Highlander fanfiction: Fundamental Things, by Nutmeg9cat

This story and its sequels, along with many other stories, are also posted at Daire's Fanfic Refuge.

FUNDAMENTAL THINGS

by Nutmeg9cat

The fundamental things apply, as time goes by.

CHAPTER ONE

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod sprawled on his big, comfortable couch, bare feet up on the coffee table, next to a cold beer and nearly empty bowl of buttered popcorn. The end credits scrolled on the TV screen, to a stirring rendition of "Le Marsellaise". He loved movies, and he was watching one of his favorites on DVD. It was on a rainy afternoon, late in March. Duncan, warm and dry in his house, sighed in contentment.

He remembered the first time he saw Casablanca. That was 1946, in a tiny art theater in Greenwich Village. He had been en route to Washington, D.C. from London and briefly stopped in Manhattan to see Connor MacLeod. He was killing time until his kinsman was free to meet him at a little Italian restaurant where, according to Connor, the pasta was great and served by pretty college girls in very short togas. Duncan had never heard of the movie, having missed its original release during the war. The title intrigued him - he knew Casablanca from a time long before the French colonial occupation. But, truth be told, Ingrid Bergman drew him in to the dark and deserted theater on that sunny spring afternoon. Duncan had a passion for Ingrid Bergman, known only to him.

He'd lost count of how many times he had seen the movie since. It had never grown old for him. One of his pleasures was to see it with someone who had never seen it before. He loved to watch the reaction. Of course, in the TV and home video age, MacLeod figured most people have seen the film fairly young, and frequently. Richie hadn't. So, Mac and Tessa dragged Richie to the forum theater at the University to remedy the situation. At that time, Richie had an aversion to watching anything "old" (by his definition, before Star Wars), anything black and white, and it seemed to Duncan, anything which didn't star Arnold Schwarzenegger. Duncan wanted him to see Casablanca in a theater, with an audience, and a big tub of popcorn. The disgruntled teen was engrossed, after the first ten minutes. Tessa tossed Duncan an amused look at Richie's complete absorption. The kid even forgot to eat the popcorn. All the way home, Richie did bad Bogart impressions. When he slung his arm around Tessa, muttering out of the side of his mouth, about the beginning of a beautiful friendship, schweetheart, Duncan laughed with delight.

When he'd first moved in, Richie was surprised that Duncan loved the movies. Apparently, he'd thought the four hundred year old man's interests would be limited to activities popular before the Industrial Age, such as ale drinking, caber tossing, sword fighting, and the like. He was shocked that Mac could program the VCR and use the microwave. Until Mac explained that movies were extensions of the storytelling traditions he had loved as a boy, sharing the warmth of a fire and clan life. It pleased Mac to see the wheels turn in Richie's head, as the teenager seriously considered that history might be more than a boring school subject, could actually just be the stories of real people, living their lives.

Tessa loved Casablanca too. She had seen it in college, dubbed in her native French. Duncan took her to see the original version when he learned that. In his opinion, Bogey did not translate well into French. Tessa and Duncan used to play a game with favorite movies and books, casting their perfect choices of movie stars, living or dead, in their own penultimate production, not limited by budgets, or age, or death. He would exasperate her with his choices of actors or personalities she never heard of, and accused him of making up. Sometimes, they played with real people that they knew, like their accountant who could pass for Donald O'Connor's evil twin. In Casablanca, as directed by Duncan MacLeod , Tessa was always Ilsa Lund. But Duncan was never Rick, in his mind's eye production. He knew he could never leave his Ilsa at that airport.

On sleepless nights, after Tessa was gone, Mac would occasionally play the game in his head. Casting friends and lovers in favorite films until he finally fell asleep. In his Immortal version of Casablanca, Fitz was dashing Captain Louis Renault, though Fitz had never needed to use extortion to lure a woman to his bed. Duncan had known prostitutes to refuse payment from Fitz, much to Duncan's envy. Beautiful, larcenous Amanda was the wily pickpocket, leaving her victims breathless and aroused in her wake. (A very young and callow Duncan MacLeod had experienced her technique first hand.) Robert and Gina de Vallicourt were the young Bulgarian refugee couple, although Gina was the one who loved, and was unlucky at, roulette. Joe Dawson made a very satisfying Sam, with just a slight change of musical instrument. Duncan treasured the bluesman's husky and haunting version of "As Time Goes By". Richie was the young Russian bartender on the make, with his eternal 19 years old libido. Duncan would laugh at himself for fitting Connor into the Peter Lorre role. Connor's only resemblance to this repellant character was his trademark staccato laugh. And Methos... Duncan gave up trying to cast Methos in his shadow play, when he found he fit, chameleon-like, in all the parts. The thought of multiple Methoses populating a surreal Rick's Café Americain kept Duncan awake, instead of lulling him to sleep.

Methos, he knew, had an affection for this movie, although they had never watched it together. Methos seemed to use the film as a touchstone for determining intelligence, education, refinement, or some other obscure Methosian measure of the worth of a person. Duncan had heard the old man sneer on more than one occasion, when displeased at some unfortunate remark, that the offending party had probably never even seen Casablanca. The ultimate putdown, apparently, to his five thousand year old mind.

