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Part II: Advancing the King Part II: Advancing the King
MacLeod had slept for a few hours, but then rose, oddly restless and uneasy. His mind spun and rambled in odd, disconnected directions, still trying to reconcile emotion and energy, memory and madness. Darius' warm and generous presence permeated his thoughts, but his intelligence, his enormous power and energy created confusion and disconnection in Mac's mind, more than any Quickening he had ever taken. Against all logic, his muscles craved movement to bleed off energy that thrummed in his veins until his skin itched and burned and his muscles spasmed. He dressed in several layers of clothes, carefully swept the deck and the gangplank free of the soft, dry new fallen snow, and went for a long run along the Seine. Not surprisingly, he was the only jogger along the river on this cold, unlikely morning, and his footsteps left solitary imprints far behind him as his muscles warmed and he found a steady rhythm. The ethereal early morning light dancing in the mirrored surface of the river was heightened in intensity by its reflection in the new snow. The combination enhanced the already magical air of the City of Lights, and as he ran along the water's edge, under the old stone bridges and past the looming Cathedral of Notre Dame, Duncan felt vaguely like he was traveling in an alternate reality. Darius' presence hovered in his mind like a warm refuge after a long, difficult journey. For the moment there was no Gathering madness, no killing, no death, no grief. Only the sound of his steady footsteps and the gentle lapping of the water at the river's edge. He knew the peaceful moment was transitory, ephemeral, an illusion, which made it all the more precious, so he ran and ran until his body would run no more.
Methos sat side by side with Joe Dawson, each in isolated contemplation of their coffee while sitting on a stool in Maurice's bar.. There were a few late morning patrons sitting at tables, enjoying the excellent fare."What now, Adam?" Joe asked quietly.
"Now we wait and we watch," was the almost whispered reply.
"Exactly what are we watching for? Or is that another of your secrets?"
Methos examined his coffee cup thoughtfully. They were in uncharted waters now. Little of his five thousand years of life experience was going to provide insights into what might happen next. The Highlander, while utterly predictable in some obvious respects, in others had always been a complete wild card.
"I honestly don't know, Joe," Methos said quietly. "He has to adjust to the idea of Darius' Quickening first. I don't know what that will do for him or to him. Darius was a tough old bird with a strong personality, who had taken many, many heads in his day, including what I guess could be called a Light Quickening that altered his outlook forever. I don't think that will happen to Duncan. He's already been through his . . . crucible. But it's got to be a lot to take in, especially on the heels of taking Cassandra."
"And you think he now understands what Darius wanted?" Joe asked, trying to eke information out of the reluctant Immortal.
"I think he probably has an idea. But it's a pretty terrifying concept, I'm sure."
Joe waited, watching the deceptively young face as it remained impassive and closed. "Are you going to tell me, Methos? Or are we going to play twenty questions?" Joe finally demanded.
"I will, Joe. When the time is right," Methos said as he turned to leave.
"You're scared," Joe observed in surprise. As the pale, thin figure in the voluminous black coat opened the door, Joe called out. "Are you afraid he will chose to do it, Methos? Or scared he won't?
The oldest man paused for a moment, suddenly supernaturally still, then the door closed and he was gone.
MacLeod staggered back into the barge, dehydrated and exhausted, swallowed as much water as he could hold and fell into bed, at last sleeping for over ten hours without moving. When he finally stirred he was limp and sore from overexertion, but a high carbohydrate meal and his own remarkable healing capacity resolved that problem fairly quickly. Then he was left with his own thoughts to sort out. Darius was like a buzzing insect in his head, a small voice he couldn't quite hear, couldn't quite understand. There was a sense of mission, a sense of urgency about the presence that wouldn't let him rest or relax. It pushed him into his coat and out the door, walking.<<At this rate I'll exhaust myself before the Gathering ever reaches any climax or before I can do anything to stop it,>> Duncan thought to himself in irritation at his old mentor.
It was early evening, with dusk just beginning to steal light from the sky when he found himself back in front of St. Joseph's. There was a cold heaviness in the air, the sky gray and pregnant with moisture. He stood looking at the ancient edifice for a long time, feeling a confusingly split sense of vision. This was home, a refuge. But it was where Darius had been murdered. It was where he had lived. It was where Duncan had visited so often, one of the few places on earth where he was always assured of safety and welcome. It was too many things from too many perspectives and it made him dizzy with so many triggers of his own and Darius' feelings and memories. He closed his eyes to clear the confusion, but it only got worse and he wanted to walk away. But, under a compulsion he didn't like or understand, MacLeod entered the sanctuary, tensing, initially seeing in his mind's eye only a painful replay of Darius' death, the blood, the pain, the brutal violence. A cold shiver ran across his skin, and he touched his throat, as if to reassure himself that it was his own and not his mentor's, and that it was still intact.
But the sanctuary was quiet, peaceful, a holy place that could not sustain those evil visions for long, and Duncan sat slowly in the back of the room, gradually, gratefully letting go of his fear and anger, allowing the good memories to supplant the bad. The inside was dim, with only a little light filtering in from the high windows and flickering in gentle isolated splendor on the altar. A few worshipers came and went as Darius' voice whispered in his head, and Duncan finally stopped pushing the voice away, allowing himself to listen, forcing himself to relax into the odd sensation of another's memories and ideas flashing off his own synapses.
He closed his eyes, concentrating on picturing his mentor's face, hearing his gentle voice. Gradually his awareness of his surroundings faded and his thoughts focused tighter and tighter on one thin thread of consciousness until Darius' presence completely filled his mind. It wasn't thought, exactly, more like intent, need. Quick pictures, past, present, maybe future, flashed in his mind's eye. He was filled with Darius' certainty of purpose. Darius had been convinced the Game could be stopped, that the killing could end, and that MacLeod was the catalyst, that the Quickening was the key. Mac began to understand the outline of what Darius intended, and he was overwhelmed by the enormity of the task. He instinctively drew back, turned his head away, wanted to refuse, but Darius was there, wherever he turned, pushing him. Duncan mentally rejected the plan, certain that he was not ready, not able. Too many people had already died because of his failures, his mistakes, too many people he loved were gone, including Darius, and the thought of them closed his throat as loneliness rose up like a neglected pet, demanding attention. Duncan felt moisture on his face and opened his eyes. Tears blurred his vision and the candlelight at the altar wavered. He shook his head in disgust. Self-pity was an emotion he had never allowed in his life.
A figure knelt in the shimmering candlelight of the altar, a man. He crossed himself, stood and turned to face Duncan, walking towards him slowly. The face came into focus and without conscious thought Duncan felt himself rise to his feet, his heart pounding uncontrollably.. He knew this man. He had seen this face before -- in his vision of Darius' murder, the one wielding the sword, the one who had taken his head. The man stopped, pointing his finger at MacLeod.
"You!" he said in strongly accented guttural tones. "I know you. You're one of them, the ones who don't die!" His face contorted in anguish.
"You killed Darius!" MacLeod growled, moving inexorably toward the man, rage and remembered pain pounding in his ears. He stopped when the man laughed, hearing madness in the sound.
"I am damned, you know, for killing the priest," he said. He turned away and faced the altar. "Horton said it was the only way, but after I killed him . . . I knew he didn't really die. He couldn't die, not here!" The craggy face, with its gray stubble of beard turned back to face him.. "Then all the beheadings started, so now I have to find him and kill him again, but not here, not here. Then he won't come back." Dressed in a shabby pea coat and work pants, the big, stocky figure was muttering in Russian. "God wouldn't let him die here, you know, so I didn't really kill a priest. But Horton said he had to die, so I'll find him . . . I'll find him."
The man turned and fled into the darkness. Mac had frozen in place, caught again in a warp of vision, time and emotion, and his throat closed reflexively as he again felt the sharp bite of the sword across his/Darius' neck. In a moment, it was over. Mac grabbed the chair in front of him to steady himself, gasping, having forgotten to breathe. He looked around and the man was gone. Mac sank unsteadily into the chair, wiping his suddenly damp face. The man was mad, completely mad. He could feel the madness beat against his mind like a gray, formless thing that obscured rational thought, that connected thoughts and feelings that didn't belong together, that disconnected thoughts that did. Despite his horror and anger at what the man had done, Duncan was surprised to find that what he mostly felt was pity and remorse. His race, their existence, had been more than the man's fragile mind could process. And compounded with murder, had forced that mind into an alternate reality, a reality society would call insanity. With a small, private smile, MacLeod recognized Darius' influence in that realization, and was grateful for the priest's insight, his humanity. The man would be back, he was certain, drawn inexorably to relive his crime again and again as some kind of bizarre penance.
A few minutes, a few hours, passed, as his thoughts spun wildly between remembered vision, remembered friendship, and Darius' last, desperate plan. Finally, he sensed a figure beside him, standing, waiting, watching. He gathered the threads of his own sanity and turned. For a brief, heart stopping moment, he thought it was Darius standing there, but it was only a trick of wishful imagination and the light.
"Mr. MacLeod?" the figure whispered. The slightly pudgy, balding man was dressed in a monk's brown robes.
"Yes," he responded.
"Ah," the monk seemed pleased. "I was told you might come, and if you did, to give you this." The man pulled a plain velum envelope deep from within the folds of his sleeves and held it out. It had Duncan's name written on its face.
"Thank you," Mac murmured in surprise, but the monk had already disappeared into the shadows. He took out his pocket knife and carefully slit the envelope open.
"Father Francois, Martinez Abby, Bordeaux" was written in careful letters on the folded paper inside.
The next morning dawned bright and clear. The heavy clouds had moved away, leaving only a bright blue sky with wispy tendrils of white that seemed painted on just for contrast. The sun warmed the stones and the snow melted, leaving only dirty piles of gray slush in the shadows. Mac went up on deck and sat sipping his coffee, thinking, watching the city awaken, the joggers trotting along the river, the cars and people passing on the street above. All very normal, very mundane, very soothing. It was his move, he knew. Darius had been ominously quiet since he had let him speak' in the church. Mac could still feel him, lurking in his mind, still felt a restless energy that wouldn't be tamed.
