't ever want him to lose that which makes him special."

        "Why are you asking me this, Darius? What on earth could happen to you? Were you planning to leave holy ground?" Methos asked, suddenly troubled.

        "No," he sighed. "But I've had an uneasy sense lately. There's a darkness coming. Whether it's for me or for Duncan I can't be sure. Just promise me this, old friend. I think you would do it anyway, but it would make me feel better knowing for certain." Darius' tall, lean body was absolutely still, calm and relaxed, his silvery eyes clear and piercing.

        "That's not my style, Darius," Methos said, standing. He turned away, pacing the stone floor of the rectory that had been Darius' home for hundreds of years. It was very difficult to refuse Darius anything since he so rarely asked. "I haven't revealed my identity to anyone but you in centuries. It would be suicide for me to start during the Gathering, especially to someone like MacLeod, who everyone seems to be after anyway. If he knew who I was and anyone should take his head, the first thing they'd do would be to come after me. With MacLeod's strength, they might be successful." Methos shook his head firmly, "No, Darius. I can't do that."

        "You can trust MacLeod," Darius said gently. "And," Darius paused, looking slyly at Methos, "he could serve as a sort of a shield for you, you know, a stalking horse. During the Gathering it might even be a more viable strategy than hiding among the Watchers. You know other immortals will find you eventually. If Duncan is around they will gravitate to him first. He'll take them out, saving you the trouble. I admit it's a risky strategy, but at least you'd have some protection. You haven't fought for centuries. Right now, if someone really good should find you, your chances aren't great."

        "Thanks a lot," Methos said wryly. "I admit I haven't kept up with my fighting skills, but they were never what kept me alive anyway." Methos paced a few more times, stopping to examine Darius' collection of ancient philosophical texts stored in an ornately carved bookcase. "You really think he's that good?" Methos asked dubiously.

        Darius met Methos' gaze steadily. "Don't try to tell me you haven't read his Chronicles, Methos. You know how I feel about MacLeod, and you know how I feel about the Game and what needs to be done. Don't be coy with me on this. I don't think even Duncan realizes how good he is, and he's getting stronger every day. I knew when he took out Greyson that he's even better than I had hoped."

        Methos chuckled quietly. "You are a devious son of a bitch, Darius."

        Darius smiled sweetly, bowing his head slightly in acknowledgement. "I learned at the feet of the master." His intense grey eyes grew serious. "He's a good man, Methos. We can't afford to lose him. You'd like him, even though the two of you would probably annoy the hell out of each other."

        "Right," Methos muttered. "From what I've read he's a real boy scout. Honest, loyal, decent, etcetera." Methos waved his hand in disdain. "Sounds like a description of my last dog!"

        "Don't forget trustworthy, Methos," Darius added. "You can trust him with your life. As long as you don't betray that trust MacLeod will be the best friend you ever had. How many friends like that have you ever had in your 5,000 years, old man?"

        Methos cocked his head at the priest. "At least one, Darius. At least one."

        So he had reluctantly agreed. Darius' death, however, shocked Methos to his core in a way he didn't believe was possible anymore. He had thought he had built too many emotional walls around himself to feel that kind of grief and guilt, but those walls, he discovered, were tissue-paper thin. When the worst of the pain had finally passed, he gradually realized that he had spent centuries barely alive. He re-read the Chronicles of Duncan MacLeod and found he envied the man. Here was someone who never retreated from life, always confronting, feeling, living life with a purpose, with conviction, with hope.

        So, eventually, reluctantly, but with great curiosity, Methos allowed Duncan MacLeod to find him. Since that moment when the charismatic, devastatingly handsome Highlander strode into his apartment, gleaming katana gripped in his hand, gazing in astonishment and awe at the oldest man in the world, Methos had been hooked. MacLeod was almost like an addiction, someone he couldn't walk away from, couldn't leave alone. Maybe it was all that vitality, maybe it was his astonishing capacity to believe that goodness would prevail, maybe it was simply because MacLeod cared so much about so many things. Those same characteristics that were so compelling went against much of Methos accumulated experience and as Darius had predicted, often as not drove him crazy.

        He frequently found MacLeod arrogant, pigheaded and self-righteous. The overweening sense of justice, conscience and self-sacrifice made it difficult to protect the Highlander from his own tendency to put himself in harm's way. So, because of his promise to Darius (Methos told himself) he stayed close to the Highlander, checking in frequently to ensure the Scot's continued survival -- and it seemed obvious that without Methos' counsel MacLeod would do something stupid that would cost him his head. Nevermind that the man had survived for 400 years on his own, managing to defeat several of the oldest, toughest Immortals in history. That was just luck and pure stubbornness and better-than-passable swordsmanship. When MacLeod had taken the Dark Quickening, it was Methos who stepped in at the risk of his own life to help Duncan reclaim his soul. Actually, Methos wasn't even sure how the man had conquered the unthinkable demons that had overwhelmed him, but the strength of character it had taken to win that battle was something that secretly generated awe even in the oldest man.

        Methos' own character was of a far different stripe. He was the ultimate survivor, the pragmatist, the avoider of conflict, the great rationalizer of his own actions. There were times when Methos knew he fell short of MacLeod's exalted moral expectations. What Methos found most irritating was that he actually cared about MacLeod's opinion of him. Consequently his greatest pleasure came in baiting his new friend, puncturing the balloons of moralistic pontifications MacLeod was prone to spout. His baiting and MacLeod's bulldog stubborness sometimes resulted in their usual bantering turning ugly, hovering on the edge of antagonism and even spiling over into open aggression, which is why Methos absented himself periodically. But he always went back.

        Methos was glad to feel an Immortal presence as he climbed the stairs to MacLeod's dojo. It had been almost a week since Joe's party and it bothered him a little that MacLeod hadn't called or come by. Besides, Methos felt the need of a good workout and MacLeod was always good for a sparing match, both verbal and physical.

        Richie, the young pup who was MacLeod's current immortal protege, was in the dojo office and Mac was not in sight. Richie had only recently learned of Methos' true identity, and had seemed insultingly disappointed in the ordinary appearance and demeanor of the legendary 5,000 year old man. The kid had his legs propped on the desk and was reading a text on college calculus.

        "MacLeod upstairs?" Methos asked, sticking his head in the office door.

        "I guess so," Richie replied. "I haven't seen him today." Methos had turned to try the stairs when Richie called him back. "Uh, Adam," he hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "I should give you fair warning. He seems to be in a really bad mood these days."

        Methos stepped back into the office and carefully closed the door. "What do you mean?" he asked.

        Richie closed his book and put his feet on the floor. "Ever since that night at Joe's he's been distant, acting kinda strange," Richie waived his arm in frustration. "I don't know. Every time I ask him about it he's says its nothing, but . . . it's not nothing." Richie paused and Methos waited for him to finish his thought. "I think it's my fault. It has something to do with that damn knife. He left it on the kitchen counter, unopened and it's been there ever since." The kid looked up at him expectantly.

