Home Previous Next
 |
Part
I:
Queen’s Gambit Declined |
Part I: Queen’s Gambit Declined
A lone figure sat in the dim red interior of Maurice's nightclub, perched on a bar stool. His youthful, lean frame was slumped protectively over a cup of coffee which he sipped occasionally, his focus intent on the newspaper spread on the bar in front of him. The place was eerily silent, chairs stacked on tables, sticking their ungainly legs in the air. No patrons, no music, the small stage silent and bare. It's fitting, Methos mused -- he did a lot of musing lately -- that realization should come here, alone in a deserted bar. He re-read the front page story again. Another murder on the outskirts of the city. The body was decapitated, the area around it blasted by some kind of explosion. The seventh headless body found in the past four years in and around Paris. The police were concerned. The mayor was outraged. The populace alarmed. Signs and portents, Methos thought. Signs and portents. The end had come. The question was, what was the oldest Immortal going to do about it?Methos took another sip of his coffee, staring sightlessly into the dim, plush red interior of the over-decorated restaurant. He shouldn't even be here, he thought wistfully. He should be tucked quietly away in some dusty library, lost in history. It used to be so easy to do. He had spent a good portion of his millennia-spanning life insulating himself from the temporary upheavals of mortal existence. But that insulation had been painfully peeled away over the past few years, abraded by conflict, involvement, and a disturbing emergence of a long-suppressed capacity to care. Some of it brought about by choice, most by necessity. The Gathering was here. The firestorm was building. He could resist the pull the longest, probably. The strongest of their kind would be among the last to be drawn into the final battle. But in the end, there would be only One. If he did nothing. If he allowed it.
A painfully sharp shaft of morning sun shot across the room as the opened. It had been preceded by a rising tide of sensation, a familiar presence, behind Methos' eyes. MacLeod. A broad-shouldered frame was silhouetted briefly in the bright sunlight, then the room plunged into darkness again as the door closed. He decended the stairs and removed his long coat, draping it carefully over the bar. A muffled metallic noise gave away the presence of the 600-year old katana he kept tucked away in a specially made fold.
"You're up early," MacLeod observed, moving behind the bar to pour himself a cup of coffee from the glass pot sitting on a burner.
"I'm just a ray of morning sunshine," Methos answered with a twisted smile. He was not a morning person. It irritated him to be around morning people. MacLeod was a morning person.
The Scot turned the paper on the bar towards himself, perusing the front page quietly, knowing his friend was not a willing conversationalist this time of day.
Methos watched MacLeod behind half closed eyes. He had prepared himself for this moment during several long, sleepless nights. He carefully steeled himself to look objectively. To see the man as a tool, a necessary tool, an important tool, but still and all, only a means to an end. You would think after 400 years that evidence of the man's original heritage would fade away, Methos thought. Certainly Methos' ethnic origins had long since been lost in the multitude of lives, cultures, civilizations and peoples he had been required to absorb. But not MacLeod. Even as he had labored to rid himself of his homeland's soft burring accent, he had remained, somehow, the quintessential dark Scot. Tall, dark-complected, down-sloping brown eyes reflecting deep intelligence. Strong jaw. Long black hair tied back neatly in an elegant silver Celtic clasp. Heavily muscled shoulders and neck, an athlete's build, a dancer's grace. Stubborn and opinionated, but with a sweet smile and ready wit. An unshakable faith that good can win over evil, that honor and integrity have meaning, that people matter.
As his careful observations crept from objective analysis to subjective measures of worth, a coldness started in the pit of Methos' stomach and worked its way to his outer skin, sending a wave of gooseflesh crawling over his body. He couldn't do it. He had lost his capacity to view this man coldly, rationally. His friend. More than friend. His brother. His soulmate? How ironic, Methos thought sadly. How laughably ironic that I should be undone by a handsome face, a winsome smile, and the charisma of someone who embodies everything I have sought to eliminate from my life for thousands of years.
Mac felt Methos' gaze on him and looked up. "Who do you suppose it was?" he asked quietly in an indefinably accented baritone.
"The one who died, or the one who killed him?" Methos shrugged elegantly, propping his sharp-edged, patrician features on his hand. "You'd have to ask Joe. I'm not exactly on good terms with the Watchers these days. It could be anybody."
MacLeod's brown eyes gazed speculatively into Methos' hazel ones. "You've got that look again," he observed.
"What look?"
"That I'm planning something that he's not going to like, but I've got to figure out how to manipulate him into it anyway look."
"Well, I guess you have me all figured out, don't you, Highlander."
"I'll never have you figured out, old man. But I'm getting a little better at it." His smile was genuine, his eyes warm with regard. The two men had cycled through several different, but equally intense, stages in their relatively brief acquaintance. Duncan's awe at the thought of actually meeting a man out of time, the legendary Methos. Methos' intense curiosity about getting to actually know the nearly equally legendary Highlander, whom some Watchers thought of as the epitome of evil, while others viewed him in an almost messianic light. Tentative friendship, magnetic attraction, building trust, then betrayal, a readjustment, a strengthening. Now their relationship was based on a better understanding of who the other really was, good and bad. There were few illusions between them any more. There was acceptance, tolerance, an informed trust, perhaps even love. Whatever it was, the bond was strong, as though destiny, the Gods, the whim of time and circumstance, had somehow conspired to throw these two powerful personalities together. They were fated to either kill each other or become inseparable. The outcome was still uncertain.
Then there was the complication of the shared Quickening. Methos shivered at the memory of that near-cataclysmic moment with the energies of two ancient Immortals were released simultaneously, coalescing, intertwining, and finding homes in both MacLeod and Methos, linking them in a way never before contemplated and barely understood by either of them. Methos shook himself back to the present. Occupational hazard that, historical mental meandering. He tapped the newspaper gently. "What do you think about that?"
Mac cocked his head questioningly. "What do I think? Is that why you called me?" He let silence fill the space between them for a moment. "I think it's getting worse. They've certainly kept the Watchers busy. I've hardly seen Joe in weeks. They know it's coming. Obviously, so do you."
"So what do you think should be done about that?"
"Done?" MacLeod chuckled. "I assume you'll be getting out of Dodge. As for me," he shrugged, his expression becoming carefully neutral. "I'll protect Amanda and Richie as long as I can. Hopefully they can survive long enough to give them the strength to at least have a chance."
"How can they do that if you're out there protecting them?" Methos asked with a twisted smile.
"I can divert the attention of the bigger threats."
"Assuming you survive all these *bigger threats,* what do you do when Amanda and Richie come after you?" Methos light tone had turned deadly serious.
Mac carefully put his cup of coffee down. "Then I guess I'll get out of Dodge, too."
Methos stood, then picked up and folded the newspaper, glancing over the headline again. "It's not going to be that easy," he whispered.
"I know. I just don't have any alternatives."
Methos closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling with a deep breath. "Would you like one?"
"One what?"
"Alternative."
MacLeod watched Methos for a long moment. The man had kept his eyes closed, as though unwilling or afraid to meet his friend's curious gaze. He walked around from behind the bar and sat on the stool next to the deceptively thin figure.
"Explain."
Methos opened his eyes and drew back a little, with MacLeod's powerful presence so near his own. The words he had been about to say, which he had been planning to say for a long, long time, stopped before they could reach his lips. He couldn't do it. He couldn't take this man's life and rip it apart. He couldn't lose Duncan MacLeod to the agony of what he would face, including his own death, just on the unlikely probability of success of a mad theory, a plan, a possibility. Better to let him win the Prize, to have him be the final representative of their Race. He swallowed to release the paralyzing contraction in his throat.
"Mac . . . I . . . I'm sorry. I . . . was joking," Methos smiled wanly. "I know, poor taste," he lifted his hands, backing away. "I've gotta go. See you around." The lanky, dark-haired figure sauntered out the door, was briefly outlined against the light, and was gone.
MacLeod sat in solitude, staring at the headline still exposed on the counter. An alternative. An option so dire the oldest Immortal couldn't bring himself to talk about it. A shiver ran over Mac's shoulders at the concept. It was only a matter of time, though. When they all started killing each other, when the people he loved wanted him dead just to get at the deep well of power that resided in him, there were no unthinkable alternatives. A small smile formed on MacLeod's face. Perhaps this is what Methos the Manipulator had intended. To peak his curiosity, to force him to seek out the information rather than having it thrust upon him. Either way, it didn't matter. Eventually he would find out.