Duncan drew a sharp breath, as he was struck by a sudden insight. He too used Casablanca as a personal touchstone of sorts, but in a different way than Methos' tiresome rants. Enjoying the movie, being able to enjoy the movie, and let the magic take him away from himself, and into the world of the film he was watching was only possible if Duncan could connect to it, and the world around him, and find the joy in life. In the two years since Connor was gone, since Duncan had unwillingly taken his life, Duncan hadn't wanted to watch this movie. Maybe he couldn't watch this movie; perhaps, if he admitted it to himself, was even afraid to watch, unsure of his own reaction. Connor MacLeod, his teacher, had taught a desperately lonely Duncan how to live as an Immortal. He'd shown Duncan how to find the joys in their long lives, despite the pain. He had taught Duncan that the bonds you made in this life were the only things that held any man, Immortal or not, in this world. Connor was dead. How Duncan had mourned the loss of this man, who had been teacher, friend and brother. But Connor, in despair and death, had taught his student one final lesson.

On that terrible day, when he had killed both the man he most loved and the man he most hated, Duncan died from the cumulative effects of his wounds and Kell's Quickening, cold and alone, high on a metal platform above the city. When he revived, lying on that freezing metal, he was disoriented, gasping, and then groaning in pain. Mac found his head was pillowed on Joe's sweater, and he was covered from toes to chin with Methos' long black coat. When his vision cleared, he saw Methos kneeling next to him, his long face impassive, the expression in his eyes unreadable.

"Can you get up, Mac? Joe's getting the car, and we have to get out of here.", he said.

Duncan, with great effort, managed to get to his knees. He looked up to see Methos' strong hands reached out to him. Mac took them, leveraging himself to his feet. When Duncan got his somewhat shaky balance, he tried to let go of Methos' hands, but the eldest kept a tight hold. Duncan looked at him with confusion for a moment, then Methos enfolded him in an embrace. With this unexpected gesture, Duncan was undone. He wept into the older man's bony shoulder, clutching him like a lifeline, while Methos held him, comforting the younger man, like a child. And Duncan was comforted. Heartsick and grieving, Duncan turned to his friends for love and support. Connor taught him this last lesson, which Connor himself had been unable to learn, isolated at the last, turning away even from the brother of his heart.

Two years....Methos and Duncan had never spoken of that moment. But Duncan had re-established his ties with Methos, and Joe. They were a part of each others' lives again, and Duncan was immensely gratified and profoundly humbled by this state of affairs. Two years ... and he had re-built a life for himself, a new home and teaching at the University. Two years ... and Casablanca was still here, still the same old wonderful story, of love and glory, and do or die. Two years...and Duncan MacLeod welcomed the world, as time goes by.

CHAPTER TWO

Thinking of Methos ... Duncan straightened as he felt the telltale aura of the eldest Immortal's Presence. He stood and brushed popcorn off his lap onto the carpet. Ever since Bordeaux, and the weird, entangled Quickenings that they had shared after defeating Kronos and Silas, Duncan could distinguish the Buzz of Methos' Immortal Presence. Well, if it was quiet and he concentrated. Mac couldn't have articulated what was different about the oldest Immortal's Presence; he just recognized the sensation as belonging to this particular Immortal. He wondered sometimes, was Methos' Presence different as a result of the shared Quickening, and by the same token, was his own? Or was Duncan just more sensitive, afterwards, to what had always been there? He turned off the TV, crunching popcorn kernels under bare feet, and walked through the kitchen. He opened the door to find a lean young man, dark hair cut short and spiky, poised to knock. In one hand, he carried a six-pack of beer; in the other, Mac's mail.

"Beware of Greeks bearing gifts", said Duncan, motioning him in and relieving him of his burdens.

"I'm not Greek."

"How d'you know?"

Methos shrugged, conceding the point. His origins were shrouded in mystery, even from himself. The oldest Immortal had no clear memories beyond the first Immortal Quickening he had taken, which he dated around five thousand years ago. In truth, many of the memories since then were a bit fuzzy too. He slouched against the kitchen counter, hands in the pockets of his faded jeans.

MacLeod sorted the bills and junk, from the rest of the mail. He set aside a large, thick padded envelope on the large desk in the corner of the great room, without comment, after glancing at the return address: Martin Guerre, Ph.D., Department of Linguistics, University of Paris. MacLeod tossed a beer to his guest automatically, and put the rest in the fridge.

Methos eyed him suspiciously. "If you wanted a copy, Mac, you should have just asked me." He took a swig from his bottle.

"A copy of what?" MacLeod scooped up his coffee mug and dirty breakfast dishes, from the counter, and set them in the sink.

"Oh, come on. Don't be coy. Now, you'll have to wade through the mind-numbing back-biting egomaniacal drivel of a second-rate wannabe, who wouldn't know the Rosetta Stone from Sharon Stone, if she walked up and bit him in the ass, just to satisfy your curiosity." Methos ranted.

"What are you talking about?" Duncan was confused, still trying to picture the sexy actress biting a linguistics scholar in the rear.

Methos faltered. "That envelope... from Martin Guerre. The linguist...Isn't that a copy of my dissertation?"

Duncan couldn't help it. He burst out laughing. "You know, Methos, not everything is about you." He chuckled. "Wait a minute. I would have thought you completed your dissertation long ago. When did you finish it? What's it about?"

"Last October. Adam Pierson finally exhausted his last possible excuse for extensions of time. My faculty advisor refused to let me go to my dying grandmother's bedside."