        Methos, as usual, couldn't think of the kinds of words of comfort or wisdom the boy seemed to expect from him. Sometimes the expectations that came with being the oldest man could be a real pain. He just gave the kid a brief nod, and climbed up the outside stairs to knock on MacLeod's door. He waited and knocked again. He could sense MacLeod's presence inside and knew MacLeod could sense him. He knocked again. Finally, Mac opened the door, his katana at the ready. He was dressed in a bathrobe and his long, dark hair hung loose around his shoulders. There was about three day's growth of beard underneath heavily shadowed brown eyes.

        "Who were you expecting?" Methos asked, stepping past MacLeod into the single room apartment. The bed was rumpled, and dirty clothes and dishes were scattered throughout the space. Methos' initial curiosity turned into sudden, serious concern. MacLeod was normally meticulous with his space, keeping his eclectic collection of priceless furnishings and carefully chosen clothing clean and tidy. Methos surveyed the kitchen area and, as Ryan had reported, the unopened narrow box containing the knife was sitting on the counter among the dirty dishes. "What's going on, Duncan?" he asked softly.

        MacLeod locked eyes with him for a moment, then carefully returned the katana to its place near the door. "What do you want, Methos?" he finally asked. "You've caught me at a bad time."

        "A bad time?" Methos waived his arm around the room. "A bad time? Mac, what's . . . going . . . on?" he insisted again.

        Duncan grimly pressed his lips together and moved into the kitchen, making a show of putting on water for tea. After a long silence while the two men tried to wait each other out, Duncan sighed and leaned up against the counter. "Did you want something specific, Methos, or did you just come by to criticize my housekeeping?"

        Methos casually moved some newspapers off the couch so he could sit, lounged back and met Duncan's haggard gaze in silence. Duncan gave up and continued to putter around in the kitchen, making a stab at cleaning up until the kettle sounded its sharp siren. Duncan pointedly did not ask Methos if he wanted any and methodically fixed himself a cup of tea, shoving dirty dishes into the sink to make room at the counter where he contemplated the steaming cup.

        Methos sat and wondered if it was possible to out-stubborn the Scot, finally conceding that it was probably folly to even try. He rose, went to the kitchen area and leaned against the counter next to Duncan. "Talk to me, MacLeod. I'm not going to leave until I know what's going on here," he said gently.

        "The only thing going on is that you're annoying me, Methos," Mac said grimly.

        "Stop it, Duncan. You can lie to yourself, but you can't lie to me. It's perfectly obvious there's something desperately wrong," Methos voice grew steadily more forceful. "Now . . . What's Going On?!" he shouted into Duncan's face.

        "I DON'T KNOW!" Mac finally shouted back. He moved away, pacing the floor for a minute as Methos returned to the couch, waiting patiently. Finally, Duncan sat and buried his face in his hands. "I can't sleep. I keep having these dreams. I don't remember things that I know I should remember." He sat back, laying his head on the back of the chair. "I waffle between blind panic and fear and this terrible . . . disconnection. Like I'm not even really here."

        Methos leaned forward to closely observe his friend. "This has to do with the knife, doesn't it?" he stated.

        Mac shook his head slowly. "I honestly don't know. I can't remember the last time I had the damn thing, or where I lost it." He sat forward, clasping his hands together until the knuckles were white. "There's something . . . a dream. It's hot. There's a woman there. It . . ." he stood with a growl of frustration. "I feel so . . . helpless. It's like I'm caught in a trap, powerless to do anything about it."

        Methos sat back, contemplating the problem. "An Immortal with a memory loss," he murmured. "There's a lot of things that could mean."

        MacLeod got up again, restlessly pacing in the kitchen, ineffectually moving dirty dishes around, then returning to his seat. Methos knew he would have to be patient. MacLeod was not a talker and tended to retreat into stony silence when pressed. He let the silence extend. After a few minutes the phone rang, MacLeod answered and spent 15 minutes discussing in French the details and potential value of some medieval tapestry. On the phone he seemed incongruously normal, if a little grim. But when he hung up, he resumed his pacing.

        Methos finally rose and went to the phone himself. After a few rings, a male voice answered, "Joe's."

        "Joe, its Adam. I think you'd better get copies of MacLeod's Chronicles from the 18th and 19th Centuries and bring them over to his place. We've got a problem."

        "What kind of a problem?" Joe asked curtly. The line went dead as Duncan reached over and pressed down the receiver button.

        "No," he said.

        "You'll have to remember, Duncan," Methos turned to face his friend, who was now wearing an all-too-familiar bulldog expression of stubborn non-cooperation.

        "Give me a little time. I can deal with this myself. It will just take a little time." Duncan started pacing again.

        "Look at yourself! Look at this place! Whatever this is, it won't get better until you've faced it," Methos insisted. "MacLeod, we are blessed with bodies that miraculously heal physical damage, but you of all people should know it doesn't protect us from the emotional wounds that build up over so many lifetimes. That's why so many of us become hard and callused or eventually become pure evil. We didn't start out that way, but it's hard work to continuously deal with death and combat and still stay balanced, to keep perspective, to still care. You are better at that than anyone I know, Duncan. If you don't deal with this you risk everything you are, everything that's important to you."

        "Like Warren?" Duncan asked grimly. "He didn't remember. Didn't want to remember, but I forced him." MacLeod sat again. "I was wrong, Methos. He would have been better off having forgotten that he had murdered his own student. I forced him to live with that horror. Something he couldn't change, couldn't fix. Something he will hate himself for the rest of his immortal life."

        Mac stood again, his body rigid with tension. "What if it's something like that, Methos? It almost has to be, doesn't it? I've already done terrible things in my life. Terrible things." His eyes were haunted and feverishly bright. "If this is so much worse that I've blocked it out--I don't want to know!"

        Methos sat thoughtfully for a few minutes, a look of remembered pain crossing his sharp, acquiline features. Finally he rose to stand in front of MacLeod. The two men were of equal height, gazes equally intense as the oldest Immortal forced the younger man to meet his eyes. "You once asked me who would judge you for the life and death choices you made. I didn't answer you then because to me the answer was obvious. I guess it's obvious to everyone except Duncan MacLeod. It's you, Mac. You are your own most critical judge. You agonize over moral issues more than anyone I know. It's part of what makes you so different from the rest of us, and part of what makes you a real pain to be around sometimes. Whatever this is, Duncan, we both know you won't let go until the truth is out. It'll drive you mad if you don't deal with it and deal with it now."

        "And what if its the knowing that drives me mad?" Duncan asked ominously. "What happens then? Who takes my head? You?" He smiled at the irony of the thought. He and Methos had sparred many times and Duncan was the better, stronger swordsman. He was among the best there ever was.

        Methos swallowed, recognizing the danger MacLeod was presenting. Duncan had gone through a crucible with the Dark Quickening. It was fortunate for them all that he had conquered his own demons because if he had been loosened upon the world as a force of pure evil, stopping him would have been . . . difficult. "That's something we'll have to deal with if it happens, Duncan. You've been tested before, and you've survived intact," Methos replied.