Methos had disappeared . . . again. Mac had left a half dozen messages on his answering machine over the past two weeks to no avail. Joe Dawson reported that there had been three more killings in France alone, all relatively young Immortals. For now, the Watchers were managing to keep the found body count relatively low. They would move in quickly, expertly removing the evidence of the battle whenever circumstances permitted. But the battles were getting more frenzied, the combatants more careless. Joe sounded distracted, worried. He didn't think anything had happened to Methos, though. That Quickening would have lit up half of Western Europe.
Duncan hung up from the conversation, chewing his lower lip in frustration. Although he hadn't confided it in Joe, he too, was certain that Methos was alive. He would have felt it if anyone had taken the old one's head. The odd, unerring sense of *presence* they could each now sense in each other would have warned him, immediately and painfully. He had recently discovered that he could even, when he really concentrated on the sensation (and to do so gave him a headache), get a sense of Methos' general direction. But the vague feeling couldn't be relied on for actual location, and besides, he needed to know a lot more than the status of the old man's health.
The barge seemed close and confining, and the book he was reading, despite its purported deep philosophical and historical significance, just wasn't occupying his attention. At last, when Mac found himself reading a paragraph for a third time, he set the book aside with a sigh. He got up, recognizing within himself a familiar need to move, to *do* something. He grabbed his coat and climbed the steps of the barge he had converted to his living quarters, stepped out onto the deck and breathed deeply of Paris' evening mist.
Twilight was falling, and there was a bone-chilling cold in the air as he walked along the path by the river, hands thrust deeply in his pockets. He felt restless, itchy, irritable. It worried him. He knew the signs, an urge to fight, unprovoked anger hovering just beneath the surface. For now it was manageable. He could easily dispel it using meditation techniques Darius and other teachers had taught him hundreds of years before. He feared, though, for the young ones. He could empathize with them all too well, having had first-hand experience being utterly controlled by hate, an urge, a need, to kill. Conquering the effects of the Dark Quickening had been the most difficult thing he had ever done, leaving deep, permanent emotional scars. For a young Immortal to be caught in the madness of the Gathering without the strength or experience to fight it or understand it, throwing themselves mindlessly at one another in a battle to the death . . . MacLeod closed his eyes against the dismay the concept conjured.
As though on cue, an Immortal presence announced itself in his head. A figure emerged out of the swirling mist along the river, coalescing into someone familiar. He was a muscular young man of medium height, short sandy-colored hair, light eyes -- Richie Ryan. His student, his protégé, his erstwhile son.
"Richie!" MacLeod called with a smile. His automatic move to embrace the boy stopped short as he instinctively read something sinister in the squaring of the shoulders, the stance of the legs of the compact body. Mac reached inside his coat, putting his hand on the comforting carved ivory hilt of the katana that rarely left his possession. Richie's plain but elegant blade, one of two Mac had given him since the boy had become his student, slid into view with a soundless stirring of visible mist.
"Richie?"
"Long time no see." The boyish face was set in a grim smile.
MacLeod's mouth dried. This was the last battle he ever, ever wanted to fight. "Richie!" he called roughly. "It's Duncan!"
"Oh, I know that." Richie's voice came out of the mist, silken, venomous. "I'm counting on it!"
Mac's breath caught in his throat. He'd taken this boy, only three years an Immortal now, into his home, treated him like a son. Watched him grow and mature. Nursed him through the trauma of the transition from his first death. Taught him, trained him, loved him.
The talents, the strengths, the gifts given to MacLeod over all those centuries compressed into an intense urgency, a pressing need. He had to reach this boy. Someone he knew, given time, given opportunity, had so much to give. So much life yet to be lived.
"Richie," he called. "Listen. Listen to me. It's the Gathering. It's not you. It's not your anger. It's not your hate." The words rang hollowly, an ominous echo of the same ones Sean Burns had said to Duncan MacLeod -- just before Mac took his head.
The tense figure in the mist hesitated. Mac reached deeper, trying to find just the right words, the right tone.
"You are Richie Ryan," MacLeod said, slowly, carefully, his voice sounding odd even in his own ears. "Your senses are your own," Mac whispered. "They belong to you, no one else. No one can use you, warp your mind, distort your feelings. Listen to me, Richie. Hear me. Look at me!" he demanded. In his desperation, he searched for and called on resources never used, only theorized, resources bequeathed in the Quickenings of Kantos, of Garrick, of K'oltek.
MacLeod walked within a few feet of the stalking, angry figure. He kept his katana sheathed, knowing it was a risk. Accepting it. Closer. Closer. Their eyes were inches apart. Richie's struggling, full of uncertainty. MacLeod's calm, absorbing, accepting. He felt the young Immortal's anger like a living thing, vibrating in every muscle and sinew of the boy's trembling body. Not knowing how and without even realizing it was possible until that moment, Mac reached out and touched that anger, felt it as though it were an ugly, filthy shroud suffocating the personality underneath. It felt eerily familiar. He knew this cloak, had worn one even more hideous himself, and he instinctively pulled it away, letting it wash over and through him, absorbing it until the boy released a long-held breath. Then his shoulders slumped and MacLeod gently caught the sagging form, folded his arms around him and guided him towards the barge, barely aware of the price he had paid for the effort.
Mac sat in a chair, watching Richie's youthful face as he settled into an exhausted slumber on the couch. The boy had been hunting for weeks, driven by an all-consuming hunger only the Gathering could arouse. He had hardly spoken as MacLeod had pried the sword from his hand, stripped him of his jacket and shoes and made him lie down. It was as though a fever had possessed but finally released him, leaving him empty of thought, emotion or energy.
A throbbing headache burned behind Mac's eyes. While dealing with Richie he had managed to ignore it, but it was beginning to crowd out other sensations. Mac rose, grabbing the back of the chair as his knees almost gave way and dizziness made him breathless. As he stood, breathing slowly to regain his equilibrium, nausea struck and struck hard. He barely made it to the bathroom, gagging and retching until his stomach was empty, as though his body was forcing him to reject that which his mind had accepted. Then he clung to the sink again as the pain in his head expanded and shattered into a thousand shards, forcing his stomach into more dry heaves. By the time the room gradually came back into focus and the pain receded from somewhere beyond unbearable to merely agonizing, he found himself in a sweat-soaked huddle on the floor.
That was . . . interesting. He forced his thoughts into coherence as he dragged himself to his feet, rinsed the bile from his mouth and threw cold water on his face. It had been a long, long time since he'd lost the contents of his stomach. Within a half-hour the headache had faded to within tolerable limits, and a cup of tea seemed to settle his roiling insides. The uncomfortable episode was a chilling reminder that Cassandra's and Roland Kantos' use of their psychic talent had extracted a heavy price, even when they had centuries of experience and training. The very thought of becoming a user, a psychic manipulator, like Kantos, or even like Cassandra, who at least tried to use her gift to help people, made his stomach churn again. Later, lying in bed, his sword close at hand just in case Richie awoke in a murderous mood, MacLeod knew he was running out of time. Whatever alternative Methos had devised, he had to know. He had to know now.
His sleep was restless, fitful, full of dreams that startled him awake again and again. Each time he was certain it was a sound that had disturbed him, a whisper, a voice of ghosts long dead, Darius, Kantos, Sean, but when he listened there was only the lapping of water against the sides of the barge, the distant sounds of the city. No one was there.
He finally gave up as the barest intimation of dawn began to filter through the barge portholes. It took enormous effort to pull himself out of bed. He wiped off the cold sweat that formed on his forehead, swallowing and dismissing the fluttering of fear in his stomach at the unfamiliar weakness. This won't do, he thought, squaring his shoulders and forcing himself to stand, demanding that his legs hold his weight. They did, and Mac breathed a sigh of relief as he moved carefully to check on his still-sleeping guest. He then quietly changed into sweatpants, a tee-shirt, pulled a long-sleeved sweatshirt over his shoulders and wrapped a towel around his neck. A slow, joint-popping stretch routine on the deck of the barge preceded a long run along the river. As he settled into his pace the exercise cleared his mind and warmed his body, and the extra oxygen he pulled deep into his lungs dispelled the debilitating weakness and tension of the night before.
Intellectually, he wanted to carefully examine what had happened, to understand it. But his memory of Kantos' abuse of a talent for psychic coercion, of Garrick's madness caused by the visions he saw, made him embarrassed and ashamed that he had resorted to such tricks, even though it had seemed instinctive, the right thing, the only thing, to do at the time. No, last night was a fluke of circumstance. Such things were better left unexamined. This was not a talent he had any desire to develop. Knowledge he neither wanted nor needed.