But this . . . scheme of Darius and Methos. Really! Absurd.
Then his head snapped up automatically as he scanned the street. Another Immortal. Not Methos, because he knew Methos's presence. But . . . not a threat either. How do I know that, Mac wondered. Just then a compact figure appeared at the top of the stairs to the street, paused, then descended. Richie came to the bottom of the gangplank, hands thrust deep in his pockets, huddled into his jacket against the cold morning air.
"Hi," he looked up at his teacher. Mac was sitting on the edge of the boat dressed in a sweatsuit, hands cupped around a coffee mug. He hair was loose around his face and he looked drawn, as though he had somehow lost weight in the few days since Rich had last seen him. "Mind if I come aboard?"
"Come on in, Richie," Mac stood, waving him aboard. "I was freezing my butt off anyway. Want a cup of coffee?"
As Mac poured coffee, then stirred the fire, laying on more wood, Richie wandered around the room, picking up pictures he had seen dozens of times before, putting them down, restless, uneasy. "Uh, how're you feeling, Mac? You look okay, a little tired, maybe, but otherwise . . ." the attempt at lighthearted conversation wound down as the youngster wandered into the living area. He was dressed in his usual casual attire, jeans, tee-shirt, leather jacket. He seemed nervous and uncomfortable.
"I'm fine, Richie," MacLeod said quietly. He felt a little like someone who had a close relative die. Everybody wonders how you are affected, but nobody wants to come right out and ask the question. "I haven't grown horns or suddenly decided to dedicate my life to the poor, if that's what you're worried about."
"Yeah, well . . . nobody knew what to expect, you know? And after that business with your throat, and all . . . well it sure scared the shit outta me." The sandy haired young man finally settled on the edge of the couch, nervously leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees.
MacLeod rose and sat in the chair nearby, studying his protégé Richie Ryan had grown up a lot in the last few years. It wasn't just that he had filled out and matured physically as he honed his considerable skills as a swordsman, but he had a confidence, a more mature outlook that reflected the violence he had already encountered as a young Immortal caught up in the Gathering.
"How are *you* feeling?" Mac asked.
"Me? Oh, I'm okay. After Methos sliced me open I think I'm cured of any Gathering madness for awhile. Joe wants me to head back to the States in the next couple of days with him since things are awfully hot around here, so to speak, and it'd take me out of the line of fire. But, uh, " he hesitated, "I really don't want to leave you here with all this crap going on and you in the middle of it." He paused, but went on before Mac had a chance to respond, standing abruptly and pacing the floor. "It's just not fair, Mac! Methos has dumped all this stuff on you about stopping the Game, as though it's your responsibility, your job! Well, if he feels so strongly about it, why doesn't he do it? Hasn't he made your life miserable enough?"
"Sit down, Richie," Mac instructed quietly. And after another moment of pacing, he did. "Methos is doing what he thinks is right. Sometimes there are larger issues, and whether one person is affected or inconvenienced is less important than the bigger goal. Remember I owe Methos more than I can ever repay. But this isn't just about Methos, it's about Darius, and it's about you and Amanda and Connor MacLeod and the entire population of Immortals. I look at you sometimes and I see that hunter that wanted nothing more than to see me dead, that came after me with the only goal in mind of taking my Quickening. If I have the power to keep that from happening, Richie, it's something that I have to at least consider. Because eventually it will happen. It will happen with you, with Amanda, with all the people I care about, with everyone of us."
"But why you, Mac? It seems like every time some really ugly, nasty job needs to get done, it ends up in your lap. That business about the prophesy, the fight with the four horsemen, the whole ugly battle with the Watchers. It's just not right, Mac, and I don't want to walk out on you when Methos is trying to dump the whole Game on you."
Mac studied his lap for a minute, trying to find an appropriate response. "I don't know why me, Richie. But I've worked awfully hard for a very long time to be the very best at what I do. In a very real sense I've brought this on myself. People ask you to do things because they figure you have a better shot at success. You know the old phrase, "of those to whom much is given, much is asked," he finished.
"But you weren't given anything, Mac," Richie protested. "You sweated blood for every talent you have. You've earned that power, in spades!"
Mac shook his head slowly. "However it's acquired, power is a burden, Richie. I can't afford to shirk it or ignore it."
"No," he replied. "You could, you just won't."
There was a reluctant smile on the Highlander's face. He shook his head. "I don't know, Richie. I truly don't know. This is all new to me. Whether Methos' and Darius' plan is workable or just all delirious, wishful thinking . . . I haven't figured out yet." He reached out and put his hand on Richie's arm, "But whatever happens, whatever I decide, it means a lot to me that you're prepared to stand by me." He paused. "But not here, not now, Richie. Joe is right. The Gathering fires are burning too hot here. You are better off . . . I am better off, with you in the States." He smiled. "I know Methos is pushing me, manipulating me. It's only a question of whether I let him or not. And that is ultimately my choice, isn't it? And can that truly be called manipulation, when I know its happening and chose to allow it?" Richie frowned and gave his teacher a disgusted look. "Whatever happens, Richie, don't blame Methos. I get the feeling he's caught up in this much the same way I am -- a belief in Darius combined with a desperate desire to stop the killing once and for all. The only thing I ask or expect of you or him is to be a friend when I need one, and you've always been that."
Richie examined his coffee cup for a few minutes, working to control his emotions. He knew he had to leave, and each time they parted might be the last. Now that was more likely than ever.
"I don't trust him, Mac. I know you do, but . . . there's something about him," Richie's voice trailed off.
"He's over five thousand years old. You and I will never understand what goes on in his mind. But I'm no neophyte myself, Richie. Have a little faith that my 400 years of living have taught me a little bit, okay?" He chuckled at Richie's embarrassed look. "You and Joe and Amanda sometimes treat me like I'm a kid, call me "boy scout" just because I believe in old fashioned, outmoded things like honor and integrity. But I'm not a complete fool. I've survived this far."
"I know, I know. It's just that . . ."
"Just that what?"
"He's using you, Mac."
"You're missing my point. I know he's using me. But whatever happens, Richie, it will be my choice, not his."
"I hope so," Richie murmured uncertainly.
Mac deliberately changed the topic to get the boy's mind away from such dire thoughts, fed him and sent him on his way with assurances that all would be well. Richie, with the irrepressible optimism of the young, believed him because he wanted to believe him. But Mac watched Richie leave with a lump in his throat. The Gathering madness had struck the boy twice. Removing him to the Northwestern states might help, but would only delay the inevitable. And despite all his natural talent and hard work Richie was, as yet, too young and inexperienced to survive the final onslaught of the Game. He would die. All of his Immortal friends would die, in that last cataclysmic battle. How many mortals would also get caught up in the slaughter? A shuddering chill ran across MacLeod's back as he dressed and prepared himself to confront whatever Darius had intended him to discover at the Martinez Abby.
The monastery was a three hour drive from Paris, and even in the barren depths of a cold winter, the small, winding roads, the villages looking much as they had over 200 years before when he had traveled here by horse or carriage, were soothing to the eye and mind. He almost missed the small, battered wooden sign pointing the way down a dirt road. He took it slowly, his car rocking in the ruts created by the last thaw, finally pulling up to a two story, long stone building with several outbuildings. A tile porch roof had been added to the structure, lending it an inelegant, but utilitarian and comfortable air. As he stepped out of the car, grateful to stretch his legs after the long ride, a small, dusty brown dog of indeterminate breed greeted him enthusiastically. He knelt and petted the creature, its eyes glowing with gratitude at the attention as a plumed tail led the entire rear half of the animal in a quivering waggle."Ah, I see you've passed the first test of any visitor to the monastery," a soft tenor voice said behind him.
Duncan had heard the sandaled, shuffling steps approach and rose to his feet. The dog, determined to continue the blissful contact, put its paws on his leg, stretching up for more attention, its tongue lolling happily, wetly, out of its mouth. Duncan absently continued to scratch the animal behind the ears as he examined the cleric greeting him. "I'm not sure your friend here is very effective as a guard dog, but he's certainly enthusiastic," Duncan smiled.
The monk was a very short man with a very wizened, old face, deeply tanned by a lifetime of exposure to the sun, inset with bright, intense blue eyes. A small amount of curly white hair adorned his head, looking for all the world like a halo in the late morning sunshine. He held out his hand to his visitor. "I am Father Francois," he said with a smile. "And you are . . . ?"
"Duncan MacLeod," Mac replied, taking the small hand in his large one. The monk went very still and his face paled. "Are you all right, Father?" Mac asked after a moment of tense silence.
The monk kept Mac's hand, reaching out to hold it with both of his small ones. He turned it over, inspecting the broad, heavily callused palm, slowly nodding to himself. "He told me you would come, but . . . I guess I didn't really believe it."
Duncan silently handed him the note he had received at St. Joesph's. Father Francois took it, nodding as he looked at the contents.
"Yes," he said softly. "I sent this to the brother at St. Joseph's when I heard about the excitement there." He turned toward the porch, clutching the note to his chest, then turned back, motioning Duncan to follow.
Father Francois unlatched the ancient wooden door, pushing it open. It stuck halfway and he gave it another shove, scraping it against the old, uneven tile floor. "I've got to get that fixed," he murmured.
For some reason the remark made Duncan chuckle, and he heard himself say, "Yes, Francois, you've been saying that for almost 40 years."
The father stopped, holding himself still for a moment before he turned, peering at Duncan through small, round glasses. "Darius?" he questioned, tentatively.
MacLeod's heart rate accelerated. How could he have made such a slip? The Quickening personalities had never directly asserted themselves before, but of course, this whole situation had never happened before. He had a vague sense that Darius was laughing at him.
The priest swallowed, motioned again for Duncan to follow, taking him through a large communal dining area into a small office, roughly furnished with a battered desk, a small wooden chair, a corner prayer stool with a beautiful crucifix mounted on the wall, and a few tattered upholstered chairs arranged around a small table. A large, small-paned window overlooked an expanse of carefully tended vineyards behind the main building. A few monks, the sleeves on their long robes tied above their elbows, tended the vines, carefully pruning the gnarled and twisted stems.