        "Not everyone else did," Mac whispered. Methos had no answer for that.

        Richie had sat in the dojo office for what seemed like hours, trying to study, unable to concentrate, his body taking on an odd imitation of MacLeod's brooding posture as he slumped in the chair. He'd done it again, he was sure. Somehow he'd done something to screw up Mac's life and they wouldn't even tell him what it was. God, that Methos was an irritating, smug bastard. He'd only known Mac for a couple of years but acted like he owned him. Thinking about the old immortal's capacity to get close to Mac, to get under Mac's skin in a way that nobody else did made Richie's own skin crawl. The guy was a weasel. He stood and paced the small room, feeling his anger grow, replacing the gnawing guilt.

        The sound of the opening of the dojo doors followed by a familiar clumping step made him turn. Joe Dawson, carrying a large satchel briefcase, was making his way across the dojo to the elevators.

        "So, you're in on it, too, huh?" Richie said, his mouth forming a twisted version of a smile.

        "Hey, Richie," Joe greeted the youngster with a tentative smile. His face was tense, preoccupied. He pressed the button for the elevator.

        "What's going on, Joe?" Richie asked intently.

        "I don't know," Joe answered. He pursed his lips and shook his head, looking distractedly at the floor. "Methos says we've got a problem and asked me to bring some of Mac's Chronicles."

        "Methos says!" Richie said the name with scornful laugh. "The world's expert on MacLeod, right? What the hell does he know? He's only known him for a couple of years! Jeez, Joe, he's practically moved in here, always hanging around, mooching off Mac. How do you know he's not out to eventually take his head?"

        Joe gave Richie a sharp look. "He could have had it any number of times, Richie," he said quietly. "He's been a good friend to MacLeod and he knows more about what it's like to be Immortal than anyone. Don't be fooled by the facade." Joe pulled up the elevator gate and stepped in. When Richie moved to step in beside him, he held up his hand. "I think this is private, Richie," Joe said, knowing the words were going to hurt the boy, and regretting it.

        Richie's face went white, making the permanent scattering of childish freckles across his nose and cheeks stand out in stark relief. "Private?" he growled. "I gave him the fucking knife, Joe." Richie walked away from Joe's worried gaze, then whirled back. "They just don't want me to know what it's really like, isn't that it? You guys think poor little Richie needs to be protected from all the big bad things that can happen to an Immortal. Well, I'm a long ways from being poor little Richie anymore, Joe Dawson! How many heads have you taken lately?" Richie stood rock still with tension, his hands at his hips, elbows akimbo.

        Joe sighed. "I'm sorry, Richie." Then he lowered the gate and lost sight of the youngster as the elevator rattled its way to the top floor.

        Richie watched the elevator disappear, then turned, gazing sightlessly at the empty dojo. He slowly walked back toward the office, unable to resist kicking the heavy bag as he passed. He stood for a moment until his frustration overcame him, rising from his throat and escaping with a gutteral shout as he picked up the suddenly offending calculus text from the desk and threw it hard against the wall.

        At least Methos' arrival had galvanized Duncan into realizing how much he had allowed things around him to deteriorate, and he disappeared into the bathroom where Methos could hear the shower running.

        "I think Mac needs to get a new housekeeper," Joe said wryly before swinging into the room from the elevator with his unique cane-assisted walk. In his free hand he carried a full and obviously heavy satchel briefcase.

        By the time Mac came out, freshly showered and shaved, Methos and Joe had straightened the apartment and were busying themselves drying the last of the dishes.

        Mac frowned when he saw Joe, and his face was closed and hard as he wordlessly changed from his bathrobe into dark pants and a tee-shirt, then sat on the edge of the bed combing the tangles out of his wet hair. The silence in the air was heavy and stifling.

        Finally, Joe dried his hands and opened the briefcase, taking out four leather-bound volumes and carefully placing them on the big, square coffee table in the center of the room. Each had the Watcher insignia, a winged abstract figure inside a double circle, embossed on the front cover. All semblance of color left Mac's face, which took on a distant, blank expression as Joe settled his reading glasses on his nose, searched through the volumes until he found the one he wanted and opened it, flipping through the pages. He found the entry he was looking for and began to read.

        "April 4th, 1866. Spent much of the day working to help prepare meals. M. was called to General Juarez' tent to report on movements of the Emperor's troops. Shouting could be heard during the meeting, which included the senior officers. Some, evidently, didn't believe M. could have gotten into and out of the enemy camp undetected unless he were working for them. Others defended him, saying his loyalty couldn't be questioned. M. said little that I could hear. The staff left and M. met for a long time privately with General Juarez. During the meeting I was called back to the cook's tent. By the time I was done, when I checked, M's horse and gear were gone. I do not know where he went. I will stay close to the General in hopes that M. will return to make his report."

        Joe looked over at MacLeod, who sat motionless, perched on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing. "The original is in Spanish," he reported. "These have been recopied and translated." When Mac didn't comment, Joe continued. "That's the last entry for almost six months. The Watcher was killed in a battle in July. You were picked up again in Texas as a scout for the Rangers." Joe leaned forward and placed the book carefully on the table. "What happened in that meeting with Juarez, Duncan?" he asked.

        Duncan murmured something in Spanish.

        "What'd he say?" Joe looked to Methos for a translation.

        "He said Juarez wanted him to go back. Duncan," Methos called gently. "Speak English."

        "He wanted me to go back, to infiltrate Maximilian's camp again," Duncan said so softly his listeners had to strain to hear. "He wanted me to be a counterspy because I spoke French. He trusted me."

        "Did you?" Methos asked.

        "I . . . I remember riding out. It was a beautiful spring day, warm. The desert was green from a recent rain," Mac said wistfully. "You know, I love the rough northern countries, but the desert has a beauty of its own."

        "You rode out, and then . . .," Methos prompted again.

        "It took me almost a month to find the headquarters again. They had moved it to a small, isolated village in the lower elevations of the mountains south of Monterrey. It was well guarded. I had to leave my horse and sneak in at night, on foot. I came in just after dusk and headed for the cantina. I planned to locate an officer who was about my size and steal a uniform. I had some forged papers with me and was to report to Maximilian's general as a courier from the capital." His voice was almost a monotone, then he stopped.

        Methos rose from the couch, picked up one of the kitchen stools and brought it around in front of MacLeod, set it down and sat on it so he was directly in the Highlander's line of sight.

        "Mac, listen to me." When his friend's expression remained blank Methos got up and took Mac by the shoulders, shaking him. "Listen to me! Something happened in that town. Who did you see there? One of us?"

        Mac swallowed hard. "I don't remember," he whispered.

        "The woman," Methos reminded him. "The woman, who was she?"

        "Marta," Duncan's choked, his face had gone ashen. "Her name was Marta."