The sun was a hazy disk well above the horizon by the time he began to slow his pace, with the barge back in sight. As he crossed underneath a nearby stone bridge, he picked up a clear and ringing sense of presence. It was Methos. He knew it with a certainty as intimate as the feel of his katana in his hand. The strength of their connection sent chills down his spine. He wasn't at all comfortable having someone that close to his mind, his emotions.
Methos had observed the running figure from a distance moving gracefully along the stone path. It was an unexpectedly peaceful, oddly reassuring moment. Paris was just beginning to come alive in the light of a crisp winter morning, the sun reflecting off the myriad facets of Notre Dame's stained glass, and MacLeod, constant, steady, strong MacLeod, running beside the sparkling gray waters of the Seine. Methos stood, stretching muscles grown stiff from sitting on the cold concrete steps leading up to the street. Mac came to a stop in front of him, wiping the sweat from his forehead and neck and pulling the tie out of his hair to let it hang loose and damp, falling in waves around his face, utterly, amusingly oblivious to the impact of his presence.
"This early morning routine is getting to be a habit, isn't it?" Mac asked, slightly breathless from his run.
"Morning? Is it morning?" Methos replied with a smile, looking around as though noticing for the first time. "I hadn't realized. I guess I am a morning person after all. It makes a difference, you know, if you simply don't go to bed."
Mac noted the shadow of stubble along the hard, lean planes of Methos cheeks and the strain around his eyes. Methos turned toward the barge, but Mac moved in front, catching his elbow.
"Wait, Methos. Richie's there. Last night he . . ." Mac caught a subtle change in expression in the old Immortal's face and turned. Richie had emerged from below and was standing on the deck, sword in hand, watching them. "Wait here," Mac instructed, his face suddenly closed and tense.
Mac approached the young man slowly, arms loose at his sides, forcing himself into a non-threatening posture. Richie was strong and fast and good, very good. MacLeod knew because he had taught him, had even taught him tricks and moves that he had held in reserve for centuries because he wanted this one to survive at least as much as he wanted to survive himself. The blue eyes that watched Mac's approach were confused and uncertain, flickering between the annoyingly enigmatic oldest Immortal and his teacher.
"Good morning, Richie," Duncan said, carefully monitoring the nuances of the boy's body language.
"What's he doing here?" Richie demanded, looking suspiciously toward Methos.
"He's my friend. He's always welcome here. You know that." Mac paused, trying to read the boy's expression. "How do you feel?"
Richie swallowed and closed his eyes. "I . . . don't know. It's been so long since . . ," Richie seemed unable to go on.
"Since what, Rich?"
His voice was rough, hesitant. "Since I felt anything but anger. I wasn't sure . . . I didn't know if I could . . ." tears gathered in the boys eyes and Mac quickly moved in, feeling the young shoulders shudder with long repressed sobs. He heard the sword clank to the deck and after a moment felt Methos behind him.
Mac turned to guide Richie into the barge. A look of understanding passed between him and the older Immortal, who picked up Richie's blade and followed the pair inside.
Mac settled Richie onto the couch, sitting beside him as the boy worked to regain control of his errant thoughts and emotions. Methos retreated to a shadowed corner.
"How many, Richie?" Duncan finally asked quietly, once Richie's trembling had slowed and his breathing was almost normal.
"Three in the past month," Richie said, carefully examining the ornate patterns in the oriental carpet spread beneath his feet. He swallowed, trying to steady his voice. "It was like . . . like they represented an obstacle to everything I ever wanted or needed. I didn't know them. I didn't want to know them. I just wanted them dead. Desperately." Another tear escaped, rolling unnoticed down his pale cheek. "And then I wanted you dead. I wanted what you have." Richie cradled his head in his hands. "I'm so sorry, Mac," he whispered.
Duncan gently wrapped his hand around the boy's wrist. "It's the Gathering, Richie. All of us feel it. The younger you are the worse it is. I'm just grateful you've survived."
Richie looked up, curiosity in his face. "What did you do last night anyway? One minute all I could think about was killing you, then . . . I don't know. It was as though someone held up a mirror and I saw myself, but it wasn't really me." He shook his head in confusion. "I was wearing a mask, but as I watched, the mask melted away," he whispered. "The anger, the hate, were gone." He choked out a small, hysterical laugh. "It's gone!"
Duncan put his hand on the back of the boy's neck and gave him a gentle squeeze. He rose to get them all some coffee, afraid to speak. He knew the urge to kill would be back. Whatever he had done was temporary at best, but he didn't want Richie to know that yet.
Duncan busied himself in the galley while Richie retired to the bathroom for a long, much needed shower. Methos had successfully faded into the background, a knack developed over thousands of years, and he almost startled MacLeod when he spoke from the shadows.
"What DID you do out there, Mac?"
"Out where?" he asked, knowing the answer but planning to find a way to avoid the question. But Methos just let the question hang.
"Methos," Mac finally said quietly, changing the subject. "I've been trying to reach you. We need to talk about the Gathering."
There was a low chuckle behind him and Mac turned to find himself face-to-face with those ancient green-gold eyes. "I'll grant you we need to talk, MacLeod. That's why I came back. Now tell me what happened last night."
Mac silently finished putting on coffee and slipped some bread into the toaster. He wiped his hands on a towel and slipped past Methos, down the stairs into the main living area. Methos waited.
"It's not important," MacLeod finally said quietly. "It won't happen again."
"Not important?" Methos followed him into the living room, took off his coat and draped it and himself on the couch. "I could sense something, MacLeod. Both what you did and the pain it caused you afterward. And it *is* important. I drove all night to get here. You can't hide this from me."
"You came," Mac said, folding his arms tightly across his chest, "because you finally felt the touch of the Gathering, Methos. You came because there is something you've been burning to tell me since the first moment we met. Something about the Game. An alternative, you said." Mac stepped closer, looming over the reclining figure. "It's time to tell me."
"You first, MacLeod."
The two men locked eyes, four centuries of stubborn Scottish determination doing battle with five millennia of experience at getting his own way.
Footsteps rang on deck, followed by a knock at the door.
Reluctantly, Mac turned away. "It's open," he called, recognizing the step. Joe Dawson, wrapped in a dark coat, struggled down the steps with his cane.
Methos crossed his arms with a smile. "Hail, hail, the gang's all here," he intoned, almost to himself. "How incredibly appropriate."
Joe looked distracted, his weathered face lined with fatigue and concern. "Mac, I came to warn you, Richie's headed this way. I would have come sooner but his damn Watcher didn't want to admit he'd lost him until this morning." Joe failed to mention that his protective staff had prevented anyone from disturbing him after he had fallen asleep on a cot in the office. He had been furious. If he'd lost either MacLeod or Richie because of their *protection* he would never have forgiven himself. They had also belatedly reported that someone had visited Mac last night, but they couldn't tell who it was in the darkness and fog. That was the real reason Joe came in person. He assumed the mysterious figure was Methos, and it was best that the other Watchers not know about Methos. In a lot of ways, Joe Dawson kept his own counsel about at least some Immortals, where they were, what they did.
That was the essence of Joe Dawson's life these days. Knowing where the Immortals were, what they were doing, who they were fighting. For thousands of years the secret society of Watchers that were Joe's life and livelihood had been monitors and recorders of history, acquirers of knowledge through the eyes of Immortals, a task that provided a rich, fascinating insight into the human condition.
No longer. Now it was a sad, desperate business of score keeping as the Immortals were driven towards a final battle, with the victor the recipient of all the accumulated power of every Immortal that ever lived. A daunting thought, a crushing responsibility. And the Watchers were caught in the middle, sworn not to interfere, but with it becoming ever more apparent that their fate, along with that of the rest of the mortal world, was also on the line. Joe had his own views about non-interference. He had been treading on and over that line ever since he had become MacLeod's friend, rather than just his anonymous Watcher.
Like so many others, once circumstance had sucked him into the whirlpool of the Highlander's life, he declined to try to escape, considering his friendship with Duncan MacLeod one of the most precious gifts life had ever given him. But it came at a very high price. Death and conflict haunted the Highlander. His very existence, his power, was a threat to so many that being close to him was like standing on the rocks at the edge of a violent, storm-tossed sea. Not only did you inevitably witness others being caught by the rising tide and dashed against the sharp boulders, but you were always at risk yourself.