"It's a little early for wine, although I feel I could use some right now. Would you care for coffee?" the old man offered.
He poured from an incongruously modern steel thermos sitting on his desk, moving to sit beside his visitor, peering curiously at him. Finally he nodded, "You know, you look exactly as he first described you so long ago."
"Father," Duncan began tentatively, "how well did you know Brother Darius?"
"I first met him when he spent some time up here on retreat back in the 1950's. I was fresh out of seminary. He seemed so serene and wise, so completely at ease with his calling. We spoke for many hours every day about what our role should be as priests. He was one of the greatest men I ever knew. I visited him at St. Joseph's from time to time over the years. What a remarkable man," his voice trailed off, his focus going inward as thought became memory.
After a few minutes of silence, the old man looked up, meeting Duncan's eyes with a soft smile. "You have learned about patience, about silence, lessons not usually known by the young. But then, you are not young, are you, Mr. MacLeod?"
"You said Brother Darius mentioned me?" Mac asked.
Father Francois nodded, sipping from his coffee, studying his guest intently over the rim of the cup. "He spoke of you with great affection and admiration. Said you were the great hope of your kind. That you had tremendous gifts, both spiritual and physical, but because of that, and because of what you are, that you were destined for a life of great grief and terrible hardship." He shook his head sadly. "He was grieved for you, wanted to help you. That, I believe," he smiled again, "is why he sent you here."
"The note?" Mac prompted.
"Ah yes. The note. Darius told me several things in my last visit to him about three and a half years ago. He said he was going to leave St. Joseph's soon and would not be back. When I got upset and asked him where he was going and when I would see him again, he didn't answer, but asked me to do him one final favor. That one day, something would happen at St. Joseph's, some sort of lightening would strike, some explosion in the middle of the night, and after that happened, you would visit the sanctuary. And I was to keep an eye out for you, and lead you here."
The old man leaned forward, once again taking Duncan's hand in his own, feeling the hard ridges along his palm where a sword had worn a groove even before he became Immortal, and made permanent after hundreds of years of use. "He instructed me to give you a trunk of his things he left with me," he said quietly, gesturing to a battered, dusty brass bound trunk topped with an accumulation of books and papers in the corner. "He said to tell you he loved you like a son. He said to tell you that whatever decision you made he had absolute faith that it would be the right one for the right reasons, and that his greatest wish was that you should have the same faith in yourself." He paused for a minute, closing his eyes, then opening them again. "He also said that you might chose to tell me."
"Tell you what?" Mac asked after a moment, his voice rough with emotion.
"That's all he said, Mr. MacLeod. But . . . in all the years I knew him, I never asked why he didn't age, why he had such odd calluses on his hands even after a half-century of a reclusive life. I knew he had lived a very long life, knew things, had seen things that were impossible to believe. And now here you are, with the same young/old look in your eyes. It even seems like I can see Darius himself there, although it seems impossible. Around Darius, though, nothing seemed impossible. I am an old man, Mr. MacLeod. I have kept Darius' secret my entire life." He sighed and leaned back. "I will understand if you cannot tell me any more, but it would be wondrous to have a small insight into one of God's greater mysteries."
Mac rose restlessly and went to the window, watching the brown robed figures move gracefully, surely, lovingly tending their dormant crop, so full of promise for the growing season to come. They repeated the cycle, year in, year out, a very real kind of immortality as their legacy passed from generation to generation.
"We are called . . . Immortals," he said quietly, hearing a small intake of breath behind him. "Darius was once a great Roman general, and had lived for over two thousand years. Compared to him, I am but a child, born over 400 years ago in the Highlands of Scotland." When he turned to face the old priest, his expression was sad. The man had a beatific expression on his face, transported at finally hearing what he had yearned to know for so long. "Don't admire us, Father, for we are not very admirable. These calluses that seemed to fascinate you are from centuries of wielding a sword. Our race has lived by a brutal rule since the beginning of time, that There Can Be Only One. One Immortal left at the end of the Game, for we have a unique capacity for cruelty to one another, and compulsively fight to the death, for the Prize of being the last of our kind, with all the power of every Immortal that ever lived."
"And Darius wanted you to win that Prize," the father whispered, his face taking on the look of horror MacLeod had known his story would generate.
Mac shook his head. "No, Father Francois, he wants me to stop the Game, to end it for all time." He turned back to the window, unwilling to watch the display of disgust he was certain the tale of his race would engender in the pious, gentle man. "There's a terrible risk, though, a terrible price to be paid for failure. I could accelerate the Gathering, the pace at which we seek out and kill one another. Darius' scheme has the potential of diminishing the power of all the truly worthy Immortals, making it more likely that one of the many cold, heartless, evil members of my sad race will end up with enough power to subjugate mortal man for eons to come. And, from a completely personal, selfish perspective, I would lose whatever opportunity I ever had for a normal life, to live in any semblance of peace." He closed his eyes against the pastoral scene outside the window. "And for so long, all I've wanted was to live in peace."
" . . . and some have greatness thrust upon them," a whispered voice said behind him. "Is there a real chance you could end this . . . Game of yours, to put an end to the killing?"
"It's never been tried. Unfortunately, many of us like the killing, get a thrill out of the Quickening, the passing of power from one Immortal to another. It becomes addictive if you're not careful. Darius thought the older ones among us, the thoughtful ones, would willingly give it up, that the cycle of violence could be broken if we all, somehow, connected with one another. He wants me to serve as that connection. But I'm afraid . . ." his voice trailed off.
"What are you afraid of, Mr. MacLeod?" the priest asked quietly.
"I have failed in so many things, Father. To fail at this would be a betrayal of all the people I care about, mortal and Immortal. I am a warrior, born and bred. That's what I am. That's what I do. This . . . this is not something I know if I can do."
"You haven't answered my question, Duncan MacLeod. Is there a real chance it could end? That eventually the killing would stop?"
"I don't know," MacLeod whispered so softly he could hardly be heard. "Is the risk worth the possibility?"
"I can't answer that question for you, my son," the monk replied. "But if the result of doing nothing is the ultimate annihilation of your race, what alternatives do you have?"
Duncan's shoulders lifted in a chuckle. "That's what Methos said."
"Methos?"
"The very oldest among us. A crafty, devious, manipulative bastard who has survived for five millennia. He offered me this as an alternative to having my friends ultimately come after me for my power, for I seem to have become the eye of the storm that is the Gathering. I am being crowded from all sides, Father Francois, and once the decision is made, the act is done, there is no going back. I will either be responsible for the downfall or the saving of my race." His large fists clenched spasmodically.
Father Francois watched the Immortal's face contort with grief and doubt, thinking that it bore a remarkable resemblance to the wonderful representations of angels by the great Renaissance painters.
"I cannot take that kind of responsibility!" MacLeod whispered harshly. "It's not up to me to decide!"
"It will have to be up to someone, won't it? Whoever it is, it will always end up being an all-too-human individual forced by talent, by time, by circumstance, into a position to chose, and that choice will resound through history. This choice has fallen to you as Darius knew it would. He felt you were up to it. If you don't believe in yourself, Mr. MacLeod, don't you believe in him?"
Mac stood for a moment, eyes closed, absorbing the old man's words, listening as they were echoed by Darius' quiet whisper in his head. The words were a lot easier to say than to believe.
He loaded Darius' old trunk into his car without looking at its contents, wanting to do that emotionally charged chore in private. Then he turned to thank Father Francois, but the old man had disappeared for a moment, returning with a bottle of wine, cradling it in his arms like a child.
"This is a bottle from our vineyard. It is almost 50 years old. I would like for you to have it," he said with a smile, offering it with a flourish.
Mac took it, reading the label. "Ah. 1953, the year you became head vintner," he smiled. "The year you ran out of oak casks because you didn't yet know how to estimate the crop, and went on a prayer vigil to convince one of your competing monasteries to provide you with extras." Their eyes met over the dusty container.
"He is in you, isn't he?" the father asked.
Mac nodded. "He loved you, too, Father. He trusted you as he trusted no other mortal." Mac grasped the monk's hand firmly. "And so do I."
The old priest's eyes overflowed with tears as he watched the remarkable man drive away, happily barked at and chased after by old Faure. It was a comfort, somehow, to know that in all likelihood, the man would carry the memory of their encounter well beyond his lifetime, and perhaps, into the end of time itself.
It was late afternoon by the time Mac got back to Paris. Moving the heavy trunk from the car to the barge was a chore that strained his back and scraped his knuckles, but both injuries were quickly healed and forgotten as he sat and looked at the dusty old box. He remembered it from Darius' quarters at the rectory, but it had been there for so long it had simply become part of the scenery, unnoticed. Part of him wanted to open it, but he was also filled with a deep dread, fearing the memories it would arouse could only bring sorrow. Having some lingering essence of Darius wandering the corridors of his brain would never be a substitute for the companionship, the wisdom, the prodding conscience and intellectual challenge the old priest had brought to his life.Not ready to face what was there, and jumpy from a day of relative inactivity, Duncan rose and left the barge, walking, but this time there wasn't the burning urgency, the need to move. This was just a remembering, sifting through the countless hours of talk and close companionship with the great spirit that had been Darius. He paused in front of St. Joseph's, his feet once again leading him back to the familiar spot. He stepped inside this time with a feeling of homecoming. He sat in the back, thinking about how he had been brought up Catholic in a superstitious time, a time when magic and faith and God were all bound up in and a part of daily life. While the centuries had worn away the superstition, MacLeod still had a core of faith. He wasn't certain whether that faith was in God as some all-powerful, all-seeing deity, but perhaps more in the ultimate decency of man. After all, if there was a core of spiritual goodness in the essence of humanity, didn't that argue that there was someone, something, connecting them all?
But what about him? Was he still really human? He fought very hard to keep what he believed to be his humanity intact, but it had been sorely tested recently. Darius had never seen him during the Dark Quickening, had not known the depths of evil of which he was capable. The inner turmoil that came with the decision he still had to make disturbed the hard won, momentary sense of peace.
The church was dimly lit, the dusk having turned into night, as Mac's head jerked up, and he realized he had nodded off, the long days and nights of ceaseless activity finally catching up with him. He rose to his feet slowly, stretching stiffened and numbed muscles.