The art history professor in Duncan reacted to this unfairness to Adam Pierson, mild-mannered perpetual graduate student, even though Methos, not-so-mild-mannered perpetual man, had no grandmother. "That's uncalled for. Students are entitled to consideration and sympathy at a time like that."

"Well, that's what I thought," Methos sprawled on Duncan's couch, "until he reminded me she had passed away two years ago. Adam was devastated at the time."

Duncan's thoughts turned to one of his own students, Neil Bassett, who came to him, red-eyed, last week, seeking an extension of time on his term paper, due to the death of his beloved Nana. Duncan granted the request, clapping the kid sympathetically on the shoulder, as he walked him from the classroom. At the time, he was reminded of his own adored grandmother, who had spoiled him terribly, over his mother's protests. She died the winter that Duncan turned ten years old. Now, he was wondering about peripatetic student Neil's sincerity. He shook it off. If he judged everybody against Methos' conduct....

Duncan joined Methos on the couch. Methos spotted the DVD case, and picked it up. He noted the empty beer bottle and the remains of the popcorn. His head swivelled, his hazel eyes taking in the stack of ungraded student papers, piled in a messy heap on the floor. His gaze traveled around the great room, noting the dusty clutter on the furniture, the popcorn on the carpet. Finally, he looked MacLeod up and down, from his bare feet to his stubbly jaw. Methos grinned. "You're playing hooky."

"No, I'm not." Duncan protested. He felt positively grubby in the wake of Methos' perusal.

"You are." Methos ticked off points on his long fingers. "It's an even drearier, damper day than usual in this god-forsaken climate. You have homework and housework piling up. You haven't shaved or dressed. You're watching old movies in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week, drinking beer in the afternoon. You probably slept in, at least past your usual crack of dawn. You're even having a bad hair day."

Without thinking, Duncan reached up to smooth his unruly mop. His dark hair was still pretty short, but it was getting shaggy, curling over his collar. He'd been thinking lately of letting it grow out, just to avoid the frequent visits to the barber. He sighed as an old slogan popped into his head. "Only your hairdresser knows for sure." Before each appointment, he had to touch up the roots first. Since he had returned a couple of years ago to this city, which had been home, on and off, for more than fifteen years, MacLeod had been adding a touch of gray at his temples. That, and the reading glasses he affected, seemed to forestall curiosity about his age. Mac's actual age was four hundred and eleven, though his first death had frozen him in time a few months shy of thirty. He eyed Methos speculatively. He'd seen his friend span twenty years, using clothing and posture alone. On autopilot, MacLeod continued to argue with the old man.

"Methos, I am not playing hooky. I was up late last night, preparing tomorrow's lecture, and..." He stopped. With a sheepish grin, the Highland warrior gave up the fight. "You're right. I'm taking the day off. Felt good."

Methos smiled at him, a sweet smile, without the usual cynical or sarcastic undertones. "Never too old to teach a new dog new tricks", he said.

Duncan's dark eyes were warm. "Or a new dog to learn the old one's tricks. I'm on to you, old man. Don't change the subject. What was the topic of your dissertation?"

Methos tipped his nearly empty bottle at MacLeod, in a silent salute. "The concepts of self and identity revealed in Neolithic stone piles in the Thames Valley of Great Britain." he intoned in his stuffiest professorial voice.

"I would like to read it, if it's for real, and not like your Methos Chronicles."

"What's wrong with my Chronicles?" Methos was affronted.

MacLeod lifted his hand, and ticked off each point. "You make them up out of whole cloth to amuse yourself, or to hide yourself even further in myth and legend, or to make you more formidable, or better looking, than you actually are."

Methos conceded. "Well, you have to admit they're a great read; even better than your Chronicle, when it was kept by What's-Her-Name?... that romance writer in the 50's?" Methos smiled inwardly. There was a particularly steamy entry for Halloween 1959, featuring a stolen diamond, a Playboy bunny costume, and the Amazing Amanda.

Duncan sighed. "Is it the real thing?"

"Yeah"

"Then I'd like to read it. Will you loan me a copy?" Duncan asked politely.

"I'll bring one over next time. Got any pretzels?"

MacLeod rose to get the pretzels, and automatically retrieved another beer for the sprawling Immortal. Methos thought wickedly that it hadn't taken the old dog too long to teach the new pup that trick.

"So, if that isn't my dissertation from that feeb, Guerre, what is it?" He said, casually.

There was no answer. Methos turned and looked over the back of the couch. Mac, bag of pretzels in one hand and beer bottle in the other, was standing still. He returned Methos' puzzled gaze. His expression was serious, weighing.

Duncan took a deep breath. His dark eyes never left Methos' hazel ones. "Do you really want to know, Methos?", he said softly.

Methos, surprised by the sudden, somber turn in the conversation, looked away. *What the hell is all this about?* He looked back at the younger man. Duncan was waiting patiently, his eyes warm, lips slightly curved in a smile. * He really is leaving this up to me. I can drop it right now. No disappointments, no recriminations, no judgments, if I don't want to push this door open any further.* Methos realized, not for the first time in the last few years, how much Mac had changed. With a deep breath of his own, Methos acknowledged something else - he too had changed, from the moment he had decided to let Mac find him all those years ago in Adam Pierson's Paris flat. On that remarkable day, he'd had no idea where the journey was going to take him when he had set his feet down on that path. But the result was undeniable. What was this important to the Highlander was also important to Methos.