Joe looked back and forth between MacLeod and Methos, noting the tension in Mac's face. Methos had a knack for doing that. The two men were philosophical polar opposites on a whole host of issues. For over ten years, Dawson had only known the tall, gangly young man as Adam Pierson, soft spoken, reclusive graduate student, a researcher in the Watcher organization specializing in the Chronicles of Methos, the legendary, elusive oldest Immortal. It was MacLeod who uncovered Pierson's true identity and brought it to Joe's shocked attention. Since then the "real" personality behind Adam Pierson had slowly, painfully emerged from behind the bland façade. It was as though Methos, too, had been sucked into the MacLeod whirlpool, and the conflict, the turmoil, the odd chemistry that existed between the dark Scot and the oldest Immortal, had worn away the old one's defenses, revealing a sharp, cynical, defensive wit, a bottomless well of experience and wisdom, and a masterful talent at manipulation and, sometimes, deceit.
"Richie's here, Joe," Mac said quietly. "He's okay." Mac nodded toward the bathroom where the sound of the shower was evident.
The tension went out of Joe's burly shoulders as Mac stepped in to take his coat and scarf and hang it on a rack. "Sit down, Joe. Want some coffee?"
Joe nodded, using his cane and his iron-muscled upper body to leverage himself into a chair. He rubbed his face heavily, scratching his short salt-and-pepper beard with a relieved sigh. Then he looked up in puzzlement at Mac as returned with a tray of full of steaming coffee mugs. "Are you sure Richie's okay? He's been on a rampage, you know. His Watcher said it was like he was a different person."
"I *was* a different person," a young voice said quietly behind him. Richie emerged from the bathroom, scrubbing his short, reddish-blond hair with a towel. The borrowed clothes made him look smaller, younger than usual. Fortunately, the sweatpants had a drawstring tie, otherwise he would have had a hard time keeping them in place. As it was the clothes hung loosely on his hard, lean body. Any late-adolescent softness still present when he had first died three years ago had long since been burned away.
"But Mac did something . . . I don't know," a shadow of a smile reminiscent of Richie's more innocent days moved across his face. "Whatever it was, whoever I was, is gone."
All eyes turned to MacLeod, who self-consciously turned his back to the room, gazing out a porthole, one hand pressed up against the wall. The hard set of the jaw was an unmistakable signal that the Scot really did not wish to discuss the topic.
"Well, this isn't getting us anywhere. It seems that the clan chieftain doesn't want to tell us his story . . . yet." Methos quipped after a long, tense silence. "Maybe he just needs some motivation. Suppose I start? I could tell a little fable. Maybe that will get the conversation going, you know? A party game. I start the story and someone else picks up the plot?"
No one seemed particularly amused, but that didn't seem to deter Methos in the slightest. He sat up in preparation for his tale, his lean, hard frame, clothed in a loose dark sweater and well-worn jeans, seemed to extend in all directions. His face took on a sad resignation, a distant expression as though he were deliberately detaching himself from the present. An odd sensation touched MacLeod and he turned. Maybe it was only a trick of the morning light, but suddenly the carefully crafted persona of the perpetually underfed graduate student was shed like a suit of ill-fitting clothes, and the 5,000-year-old man looked like the legend he truly was. His pale skin was luminous, as though time had burnished his surfaces until they were almost transparent. His body not just lean and wiry, but pared down to an essence of bone, muscle, tendon and pure energy. His sharp-planed face with its patrician nose, while not classically handsome, was in some indefinable way, beautiful.
"There once was a man," he said in his soft, exquisitely cultured English accent, "who wanted to live forever."
"Because he was very, very clever, and very hard to kill, he had already lived for a long time. He knew the languages and politics and military history of entire civilizations, and that knowledge became his medium of commerce. The man eventually became a trusted advisor to great kings and merchant princes, but no one ever heard about him. He was careful never to be seen as wielding the power himself, oh no, because he knew he had to remain anonymous to avoid those who knew the secret of how to take his life. There were times when life was very hard, when the rulers he served were capricious and brutal, even to him, but the man endured the suffering as the price he had to pay for his anonymity, for his survival."
"But then one day, despite all his precautions, a very bad man found him who knew how to kill him, but our intrepid hero offered the man a deal. If the man would let him live, he would help him by advising him with all he knew about strategy, about language, about all the peoples of the world. The bad man laughed, and accepted the offer, and the two of them joined with others like themselves and, using their combined power and our wanderer's knowledge, struck out across the world. They killed, raped, pillaged, and terrorized across three continents, relishing the fear and subjugation of the innocents they slaughtered. You see, in the protective circle of his band of brothers, who were just like himself, for the first time the man did not fear discovery, could live in the open, take what he wanted, live however he pleased without answering to anyone save his brothers in arms. The brutality which had seemed abhorrent when it had been so casually visited upon him was intoxicating when he was free to brutalize others."
"Then the oddest thing happened." Methos stopped.
The room was absolutely still. Even the dust motes caught in the bright morning sunlight seemed to hang motionless in the air. MacLeod stood, his arms crossed, eyes riveted on the storyteller. Joe had leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, equally entranced.
Richie looked around in that well of silence. This was Methos, he thought in awe. Truly the oldest man in the world. He had known it because Mac had told him, but hadn't really accepted it or understood it until this moment. All the irritation, the jealousy over the time Mac spent with him, the long-held suspicion that the man might not be who he said he was, evaporated, and Richie suddenly needed to sit down. As Richie quietly perched on the back of Joe's chair, Methos went on in a voice that was so quiet the stillness of the room seemed to almost drown it out.
"One day, the man looked into the eyes of one of those terrified people he found so easy to destroy and saw his own reflection, and he realized that there are some circumstances when life, even his own life, was not worth the living."
Methos focus shifted, scanning the faces turned expectantly towards his own. "So what do you suppose he did?" When no one offered an answer he smiled, shaking his head. "No, no, you're supposed to pick up the story. Mac?" He turned and fixed MacLeod with a hard, knowing gaze.
"Tell us, Duncan MacLeod." Methos voice was hard, insistent. "You know what he did, don't you? You're such a smart boy. I know you've already figured it out. Why don't you tell us the story? Or perhaps there's another, more recent tale you'd like to tell?"
The two men read each other's face. Age and experience, instinct, knowledge and wisdom developed over centuries, over millennia, sometimes made verbal communication extraneous between these two.
"Don't do this, Methos." Duncan finally said harshly, inclining his head toward Dawson.
"Well, maybe you should tell us your own story, MacLeod, about last night. If you don't want me to tell mine." Methos read Duncan's eyes, felt it coming, but still felt like he died a little inside when Mac's expression turned hard, cold and bitter.
"That's your price?"
"Only if you want to pay it."
Dawson looked back and forth between the two men, suddenly feeling like they were speaking in code. "What's going on, guys?" he asked, uncertain if he wanted to hear the answer.
MacLeod's eyes didn't leave Methos' face. "What's going on, Joe, is that Methos is prepared to tell you something you're not going to want to hear. Something that will cut you to the quick. He thinks that I will do anything to stop him from doing that, including acknowledging something that I think is downright evil and making it part of who I am." Duncan turned his attention to the mortal. "But I can't let him do that, Joe," he whispered. "Even for you. You're going to have to hear this sometime, though it may mean taking everything you've dedicated your life to and turning it upside down. The Gathering is here, my friend, and we're all going to have to face some hard, ugly truths. I'm sorry." Duncan went to the fireplace and busied himself with starting a fire to ward off the morning chill.
Methos watched MacLeod's broad back as he piled kindling and wood into the hearth and quickly fanned the starting embers into a warm, comforting blaze. Once again he had under estimated the Highlander. He had spent thousands of years learning to read others. Why did this man elude him? His principles were straightforward -- protect the weak, watch out for his friends, be the strongest, quickest, smartest warrior of his kind -- not a complex agenda. It mystified him why, whenever it involved the Highlander, his usually infallible insight consistently missed the mark Besides, he didn't really want to finish the story. Joe Dawson was his friend, too.
"It's too late, now, Methos," Duncan said, as though reading his thoughts. "Finish it."
Joe sat back, looking at Methos through narrowed eyes. "Yeah, Methos. Finish it."
Methos cleared his throat and reached for a cup of coffee. "Weren't you fixing some breakfast or something MacLeod?" There was no response. Methos slowly put his cup down and sat back in his chair, suddenly seeming frail and vulnerable.