He stood in the small garden outside letting the cold night air clear his mind, when a prickling at the back of his neck warned him that he was being watched by hostile eyes. He caught a slight flicker out of the corner of his eye and casually turned and walked slowly towards the area where he had seen the movement. The figure stepped out from the shadow of a large tree, and in a quick move, slashed lethally downward toward MacLeod's throat. Mac caught the man's wrist and twisted it, forcing the hand to let go of the blade as he kicked the man's legs out from underneath him, pinning him to the ground. "Who are you?" Mac asked him. The man struggled vainly against MacLeod's hold, and Mac repeated the question in Russian, and saw understanding in the now-familiar, craggy, weather-beaten face.
He heard a shout behind him, running footsteps and calls for help. He and the stranger shared an angry, bitter look until Mac allowed the man to connect with a hard swing from his left hand. Mac let loose of his hold as he took the fall and the figure disappeared down a dark path through the church grounds in an obviously pre-planned escape route. He quickly tucked the blade the man had dropped into his coat, and rose to his feet as a solicitous gendarme reached his side.
He answered a few questions about his "attempted mugging," gave an inaccurate description and declined to file charges, frustrating the policeman, but managing to extricate himself with as little explanation as possible.
His anger had surged with his adrenaline during the attack, and his long, quick strides took him quickly back towards the barge. Frustration, indecision, grief, anger balled up inside him into a tight knot. The man had killed Darius, for God's sake, murdered him on holy ground for the sole reason that he was an Immortal, and was now out to kill him. Yet, annoyingly, Darius' sense' kept whispering to him to forgive, to exercise compassion. Why should he have compassion for such a monster, he asked the voice in his head, not knowing anymore whether he was arguing with himself or Darius. People passing on the street looked at him oddly, and he realized he was muttering to himself.
The argument continued well into the night, robbing him once again of sleep. The next morning he reached for his katana to give it its regular cleaning. That duty was more meditation than chore, and he needed to ease his mind, but started when he felt the other blade stored within the folds of his coat.
He pulled it out, inspecting it in the morning light, and found himself smiling at the beauty of the workmanship, and at the memory it evoked.
The short blade rested in a jeweled halberd at Ahmad's right, while the long scimitar was tucked at his left in the broad sash that was the mark of his office. Ahmad had served the Sultan for over 50 years and had learned the discipline necessary to stand quietly, ignoring the heat, maintaining absolute vigilance just inside the sultan's door. He was trusted to see and hear everything that went on, to react instantaneously to any threat. But this one, this visitor, was different. He was an infidel, and he was an Immortal like himself. They had shared looks as they felt each other's presence, and the visitor's gaze had met his several times during the multi-course meal the sultan had offered. From the conversations he overheard, the man was an honored messenger from an Indian prince, a possible economic ally. But there was no way to know if this man would eventually seek combat, or whether their skills were comparable. He conducted himself with a dignity and an understanding of custom unusual for an infidel, and moved with grace and control. Ahmad suspected they would be closely matched.As the long dinner finally ended and the Immortal the Sultan had called MacLeod made an appropriate exit, their eyes met. MacLeod nodded carefully, eyes motioning subtly toward the garden. With the dinner over, it was a simple matter to see the Sultan to his quarters and escape to the coolness of the small, private oasis the Sultan maintained inside the palace walls.
The other Immortal's presence was strong as he entered, but he hadn't anticipated the dark figure's sudden appearance directly in front of him. It took him by surprise and he quickly drew his short sword in defense.
"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," the man said. He had not drawn his weapon, and he carefully touched his breast and forehead in formal greeting. "I have not come for your head."
Ahmad stood for a moment, not entirely trusting the man but his instincts told him there was no threat here. Finally, he slipped the small sword back into its scabbard and returned the greeting. "Ahmad Abrahim bin Shalah," he responded in greeting. "I seek not battles without just cause, Duncan MacLeod. There are enough of them to be found elsewhere."
They walked in the garden all night, talking. For each of them it was a release, a pleasure not to hide their history, to lie, to pretend. MacLeod was a hundred years older than Ahmad, he learned, and had studied swordsmanship all over the world. He allowed Ahmad to examine his sword given to him by a mortal sword master in the Far East, beyond the land of the Mongols. As dawn broke the deep desert darkness, Ahmad showed MacLeod his own fine blades, and asked, hesitantly, if MacLeod could teach him some of what he had learned.
"Ah, Ahmad, it would be a privilege to do so, but I must leave today for India. I am afraid I will sleep on my horse as it is, but tonight has been a great pleasure. While none of us knows when, there is a likelihood we will meet again. If you still desire or need my small knowledge then, I will be happy to teach you," MacLeod made formal obeisance and they clasped forearms in friendship before the infidel Immortal disappeared into the palace.
He sat on the couch for a long time thinking about the centuries-old encounter. He had yet to meet up with Ahmad again. Hadn't heard anything about him. The very fact that the sword was no longer in his possession was a bad sign. Mac hesitated for a moment, but then reached for the phone.Without giving Joe time to ask any personal questions, Mac described the weapon and the owner he remembered, and asked Joe to check Watcher archives to see if they knew where the blade ended up.
"What's this about, Mac?" Joe asked gruffly.
"It's about Darius," Mac replied, then described the man he had seen in the sanctuary. "He's the one who killed him, Joe. And last night he tried to kill me. He's one of yours."
There was a long pause on the other end. They were both wary of using Watcher information for Mac's personal business. It violated all the rules, but this wasn't just personal. This was a rogue Watcher who had been part of a heinous plot that almost brought about an inter-racial war.
"I'll see what I can find out, Mac," Joe finally said. "How are you, by the way?"
"I'm fine, Joe. Just fine. Call me as soon as you learn anything." Without giving Dawson any time to probe further, MacLeod severed the connection.
Mac cleaned and oiled both blades, then carefully wrapped and stored Ahmad's with his other spare blades, all the while studiously ignoring the big trunk sitting in the middle of his floor. He then did his daily inspection of the barge, noted some non-urgent repairs, stretched out, did his katas, took a shower, then finally sat, having used up more than half the day, having run out of all excuses to avoid it, looking at the dusty container.
He took a deep breath and rose to pour himself a glass of Father Francois' fine wine. He sat, sipping the wine and contemplating the trunk for several minutes before he could bring himself to open it. The hasp was stiff with dust and old rust, and he finally had to get his toolbox, using a chisel and hammer to pry the ancient trunk open.
Inside, lying on top of a stack of leather-bound books, was an envelope, looking like it had been put there yesterday. His name was printed on it in Darius' spidery hand. It took a lot for Mac to reach out, touch the paper, turn it over carefully in his hands, and lift the flap, finding several folded pages inside. He slowly opened them, his throat closing as he saw the papers filled with Darius' familiar writing.
My Dear Duncan,Duncan swallowed, wiping the tears away that had traced a path down both sides of his face. He carefully folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. His breath would not come evenly as he felt Darius presence so strongly it was as though the very air was thick with the underlying aroma of old candlewax and incense that had pervaded the priest's quarters. He put the letter back on top of the books and carefully closed the trunk, too shaken to open any of the journals.It feels particularly strange to be writing this, hopeful that someday you will read it with me looking over your shoulder, metaphysically speaking. There are several things I want to say to you which may not be possible to convey any other way available to me now, assuming you have, as I pray you will, found your way to my Quickening. I am certain the experience was deeply painful, but I have always had a great belief in your remarkable strength to absorb all that life has and will thrust upon you.
First, this trunk contains my personal journals which you may do with as you wish, including giving them to the Watchers, as I am sure by now that you have discovered their existence. They are an interesting organization of interesting people. They provide a unique opportunity for you to form mortal friendships without pretense, without the necessity to lie about who and what you are. I hope you can take advantage of that since, unlike most of our race of obsessively solitary individuals, you have always wanted and needed a clan' around you.
Which brings me to my next point. By now you know about my greatest dream, to end the Game. Methos and I have talked of little else the past few years. He thinks me mad, but I know this is possible. You will doubt the plan, you will doubt yourself, you will certainly doubt Methos, and you may even doubt me. But I keep thinking of Grace, of what she could achieve if she wasn't forced to hide in the shadows, fearing discovery by one of us. Or Marcus Constantine, such a great teacher with so much knowledge and wisdom to impart. Or even Methos. What would he have become, what might he become yet, if given the opportunity to be something other than the ultimate survivor? We should be the teachers, the doctors, the mediators, to the world. Instead we kill, we hide, we turn inward, thinking only of survival.
You are asking why this is asked of you, I am sure. You are unique among us. It is not that you are wisest, although you are wise. It is not that you are the strongest, although you well may be. For while wisdom and strength is needed, what is most critical is trust. You have a great capacity for trust, Duncan, and as a result others trust you, and that is what makes all of this possible. You also have a gift, as yet unrealized at the time I write this, but undoubtedly manifesting itself now. I know you will resist its use as it goes against your nature, but you must trust yourself to use it wisely. I hope my own influence can guide you, and I ask you in this to trust me. Above all, you cannot do this alone, despite your penchant for heroics. The greatest danger is that in your zeal to make this work for everyone else, you lose some essential part of yourself. That cannot be borne. Which leads me to my last point.
Methos. He knows what needs to be done and can help you as no other can. He has promised me that he will look after you, help you, counsel you. But I knew he would do that even before I extracted that promise. He was fascinated by your Chronicles, riveted by the tale of a life and character so different from his own, yet so alike in some ways that even he refuses to admit. Be patient with him, learn from him, listen to him. You need him, his experience, his knowledge and, yes, even a little of his cynicism. But he also needs you, possibly even more. He needs your capacity to feel, to care, to become involved in the lives of those around him. He needs to learn to trust, a lesson you are uniquely qualified to teach. I have a feeling the two of you are destined for wondrous things.
Be well, Duncan. I am not your father and cannot completely repair the hurt he inflicted so long ago when he turned his face from you, but I have long thought of you as my son. Know that I love you and, whatever path you chose, that love is constant and forever.