"Yes."

Duncan nodded. "OK, then." He retrieved the padded envelope from the desk. He, handed it to Methos, along with a brass letter opener. "See for yourself." MacLeod sat in the armchair, next to the couch, sipping his own beer.

Mac's expression was casual, but Methos could read the tension in the set of his broad shoulders. Extremely curious now, the old man slit the envelope and pulled out a thick sheath of documents. On top, there was a letter from Dr. Martin Guerre, Head of the Department of Linguistics, University of Paris. He scanned it quickly. *That pompous feeb. He writes his letters just like his articles.* Along with the letter were a stack of color photocopies. Selections from old books, scrolls, photo enlargements of stone tablets, cave writings, tapestries. He recognized the languages: Minoan, Hebrew, Parsi, and Aramaic, among others. The scholar in him was instantly intrigued. He looked up at MacLeod, and cocked an eyebrow at him. The Scot cocked an eyebrow back.

Methos concentrated on a fragment of a carved stone wall, with faint, but readable, carved letters, in ancient Persian. There was a note on the back of the photo, identifying it as a part of a cave wall in Basrah, Iran. The picture quality was pretty good. But only a small part was discernible. He translated to himself: "An evil one will come to defeat all who stand before him. Only a child born ..." . With a sinking feeling, Methos realized what this was about. He closed his eyes for a long moment. *Oh, Duncan, don't do this to yourself.* Slowly, and with some trepidation, he looked back up at MacLeod. What he saw surprised him. Mac was smiling, a gentle, rather knowing smile, as if he had completely anticipated Methos' reaction, and was unfazed by it.

"OK, Mac. I'll bite. What's this all about?" The old man sprawled back on the couch, his body language indicating he knew he was in for a long story, and he'd never make it without a fresh beer as backup.

Duncan sprang out of the chair like a coiled spring, ran his hands through his hair, and returned with two cold beers. He handed one to Methos and sat back down in the armchair.

"I'm looking for the next Champion", he said simply.

CHAPTER THREE

Joseph Dawson pushed his reading glasses up on his forehead, and rubbed his tired eyes. He had spent the last two hours on the computer in the rear office of his blues bar and restaurant. His inventory, payroll, and expense reports, long overdue, were finally finished. *I'm a bartender, not an accountant*, he thought in silent homage to his favorite Star Trek character. Well, that ought to satisfy his accountant. Now that he finished that scut work, he turned his attention to what he considered his real job. Watcher business. Resettling the glasses on his nose, Joe keyed in his password, and opened Duncan MacLeod's Chronicle. He needed to add his assignment's activities of the last few days, before Joe's filled up with the after-work crowd. Not that there was much to chronicle - Mac's life had been relatively quiet for the past several months. Thank God. It didn't take long, with his surprisingly fast, two-fingered typing. Mac at the University, Mac at the gym, Mac at an estate sale, Mac at Joe's, yadda, yadda, yadda.

He finished the entries and turned off the computer. Joe tucked the glasses into a tooled leather case and put them in his shirt pocket. Reading glasses were a fairly recent addition to his life, and one he had stubbornly resisted. Stubborn? Try beyond all reason. It wasn't until he couldn't read the notes of a new arrangement for the band that Joe had given in. Well, it was either that, or grow longer arms. Joe didn't know why this tangible sign of aging had bothered him so much. Hell, his hair and beard had been completely silver for years, and he'd gone out a few notches on his belt without angst. But, the glasses bothered him. He had worn them with ill-concealed distaste, when he could find the damn things. One day, Mac, aware of Joe's fondness for beautiful things, gave him the antique spectacle case. The Highlander's experiment in psychology had worked. Joe tended not to lose the glasses since he had received the thoughtful little gift, and gradually got over his stupid aversion. He found it ironic that the man he had spent half his life observing, was pretty observant himself.

Joe Dawson had been a Watcher for the better part of thirty five years, watching MacLeod for nearly twenty five, minus a couple of days several years ago. At that time, forced by MacLeod to choose between being his Watcher or his friend, Joe had chosen the friendship. He'd have stayed out, too, if Mac hadn't had an epiphany of sorts, and insisted he get back in. For the first time, Mac had valued the Watchers' true purpose and character. Joe had been overjoyed - the loss of the Watchers from his life had been like cutting off a limb. He wished, ruefully, that Mac's change of heart had happened before the tattoo had been removed from his left wrist. Joe had insisted on the re-tattooing of the ancient Watcher symbol over the old scar. As a result, the emblem was slightly distorted in shape. Joe rubbed his wrist thoughtfully. Like his tattoo, the Watchers had been scarred, and then re-formed upon their underlying foundations. What had emerged was changed but still recognizable.

In fairness, Joe couldn't fault MacLeod for resenting and fearing the Watchers for the first several years after he had learned of their existence. Bad enough to find out you've been spied on your entire life. But Mac discovered the Watchers when they began killing Immortals. Darius, the Immortal general turned priest, should have been safe on Holy Ground. But that inviolable rule only applied to fellow Immortals. Not to mortals. Not to James Horton.

Horton oversaw the financial end of the Watchers US-European organization. He also ran a death squad on the side. Convinced that Immortals were an abomination of nature, and a threat to mankind, he became a fanatic, and convinced other Watchers to follow him.