"The man," he began again, although this time his voice took on a note of harsh irony. "This man left his brothers, tricking them, deserting them in the middle of a skirmish in which he knew they would be outnumbered because he planned it that way. But he knew his brothers-in-arms would come for him, would search to the ends of the earth and to the end of time to avenge his betrayal. So, once again, he disappeared. But this time he was even more clever. He had a plan. He began hiring local scribes and wandering tradesmen to keep track of the movements of anyone who might resemble the special race of people like himself. He lived quietly, avoiding any controversy, gathering information, learning the locations, the strengths and weaknesses of any of his race he could find. And when he did have to do battle, he always knew it was coming, and he always won. Unfortunately, after 20 years or so, he realized his now-considerable band of spies would soon realize he didn't age, that he couldn't die, just like those he had set them to watch. So again, our smart hero thought of his cleverest idea yet."
Methos leaned forward on his elbows, long, elegant hands dangling down between his knees, meeting Joe Dawson's hard gaze. "He brought them all together, telling them he was dying, but that it was up to them to carry on his mission of watching this special race of people. That it was important to all humanity that the archives of all their activities be kept in perpetuity, and he was leaving them his entire fortune to allow them to continue their work. He laid on them a great mission, and they accepted it." Methos cocked his head in fond, ironic memory. "It was very moving, really."
Joe's normally dark, weather-beaten face had gone gray, then bright red. His chest rose and fell as his pounding heartbeat demanded more oxygen. "You bastard," he whispered. "You lying, deceitful son-of-a-bitch." Methos didn't flinch. Dawson pushed hard on the arms of the chair, struggling to stand on his artificial legs and Methos stood with him, rising with easy grace. Mac rose from his haunches in front of the fireplace, feeling violence in the air. He wasn't wrong.
Joe's huge fist struck out, smashing into the oldest Immortal's mouth and sending him catapulting over the back of the couch. Mac winced as it almost cost him a 12th Century Chinese vase, but otherwise he didn't budge.
Methos caught up to Joe halfway to the street, after Joe ignored his calls to wait. He slipped in front of the gray-haired mortal, forcing him to stop. "I'm sorry, Joe," he said breathlessly. "I didn't want to hurt you."
Joe gave him a cold, bitter look.
<Two in one morning, Methos. You're doing particularly well,> Methos thought to himself.
"You've got blood on your face," Joe said, then pushed past him.
Methos swiped at his chin where his lip had been split. "Joe! What did you expect me to do? Start a "Watchers Founder's Club?" Methos caught up to Joe again, taking his arm and forcing him to a halt. "Look at me, Joe. I've been a Watcher for over 2,500 years, on and off. At first, yes, I did it just to survive, but over the centuries it was like a refuge, a home. It was something I had created. Something important that lasted through the centuries and might even outlast me. Can you imagine what that would mean to someone like me?"
"There is no one like you, Methos," Joe said, staring past his shoulder. Staring anywhere but at the oldest Immortal.
"What the Watchers do is important in its own right, Joe. What *you* do is important. In your heart you know that. Just because an Immortal started it doesn't diminish that."
"You lied to me, Adam. You didn't have to lie to me," Joe turned, his sense of personal betrayal showing through. "I thought I deserved more than that. I thought we were more than just casual acquaintances, fellow Watchers!"
"First, I didn't lie to you. I just neglected to tell you the whole truth."
Joe gave Methos a disgusted look.
"Second, you are my friend. I don't have many friends, Joe. I genuinely didn't want to hurt you."
"Then why did you?"
Methos took a deep breath, scanning the river scene, his eyes resting on the long, black barge docked only fifty feet away.
"The Gathering. At some point, the Watchers are going to have to step in, Joe. They can't stay in the shadows any longer. They have to be players."
"Aaaahh! Your little club is now supposed to work for you again, is it? Come back to Papa? Well, it's a little late for that, Methos!" Joe spat out the name like an epithet. "Your brainchild has grown up and doesn't need or want you anymore." Again, Dawson pushed past and headed toward the street.
"Not for me, Joe," Methos called after him. "For MacLeod."
That stopped him. He turned. "You want Mac to run the Watchers?!" His voice was incredulous. "Why the hell would he ever agree to that?"
Methos, hands deep in his pockets, moved close to the big man, his voice quiet as though he feared being overheard. "Because he has to, Joe. Your future, my future, Richie's . . . Christ, ALL our futures depend on it."
Joe closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Okay, Methos. You have plans within schemes within plans within plans, and I can't help you unless you tell me the truth. All the truth."
"Agreed." Methos said affirmatively. "There's only one problem."
"What!"
"I don't know all the truth yet." Before Joe could turn away or make the disgusted comment reflected on his face, Methos hurried on. "It's the Gathering, Joe! Things have changed, are changing all the time. Mac is changing. For while I thought . . . I thought this whole idea wasn't worth it, wasn't worth the price Mac will have to pay. I had decided to just let the Game play itself out. But what I felt from him last night . . ." For the first time, Joe saw real fear in Methos' face. "It's all happening too fast. Our options are closing down. His, mine, yours. The next few months are critical. Just give me a little time, Joe. Please, don't walk away from me. Or, maybe you can walk away from me, but not from Mac. Please."
"How much does Mac know about all this?" Joe asked suspiciously. "Or are you keeping him in the dark, too?"
Methos swallowed. Chickens were coming home to roost all too quickly. "There's, uh, a little problem there."
Joe's focus moved past Methos' shoulder.
"I see Joe hasn't taken his cane to you, yet," MacLeod observed behind him. "Are you two okay?"
Methos looked Joe hard in the eye. "Joe has agreed to give me a little time, Mac. To explain, to understand, to work things out. Right, Joe?"
A moment passed, then another. The three men stood motionless on the riverbank. Then Joe slowly nodded, turned and walked away.
"Is Joe okay?" Richie asked anxiously as the two men filed silently back into the barge.
Mac turned to Methos. "I don't know. Is he?"
"Joe will be fine. He's a man of great caring and integrity."
"Unlike some."
Mac retired to the galley to belatedly finish preparing breakfast.
"Did you really start the Watchers?" Richie asked, his eyes wide.
"Yeah, kid," Methos answered, sinking into the chair Joe had vacated and lying back with his eyes closed. "It seemed like the smart thing to do at the time."
"Man. It's hard to even imagine, being that old."
Methos opened one eye, fixing it on the overgrown child sitting on the couch. "It's probably something you won't have to worry about." <Great,> Methos thought as Richie's look turned from awe to closed defensiveness. <Now I've managed to piss off everyone. It must be a gift.>
Mac brought toast and jam to the dining table, along with a pot to re-fill coffee cups. Richie sat with him while Methos isolated himself in a cloud of gloom in the living room. "How long have you known?" Richie asked quietly.
Mac smiled tightly. "It wasn't hard to figure out," he said. "Once I got to know the real Methos, not just Adam Pierson. But I hadn't realized he was aware that I knew until today. As has already been pointed out this morning, he's a very *clever* guy."
"What was that business about between you two, anyway?"
Duncan looked over at Methos who was studiously ignoring their conversation. "Methos wants something from me, but he doesn't want to give anything in return. He wants me to do something, to become something, but won't tell me what, or why." Duncan's expression was smug and hard. "But it won't work, this time," he said, raising his voice.
"You're a fool, Duncan MacLeod," Methos voice drifted from the living area. "A blind, bloody fool if you think last night was the end of it. It was only the beginning." Methos unraveled his long body from the chair. "It doesn't matter whether you want to deal with it, it will deal with you." He reached for his coat and slipped it on, standing with his hands buried deep in its pockets. "All the pieces are falling in place, all the players are coming together, my friend." He looked very sad as the bright morning sunshine cast his angular face into sharp light and shadow. "You'll need me soon enough, though. I can wait." Then he disappeared up the stairs and out the door.
Mac studiously ignored the disquiet Methos had generated with his parting words. Richie needed him. The boy was emotionally fragile, uncertain. They spent the rest of the day in quiet, mutual solitude as MacLeod sought to give the boy space to think, to understand the difference between what he really was and what the Gathering had made him into. This was something he understood intimately -- the search out of darkness for who you really are. Late in the afternoon, Mac was out on deck tending to the perpetual chores needed to keep the barge in good condition, when Richie joined him, kneeling beside him as he spliced a portion of rope.
"What was it like?" Richie asked.
Mac gave the boy a questioning look.
"I mean, you've never talked about the Dark Quickening. Joe told me a little, but . . . he seemed to think it was up to you to tell me when you were ready."
Mac's finger's moved over the rope, delicately winding and twisting the strands together until two pieces became one. Richie waited patiently. That was something the boy had learned, Mac realized. A good lesson.