Darius
The night was well gone, and Father Francois' wine gone as well when the phone rang, startling Duncan out of a reverie that wasn't quite a dream. He answered the phone on the second ring.
"Don't you ever sleep, Mac?" It was Joe Dawson's rough mid-western twang. "It must be about 3 am there."
"If you know that, then why are you calling me at 3 am, Joe?" Mac replied with a smile. "You Watchers now resorting to bed checks?"
"Yeah, right. In your case, that would be a full time job," Dawson smirked.
"Now, now, Joe. Be polite," Mac chided his mortal friend before asking after Richie.
"He's okay, I guess. He has good days and bad, but when he's not in proximity to someone who is as tempting a target as you are, he seems to have himself under control."
Finally, Mac asked the question he was most concerned with. "Did you find something out about the blade?"
The small sword, Joe reported, had been in the Watcher archives since 1924, when it had been taken off the body of Ahmad Abrahim bin Shalah, who had been beheaded by Xavier St. Cloud. No one knew when it had disappeared since they hadn't even known it was missing until MacLeod asked about it.
"What about the Russian?" Mac asked, forcing aside his reaction to the news of Ahmad's death.
"His name is Vasily Chenkov. He was a Watcher for over 30 years, mostly in the Soviet Union. Our organization there is not as tight, as disciplined, as it is in the west, and apparently they don't screen Watchers as carefully. Chenkov was, evidently, always a little, well, weird." Joe reported.
"Dawson, by definition, all Watchers are a little weird, and the discipline of your western organization wasn't so hot either," Mac said, his voice tight with old bitterness.
There was a pause at the other end of the line. "I guess I deserved that," Joe said softly. After another few seconds he went on. "Anyway, Chenkov was recruited by Horton after he had jumped ship off a Soviet freighter just before the Berlin wall came down. Since Horton's organization collapsed, he's been working various freighters out of Paris and Madrid. I've got an address, but I doubt that it's still good." He gave MacLeod the information, then asked again when Mac was coming back to the States. "Adam is getting very antsy about what you are going to decide, Mac."
"Methos specializes in trying to run my life, Joe. I'll deal with this in my own way and in my own time," Mac replied.
"That's what I keep telling him. Anyway, just thought I'd pass that along. You think Chenkov is now hunting you?" Joe sounded anxious.
"I don't know for sure, Joe, but I need to find him. The man needs help." MacLeod responded.
"He killed Darius, Mac! And he knows too much. He'd go blabbing about Immortals and Watchers and then where would we be?" Joe sounded grim.
Mac sighed. "I said I don't know what I'll do, Joe. Leave this to me. He can't hurt us. No one would believe him anyway."
"Even so, I'm letting the Western European branch know we've got a rogue Watcher on the loose. If you need any help with this one, let me know," Joe said.
"Joe, don't do that. You don't know what they'll do, and they might do something stupid. This man is not responsible. Let me handle it!" Mac insisted.
"Mac, he's one of ours. You're not the only one affected by this," Joe responded stubbornly.
"Dammit, I don't trust them. They view life too cheaply and kill too easily! You should know by now that not all Watchers are like you, Joe." MacLeod said grimly. "Listen, you tell them to stay the hell out of my way. I don't know who the new people are at the top here in Europe and I don't want to know, but they should realize by now that I'm not to be trifled with."
Joe chuckled humorlessly. "Yeah, they know that, for sure. I think I can safely say that they have no desire to get on your shit list again."
After the call, Mac sat sadly contemplating his memory of the dignified Arab he had spent time with so long ago. It had taken far too long for him to see to it that Xavier St. Cloud was held accountable for his deeds. But even more troubling was the possibility that he was in a race with the local Watchers to find Chenkov. If they found him first, they would probably kill him to ensure his silence, even though it was unlikely that anyone would ever take his stories of Immortals and Watchers seriously. As dawn leaked sunlight over the city he was finishing a simple breakfast and preparing to start his search when he felt the distinctive mental tug that warned him that the Oldest Immortal was near. By the time he had poured an extra cup of coffee and put another piece of toast in the toaster, Methos' lean form had appeared, invited himself in and unceremoniously shed his coat. He sat and sipped at the coffee, looking balefully over its rim at the Scot. He looked like day-old bread, slightly deflated and shopworn.
"And a top o the mornin' to you, too," Duncan finally said with a small smile. Methos hated to be out this early in the day.
"mmm," Methos said, sipping his coffee.
"And what brings the Oldest Man to me?" Duncan inquired, evoking the first time Methos had sought out the Highlander after their tumultuous initial meeting.
Methos carefully put down the cup, inspecting it as though it held some hidden secret message. "Have you made your peace with Darius yet?" he asked quietly.
"I'm working on it," Duncan replied.
"Duncan . . ." Methos started, but MacLeod was getting up, putting dishes away, reaching for his coat.
"Mac! Wait, where are you going?"
"To find a Watcher."
"You mean that guy Joe says killed Darius?" Methos eyes grew cold and hard. "Can I come along?"
"I'm not doing this to kill him, Methos," Duncan said sternly.
"Then why do it at all?"
"Because he's dangerous, insane. He's got to be stopped."
"So you're going to stop him? With what, the power of your irresistible charm? Why not let the Watchers take care of it? Since when is it your responsibility?" Methos sounded genuinely perplexed.
"Methos," Duncan said quietly, "he's gone insane because of the very notion of what we are, what we do. Of course we have a responsibility to try to help him, or at least try to prevent him from hurting anyone else. The Watchers will shoot first and talk later. Maybe if I get to him before they do, nobody else will have to die."
Methos shrugged. "You get the strangest ideas sometimes, MacLeod," he said, as Mac shrugged into his coat. He rose, swallowing the last of his coffee, and reached for his own coat.
"Where are you going?" Duncan asked.
"With you."
Duncan closed his eyes as a give me patience' look crossed his face, then they both headed out the door.
The address Joe had given him was unusable, but a trip to the docks uncovered a recent ship assignment. The ship had docked in Le Havre the previous week, so they drove down to meet it.
Duncan was careful as he strolled down by the docks, keeping his face down, wary of being recognized. He had passed through here during the worst days of the Dark Quickening, stirring up violence and mayhem in his path. He had finally been shot down after brutalizing his ship's captain and nearly raping the man's lovely young wife. His memory replayed the ugly scenes over and over in his mind, and he had to concentrate to push aside the guilt and regret. Methos seemed unperturbed as he sauntered alongside with the air of a student on holiday, leaving his companion alone with his dark thoughts. Mac stopped at the water's edge, looking out over the pastel colors of the lovely town, preoccupied with his regrets. Methos watched the Highlander for a minute, sensing that, for the moment, MacLeod could use help in his search. And, with a readjustment of his shoulders and a buttoning of his trench coat, the slouching graduate student suddenly became the upper class lawyer who convinced Chenkov's captain that the man needed to be contacted to let him know an uncle had died back in St. Petersburg and left him some money.
As they headed back toward Paris in silence, MacLeod turned off onto a side road outside Le Havre. The road led along a half mile stretch of giant old trees, lined up in rows on each side, creating a sense of isolation, of protection from all the evils of the world as it let up to a large old stone chateau. Methos waited in the car as MacLeod got out, standing among the fallen leaves. It had been winter then, too, when he had come here in his darkest hour to Sean Burns, a gentle soul whose only interest was in healing injured minds and hearts. He could sense Sean's presence, in himself and in that place. This was where he had committed murder, the murder of a dear friend, a man who had reached out to help him. Nothing could ever feel so horrible as the gnawing knowledge of that inexcusable crime. He had lost loved ones through accident, old age, neglect, mistakes, bad judgment. He had killed at times when, if he had known then what he knew now, he would have walked away. Those memories, those events, haunted him. But Sean . . . taking the Quickening of that gentle man, was the supreme moment of ignominy of his life. It had changed him, changed his view of himself. The Darkness was still there, still inside him just out of reach, but always near. In a way, he mused, that nearness comforted him, as though knowing exactly where his enemy was, what he looked like, how he thought, was a defense against him. It was a great irony that in 400 years, his most fearsome foe was . . . himself.
As he leaned against the car, listening to the cold wind move the dried leaves around, he realized he was moving towards a decision. He owed Sean something. He owed himself something in redemption for what he had done. He didn't know if Darius' and Methos' plan was viable, or if he was capable of carrying it out, but he was going to have to at least seriously consider it.
"You okay?" Methos asked as he got back into the car.
Duncan sat for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, staring at the chateau. "Why do you think this is possible, Methos? I mean, it sounds so ridiculous. Why would enough Immortals agree to stop the fighting in order to end the Game? Just because we asked them?"
"Trust, Duncan," Methos answered quietly. "Trust and desire. We all want to stop, MacLeod. Nobody talks about it because it has always seemed like a fool's dream. Remember that guy who went around pretending to be me, preaching that we should all just stop fighting? He had convinced a lot of Immortals to put down their sword, simply out of their intense desire, their need, to stop the killing. But it can't happen in a vacuum, MacLeod. There needs to be a safety valve. You're that safety valve, Duncan. You are the only one among us who would trust *us* enough to make yourself as vulnerable as Darius' plan requires. And it's possible because they trust you. You have a long history and reputation for an almost naive honesty. You are the only one among us who is known to have conquered a Dark Quickening. Even the Immortals who aren't necessarily your friends believe in your fairness and integrity. Darius believed that there are enough of them to start what he called a Community, a group of Immortals who would agree not to hunt, and who would only kill if absolutely necessary to protect themselves. And through the commitment to each other, the sense of connection you would provide, the urge to hunt, to kill, would be eliminated."
"But you have no idea if this would work. You have no idea whether this . . . connection would do anything other than make them more vulnerable!"
"But it's their choice, MacLeod. They don't have to agree."
"No, Methos. My choice. I don't have to agree either. Even in the unlikely event that enough Immortals agreed, and in the more unlikely event that this . . . bizarre scheme worked, not only would I have no chance of a life, a real life, but who would be crazy enough to give me that kind of power?"