        "You met Marta. Where did you meet her, Mac?" Methos prompted. "Was she one of us?" Mac's head jerked up and down. "What did she look like, Duncan? Who was Marta?"

        Mac drew his lips back, clenching his teeth, and shook his head. "I don't remember. I don't want to remember!" he gasped. Sweat had broken out on his forehead and dripped down his temples.

        "She was small, wasn't she? Long, dark hair. Beautiful eyes," Methos said softly, sitting back on the stool, trying to force the unwanted memory to the surface.

        "She . . . was . . . beautiful. She . . . came to me in the cantina. She . . .I CAN'T DO THIS!" Mac stood and strode toward the elevator.

        Joe stood, and Methos saw from his face that he knew something, had guessed something. "Mac!" he called. "I think I know who she is. She was Marta de Hidalgo de los Sanchez," Joe turned to Methos, "and she was insane."

        Mac had frozen in place at Joe's words, and Methos was in front of him in a few long strides. "Whatever happened, Duncan, whatever happened, PLEASE! Let it come. Nothing will be as bad as not knowing!"

        "Methos," Joe called, shaking his head in quiet warning. "It might be better to let this be." Methos looked at Joe in surprise, then he turned back to MacLeod, who had once again mentally gone . . . elsewhere.

        The ramifications of what Joe said took a moment to register. Then the 5,000-year-old man slowly took a seat on the couch, leaned back and rubbed his face in dismay. After a moment, Methos swallowed, shook his head and looked back up at his two friends. His voice was tense with concern. "I have seen every imaginable horror that man can do to man in my 5,000 years," he said softly, "and there are many things I wish I did not remember. Even some I have deliberately chosen not to remember. But," he continued, "Mac is not me. The very idea that he might have done something so . . . unthinkable, that he cannot even remember will destroy him if he doesn't confront it. He can't remember. He refuses to remember. So, Joe, you'll have to tell us what you know about Marta de Hidalgo de los Sanchez."

        Joe looked sadly at Duncan, whose friendship he valued just about more than anything in the world. "I'm so sorry, Mac. I don't want to do this," Joe whispered, moving to the window, as far away from the other two as possible. He stood looking out for a moment, then began to tell what he knew. "We came across her when we heard rumors of a remote Mexican village, Santa Teresa, where a woman who couldn't die and didn't age ruled with an iron fist."

        At the name of the village, Mac stiffened. As Joe spoke Mac walked over to the kitchen counter where the unopened box lay and stared at it expressionlessly. For a long moment he did nothing, but finally he reached for the box and pulled off the lid. The knife blade gleamed dully in the afternoon light.

        "We sent a Watcher," Joe continued, "A young blacksmith, to the village to do some research. We got reports back for about eight months, then they stopped. It was almost a year later before we found someone to go again. By then the revolution had started, and when the new Watcher reached Santa Teresa, Marta was dead and the blacksmith was nowhere to be found."

        The phone rang, interrupting the flow of his tale, but no one moved to answer it. Eventually, the unwelcome noise stopped.

        "But you said she was insane," Methos commented. "How did you know? Why do you remember her so well when we followed her for such a short time?"

        Joe gave a sad laugh. "Those reports were not something you soon forget." He turned back to face the room. "Our young Watcher reported that local legend had it that Marta's first husband, the local patron', beat her then stabbed her to death after she found him in the arms of another woman. She awoke, lying in her own blood, while her killer and her rival made love in the same room. She took her husband's knife from her own chest and killed them both. After that, she made it her mission in life to find a, uh, more loyal replacement. With her wealth and beauty it wasn't hard, but each replacement eventually displeased her in some way or became alarmed at her mental instability. When they did, she would torture them to death, slowly. We speculated that when she awoke from having been beaten to death she believed she was destined to punish any man who she loved who did not love her adequately in return. She had been doing it for at least 30 years before we found her. We also think our Watcher blacksmith caught her eye and it cost him his life." Joe finished his tale, his eyes on Duncan for a reaction.

        After a long silence, Methos prompted, "What did Marta do to you, Duncan?"

        "She . . . loved me," Mac whispered. "I let her because . . . because I needed her silence. She had never met one of us before. She didn't know what she was. I tried to explain it all to her but she wouldn't listen. After a few weeks I stopped trying to convince her. I was focused on my mission, on getting information for General Juarez." The room suddenly brightened as the afternoon sun broke through thin clouds. It caught the metal blade in a sudden flare of light and Duncan hissed and jerked back as a tidal wave of long-repressed, visceral memory returned.

        The cantina was hot and dusty and smelled of old booze and unwashed bodies as Duncan stood at the darkest end of the bar, nursing some bad tequila. He was watching, waiting until the late evening drinking crowd arrived, until he could spot a likely candidate for a theft of a uniform. Then the unexpected, gut-wrenching wash of sensation hit him, sending his heart rate higher and adding to the sheen of sweat that already slicked his body. There was another Immortal here. Seconds later, she entered on the arm of a young lieutenant, who supported her as she stumbled to a chair.

        "Agua, senor!" the man called. "The senora is faint!" The bartender hurried to bring a glass of water, and everyone in the room seemed to want to rush to help. She was beautiful. Tall for a Mexican woman, with aristocracy written in her delicate features. She had large, dark eyes, dusky skin and a voluptuous figure shown to advantage by the tight-waisted skirt topped by a colorfully embroidered white blouse pulled off her shoulders. She wore her long, black hair swept back away from her face, and covered with an exquisite tortoise shell comb and lace mantilla. At the moment she looked confused and distressed, holding her hand to her forehead. As she cast her glance around the room, her eyes met MacLeod's. He nodded to her, identifying himself as a fellow Immortal.

        Somewhat to his surprise, she stood and stalked over to him. "How dare you!" she said, her eyes flaring with anger, then drew her hand back to slap him.

        He caught her wrist before it landed the blow. "Pardoneme, senora," he said quickly, recovering. He took the wrist and bent over her hand. "I meant no disrespect." Their eyes met again.

        Marta de Hidalgo de los Sanchez had never seen such eyes. They were brown, but not quite brown. Flecks of green and gray made them seem to change color as she looked. He was tall, muscular, and with a face that made her heart race. The vertigo that had struck her outside had reduced to an odd buzzing sensation, which she attributed to her sudden fierce attraction to this handsome stranger.

        MacLeod's mind was working furiously. Obviously, she was a person of some importance in this small town. That she had noticed him before he had an opportunity to craft his new disguise was a problem. Mac had made it a rule a long time ago not to use what he believed to be pure coincidental good fortune, his remarkable looks, to seduce women who did not otherwise want to be seduced. That kind of conquest was hollow, meaningless and generally left both him and the woman feeling cheated. But there were lives at stake here, thousands of lives, and potentially the outcome of a war for freedom from foreign rule, a cause close to his heart. Mac swallowed his doubts then flashed his irresistible smile at the lovely Immortal.