Joe Dawson valued friendship. He could not contemplate having a friend like Darius for 250 years and finding him murdered, as Mac had. It had been unbearable for Joe to bury his old friend, Ian Bancroft. Ian had recruited Joe into the Watchers. He was a man of honor and integrity, who gave Joe a purpose in life after he lost his legs in Viet Nam. Ian was killed by another Watcher caught up in her own madness. Joe shook his head. So many dead from the fallout of events set in motion by Horton. The Watchers had been nearly destroyed. And Dawson and MacLeod had been caught smack in the middle of it all.

In this crucible, the Watchers had emerged, intact but not unscathed. Through the efforts of Joe Dawson and men and women, like him, the organization survived. Over the last several years, Joe and like-minded Watchers had risen in the ranks of the organization and made their vision of what the Watchers could be, a reality. Their mission was still to observe and record, to keep the Chronicles true and complete, and not to interfere in the deadly Game the Immortals were forced to play among themselves.

Within that construct however, there had been room to breathe. The Chronicles must no longer be the meticulous, but soulless, account of the minutiae of an Immortal's life. Rather, they must bring to life the extraordinary Immortal men and women who had lived through history, by their mortal shadows who recorded it all. In some special cases, like Joe and Mac, when the lights were turned on and the shadows vanished, a friend was revealed. In the past, a Watcher who crossed that line risked reassignment at best, or a death sentence at worst.

Joe and his compatriots had reinstated balance and measure. As long as the Game was unaffected and the Watcher kept his oath of non-interference, contact between Immortal and Watcher was not automatically grounds for re-assignment. The secret of the Organization must be kept from the Immortal, but the relationship between the people could exist. How much more could be learned from these extraordinary people if you could just talk to them. And they were people. That could never be forgotten again.

Too much of the Watchers recent history had been made in secret by the insular old boys club that had dominated the Organization. It was better now. They were on a new and uncharted course for the ancient secret society. Not everyone agreed on this new path, or how to follow it. Including Joe's own daughter. Strong arguments were made on all sides. But, at least there was a debate. Joe wasn't naive - he knew they were bound to stumble, like a newborn foal. But he knew, in his heart, it was the right path.

Joe rose from his chair, awkwardly. He was stiff from sitting too long. Using his cane for balance, he maneuvered out of the office and into the bar. He nodded to Mike behind the bar. Joe looked around his establishment, glad that MacLeod had settled back into this small American city. It was home, as Paris and London would never be. Joe bustled contentedly around his place. The after-work crowd would be arriving in two hours.

CHAPTER FOUR

After Methos left, MacLeod sat, for a while, in his armchair. He had spent the last few hours showing Methos some of the research he had gathered over the past few years. MacLeod had much more documentation stored in filing cabinets upstairs and in his office at the University, as well as computer media. He kept the journal of Jason Landry in a fireproof safe he'd installed in the wall of the living room, when the house was built. The older man had seemed intrigued by what Duncan had shared with him. While his friend was here, Mac had been able to keep the discussion academic. After all, the topic and the source materials were fascinating to anyone interested in history or language. But the subject was not an academic one to MacLeod.

He didn't know what Methos was thinking - hell, he never did. At least the old man looked reassured that Duncan wasn't tearing himself up with guilt. It had taken MacLeod a long time to attain some peace over the Ahriman battle. Not total peace - that would never happen. As much as he knew he had been used by Ahriman to murder Richie, it was an inescapable fact that MacLeod had killed him. He had been deceived, manipulated, unprepared. By tricking Duncan into destroying Richie, Ahriman had sought to destroy the Champion. The tactic had nearly succeeded.

Duncan's refusal to be defeated by Ahriman had been fueled by his refusal to allow Richie's death to be in vain. And in time, MacLeod had been able to forgive himself enough to mourn. Cocky and bright, funny and loyal, Richie Ryan was youth incarnate and had brought so much life to Duncan's life. He hoped that Richie had known that, known that MacLeod loved him dearly. Duncan had never been very good at expressing his feelings. Especially to Richie. He wanted to believe the young man knew he loved him; that at the last, he hadn't believed Duncan wanted to kill him. Some days, Mac could almost convince himself that was true.

He sighed deeply and pushed himself out of his chair. He'd never know what Richie thought at the moment of his death. And Methos' thought processes were beyond his ken. Brooding wasn't going to change that. He resolutely turned to the rest of his mail. Mostly bills and junk, but there was a letter from the Seacouver Arts Council. He smiled as he read it.

An art collection was being gathered for a show in the summer on modern sculpture. The director asked if Duncan would loan another work of Tessa Noel's to the four already in their collection. The request pleased him. Recognition of Tessa's talent had been growing posthumously. Last year, he had donated a piece for an exhibition in Paris. It was now on permanent display there, in the museum where Tessa had served as a curator, that last year of her life.

Mac knew immediately which piece he wanted to provide. One of the last works Tessa had completed, but Duncan didn't have it among his possessions. He opened a small lacquered box on the desk, and, after some rummaging, removed a key. Snatching up his long leather duster, he walked out into the rain.