"I can't make the decision for you, Duncan," Methos said. His face was distant, as though his thoughts were elsewhere, or wanted to be. "But . . . I promised Darius that I would try to convince you. And that if you agreed, I would do whatever was necessary to make it happen." The words stood as testament and accusation. The two men shared a long look before Duncan started the car and drove back down the long, tree-lined road.
To Methos' annoyance, Duncan had taken a circuitous route from and back to Paris, watching the roads carefully to see if he had been followed. He wound through the back streets of Paris, finally parking his car and walking aimlessly, checking the faces behind him frequently in windows and mirrors. Finally, when he was certain there were no Watchers following, he found the small, rundown rooming house Chenkov had left as an address.When there was no answer to his knock, he easily picked the lock, vowing never to let Amanda know how he had so blithely used the skills she had taught him. The dingy room was sad, decrepit, strewn with dirty clothes and old carry-out food containers. There was, however, a crucifix mounted on each of the four walls. Methos, using only two fingers, daintily picked through the crumpled newspapers which were scattered over the bed and onto a small table near the window. As MacLeod searched through the nearly empty dresser drawers and a small nightstand, Methos handed him one paper that had been carefully folded and placed in the middle of the bed.
"Somebody you know?" he asked.
The page was open to the arts section, showing an article on the opening of a new production at the Paris Opera featuring Placido Domingo. Duncan carefully read through the article, but found nothing that triggered any recognition or concern. He shrugged and lay the paper aside.
"There's nothing here," he sighed in frustration, taking one last look around and getting ready to leave, when he stopped and grabbed the paper again.
"Wait a minute," he murmured, recognizing a connection. Next to the article in relatively small type was ad for a piano recital series featuring a number of rising artists. Third on the list was Claudia Jardin. "Claudia," Duncan whispered. "He's after Claudia." He was out the door in two steps, with Methos following on his heels, asking what the excitement was about."
"Wait a minute, MacLeod!" he called, piling into the car and barely managing to close the door before it squealed away from the curb. "If this guy is really out to kill again, why don't you call the police? He's mortal, after all. Let them handle it! We could probably set it up so that all the recent beheadings will get blamed on him and it will take some of the heat off of us and the Watchers. They'll just think he's nuts anyway."
"Dammit, Methos, don't you ever listen?" MacLeod growled. "They'll go in there, guns blazing, and more people could die. I have a chance to help him, to stop the killing! Why else have I been given this talent if not to do something like this? Otherwise it's all just self-serving bullshit!"
"No, MacLeod. It's survival."
"Well that's where you and I part company, old man. After 400 years, my life has to be about something more than just survival!"
Mac knew where Claudia usually stayed when she came to Paris in an exclusive private hotel that catered to artists. He wound recklessly through the streets of the left bank, but traffic got heavier and heavier, until it came to a complete halt, with cars blasting their horns in a cacophony of frustration. Giving up any further effort to drive, Mac pulled up on a sidewalk and parking illegally. He ran, with Methos three unhappy strides behind, running straight into a police roadblock.
Emergency vehicles with their blue flashing lights crowded the pavement, and as MacLeod got close, he spotted Claudia, looking beautiful, as usual, her mocha colored skin glowing and long, wildly kinky hair blowing exotically in the cold wind. Next to her was Inspector Paul LeBruin talking intently into a headset. He and LeBruin had encountered each other a number of times over the years, and Mac knew LeBruin was suspicious at the Scotsman's frequent involvement in the oddest of his cases. As Mac started toward the inspector, Methos grabbed his arm and pulled him into an alley, shoving him hard up against the wall.
"Mac, stop this! The police are already here. You can't do anything now." His face was set, angry, determined, but the brown eyes meeting his could have served as a visual Webster's definition of intractable.
Mac carefully, forcefully removed Methos' hands from his lapels and turned away, walking quickly towards LeBruin through the police barricade. A gendarme stopped him when he tried to approach, but MacLeod shouted to get Claudia and LeBruin's attention, and the Inspector waived him past the barriers. Claudia moved into his arms, her large, dark eyes brimming with a mixture of anger and fear.
"He tried to kill me, Duncan! He had a sword!" she said stridently. Then she whispered, "and I didn't even feel him coming. He's a mortal." In a more normal tone, she continued, ranting, as she was wont to do, about the lack of personal security the hotel had provided, the police had provided, about why Duncan hadn't visited her as soon as she had come into town, and on and on.
Duncan extracted himself from her firm grip, turning to LeBruin, meeting a cynical and suspicious look from the tall, balding policeman.
"Well, well, Monsieur MacLeod. Why am I not surprised. What are you doing here? Do you know something about this?" LeBruin demanded.
"I am a friend of Claudia Jardin, Inspector. Her sponsor, actually," MacLeod replied. "Have you caught the man?"
LeBruin gestured with his head. "We've got him cornered on the roof, and I've called in the Swat Team. He's not going anywhere. He's up there waiving that sword around, shouting in Russian. We're trying to talk to him, but he doesn't seem to understand French or English very well. I'm waiting for a Russian translator."
"I speak Russian, Inspector," Duncan said softly.
"Sorry, MacLeod, this is official police business," LeBruin said curtly, turning away as a policewoman tried to get his attention, reporting that the Swat Team was moving into place.
MacLeod stepped close to LeBruin and said quietly. "Look, Paul, time is critical. If the man is sick, then everything he has done is because he is mentally ill. You need a translator, you need someone who can speak Russian. Let me talk to him. Maybe I can bring him in without anyone getting hurt." Their eyes met. The sheer force of MacLeod's energy and personality washed against LeBruin. "Paul, you know I can protect myself, that I'm not in any serious danger from this poor bastard. Please, let's not get anyone else hurt!" MacLeod chose his words and his tone carefully, bringing the intensity and persuasive power of his voice and his words to a level that riveted his listener.
LeBruin looked long and hard into MacLeod's face. The man was not a policeman, was not directly involved in this incident, and yet here he was, arguing that he should let this civilian intervene in an explosive situation. It was absurd. Even as the multitude of objections formed in his mind, he found himself nodding, instructing the uniformed police around him to let MacLeod through the lines. As he did, he stopped, listening to the reports coming through on his radio. He followed the leather-clad figure into the building, instructing MacLeod that the man had been spotted on the rooftop and appeared to have no escape route. They made their way through the building and up the stairs. LeBruin and MacLeod pushed past the armor suited men and women leading up to the roof exit, and found a big, burly sergeant at the top, ready to lead an assault.
"Who are you?" he demanded, then turned an angry look to LeBruin. "With all due respect, Inspector, he does not belong here!"
"Sergeant, we need a translator. This is Duncan MacLeod. He can take care of himself and has volunteered to talk to the man." LeBruin's expression seemed to reflect some distraction or confusion, but he was determined, nonetheless.
"It will be all right, Sergeant," MacLeod said softly. "No one needs to die here today. I just need to talk to him."
The Sergeant looked long and hard into MacLeod's chiseled features. His voice was soft, urgent, persuasive. He shook his head, feeling like he somehow was being prevented from thinking clearly. But he had been given a direct order by the Inspector.
"All right then, but we will move in right behind you. We have snipers and people watching from the surrounding rooftops. If I think anyone is in danger, we shoot," the big man said sternly.
MacLeod nodded. He stood by the rooftop exit door for a moment, eyes closed, extending his senses as far as he could. He knew, without knowing how he knew, that Chenkov was pacing along the north edge of the rooftop, about thirty yards from the door, and that he was alone.. Finally, he took a deep breath, opened the door and stepped out. All he could see at first was the tar paper roof, a few tall air conditioning vents poking out periodically, with a surrounding landscape of city rooftops with similar features. The sky was gray and overcast and his breath fogged in the cold winter air. He could sense the police presence poised behind him, but he stayed in the doorway, blocking anyone else from coming out. He suddenly realized Methos was there, as well, and Mac almost smiled. The man had a gift for disappearing in any crowd. He had managed to follow him all the way up here without being challenged.
Finally, he saw Chenkov silhouetted against the gray sky, pacing along the roof's edge. He had a machete-like blade in one hand and kept his other in his coat pocket. MacLeod spoke back over his shoulder.
"He is about 30 yards to the north, near the edge. You can come and watch at the door, but don't come out unless I signal." With those instructions, he stepped away from the door, walking slowly toward the stocky, agitated figure.
He deliberately walked heavily so Chenkov could hear him. The man swirled around, holding the sword defensively, then stopped in shock as he saw who was behind him.
"Vasily, do you know who I am?" MacLeod asked in Russian.
The big man's smile was a fissure in his craggy face. "Oh, yes, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Every Watcher knows who you are." He gripped the long knife convulsively in his right hand as he paced back and forth over the rooftop.
"Why are you here, Vasily?" MacLeod asked quietly.
"I . . . I am here to . . . I am supposed to kill them. Kill you. Kill you all," he said hesitantly, his eyes darting around the broad expanse of rooftop, never focusing on any one object or person.
"Why?"
"You are an abomination. Horton says only man should rule the earth. That you and your kind want to dominate us," Vasily blurted.
"You were a Watcher for 30 years, Vasily." MacLeod said gently. "You know some of us are good, some bad, but that we have our own existence, our own battles. They have nothing to do with you. If you do know me, then you know I do not kill unless forced to, either our kind or yours. Most of all, you know Darius was the best among us, a priest who had vowed never to kill again, never to leave holy ground. I don't believe you are a bad man, Vasily. I think Horton poisoned your mind, made you break your oath not to interfere. I think when you killed Darius you knew it was wrong, and something in you snapped." MacLeod slowly edged closer to Chenkov, speaking in a soft, compelling tone, careful not to step over the line into actual mental coercion, certain that Chenkov's fragile emotional balance would react badly to that kind of pressure.
Vasily stiffened at MacLeod's words. "But he didn't really die!" he insisted. "There shouldn't have been a Quickening, but there was! It . . . it . . . I can't describe it. It was as though he occupied the very walls of the church!" The Russian waived his arms and swung around, remembering. "It was my punishment, you see. I kept hearing his voice. I kept going back to the sanctuary because I felt him there, knew he was still alive. I believed, I almost hoped he had come back, the way your kind always come back. I wanted . . . I wanted him to know I was sorry. Darius was . . . like a saint. " Vasily's face grew hard and mean. "Then when all the beheadings started, I decided it must be a trick. He had come back like you all do, come to find me, to punish me. So, I started looking again, for your kind. I . . . I don't know if I could have killed the woman. She wasn't even carrying a sword. I frightened her so. I . . . never really wanted to frighten anyone. . . ," he moved closer, looking closely into MacLeod's face.