        She had to consciously control her own lips, which wanted to respond in kind. "It is not considered polite to stare at a woman of quality, senor. But perhaps where you come from this is not so?" she asked.

        "Where I come from, senora, a woman of such great beauty as yourself could not help but be admired," Duncan replied. "Forgive my impertinence."

        The lieutenant watched the exchange with growing annoyance. He coughed to get the woman's attention, offering his arm. She ignored him, offering her hand instead for MacLeod to take again. "I am Senora Marta de Hidalgo de los Sanchez, senor. And you are?"

        "Marcel DuBois," Duncan extemporized, this time brushing his lips against the back of Marta's soft hand. "It is an honor to meet you."

        "You are French!" she exclaimed in delight. "Will you join us for a drink, senor?" she asked, much to the continued irritation of the lieutenant, who examined MacLeod with even greater suspicion. Duncan had to reformulate his entire plan. The three of them sat in the cantina and drank into the evening, with the lieutenant getting progressively both more inebriated and more angry at the obvious infatuation of his lady with the unknown Frenchman. By the end of the evening, the lieutenant had challenged the stranger, ending up on his back in an alley with a serious memory loss, wondering what hit him and what happened to his uniform, while Duncan ended up in Marta's bed.

        She was a possessive, angry lover, full of fire and energy. MacLeod recognized the signs of instability almost immediately but had to continue to court her in order not to arouse her suspicions about what he was doing in Santa Teresa. Over the course of the next week he quickly managed to insert himself into the cadre of senior officers running intelligence reports back and forth from Mexico City, where Maximilian had holed up. He had hoped to gather information about troop movements and long term plans but had not yet gotten anything that he couldn't have surmised from his existing information. By the time he realized Marta had her own ideas about the true nature of her immortality, it was too late.

        His memories were interrupted as the gate to the freight elevator clanged open. He looked around to see Joe and Methos staring at him.

        Richie stepped off the elevator, his jaw set in stubborn defiance. "I . . . I tried to call, but nobody answered. Look, I'll leave if Mac says to, but he has to be the one . . ." Richie looked around again, suddenly sensing the tension thrumming in the room. Methos held up his hand for silence. He and Joe were staring at MacLeod, who had his eyes fixed on the knife, revealed for the first time since the night it was given, lying gleaming on the counter.

        "What did she do to you, Duncan?" Methos asked again.

        Duncan realized he hadn't spoken, that the memories had surged through him in the space of a moment, blinding him to everything in the present. "I . . . tried to leave her. She got so . . . angry. I felt guilty. I knew I had just used her. I didn't intend to hurt her. Then . . . I thought it was going to be all right. She said she understood." Duncan stopped, closed his eyes and leaned heavily against the counter. It felt like the air had gone out of the room, that he couldn't get any oxygen in his lungs.

        "What . . ?" Richie started to ask what was going on, but Methos again quickly signaled for silence.

        "Go on, Duncan," Methos said softly, watching MacLeod's pale, sweaty face with absolute concentration.

        MacLeod opened his eyes and reached for the knife, studying it as though he had never seen it before. "My guilt made me blind and stupid." He took a shaking breath pressing his lips together as though sheer effort could stop the memories that were suddenly pressing against his eyes, filling his head with unbearable pressure.

        "You can't go," Marta whispered, coming up behind him and circling his waist with her arms.

        Duncan stopped packing his saddlebag and turned to her. "I'm sorry, Marta, I really am, but duty calls," he said gently, cupping her face in his hands. He kissed her gently on the lips and put his arms around her, holding her tight for a moment but her body was rigid and unforgiving. "Perhaps the greatest gift about immortality is that parting is almost always temporary. We will see each other again," he murmured in her ear.

        Marta shrugged him away and stepped back, chin lifted in defiant anger. "You said you loved me! You can't leave. I won't allow it!"

        Duncan paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing. "I said I'm sorry, Marta. But I am leaving. I have to."

        Marta's flawless complexion suffused with blood, turning her light coffee-colored skin even darker. She swallowed whatever words came to her tongue, turned and whipped out the door, slamming it behind her.

        Duncan returned to his packing with a worried frown. Marta was clearly unstable and was liable to get more so with the passage of time. If he could, he would stay and try to help her, to teach her what she needed to know to survive as an Immortal but he feared she wouldn't listen anyway. Probably only someone like Sean Burns, who had the insight of a prophet and the patience of a saint, would be able to make a difference.

        He didn't really have much to pack, having hidden the larger portion of his gear, including his katana, in a small dry canyon outside of town. He finally slung his pack over his shoulder and went to find Marta to make his last goodbyes, to try to repair the damage he had caused. He found her in the coolness of the shaded terrace, rocking in a chair beneath flowering purple bouganvillas climbing recklessly over the red tiled roof. He watched her for a moment, taken by her lovely profile amidst the exotic and colorful blossoms. He relaxed considerably when she turned to him and he saw that her face was calm and open.

        She rose and moved into his arms. "Oh, Duncan, I'm sorry. Please don't think badly of me. It's just that I was so lonely before you came." Her deep brown eyes met his. "I'll miss you." She touched the collar of his shirt, running her finger down the cleft of his collarbone. "Make love to me, just one more time. Please, Duncan?" She pressed her lips to his neck, flicking out her tongue, softly tasting his ear, running her hand under his shirt..

        Duncan closed his eyes, trying to control his body's reaction to her touch. The sent of the bouganvillas suddenly seemed cloying, overwhelming. "Marta . . ."

        "Just one more time, my love. Just one more time." She put her arm around his neck, kissing him full on the mouth while pulling the saddlebags off his shoulder. The bags were forgotten on the floor as Marta pulled him into the bedroom. She was fierce and aggressive, yanking off his shirt, undoing his belt, pulling away the knife he kept in its leather sheathe and reaching into his pants, touching him, stroking him, tasting him. They were undressed in moments. Part of Duncan's mind was uncertain that this was a good idea but his guilt at how he had treated her combined with his body's reactions overrode those doubts as Marta surrounded him, her soft flesh urgently pressing against him, wanting him. He made love to her, trying to be slow and gentle, attempting to create a moment to remember, but she was in a rush, almost a frenzy, biting, scratching, pulling him to her, heat rising off them both until they each came in a climax of strained, separate, desperate physical need. She clung to him then, their bodies slick with sweat, burying her head in his shoulder, her dark hair spilling across his chest. Catching his breath, again wondering about Marta's sanity, he stroked her head gently.

        "You never loved me," she murmured into his neck.

        Duncan froze, swallowing his guilt. "Marta," he said quietly. "Just because I have to leave doesn't mean I don't care for you."

        She pulled away, her eyes bright with fury. "You never cared for me! If you did, you wouldn't leave me!" She stood, her naked body glowing with the residual flush of their lovemaking. "You lied to me from the beginning." Tears glistened in her eyes, on the near edge of spilling down her cheeks. She turned away and picked up his clothes from the chair where he had tossed them. She lifted them to her face, pulling in a deep breath, taking in his masculine scent. "I loved you, Duncan MacLeod. I gave you my body and you think you can just walk away from me?" She clutched his clothes possessively to her chest and advanced on him. "You think you can treat me like some cheap puta?" Her voice rose, nearing hysteria.