"The Quickening itself was odd, cold, ugly, like being washed in old, freezing blood. I felt myself squeezed into such a small space, until I just . . . wasn't me anymore. My entire world was anger, unbridled hate. Oh, I could still think, plan, put up a good front, but every memory, every connection in my life took on a totally different meaning. The only thing that was important was feeling powerful, taking what I wanted. And killing felt good. Hurting people, the ability to cause fear, to see it in their eyes . . . that was what I lived for. I did . . ."
Mac paused and swallowed as the memory churned inside. "I did some terrible things, Richie. I killed one of the sweetest, kindest men alive, a man who was only trying to help me. He was defenseless. It was pure murder." His breath caught in his throat and Richie closed his eyes, uncomfortable witnessing this level of pain in his teacher. "That was the worst of it, but there were . . . other things." I don't know what else to tell you, Richie. Methos came after me, even when I almost took his head. He's a stubborn bastard and was determined to bring me back. And he did."
Mac looked at Richie, his brown eyes full of remembered pain. "I owe him my life, Richie. More than that, I owe him my soul. No matter what happens between us, that debt will always be there."
Richie let a few minutes of silence pass to allow MacLeod time to let his emotions settle. "Did he do for you what you did for me?" he asked. "It was like you reached inside me and pulled the anger away. Is that what happened?"
Mac smiled reassuringly. The boy's fears of becoming evil were real and, given his knowledge of Mac's experience, justified. "No, Richie. Your anger was external, forced on you from the outside. My hatred, my need to kill, had become part of me. I had truly become evil. Methos got me to a place on holy ground where I came face to face with my own demons. I did battle, just as our kind always does, but this time it was with myself."
"What would have happened if the real "you" hadn't won?"
"How can you be sure he did?" Mac said seriously, watching as Richie's eyes got large and confused.
Mac chuckled, wrapping his arm around the boy's neck in a familiar gesture to lighten the mood.
"Seriously, Methos would have taken my head. At least I hope that's what would have happened." Duncan reached up and took Richie's chin in his hand, looking deep into his eyes. "What happened to you does not mean you turned evil, Richie. It wasn't the same as what happened to me. Your urge to kill was aimed at Immortals and happened for a specific reason. You can fight it, and I can help you. You are a good person, Richie Ryan. Don't ever let go of that. In the end, it's your best defense."
Maurice's restaurant and jazz club had become a Parisian hot spot over the past six months, in large measure due to the talent Joe Dawson had managed to book into the place for entertainment. Joe's gifts didn't end in observation and analysis, they extended into the music world, where his other vocation was as a superb blues and jazz guitarist and sometime music impresario. These days, it was the only thing that brought him relief from the grim daily Immortal body count. Duncan and Richie pushed through the door into a wall of sound as the five musicians, accompanied by shouting, clapping fans, drove toward a rousing finale of their set. Duncan led the way as the crowd parted easily for him. He carried an aura of authority, of physical power which subconsciously motivated people to give way. He was also striking looking, drawing open stares from the women and envious glances from the men. Maurice spotted them, eyes drawn by the stir created by his entrance, waving them over to the owner's table where he and Joe Dawson were already seated. Duncan had helped finance the restaurant after Maurice had lost the previous small cafe he had owned and operated. Lost it, in part, because his friendship with MacLeod had made him a tool for extortion.
"Duncan, Richie!" Maurice called excitedly. "I was beginning to theenk you no longer wanted to see Maurice!" He pulled out chairs, signaling to waiters to bring some refreshments. "They are tre bon, n'est ce pas?" he asked, nodding toward the band. The small, be whiskered Frenchman had latched onto MacLeod like a loyal, lovable, somewhat annoying puppy that had a tendency to chew the furniture and pee on the carpet. He was blissfully unaware, or at least deliberately unquestioning, about the bizarre nature of MacLeod's lifestyle, even accepting that Richie, who had allegedly died on a motorcycle racetrack in front of thousands of people, had somehow unexpectedly recovered. Duncan suspected that Maurice was much shrewder and more calculating than his bonhomme, rather simple-minded manner would indicated. That was one of the reasons Duncan put up with his perpetual mooching and interference.
They settled in as the band took a break on a wave of enthusiastic applause, and the noise level diminished enough so that conversation could take place. Duncan examined Dawson closely. He looked older these days, the gray getting ever more prominent in his hair and beard. They have so little time, MacLeod thought sadly. Another 20 or 30 years and this man will be gone from my life, forever. That is, his train of thought continued, if the Gathering doesn't take me first. Shaking off the morbid mood, Duncan deliberately shed himself of anything but living in the moment. It was a skill any Immortal had to learn over the centuries or risk being perpetually lost in a fog of memory and regret. But for this moment, the band was good, the food was excellent and he was with friends. Richie moved off to talk to the members of the band, speaking in broken but enthusiastic French, suddenly looking his true age as youthful joy and companionship momentarily overshadowed all else.
"You really have a knack for finding these kids, Joe," Duncan said appreciatively, sipping at his scotch. "I've always wished I had some kind of musical talent. Lord knows I've had enough time to develop it."
"Oh, come on, Mac, there's talent and there's talent. You're a great dancer," Dawson replied. His comment made the Scotsman laugh out loud, and a genuine smile, a rare event these days, lit up his face.
"There's not a lot of call for gypsy dancing and the Black Bottom these days, Dawson!" Mac chuckled. The three men, one very young, one middle aged and one very, very old, relaxed into an evening of excellent food, inspiring music and good company. Each of them was subliminally conscious of the press of time, of history, of circumstance, that made the moments precious, perhaps never to be repeated again. Then Mac stiffened, Richie's face paled and Joe's heart sank as both Immortals looked expectantly toward the door. As it had when MacLeod entered, the crowd noise diminished slightly as a tall, elegant woman with long, flowing dark hair stepped into the restaurant. Wide green eyes, a full, rich mouth, a voluptuous body folded into a long cloak, Cassandra's eyes sought and met MacLeod's across the room.
By the time she made it to their table, the three men had risen in unconscious response to the power of her presence. She was one of the ancient Immortals. A woman who had known Duncan in his childhood. She had recognized his potential even then, creating a connection which would last indelibly through the centuries.
"Cassandra," Mac acknowledged, nodding cautiously.
Her gaze traveled to Dawson, who nodded in recognition, and then to Richie, whose eyes had grown round with awe at her approach. She put out a hand, the long curved nails making it seem unnaturally large. "Hello, I'm Cassandra. And you are?" she asked in a deep, contralto that carried easily over the music and the crowd.
"Richie," Mac said when the boy seemed to overawed to respond. "His name is Richie. What are you doing here, Cassandra?"
Her fingers reached up to trace a line down his jaw. "I'm here to see you, of course, Duncan. Aren't you going to ask me to sit down?"
Richie rushed to pull out a chair, which Cassandra slipped into as though it were the throne of the Pharaohs. Joe and Richie sat, then Mac slowly sank into his chair, his eyes never leaving Cassandra's face.
Maurice rushed to the table with the arrival of the stunning woman. MacLeod always seemed to attract the most magnificent ladies. He gushed over her, taking her order, and continued to gush until Mac had taken him by the shoulder and, with a raised eyebrow, made it clear that they should be left alone.
"If you will excuse us," Mac nodded to Joe and Richie, "Cassandra and I need to have a little private chat." Cassandra gave him a long, regal look as Mac rose, picked up his coat, and offered Cassandra his hand. The entire room quieted, captured by the sight of the two remarkable figures walking towards the door.
"Wow!" was all Richie could think of to say.
"Wow, is right," retorted Joe. "Cassandra is one of a kind." He pushed himself to his feet and shrugged into his coat.
"Where are you going?" Richie asked in confusion as everyone was evidently disappearing.
"I'm a Watcher, Richie," Joe replied. "Specifically, I'm Duncan MacLeod's Watcher. It's about time I did what I get paid for." He shouldered his way through the crowd toward the door. Richie grabbed his coat and trotted behind.
Duncan and Cassandra walked together down the dark street, neither of them wanting to start what each knew would be a difficult conversation. Cassandra tucked her arm into Duncan's and leaned her head against his shoulder. He, in turn, pulled his arm out and circled her shoulders, pulling her close. They walked like that for several minutes, their breaths making gentle fog in the air, each in an isolated bubble of memory, knowing that this was likely to be the last time they could find comfort together.