CHAPTER FIVE

Methos walked in the rain, bare-headed, shoulders hunched, hands in pockets, dodging the umbrellas of fellow travelers. The old man never used an umbrella - couldn't abide the things, and especially resented when rain sluiced off somebody else's and dripped down his neck. Paradoxically, as much as he detested cold, rainy climates, he found he often did his best thinking in a steady drizzle. He had a lot to think about today.

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod was on a Quest. For some time now, the man had engaged disparate experts in the fields of archaeology, religious studies, linguistics, anthropology, literature, and art history on a scavenger hunt. None of them knew about the others engaged in the query. None of them knew the real purpose of their endeavors. All of them knew that a wealthy and apparently eccentric benefactor was funding long term research in their field on references to the battle between Good and Evil, and money was no object.

Methos supposed he should be worried about MacLeod. The man had been through hell and back over the last dozen years. The losses, beginning with Darius and ending with Connor, had been horrific. The death of his student, Richie Ryan, though, had been the worst, for rather obvious reasons. And yet ... when Mac told him about his search and the wealth of materials he had already accumulated, Methos sensed no guilt or despair in his friend. Mac had been animated, drawing Methos in, with his enthusiasm over the multi-cultural source materials. It was one of the younger Immortal's most endearing qualities- his lifelong eagerness to learn from anyone willing to teach him.

And Methos had been intrigued. Long dead languages and dusty artifacts stirred his blood. He was the world's oldest geek in that regard. His mentor in the Watchers, Don Salzer, teasingly encouraging young Adam Pierson to get out more, had given him a T-shirt once. Across the front, in large scarlet letters, was emblazoned "History is my life". Don had been pleased, but puzzled at Adam's boisterous reaction to this simple gift. A few years later, Methos wore the shirt to Joe's bar. In the middle of a set, just as he noted MacLeod taking a long pull on his beer, Methos casually removed his coat. He silently thanked Don, as he and Joe were treated to the sight of the handsome, suave Scot squirting beer out of his nose and all over his cashmere sweater.

Methos sobered. Intellectual curiosity aside, he didn't know how to deal with this whole Champion thing. He had believed that Duncan was suffering from a delusion when this whole mess began. Richie had been the only one of his friends to believe that MacLeod was not crazy. Then Richie had died at Mac's hand. Methos had fled Paris after Richie's death, and Duncan's anguished plea to take his head. He couldn't stand to see the disintegration of the Highlander, in what looked like a headlong rush to die. Methos refused to be the instrument of that death. If he stayed near the distraught man, he was afraid that Duncan would force him to do it. He had left Joe making funeral arrangements for Richie. Despite his cavalier assertions that he hadn't felt guilt since the eleventh century, Methos did feel badly about leaving the mortal to deal with the aftermath. He left, without even saying goodbye. He did what he always did - he moved on. He convinced himself that that life was over. Methos thought he'd never see Joe or Duncan alive again

When MacLeod resurfaced a year later in Paris, apparently whole and sane, Methos was shocked. And overjoyed. And shaken. It took him several months to make his tentative way back to Paris, only to encounter Immortal Morgan Walker on his return. He had intended to lurk for a while, surreptitiously observing Joe and MacLeod, before deciding whether to approach. Instead, he got caught in Joe's basement hacking into his Watcher database, and there was an ugly scene. He was on his way out of Joe's life again, when Amy's kidnapping by Walker precipitated what he still thought of as the Joe and Methos Roadshow. They re-forged their friendship in crisis, and deepened it in a quiet drunk when Joe told Methos the end of the Ahriman tale.

Did Methos believe the story? No. He believed that Joe and Duncan believed it. But Methos hadn't believed in anything he hadn't seen or touched for a long time now. Neither could he explain what had happened to them, and how Duncan managed to be OK after appearing utterly insane. It just was the way it was, and they let it go at that. Like many friends who were believer and atheist who don't talk religion, or Republican and Democrat who don't talk politics, they just didn't discuss it.

But now what? He could ignore what MacLeod had told him today. Mac hadn't asked him for anything. After all, Methos had opened the door on the subject when he quizzed his friend about his mail. He could close the door quietly and without fuss.

But it was so tantalizing.

He had been walking for hours. The rain had stopped and the clouds were breaking up. Methos looked up. His feet had brought him within a few blocks of Joe's bar. His thirst took him the rest of the way.

VI. CHAPTER SIX

The rain had stopped and the clouds were breaking up. Dust swirled in the air as Duncan raised the overhead door on a self-storage unit in a sprawling parking lot on the outskirts of town. The space was small, about 10 by 20 feet, and not very full. There were mostly heavy cardboard boxes, some furniture, tools, and a motorcycle. In his 22 years on Earth, Richie Ryan had been a vagabond, not a packrat.

After Richie's death, Joe Dawson had taken care of things. As he once said to Duncan, "somebody had to". Joe had put Richie's few possessions in storage. Last year, he had given MacLeod the key. But Mac had never been here before.

Mac opened the first box, and sneezed as dust motes swirled around his head. The box was packed with clothes. He closed it up, and moved on to the next one, and then the next. Eventually, he found the sculpture, carefully packed with excelsior in a wooden crate. It was one of Tessa's smaller works, meant to be displayed on a tabletop or pedestal. Mac un-crated it with care, and set it on top of a stack of boxes. It had been a long time since he had seen it, and he was struck anew by the artistry of his lover.