"No, Vasily. You never wanted to kill anyone.." Duncan's voice changed subtly in pitch, tone and accent. "Horton was the one who wanted to kill. You want, you need, to be forgiven. You see, Vasily," he put his hand gently on the tormented man's shoulder, "It is always possible to forgive. Darius forgives you. Now you need to forgive yourself."
They stood for a long moment. Vasily looked into MacLeod's face and saw the light, gentle eyes of Darius staring back at him. Tears formed in the Russian's eyes and he had to turn away. "How can I forgive myself? I failed Horton. I failed the Watchers. I failed you. I failed God. How can you say this to me, after what I have done?" he cried.
"Because one of the benefits of our long lives, Vasily, is that we have the time to learn from our mistakes, even if we have to learn it the hard way. Life is always better than death, forgiveness always more healing than vengeance. The hardest person to forgive," MacLeod/Darius said softly, "is always ourselves."
MacLeod carefully reached over and took the machete from the Russian's hand. Vasily stood staring off into the gray, winter sky over the rooftops of Paris. He huddled in his shabby coat as MacLeod waited patiently for him to deal with his personal demons. Finally, Vasily turned back to MacLeod. His eyes were bright with tears, and MacLeod felt self-hatred running deep and dark within the man. The Russian's hand left his pocket, raising a .45 automatic, and Mac knew he intended to use the gun -- on himself. The next events happened in the span of a few seconds, but seemed to take forever. Mac reached for the gun as a distant popping noise echoed across the rooftops. Vasily lurched forward into his arms at the same instant MacLeod felt something slam explosively into his chest, forcing the breath from his lungs. He stumbled, cradling Vasily's body as he fell. MacLeod struggled to breathe even while he turned the Russian on his back. A hideous wound mutilated the man's chest and, as Mac turned to the police massed behind him and shouted breathlessly for a doctor, the light faded from Vasily's eyes.
Then Methos was there, pulling him to his feet, dragging him back. Mac's legs would have given out but for the hidden strength of the Oldest Immortal. He fought for breath, feeling blood spread across his sweater, knowing it was a combination of Vasily's and his own, that the bullet that had killed Vasily had gone through and penetrated his chest. The wound was shallow, but large, bloody and painful. Not immediately fatal, but close to it.
"You bloody idiot!" Methos whispered, buttoning Mac's coat closed as he leaned him up against an air conditioning vent, trying to keep the Highlander on his feet.
LeBruin and the Sergeant knelt by Chenkov's body, briefly trying CPR before the paramedics rushed through the rooftop door. They waited for a moment until it was clear the man was dead before turning away, but those few precious minutes had given MacLeod's body an opportunity to begin healing, so he could almost stand up straight, although Methos kept a firm grip on his elbow.
"Are you all right?" LeBruin finally asked, seeking him out as the paramedics were carrying the Russian's body away.
"Why did you have to kill him?" Mac demanded, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. "He had given me the sword. The only person he was going to hurt was himself! You know I was never in danger from him!"
"I'm sorry, MacLeod," LeBruin said sadly. "The sharpshooter was across the street on another rooftop. He saw the man take out a gun and point it at you." LeBruin asked again, "Are you okay?" He reached over to try to tug at the top of MacLeod's coat, where blood could be seen on the white sweater beneath. "It looked like the bullet went all the way through the man's chest."
"If I had been shot, do you think I would be standing here talking to you?" MacLeod asked with a pale, grim smile. Methos once again had managed to disappear into crowd milling around the rooftop.
"What did he say? Did he tell you why?" LeBruin asked, following MacLeod as he made his way carefully down the building's stairs, brushing past police and medical personnel.
"He was mad," Duncan said. "But he wouldn't have killed anyone, unless it was to kill himself. You didn't need to shoot him," Duncan repeated bitterly. "He was rambling, incoherent. I was just trying to calm him, to get him to give up the weapon. He didn't really make any sense." As they reached the street, Mac had to stop to catch his breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Claudia rush up to embrace him, but she was stopped by Methos, who took her aside, speaking to her quietly.
"MacLeod, I'm afraid I must insist that you come with me downtown and give a statement," LeBruin demanded.
Mac looked up at the sky, now beginning to shower ice pellets on them. He had to get away from here. Now. "He said nothing of interest, Inspector. You don't need to take my statement." He said it slowly, forcefully, finally, deliberately, opening his mind to LeBruin's, using the power lying dormant within him, knowing it would cost him physically and emotionally, then turned and walked away.
LeBruin stood watching MacLeod disappear around the corner, doing nothing to stop him, seething with frustration.
"What an arrogant bastard!" he muttered. "But he doesn't really have anything to tell us." He looked a little startled at his own words, and shook his head in confusion, but was distracted by a group of policemen in swat uniforms jogging up to the building. LeBruin immediately took their leader aside.
"Javelet, what the hell were you doing up there? I told you to hold your fire!" LeBruin demanded.
"The suspect was about to shoot your civilian," the man retorted. "We could see him better than you could. It was a judgment call. Your view was blocked."
"The civilian was in your line of fire! You could just as easily have killed him. I'll want a full incident report on this on my desk first thing in the morning," LeBruin insisted coldly.
Javelet angrily made his way back to his small cadre of men. He approached an older man with hard features, clapping him on the shoulder. "It's okay Claude, he doesn't know what he's talking about. I'm sure you did the right thing." The man nodded perfunctorily, carefully dismantling and putting away the high powered rifle he had used to kill the Russian, the circular tattoo on his wrist barely visible below his sleeve.
Methos had to guide Mac back to the car, catching his arm several times when the Scot seemed to almost stumble. His face had gone white and a cold sheen of moisture unrelated to the now pelting sleet, had formed on his forehead. Methos drove back to the barge in silence as Mac slumped in his seat, one hand over his eyes, gripping his temples.
Mac peeled off his coat, Methos catching it before it could hit the floor, and headed for the bathroom where he could be heard paying the price for tapping into the psychic well of talent he had only recently begun to use.
Mac eventually emerged, showered, blood washed away, pale but steady, a bath towel wrapped around his narrow waist. He headed to the kitchen, drinking long gulps directly out of a bottle of orange juice. He came to the top of the steps, holding the bottle, examining the man who seemed to have draped himself permanently on his couch. The hawkish, pale face was tight, every angle standing out in stark relief.
"Spit it out, Methos," Duncan instructed. "You look like you just drank a vinegared vintage Bordeaux."
Methos closed his eyes and laid his head back. "You just don't get it, do you, MacLeod?" He unfolded his long body from the couch, his anger requiring movement. "Do you have any idea what you put at risk out there today, all for the sake of saving the life of the man who killed Darius? A scramble-brained murderer several floors shy of the Penthouse?"
Methos advanced on the Highlander, his face a complex mixture of anger, concern and fear. "You are the key to the destiny of all of us, Duncan. How dare you risk all that on your Boy Scout rescue adventures! Don't you have any sense of responsibility? Any perspective of what's important?" Methos arms raised as though he wanted to throttle MacLeod, and his hands clenched as he turned away.
Mac tilted his head curiously at his friend, taking another drink. "And what do you think is important, Methos?" he asked.
"Survival!" Methos whipped around. "Your survival! You can't afford any more upheaval in your life right now, MacLeod. If you had gotten killed out there today, in front of God, the French police and everybody, it would have changed everything. You would have had to change your identity, move, go into hiding. How can we deal with stopping the Game under those circumstances?"
Mac put the orange juice back and rummaged in his dresser for fresh clothes. "Is that what you think stopping the Game is about, Methos? Survival?" He dropped the towel from his waist, pulling on fresh underwear and trousers as they spoke.
"And you don't think survival of our race is important, MacLeod?"
"That's not what I asked." Mac turned to Methos, catching his eye and holding it. "Is that what you think stopping the Game is about?" he demanded again. "Because if it is, then it's you who don't get it, Methos."
Mac grabbed a sweater from the drawer and pulled it smoothly over his head, angrily raking his fingers through his long, wet hair. "It's about living, not survival. It's about using whatever gifts and talents we have been granted to contribute to mankind, not live in their shadows, like leeches or voyeurs. If I have to give up on that dream, if "Boy Scout rescue adventures" aren't important, if all this is about is survival, then let the Game go on! One of us will survive, after all. But that wasn't what Darius wanted and you know it."
Methos's smile was pained, ironic, derisive. "That's all very noble, very typical of you, MacLeod. It even sounds like you may actually believe it. As a matter of fact, several of the speeches you have made in the past couple of days have had the sordid taint of high minded nobility to them. Are we feeling inspired lately? Have you finally decided to take on his crusade, to be the great savior of the Immortal race?"
Mac looked at Methos in puzzlement. "I don't get you, man. First you desperately try to talk me into this, now you're acting like it's a bad idea. And as I recall you specifically said WE would stop the Game. As in you and me. Together. Because there's one big, gaping, obvious flaw in this little plan. There's no way in hell I can convince . . . No, let me rephrase that. There is no way in hell I'll even try to convince anyone else to go along with this scheme. They either do this voluntarily, because they want to do it and know the risks, or this can't happen."
"So you've convinced yourself to do this," Methos said, almost to himself. "Why? Was it the Russian, was it visiting Le Havre? Was it Darius?"
MacLeod sank down into a chair, his face going still, focus inward. "These last few days it's as though everything I've done, everything I've thought have all led me to a single conclusion. If there's any real possibility for this to work, we have to try. There has to be a better way to live than this, at least for some of us."
"Because the alternative is unthinkable," Methos whispered to himself, turning away to hide the anguish that threatened to overwhelm him.
"If you can get, what, twenty, maybe? If you can get twenty Immortals to go along with this," Duncan went on, pausing and taking a deep, shaking breath, "then yes, I'll do everything in my power to make it work."