        Duncan pushed himself up, now genuinely alarmed. "Marta, that's not how I feel at all!" But that's how he had treated her, he knew. He had used her. He reached out to her, wanting to fold her in his arms, to comfort her, to assure her and himself that he wasn't a bad person.

        Like quicksilver her expression changed again, softened. She dropped his clothes and stood demurely, hands folded behind her back. "Oh, Duncan," she whispered. "If you are what you say you are, if we are immortal, you could stay with me forever, couldn't you?" She came closer, leaning over him, letting her long dark hair waft across his chest. "You're so beautiful, Duncan. I've never known anyone like you. You're my perfect, perfect lover."

        He reached for her . . . then gasped as hot agony grabbed his chest and stopped his breath. For one long, endless moment he struggled to breathe, but blood filled his throat and spilled over his lips. His hand tangled in her hair and she cried out when he reflexively pulled her head back, revealing his own ivory handled knife pushed deep into his chest. Air wouldn't come. His vision filled with her eyes, with her madness, with pain, then only darkness.

        Searing, burning in his chest, a deep, strained effort to pull in oxygen, a heart suddenly pumping madly, irregularly to send blood to life-starved limbs, then gradual awareness, an enlarging vision. It was always agony, this transition from death to life, this re-birth. He coughed painfully, reluctantly, swallowing the bitter blood in his throat, reaching to clutch the healing tear in his sternum, but his movement was stopped. He was still on the bed, but something was different, wrong. He moved his arms and met resistance. He turned his torso, tried to sit up, but was restrained. As his heart gradually slowed and the pain became manageable he tugged again at the restraints, then yanked, then yanked again, harder. There were manacles binding his wrists and ankles to the heavy oak bedposts. Suddenly panicked, he shouted for Marta but he was alone in the room and no one answered his desperate calls. Blood still stained his chest and the sheets and he had yanked hard enough on his restraints to score his wrists and ankles. Willing himself to be calm, Duncan lay back and closed his eyes. It would do no good to weaken himself by loosing more blood, so he forced himself to relax, taking several deep breaths.

        Okay, he thought. There was only one fast, sure way to get out of the manacles. Painful, but possible, as long as he was allowed time to heal before he had to do any serious fighting. His clothes were gone, but the knife -- his own knife with his initials decoratively carved into its ivory handle and now smeared with his blood, lay on the table next to the bed. You really got yourself into a mess this time, MacLeod, he thought to himself bitterly. Well, better sooner than later, he decided. He closed his eyes, retreating deep into himself where he could ignore pain, prepared to deliberately crush the bones in his hands to squeeze them through the manacles. He concentrated on the goal, not the method, picturing his hand folding in on itself, getting smaller, more flexible. He was vaguely aware of a popping, cracking sound as he pulled steadily, using all of his considerable strength. His body began to crave more oxygen, so his heart rate accelerated and his breathing expanded to long, deep gasps. The pain was there, lurking, screaming for his attention but he ignored it. Suddenly his arm was free! Duncan let loose of his control, and almost cried out, clutching his distorted, bloodied hand to his chest. Wait, wait, he told himself, gritting his teeth as pain-sweat dripped off his body. In a moment, his miraculous healing capacity asserted itself, but the healing was as painful as the initial injury and MacLeod writhed as bones rearranged themselves, nerves moved and tissue healed. In a hurry, fearful of discovery, he sank into deep concentration again to begin the ugly process on the other hand.

        "Ah, my love," a voice whispered in his ear, startling him out of his trance. "You are very, very clever aren't you?"

        Duncan opened his eyes to dark madness hovering above him. Marta was standing by the bed, watching him in fascination. With a quick signal, two of her men appeared out of nowhere, roughly pulling his arm up and re-shackling him. "I guess I will just have to keep an eye on you every moment, won't I? But I don't mind. You are very pleasing to the eye." Marta sat next to him on the bed and gently stroked his face.

        "Marta," Duncan whispered, still fighting residual pain, "How can I make love to you like this?" He smiled, turning the full force of his dark eyes and handsome face to the task of winning her confidence. His only concern now was one of survival. But Marta only laughed. It started as a girlish giggle, but quickly evolved into bizarre, hiccuping hysteria.

        "But I don't want you to make love to me," she gasped. "I am going to make love to you! You will know love as you never imagined it could be. I will show you pleasure you wouldn't have believed possible. But," she shyly put her hand in front of her mouth, "it will be my pleasure. You see, Duncan," she leaned forward and kissed him on the lips, then on the forehead, then on the cheek. "You had your turn. Now it's mine."

        Duncan again pulled instinctively at his restraints, feeling the beginnings of true fear and dread stir in his stomach. Marta let her robe slip away from her shoulders, stepping away from it and raising her arms, stretching, evidently unconcerned about the guards watching her with glittering eyes.

        "Let me go, Marta, please," Duncan demanded quietly. "We have all the time in the world to work this out. You're angry with me, but I know you don't want to hurt me. Let's talk about this, but not in front of them," he said, indicating the two guards.

        "Oh, they've seen this before, my love. You see, you aren't the first man to betray me. There have been others. But none like you," she picked up the knife, twirling its point against her fingertip, drawing blood. She paused, watching the bright red liquid form and drip down her hand. As the wound closed she tasted it, slowly licking the smears of blood away. "None like us. We were meant to be together, forever." She straddled him on the bed, gently running the knife across his bare skin, softly tracing patterns on his face, his neck, his chest, his abdomen, and then moved down. Then it began. When he finally couldn't stop himself from screaming, she gagged him. She never cut anything away since she wanted him to heal each time, to become whole and beautiful again. The mutilation excited her, his pain thrilled her. Her only frustration was that he couldn't meet her sexual demands while he was awash in a sea of agony, so she usually eventually killed him in her fury. When he awoke again, someone, probably the guards, had cleaned him and Marta fed him with her own hands, sometimes by force. She was insistent that he not lose strength. Each time the cycle was the similar, with variations. His rebirths fascinated her. She wanted to find out how long it took, how many ways he could die.

        Methos watched Mac impassively during the long, monotone narrative. Mac spoke softly, looking down at the knife he held in a white knuckled grip. As he had spoken, he had mimicked her movements, and his chest and arms had become a collage of shallow cuts, soaking and shredding his shirt beyond recognition. Richie had reflexively moved to intervene, but Methos, who had risen and was standing close, stopped him.

        "Let him do what he needs to do, Richie," Methos whispered. The youngster and the oldest man stood chest to chest for a long moment. Richie was unwilling to back down. "It won't kill him," Methos whispered, his eyes pleading with the boy. Joe had long since turned away, and Richie reluctantly gave way under the strength of Methos' plea, backing onto the elevator until he ran up against the back wall, unable to watch.