Duncan guided them down an alley into a deserted carpark. The light from the streetlamp barely penetrated the dark interior, where even whispers rang loudly against the hard surfaces. He deliberately disentangled himself from her and stepped back.
"All right, Cassandra. What is this about?"
She stood watching him. Her intense emerald eyes regretful. "I love you, Duncan. I've loved you longer than anyone else has. Doesn't that mean anything? Doesn't that mean more than blind loyalty to someone you've known only a few years?"
"Love me?" Duncan questioned. He looked carefully at the concrete beneath his feet, trying to think analytically, rationally in the face of the one person left in the world who knew him when he was still mortal. His lover, his first kiss. "Do you really, Cassandra? Or have you just used me from the beginning. First to kill Kantos for you, now to get to Methos." He reached out his hand, wanting to touch her face, to take back his harsh words, but couldn't bring himself to do it.
"Then why didn't I kill him when I had the chance!" she raised her voice. "You said you wanted him to live, so I let him live! Do you think if I had just used you, that your wants, your needs, would have made that kind of difference?"
"Nothing is that simple, Cassandra. That moment was all bound up in memory, in history, in shame, in love and in hate. You couldn't kill him for a universe of reasons, not the least of which is the fact that he had just risked his life to save yours."
Cassandra turned away, her body rigid, she took a few steps, then turned back. Her eyes were bright enough with moisture to reflect the small amount of light that reached the shadows in which they stood. "It's not enough! The pain won't go away! I thought it would, I hoped it would." She stalked closer, then closer until their faces were inches apart. "You were the best, the purest thing in my life. I wanted to be like you, Duncan," she said softly. "I wanted to be able to forgive, to change, to move on. I've tried. I've really tried. But I can't."
"Oh, Duncan," she said, softly stroking his face. "You know you love me, don't you?" Her voice took on an echoing quality and Duncan leaned his face into her soft palm. She moved closer, brushing her lips against his, wrapping her arms around him, moving her lips close to his ear.
"Call him, Duncan," she whispered in a voice that sank deep, deep into his subconscious. "Call Methos. Tell him to meet you. It's urgent. You must do it right away."
MacLeod's eyes were closed as he relaxed into Cassandra's warm body. She whispered sweet words in his ears. He didn't understand them, but felt them like a warm balm washing over his mind. Her scent, her nearness took his breath away and he pulled her close, aroused, wanting her. She whispered again. What was that? He heard, but didn't seem to understand as he let her go and moved towards the entrance. He needed to call someone.
He was almost at the entrance before he slowed to a stop. This was wrong. Something in his mind was rebelling, a shield going up. Cassandra came up behind him, putting her hands around him, moving them underneath his coat, across his chest, moving down, slipping her fingers to caress the growing bulge in his trousers. He tensed with desire, turning and grabbing her shoulders, covering her mouth with his, tasting her. Then there were more whispers, but this time the shields in his mind reacted more quickly and he pulled his head back, then disengaged, panting for air. "What . . .?" he staggered back, disoriented. "What did you do?"
Cassandra drew herself up, her eyes wide with surprise at his ability to resist.
"What did you do?" Duncan repeated, gradually regaining control. His voice rang with authority in the hollow space as he advanced on her.
Cassandra covered her ears. "That's not possible!" she growled.
Duncan grabbed her wrists, pulling her towards him. "You were using me to trap him!"
Cassandra twisted out of his grip, backing away. She threw her head back, her eyes half closed in concentration. "Call him, Duncan," she ordered. Her voice sounded, ringing like a deep, stirring bell, vibrating the foundation of the building.
Duncan closed his eyes, and slowly shook his head, pushing away the sensation, the compulsion, feeling the tone, analyzing it, recognizing how it was done.
"NO!" was all he said. It was a small word, but said with all the strength he had ever been given. With the strength of Kantos, the projective gift of Garrick, the empathetic talents of K'oltek.
Cassandra's face went white and she literally staggered back under the strength of that "NO." But then a small smile formed on her lips. "You're new at this, MacLeod. That will cost you." Her chin went up as she watched Mac's face.
She was right. The pain began deep within, spreading in his head, threatening to blind and deafen him. Duncan fought for clarity, riding the pain, ignoring the sudden weakness. He knew pain. It was an old companion. His vision blurred and wavered, but he was aware that Cassandra was circling toward the exit.
"I can't let you kill him," Duncan gasped, forcing his legs to move, blocking her from leaving.
"How can you defend him?" She cried, her voice intense with pain. "Just because you think he's changed, that he's sorry, doesn't erase what he and his little band of brothers did to me, to my people! What a pathetic word, Sorry!" She stalked closer, close enough that Mac could see the tears streaming down her face in his wavering vision. "I'm going to teach him about sorry, Highlander." A small smile formed on her lips. "He'll know more about sorry than he can possibly handle."
The voice rolled around in his head, the sound seemed distorted, first near, then at a distance, just as Cassandra herself seemed both near and far, at once pressed close, and then almost gone. He reached out and found the fabric of her cloak as she twisted away. His splintering vision caught the glint of steel in her hand as his own sought the katana tucked into his coat.
"Oh, Cassandra," Duncan breathed, suddenly understanding. "Don't do this. To him, or to yourself!"
She couldn't expect to win against Methos win one-on-one, he realized. She wasn't trying to kill him.
"You *want* him to kill you, to live with you inside him for the rest of his days, feeling your hate, feeling his own guilt. But only after you've destroyed our friendship by coercing me into betraying him." He closed his eyes, swallowing the nausea that was beginning to rise. Pressing the pain away. This moment might be all he had to bring Cassandra back to sanity. The nausea rose again, forcing him to stop, panting, leaning against his thighs. Then the voice was close, battering against the pain in his head.
"I'm sorry, Duncan," she whispered, "I can't let you warn him."
The flash of light in the corner of his eye triggered his body's response. The katana rose of its own accord, meeting her blade as it arced toward his exposed neck. He would never remember the next few minutes as anything but a blur of pain and motion. She swirled, coming at him again, but again muscle memory provided a response, stopping her blade. She backed into the shadows, but he could sense the movement and when she struck again, he was ready. Sweat was pouring off his body, slicking the palms of his hands as he fought internal and external battles. Again, she was there, and then there. Exhaustion was slowing his reactions. She stabbed in, her blade biting the flesh of his ribs before he could twist away. That pain was new, different. It was something he could concentrate on and for a moment, his focus almost cleared.
"It isn't Methos you hate anymore, Cassandra," he called, summoning a remnant of the power in his mind, trying to reach her. "It's yourself! You let him take you, abuse you. You survived when all your people died." He felt her circling, moving in and out of the shadows. The energy it took to think, to speak, drained him until he could barely lift his katana, barely stand on his feet.
"Oh, God, Cassandra," he whispered. "Don't do this. Forgiving ourselves is the hardest thing in the world. Believe me, I know. Please. Let me help you." He struggled to stand upright, he let his sword tip drop to his side, opening his arms, begging her to come to him for comfort.
Cassandra stood in the darkness, stunned and moved at the sight of the Highlander's beautiful, anguished face, at his willingness to risk so much for her. Here was love, here was acceptance, forgiveness, refuge. Her soul cried out to go to him, to find solace in his arms. But her Immortal existence had been tainted from the moment Methos slaughtered her people and killed her the first time over 3,000 years before. There was only one way to find release from all this pain, to find permanent refuge with the one person who had accepted her unconditionally.
She summoned the Voice in a cry of rage, of pain, of sorrow, of endless grief. The vibration stirred the wind, battered the surfaces, was a force of nature unto itself, as she charged towards MacLeod like a wall of pure sound. She saw him raise his katana in defense, and she timed her stroke towards his neck perfectly, catching his shining blade, sliding it up her own, past her shoulder.
The blade struck cleanly, almost of its own volition. MacLeod watched in shock as the beautiful body slowly collapsed into a spreading pool of blood, then sank to his knees in despair and dread. The Quickening rose with a keening wail that went on and on and on as the echoes of Cassandra's 3,000 years washed over and into him. A deep reservoir of caring, of psychic strength, a healer who was unable to heal herself. Another Immortal ultimately overwhelmed with regret, guilt, anger and pain. It was the battle they all fought, and after 3,000 years, she had lost. When it was finally over, all MacLeod could do was weep.
Joe Dawson had Watched. He stood for long minutes after the Quickening was over, his own tears moistening his cheeks and beard. When MacLeod didn't rise, he finally moved in, gathering the shaking, sobbing figure in his arms and holding him, not knowing if MacLeod was even aware he was there.