The piece, while somewhat abstract, was less so than Tessa's usual work. It was carved from a solid piece of marble, mostly white, with swirls of brown and gray. She had left the base rough, forming shapes from the stone, as if they were morphing from the marble. It was a technique of Rodin's she had particularly admired. As the eye traveled up from the base, the piece became more and more refined. Two life-size hands formed the base, cupping a smaller figure of a youth within them. On close examination, one saw that the hands weren't matched. The right was a man's, strong and calloused. The left was a woman's, the fingers long and elegant. Within the bowl formed by the hands, the youth was on one knee, poised in the act of rising and pivoting. His upturned face looked outward, his own hand reaching out and up to an unseen objective. The face was without detail, but polished and smoother than the rest of the sculpture, reflecting the light. Even in the late afternoon sunlight slanting in to the storage unit, the effect was as if the face was lit from within. Tessa had titled it "Always".

She had presented it to Richie on his 19^th birthday. Once the stunned young man had recovered his voice, he had teasingly redubbed it "Allstate". The sculpture had been prominently displayed in Richie's bedroom in the apartment behind the antique store. The contrast of its gleaming, carefully dusted surface with the chaos that was Richie's room was a source of never-ending amusement to Duncan. He had helped Richie safely secure the sculpture in this same packing crate when they had moved out. He hadn't seen it since.

Duncan carefully re-crated the sculpture. He continued opening boxes and assessing what was here. Mostly clothes, odds and ends from Richie's apartment days. He decided to donate everything to the Youth Center where Richie had spent much of his adolescence. He'd sell the motorcycle and donate the proceeds to the same Center. He opened a smaller metal box, which had been nestled in a box of clothing, indistinguishable from the rest. There was an envelope on top, with "Mac" scrawled on it. He recognized Joe's Catholic school handwriting. There was a note inside.
"Mac,
I hope you read this someday, and that I'm not writing to a dead man about a dead man. I've taken care of Richie. He's buried in Paris, near Tessa, with his sword.

These are the things I found on him.
Joe"

Mac's vision blurred, and he wiped at his eyes. Under the note were Richie's well-worn wallet, watch, a penknife, comb, Metro tokens, keys, and a small packet wrapped in tissue paper. He opened the wallet. There was the usual ID, some money, a condom, and a creased photograph of a laughing Tessa, Richie and Duncan. It had been cut down from a larger snapshot to fit in the wallet. MacLeod remembered the occasion - Tessa's last birthday, using the automatic timer setting on her new camera. It had taken Richie several attempts to get the setup right, finally practically throwing himself in their arms as he raced the timing sequence. Oh, how they had laughed at his antics. It had been a good day. Mac took out his own wallet, and carefully tucked the photo inside. He returned to the contents of the box. Unwrapping the little bundle of tissue, he found a small, etched stone, set in engraved silver and dangling from a sturdy chain. Memory flashed.

Paris 1992

Even before he accompanied Tessa to Paris, Richie had been fascinated by the ancient stone runes which Darius had sent to Duncan, warning of Grayson's arrival. Duncan, distracted by the imminent confrontation, had given the young man only a rudimentary lesson in reading the runes. But it was Darius who had really schooled Rich in the symbols, and how to combine them and display them in surprisingly complex messages, just as he had taught the arcane language to MacLeod over a century before. Soon, the runes turned up everywhere around the barge. Even Tessa could interpret the simplest meanings-"gone to market", "back at dark", "out of food", "taking a walk", although Mac had to translate anything much more complicated than these simple "scribbles". Duncan himself puzzled over the more intricate messages, letting out a loud whoop of laughter one night when he deciphered "tape Baywatch".

But it was Tessa who noticed that the boy always carried one particular rune with him. She had found it in his pants pocket one day, and asked Mac what it meant. Duncan recognized it as the symbol that Darius had always used to denote the Highlander. He explained to Tessa that it could mean many things, including "Warrior" or "Protector" or any of a dozen variations on the theme, but that in the private lexicon that Darius had taught him, it always referred to himself.

Intrigued, Tessa asked him to show her the symbols they used for Darius, Richie and herself. Instead, Mac explained several of the runes' general meaning, and challenged her to choose the generic symbol and match it to the specific individual. Not surprisingly, his lover correctly correlated the symbol for "Magic" or "Holiness" to Darius, and the stylized image of a rising sun meaning "Youth" or "Beginning" to Richie. But she was stumped when it came to her own personal symbol. "It's this one", he said, holding it up to the light. "But that's the fertility symbol", she protested, "that wouldn't be me". "Tess, it has many nuances. All of the runes do. It also means , let me see, ... home and hearth ...warmth ... comfort...abundance ... love...mother. Richie picked this one for you." "Oh, Mac", she breathed and hugged him close. Soon after, she nonchalantly presented a delighted Richie with the pendant and chain, "so that he wouldn't lose his good luck charm". The boy had worn Duncan's rune often in those days.

Duncan gripped the pendant tightly. He thought hard. He could not remember ever seeing Richie wear the pendant after the events of the Dark Quickening. Yet here it was, according to Joe's note, found on Richie on the night he died. He shut his eyes. Unbidden, other variations of meaning of this rune, his rune, invaded his thoughts. "Strength" ... "Master" ... "Chief"..."Guardian"... "Father".

After a moment, he pocketed the pendant, locked up the storage unit, and loaded the crated sculpture in his car. He watched the sunset for a while, and then drove home.