        MacLeod finally stopped, unwilling to get more specific. He ran out of breath, of energy. The remembrance made him weak-kneed and he leaned heavily on a kitchen stool, absently wiping away the sweat dripping off his forehead.

        "But it ended, Mac. Eventually it ended," Methos affirmed grimly. "You got away."

        A grim chuckle escaped from Duncan's lips. He nodded, eyes closed. "Yes," he whispered, "because it got worse, so much worse."

        Oh, God, not again! His heart slammed into action, spreading hot pain through cold limbs. He reflexively moved against the restraints, unable to stop himself. The gag in his mouth was sour with old spit and vomit. It was dark and the room was rank with the smell of death and decay, of dried blood and spilled bowels. He had long since lost track of time. Days, weeks, maybe months he had been here, living, dying, always living again.

        During the torture he had found a place to which he could retreat, closing doors against pain, against humiliation. From there he could watch, but not participate, observe, but not feel. But when he came back from death, each time, he had to start all over again to reach that place of sanctuary. He was tired, so tired. His mind was sluggish, his concentration waning. He knew he was almost as mad as Marta. He would do anything to stop it, anything. But she didn't want anything from him except that which he couldn't give. She cajoled, stroked, prodded, cut, burned, but his body simply refused to respond. Her madness accelerated, feeding off the cycle of killing and killing again. She wouldn't listen to him try to reason with her, preferring to keep him gagged.

        Instead she was constantly whispering, murmuring, to him, to herself. Little snatches of song and rhyme would escape her lips, quickly degenerating into nonsense syllables. Duncan heard the door open and his mind began its retreat, his eyes glazing over towards a distant focus.

        "Duncan?" she whispered in a voice that was becoming more familiar than his own. He had long ago told her his real name and why he was there but she did not care any more about his original lie. She pulled the gag from his mouth and trickled water down his throat. It was cool and delicious and, unfortunately, brought him back from his mental hiding place.

        "Oh, Duncan, I've got a surprise!" She signaled to the two ever-present guards, who set candles all around the room, lighting them one by one until their golden flickers made the room seem alive with shadows. She danced around the room, creating air currents that sent the shadows swooping and diving in surreal patterns. "It's very rare. It's taken me weeks to get it." She leaned close to him. Her hair was stringy and dirty, her once magnificent body had degenerated with the growth of her obsession, her hands, nails ragged and dirty, played gently over his face and chest, then moved lower, stroking him, playing with him.

        "See? See what I've got?" She held something up high in her hand twirling like a dervish, stopping suddenly, shoving her face close to his. "Open wide, Duncan," she instructed. He couldn't see what she held, but whatever it was smelled like damp earth, like old wood, like bitter tea. He turned his face away, but at her signal the guards moved forward and held him. For the first time in weeks he put all his strength into struggling against them, even knowing it was pointless as they pryed open his mouth. She forced a walnut sized wad of something soft and bitter onto his tongue, then the guards held his nose and mouth closed until he reflexively swallowed, gagging, hoping it would come up again. Then they replaced the gag.

        Marta smiled broadly, stepping back. "There, you see? That wasn't so bad, was it? It is fatal to mortals, but only after generating some wonderful effects. And for us," she leaned close, her foul breath washing his face, "for us, it is worth the temporary inconvenience."

        Duncan was too exhausted to respond, turning inward, waiting for whatever she had given him to do its work in his empty stomach. What was it, he wondered. A poison? An hallucinogen? He'd had peyote when he's been with the Sioux. He'd tried, at one time or another, most drugs, finding them generally bizarre, distasteful, escapist forms of cowardice. He could probably handle this one. Marta sat carefully in a chair near the bed and poured herself a large glass of tequila from a bottle she always kept nearby. Mac particularly dreaded it when she would finish a bottle, which she then liked to use on him, sometimes breaking the glass in her enthusiasm and excitement. She had used the bottle's contents for strength, sustenance and courage more and more as the weeks went on, and now she used it to wash down a very small amount of whatever she had fed him. For several minutes, they sat together in silence. Duncan used the time to rest, eyes closed. Waiting.

        Then he felt it. His heart rate began to accelerate along with his breathing. It felt like heat was being generated from inside out. Colors swirled behind his eyes and the room began to bend and dip, but initially it was not an entirely unpleasant sensation. He felt Marta sit beside him on the bed and opened his eyes. She was surrounded by a warm, suffused light and her naked body seemed to glow with energy in the flickering candlelight.

        The warmth within him grew and he realized he wanted her. She ran her hands along his chest and down to the origin of the heat that was beginning to burn almost painfully. Her touch felt like acid, and the heat within built until he was gasping with it, straining again against the manacles. Marta laughed, but he couldn't understand why. He needed her! He had to have her, and all she could do was laugh! The knife appeared in her hand and she slowly, carefully straddled him, mounted him like an animal. Used him until she climaxed again and again, but the drug wouldn't give him release, even when she used the knife again, slicing his face open until the blood made him choke, even when she finally drove its point home so close to where they were joined that she almost cut herself, even when he died again, slowly, oh so very slowly. She had found a new toy.

        Not again. No more! His chest heaved to life and he was reborn, again. He lay there, beyond pain, feeling the hot morning sun through the high windows in the room. Tears trickled down his cheeks. Each time, somehow, he hoped would be the last, that this time he would stay dead. A soft snore sounded nearby and gradually his dulled senses became aware that Marta was lying beside him, sleeping. It was a measure of her degeneration, Duncan realized, that she would actually lie down and sleep on the stained, soiled, rank mattress that had become his entire universe. A measure of her degeneration and my own, he thought, slipping into exhausted sleep. He awoke later to a sharp noise, distantly recognizing it as an explosion of some sort. Vaguely he realized the guards were gone. How odd, he thought as blissful sleep again claimed him. It was his only escape from horror.

        The sharp noise woke him again, this time much louder. He opened his eyes to a gathering evening dusk, the noise finally triggering a recognition. Cannon fire. It was cannon fire. Then there was the sharp crack of rifles, men running and shouting outside his window. Then a word, a recognizable word penetrated his lethargy. "Juarez!" a voice shouted. Juarez. Here? Duncan looked down at Marta, still sleeping in a drugged semi-stupor, her eyes half open. His heart suddenly leapt. Without preparation, without preamble, he pulled, swallowing the scream that threatened to escape his already ravaged throat. He sat up, dizzy with weakness and the sudden reorientation of his point of view while he waited for his hands to reshape themselves, for the skin to reform. Gazing at the woman lying beside him, an anger and hatred surged up from that same place to which he had retreated again and again. It was an animal, insatiable, unstoppable. The knife lay cradled between her breasts, held lightly in her hand. He took it from her. Almost of its own volition, the knife traced its point gently down her sternum. Her eyes fluttered. He pressed a little harder, drawing blood. She gasped and opened her eyes. She has to die, Duncan thought. I have to kill her. I want to kill this person more than I've ever wanted to kill anyone in my whole life, he thought distantly. The vague sense of disconnection persisted and grew stronger. It was as though he were two people. The one in control and the one watching.