There was a moment of silence. Methos had gone still and pale, turned away, turned back, started to say something, stopped, then snatched up his coat and disappeared out the door. Mac sat for a second, stunned at his friend's reaction. Then he quickly slipped up the stairs and out on deck, but Methos' was only a thin shadow slipping up the concrete stairs to the street. Mac went back inside, trying to put his churning thoughts back in order. But his body and mind were exhausted, and he realized he was scared, genuinely frightened, of what the future held. While a part of him didn't really believe Methos could convince enough Immortals to go along with this wild plan, another part of him knew he was a master of resourcefulness and persuasion and should never be underestimated. What if he succeeded? Could he live up to everyone's expectations? Would he ever have any kind of real life again? Would it change him beyond recognition? Was that what frightened Methos into fleeing -- a dark and dangerous and all-too-familiar vision of what Mac might become?
Methos sat well into the night, staring at the multitude of papers on his desk. He had pulled the letters out of the cabinet he used to store his important documents. It was an oddly utilitarian piece in his otherwise eclectically artistic space, a grey-green file cabinet, a little battered around the edges. Inside was a thick brown file, marked "Darius-The Game". Inside that file were letters, many, many letters individually written in Darius' spidery scrawl. Each addressed to an Immortal the old priest knew, someone he cared about, someone who cared about him. Methos turned his mind to the task of matching up names and current addresses, accessing the Watcher data base he had carefully accumulated over countless years. It would take awhile, but it would not be particularly difficult to track all of them down. All, that is, who were still alive after the recent devastations of the Gathering.The closer Darius' vision came to reality, the more ominous the whole thing seemed. To connect each of them in some tangible way, to hope to erase or diminish the effect of the desire to hunt by forming them into some cohesive group using MacLeod as a link . . . Methos shook his head. What had seemed promising in theory after a few bottles of wine in laughing conversation, and in the context of philosophical letters shared across several generations, now seemed frighteningly close. He had promised Darius to try to see this to its conclusion, but its conclusion seemed increasingly questionable if it meant pushing the Highlander into a completely unknown and untried role. And pushing himself well past the bounds of the limits he had set for himself too long ago to measure.
He automatically continued addressing the envelopes, adding each new name to the pile, his promise to Darius providing a momentum that, for the moment, overrode the questions and doubts churning in his mind.
Duncan couldn't sleep, paced his floor, tried to read, listen to music, his thoughts churning, but started awake from a prone position on the couch when he heard a pounding on his door. It was still dark outside and he realized he must have finally dozed off for a few minutes. His heart sank as Paul LeBruin appeared at his shout to enter.
"Ah, Monsieur MacLeod," the policeman said with a small smile as he ducked his head to come down the stairs. "You don't look any the worse for wear from yesterday's . . . events."
"Come in, Inspector. Would you like some coffee?" Mac moved into the galley to fix himself some since his head was clouded with fatigue.
"No. I don't think so. I've had more coffee in the last 24 hours than I should have," the tall, thin man paced restlessly from one end of the room to the next.
Mac stood at the top of the galley for a moment, watching. "What's wrong, Paul?" he asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.
"I don't know!" LeBruin almost shouted. Then he stopped and turned, smiling sheepishly. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm shouting at you. It's just that . . ."
"Just that what?"
LeBruin took a deep breath and blew it out. "It's just that every single time you show up in one of my cases, something truly . . . bizarre happens. I finished the case, made my report and yet, I can't get it out of my mind, as though there were something important I had missed." He began pacing the floor again. "I couldn't sleep and now I've got a splitting headache, and I keep thinking . . ."
"What, Paul?" Mac asked, sitting heavily at his desk.
"That there's something I should have asked you, something you should have told me, but I can't for the life of me think what it is!" He laughed almost hysterically. "I must be losing it. I don't know why I even came here in the middle of the night, what I expected to accomplish." He stopped as they were interrupted by a phone call.
"Hey, Mac, it's Joe."
"It's late, Joe."
"Yeah, I know, but Methos said you'd still be up."
"And?"
"Well, it was a bit of a strange phone call. He sounded almost angry. Didn't want to call you himself. Did you two have another one of your little disagreements?"
"What's this about, Joe?"
"What's the matter, can't talk? Got someone there?"
"That's right."
"A woman, I assume?"
"None of your business, Joe."
"Never mind. I'll find out tomorrow anyway." Before Mac could snap at him again, he continued. "Anyway, Methos said to tell you that it would be best if you came back to the States as soon as possible. Said something about not getting into any more Boy Scout adventures, whatever that means."
"I know what he means."
"Is this about that Russian? Did you get him?"
"Joe!"
"All right, all right. Anyway, can I assume you're headed back in this direction?"
"Tell him I said I'll come as soon as I can."
Mac hung up and turned back to LeBruin, who was looking distractedly out a porthole. His mental meddling had done this, had caused all this turmoil. He sighed, seeking internally for some guidance from Darius about what to do, but for once, the old priest was silent.
"I don't know what to tell you, Paul. I'm sure anytime someone dies like that due to a police action its traumatic. Being a policeman doesn't lessen that. You're still human." Duncan almost let himself use a tone that went beyond sound, but carefully stopped himself. That capacity was not intended for this. He had already done enough damage. "I'm sorry I blamed you, Paul. It wasn't your fault. Now go home to your wife and your family. They need you. Give yourself a break."
LeBruin's shoulders slumped in fatigue and frustration. He shook his head. "I wish I could figure it out," he muttered, slowly climbing the stairs.
It took over two weeks for him to wind up his business, put the barge in storage and extract himself from Paris. He had done a more thorough job than usual on the assumption that, this time, even more so than others, it was possible that he might never return, that this bizarre and unprecedented experiment might go awry. So by the time MacLeod dumped his bag inside the loft apartment and began stripping the covers off the furniture, he was tired and irritated. He always hated this moment. The dust motes floated in the air and the stale, unoccupied smell of the room made him feel like a visitor, rather than like coming home. Once the furniture was uncovered, he meticulously put away the contents of his bags and changed into exercise clothes. He needed to work out the kinks caused by the long flight from Paris.He had been working for almost an hour and was in the middle of the most strenuous portion of his routine when he felt the distinctive wash of awareness of Methos' approach. He hadn't seen or spoken to him since the emotionally charged night he had disappeared off the barge, but wasn't surprised at his arrival. He heard the door slam, but ignored it and kept his concentration on the intricacies of the kata. He saw Methos out of the corner of his eye, and was aware that he had wandered into the glass-walled office, looked cursorily at the pictures on the walls, paced for awhile, came back out, sat on a bench and watched for awhile, then paced some more. Finally, he was distracting enough that Mac wound up the routine early.
"Damn it, Methos! If you're going to come by without warning, you should at least have the courtesy of not deliberately being a distraction," Mac growled, snatching up a towel to wipe his face and hands.
"Oh, was I bothering you?" Methos asked innocently.
Mac just frowned at the ancient Immortal, snatched up his extra shirt and went to the elevator. "Well, are you coming?" he snapped.
"My, my, are you always this testy when you exercise? I thought it was supposed to relieve stress," Methos observed.
Mac threw up the door of the elevator and, finding a bottle of water in the kitchen, gulped down half of its contents. "What do you want, Methos?" he finally asked, reaching again for the towel.
"Just wanted to know how you were feeling, you know, since Paris," Methos replied while rummaging in the refrigerator. "You need to get some groceries. There's practically nothing in here."
"I've been gone for months. You're lucky whatever is in there didn't become a new life form," MacLeod retorted.
"And what are you?" Methos asked, finding and opening a beer. He leaned casually against the kitchen cabinets, clad in an elegant loose sweater and dark pants, his short, dark hair a stark contrast to his pale, aesthetic face.
"What do you mean?"
"Are you a new life form?" Methos asked innocently.
"If that supposed to be some kind of metaphysical inquiry about my mental state, Methos, I would prefer if you just asked the question directly."
"I hear from Joe that a policeman visited you after I left, the one with whom you had your little confrontation earlier in the day that caused you to lose your lunch and everything else in your stomach. Was he mentally distressed, disturbed? Did you find a way to comfort him?"
"Stop it, Methos! What are you trying to do?" Mac demanded angrily. The man was deliberately needling him, he knew, but to what purpose?
Methos turned to look out a window. "I just wondered about your usual crisis of conscience, Duncan," he said softly. "The . . . adventure . . .on which we . . . on which you . . . are about to embark may not allow for the luxury of constant crises of conscience."
Mac sat in his big leather chair, watching the Oldest Immortal. The hawkish face was in profile, hard, pale, angular. It was full of an odd mix of emotions unusual in the normally studied neutral countenance. There was something troubling him, something he couldn't seem to share, to bring out in the open, so he was using insult, hurt, angry innuendo. Duncan remembered Darius' words, that he needed this man, but that this man also needed him.
"Methos," he called quietly. The tall, lean body turned with careful indifference. "I will deal with this however seems best at the time, including dealing with a crisis of conscience. Sometimes conscience is all we have to guide us. I am well aware that there is very little in life where a clear line can be drawn between black and white, clearly good or evil. You've told me that often enough, and I understand it very well. But at some point a decision has to be made, and it has to be made on the basis of where our conscience tells us that line should be drawn. That guidance comes from the essence of who we are, my friend. And how can I be anything other than that?"
Methos blinked several times, a subtle signal that he was struggling inside. "Tomorrow evening. Seven thirty. The Memorial Amphitheater," he said softly.
"Yes?"
"And we shall see who you are, Duncan MacLeod. We shall see if who you are today is who you will still be," and Methos turned and left.
The last light was fading in the sky as Duncan climbed into Methos' car. He had spent the day restlessly, feeling the sense of impending momentous events build until all he wanted to do was get it over with, to end the suspense. They pulled into the amphitheater parking lot, and the number of cars revealed in Methos' headlights was a little surprising. Despite Methos' assurances, Duncan had doubted that even twenty Immortals would come, but it looked like there were at least that many vehicles parked there. Although, Duncan told himself, who knows whether they were there for any purpose related to him. The area, nominally holy ground as adj