He and Richie had gotten Mac back to the barge, where they had been witness to a couple of hours of convulsive pain and nausea before the Scot had finally crawled onto the bed and fallen into an exhausted sleep. Joe debated whether to call Methos, but his distrust of the Oldest Immortal had overtaken his natural desire to reach out to the one person who might be able to help MacLeod. The old man had *plans* for the Highlander. Dawson wasn't at all certain any more that those plans were in Mac's best interests, that bringing in Methos might not just result in more pain for the man Joe believed had already endured more than his fair share. No, Joe thought. He would wait. Let Methos make the next move. Let Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod have a little peace, if he could find it.
But Methos already knew. He had been quietly writing in his journals when he felt it. An echo of sound like remembered pain in his head. He had felt it before on the night Mac had brought Richie out of his Gathering madness. The sensation had knifed through the mental space that was now inextricably identified with the Highlander. But this time, the echo reverberated louder, harder, painfully, and Methos shut his eyes, instinctively resisting, pulling away. Then something else, crawling along his skin, making him gasp. He stood reflexively, knocking over his chair as the feedback from Cassandra's Quickening skittered through his awareness, burning in his veins. He closed his eyes, grieving. Cassandra, one of his greatest regrets, a woman whose obsessive desire for his death was completely justified. But it was Duncan's agony that made him flinch, that moved him, his loss, his regret, his gut-wrenching sorrow. When it ended, Methos knees almost gave way, and he lurched forward to catch himself on his desk as a tear he hadn't realized he had shed washed onto the scattered papers, creating a watery blue smudge in the carefully kept record of his life.
The voices were back, louder, whispering. Mac stirred restlessly against the covers. Just out of range, not really words -- whisper, whisper, whisper. He started awake, head snapping up, eyes wide open. It was late morning, a gray winter day. He pulled himself to a sitting position with a sigh. He had slept a lot over the past couple of days, but the slumber did not provide rest. The voices had gotten more insistent, constantly keeping him somewhere between complete sleep and complete wakefulness, drifting back and forth. But whenever he got up and tried to move around his body seemed weighted down with lethargy, with age, with an inability to care. Richie had tried to get him to eat, but food was tasteless, and the memory of hours of violent nausea made the thought repulsive.
His heart sped only slightly when the wash of awareness of another Immortal intruded on his consciousness. Probably Richie, he thought, dragging himself out of bed and stumbling towards the bathroom.
"Just me!" Richie said, poking his head inside before coming down the steps into the living area. His face tightened when he realized Mac hadn't even bothered to reach for his katana when he felt his presence. Richie put away the groceries he had bought to try to tempt Mac -- fresh fruit and bread, fish, a good wine. This odd role reversal over the past few days was getting tiresome and Richie found himself getting irritated at his teacher/mentor's distant, detached attitude.
Mac finally emerged dressed, showered and shaved, but he moved slowly, without his usual athletic energy and innate grace.
"Glad to see you're finally up," Richie said enthusiastically, trying to generate some reaction. "Get enough sleep?"
"Yeah, sure," Mac said quietly.
"Listen, uh, Mac, I thought we could go for a run along the river, you know? Maybe do a little practice under the bridge? How about it?"
"I don't really feel like it today, Richie, but you should," a ghost of a smile traveled across Mac's face. "You know how important it is to keep in shape."
"Yeah, well, it's easier to do *with* someone than by yourself."
Mac picked up the newspaper Richie had brought, sat on the couch and opened it up to read. "You'll have to learn to do it for yourself, Richie. There may not always be someone around to do it with."
Richie closed his eyes and swallowed his rising irritation. "Yeah, okay," he said quietly. "But, well, Joe called while you were asleep. There's a new band at the restaurant tonight, and he asked specifically if we could both be there. I promised him we would."
"Don't make promises for me, Richie!" MacLeod snapped.
Richie felt the anger coil in him like a tight spring, ready for release. All that power, within such easy reach. Richie could taste it like the sweet anticipation of ice cream on a summer's day. MacLeod would just waste it. Mr. Boy Scout would never use it like I could, Richie thought.
Mac slowly turned his eyes from the paper, an unexpected chill washing over him. Richie turned away, busily washing and putting the dishes away from his breakfast. Mac finished the paper, feeling depression weigh him down. It was not an unfamiliar feeling, but he had always been able to dispel it before, shrug it off with exercise, with work. Right now, there didn't seem to be any point. To anything. Out of habit, though, he got up, shrugged into his coat, and went out on deck. He did his daily inspection of the barge, noting some work that needed to be done, but not feeling any sense of urgency about it. His legs carried him over the gangplank and down the river, just walking, with no particular destination in mind. Richie moved up on deck and watched as Mac walked slowly away. He looked smaller than usual somehow, less intimidating. Maybe I could take him now, he thought. I'm young, strong, fast. He's taught me everything he knows and I've learned a few tricks for myself since then. Richie shook himself. No. Mac was his teacher. Mac cared about him. Mac was the last person Richie wanted to kill. Definitely the last person to kill.
Richie sat in front of Mac's laptop for awhile. He'd played solitaire and Freecell until he was bored out of his gourd. Just for amusement he snooped around a little. There was an accounting system with multiple accounts, all password protected. There were some word processing documents, and the ones he pulled up were not very interesting, many not even written in English. Then there was an address book. Hmmm. That could be interesting, Richie thought. It, too, was password protected. After a few moment's thought, he typed in "Clan", nothing. "MacLeod" -- too obvious, he decided. He typed in Mac's birthdate - 12211592 - nothing. Okay, he thought as he settled down further in his chair. This was going to be a challenge. For the next half-hour he typed in every name he could think of he had heard Mac mention from his past that might serve as a password, his frustration rising, his irritation growing. Finally, he gave up and just sat staring at the screen. That bastard. Seemed to have no weaknesses except his goody-two-shoes attitude. With a smile to himself, Richie typed in "boyscout." Nothing. Then "Richie". Nothing. "Richard". Nothing. "Redstone" - his own pseudonym. The computer screen blanked, then the menu popped up. Richie stared at it for a long minute. Then a slow, feral smile spread across his face. Duncan MacLeod's weakness, his vulnerable spot, Richie thought, is me. Now, he mused. What is the most damage I can do with this information?
Mac walked for most of the afternoon, stopping periodically to sit on park benches and watch and rest. His body kept betraying him with an aching sense of exhaustion. A lot of the time his mind was blank, simply serving as a receptor. He had an odd sense of being both completely detached, yet utterly involved. He seemed to notice everything going on around him, aware of the nuances of people's conversation, their body language, yet at the same time, he couldn't seem to take much more than an intellectual interest in the phenomenon. It was like watching a movie where he could, at will, come in for a close up, but none of the characters were real or even particularly interesting.
MacLeod sat tiredly on a bench off the Champs Elysee. From half a block away Mac watched a mother wipe away the temporary tears of a child's small hurt, seeing the quivering chin, the pouting lips, the anxious searching for parental comfort, in close detail. The mother knelt down, kissing the wound, pushing tousled hair away from the sad face, murmuring sweet words to distract, to comfort, to ease an innocent soul back into the sunshine of a carefree present and an unlimited, joyous future. The sense of intimacy, even at such a distance, was remarkable, but so was his lack of emotional response. MacLeod had always been a closet sentimentalist. He took solace in tradition, in clan, in family, even if it was only the artificial family he had created for himself. He felt curiously unmoved in his observations. That troubled him, but he couldn't think of a thing to do about it.
Methos. MacLeod felt him coming from a distance. The lean figure in the long, dark coat sauntered up, hands stuffed deep in his pockets against the cold.
"Mind if I sit down?"
Mac shrugged.
"Are you okay?"
MacLeod didn't know how to respond. He didn't know what okay meant anymore.
"I don't know."
The silence extended, but the two Immortals seemed content to let observation of the stream of life that passed along the sidewalk be sufficient occupation for awhile.
"You should have let her go, Mac. I would have dealt with her," Methos finally said.
"She didn't give me a choice." The words were quietly bitter.
"You always have a choice, Highlander! Why else do you work so hard to be the best? She wouldn't have killed you."
"You weren't there, Methos. I didn't chose to kill her!" MacLeod whispered with a sob, jerked to his feet and moved away in long strides.
"Damn you, MacLeod!" Methos muttered, following behind, stretching his long legs to catch up. He caught one of those broad shoulders and spun his friend around. "You had no right to intervene!&