        The Duncan in control gripped the knife in his barely healed hand, ignoring the pain of strained tendons, ligaments and misplaced bones. The other Duncan watched in distant curiosity. The Duncan in control grabbed Marta by the hair, pulling her head back to expose her neck while the one watching nodded in approval. The Duncan in control met Marta's eyes with his own dark, mad stare, wanting her to know what was about to happen. The one watching pulled back in distaste. The Duncan in control held the knife to her throat and pressed, pushing through skin and muscle, using all his strength to hold her down as she jerked and struggled. The one watching retreated in disgust. The Duncan in control listened as Marta gave a last gurgling cry before he severed her windpipe, slicing through the spinal cord, slicing again and again until there was nothing left to slice.

        The Duncan in control and the Duncan watching merged painfully, reluctantly, retreating to the most distant place possible as the Quickening energy rose, filing the room with a sharp electric smell, pouring into his body, crowding his awareness, her madness pressing against his mind. Then the energy was released, slamming him onto the bed, sending his muscles into a rictus of contraction that arched his back until he was barely touching the mattress. The lightening played along the manacles that bound his legs. Already weakened from weeks of his straining against them, the chains disintegrated almost as though he had willed it, and maybe he had. That final burst seemed to use up the last of mad Marta's life energy, leaving the twitching figure on the bed gasping, sobbing and drenched in blood.

        When the tall, gaunt, naked figure finally rose from the filthy bed, he stood looking at the body parts spread grotesquely before him. His eyes shuttered slowly closed and open, fixing on a distant, unknown point, his expression relaxing gradually from feverish, exhausted horror to bland indifference as the knife dropped to the floor from numbed fingers. Then he turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving everything behind.

        As MacLeod described the events leading up to the slow, brutal beheading of Marta de Hidalgo de los Sanchz, Richie slid down the elevator wall and hugged his knees, trying to shut out the recitation of horrors. Joe was still as a stone, staring sightlessly out at the afternoon light outside the window.

Mac's voice finally broke from its monotone into a ragged whisper. "I had become as insane as she." Mac shook his head slowly back and forth, his loose hair brushing his shoulders. "I murdered a mad, helpless, semi-conscious woman," he whispered. Tears ran down MacLeod's gray face as his eyes met Methos'.

        Joe leaned heavily against the windowsill, sorry he had heard as much as he had, not wanting to hear more. Richie put his head down, wanting desperately to leave, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to move.

        "I didn't know that much hate was even possible." Duncan barked an awkward laugh, "and believe me I thought I knew all there was to know about hate." He was having difficulty getting the words out, choking on them. "It wasn't battle. It wasn't one Immortal fighting another. There was no honor. There were no Rules. There was no Game. It was simple, brutal, gory, horrible murder!" Mac was gripping the counter as though he were clinging to life itself.

        Methos spoke quietly. "Joe, Richie, leave us."

        Joe thought carefully about the instruction for a minute, then decided it was probably best to leave the older Immortals to themselves. He gathered the books on the table and got on the elevator.

        Richie struggled to his feet, his emotions swinging wildly from one extreme to the next. Part of him wanted, needed, to be with Mac, to comfort him as he had been comforted so many, many times by his mentor. But this -- this was so far beyond Richie's capacity to absorb, much less understand. The images that had been evoked rocked him, nauseated him, appalled him. Was this was it was like? Was this what being an Immortal meant? Richie swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. He was sweating with the effort to keep his stomach contents where they were. "Mac, I . . ." No words seemed to form in Richie's head but it didn't matter. MacLeod was somewhere else, unwilling or unable to even acknowledge his presence.

        Joe gave Richie a long, searching look. Richie's haunted eyes told him they had some serious talking to do as he lowered the gate and sank out of sight, leaving the two tall men standing like carved marble statues in the late afternoon sunlight.

        "Okay, Mac," Methos finally said softly, determined to pull the Highlander out of the deep emotional well into which he had fallen, "If you can identify the worst part of it, talk about it, get it out of your system, maybe it will help."

        "You made me remember it, Methos. Aren't you satisfied yet? I don't want to talk about it anymore." Duncan let go his grip on the counter, moving over to lean up against the wall. His expression was bleak, his face gray with exhaustion.

Methos angrily confronted his friend, putting both his palms against the wall on either side of him. "Not an option, MacLeod!" he growled in the Highlander's face. "What was it, the pain? The humiliation? The helplessness?" Mac's body language told Methos what he needed to know. "That's it, isn't it? You prize self-control above all, don't you MacLeod? That's why you did this, isn't it?" Methos tugged at Mac's bloody, sliced-to-ribbons tee shirt. "It's a way of taking back control."

        "Damnit, Methos!" MacLeod growled, pushing him away. "Stop trying to analyze me! Just do it! Do what needs to be done! I won't fight you over this one, God knows. What I did was as bad or worse than anything poor little Abraham Caldwell or Ingrid ever dreamt of."

        Methos' aquiline face paled as he drew himself up in surprise. "You want me to kill you?" he whispered.

        "That's why you sent Joe and Richie away, isn't it?" Duncan asked, absorbed in examining the bloodstained knife he still held.

        "Ah, so you've passed judgment on yourself, have you?" Methos observed wryly. "Think about it, Duncan. You're not listening to me." He grasped his friend by the shoulders, desperate to reach him. "She was a monster. She would have continued to kill, to torture, but it would have been mortals who suffered and died. The manner of her death was less important that the simple necessity of it. Just because you wanted to kill her doesn't mean it wasn't justified."

        MacLeod took a deep, shaking breath and closed his eyes, hearing and seeing only the images burned into his brain. "I can't begin to describe it," he said softly, "but I can't get the picture out of my head. Then the Quickening." An involuntary shudder passed over him. "I don't think I can live with this one, Methos." Duncan looked him hard in the eye. "That's why I didn't remember it, because I couldn't live with it," he repeated.

        "So your answer is for me to take your head?" Methos asked in outrage. He turned and paced the room. "Do you have any idea of what I have done, either out of necessity or desire or circumstance or whatever, in the course of 5,000 years? If I felt the kind of remorse you feel for every really shitty thing I ever did, I would have somehow managed to cut my own head off a long, long time ago." Methos was working himself up into a real fury. "You arrogant, self-righteous prick! You expect to live up to impossible standards of wisdom and judgment that the rest of us, of course, are measured against. Well, my friend, I would have pulled off that bitch's head with my bare hands if I had to and felt just fine about it, thank you very much!" Methos stalked up to MacLeod, sneering, "You want to be punished, don't you, Duncan? But it's not about your killing her. It's about your allowing yourself to get into the situation in the first place, isn't it? It's about humiliation and domination. Isn't it? It's about, for once, not being the noble hero, just a piece of meat for some crazy bitch to abuse!"