VII. CHAPTER SEVEN

Joe regarded the Wednesday night crowd at his bar with a smile. The zydeco blues group he had booked on the strength of one song had been packing them in, the crowd undeterred by the wet and blustery weather of the past few weeks. He was thinking of extending their gig. He had added extra wait staff and another bartender, in addition to Mike, to accommodate the crowd. Joe himself was hustling just filling the drinks orders at the bar.

Methos huddled on a bar stool, encircling arms protecting a tall glass and bottle from the good-natured jostling of the other patrons. Joe had been too busy to say more than a quick hello, and plop down a bottle of the dark ale the old man favored, from time to time. He was surprised that Methos had stayed this long.

Suddenly, the old man hopped off the bar stool and shouldered his way through the crowd, leaving half a bottle of beer behind. Instantly, his stool was taken by a young stockbroker type, dapper in an Armani suit. Joe craned his neck to see what had prompted Methos' surrender of his turf. It was Joe's daughter, Amy. She stood at the entrance, holding a small suitcase, looking daunted at the roiling horde between her and the bar. She gave Methos a big smile, and took his arm as he escorted her back through the mob to the barstool now occupied by the kid in the suit. He jostled up against the kid, tapping his shoulder at the same time with his right hand.

"Excuse me. Is this your cell phone?" Methos held up a small object in his left hand.

The kid felt around in his pockets. "Yeah, thanks." Methos looked at him pointedly, and the kid got off the stool and offered it to Amy.

"Don't mention it." Methos sidled in next to Amy and moved his bottle and glass out of her way. He set the suitcase behind the bar.

"Thank you, kind sir", she said, in a light English accent, "I guess chivalry is not dead."

"Don't tell MacLeod ", he muttered half to himself. "So, dear lady, what brings you to our little corner of the world?"

"Amy!" Joe exclaimed, and leaned far over the bar to embrace his lovely daughter, who returned the hug. "What are you doing here?"

"I have a graduate seminar at the University this week." At Joe's look of surprise, she added, "It was last minute, and I thought I'd surprise you."

"Well, that's the kind of surprise I like. Where are you staying?"

"With you, I hope...if that's all right?"

Joe grinned. "Of course it's all right. Hell, it's more than all right".

Methos smiled into his beer. Amy and Joe had come a long way since the Roadshow. They did not have a traditional father-daughter relationship, and never would. But what they had was based on mutual liking and respect, and a growing love that had blossomed over the last few years. Amy Thomas was also a Watcher, but no longer a field agent since her disastrous initiation with Morgan Walker, her first and last Immortal assignment. She was now a Researcher for the Western Europe Section of the Watchers, based in Paris. In her civilian identity, she was a gifted graduate student, in a dual doctorate program in linguistics and anthropology. She studied at both Oxford and the University of Paris, in a joint curriculum between the two institutions. Methos and MacLeod had been kept abreast of her accomplishments by her proud papa.

The band started up again, preventing any further conversation. Methos took advantage of Amy's interest in the music to take a look at her. He hadn't seen her in nearly six months. She looked good, elegantly dressed on a grad student's budget. Amy was a petite young woman with short, auburn hair, a sensuous mouth, and expressive blue eyes. She possessed a dry sense of humor, which Methos had come to appreciate after the Walker crisis had ended. He also appreciated her ability to keep a secret, and to repay a debt.

Amy knew him as Adam Pierson, former member in good standing of the Watchers, a scholar and Researcher like herself, and ...an Immortal. That fact, and that he was not a newbie, became evident in the Walker affair. Neither he, Joe nor Duncan had revealed his true age and identity to her. What she might have guessed, he had no idea. But she had never revealed his Immortality. Keeping the family tradition of bending the Watcher oaths...well, as he said first, the apple never falls far from the tree. Methos leaned into the bar, enjoying the good-natured crowd, the lively music and the proximity of an attractive woman.

VIII. CHAPTER EIGHT

Duncan, elbows propped on his massive mahogany desk, rubbed his tired eyes. He had finally finished grading the last of his graduate students' research papers. *Except for the grieving Neil Bassett* he reminded himself. He leaned back, yawning, and stretched. He was pleased to find two or three papers which had been exemplary, and exceeded the expectations he had set for the class.

Several years ago, he had been tapped by his friend, Shandra DeVane, to fill a post suddenly vacated by a teacher who'd had a medical emergency. As she had said at the time, "Where else am I going to find an expert in medieval art, who cannot resist my charm, in less than two days?" He had thoroughly enjoyed the graduate class. The students were, on the whole, interested and interesting. MacLeod's lack of formal credentials, in light of the emergency placement, had posed no obstacle.

When he'd returned to Seacouver, MacLeod had been occupied with the renovations to his house, squeezing in the occasional special commission, authentication or appraisal, and routinely turning down requests from a fellow dealer to appear on the Antiques Roadshow. But he needed more. Last year, he approached Shandra. He wanted to teach. What could he do? Shandra, who knew the level of his expertise, and his reputation in the worlds of antiques and fine art, said leave everything to her.

Before he knew it, Duncan MacLeod was the newest adjunct lecturer at the University, carrying two classes a term: Art History 108 - Survey of Medieval Art and Weaponry, an introductory course for freshmen and sophomores; and Art History 401 - Problems in Connoisseurship, a graduate class in the study of the problems of authenticating, attributing and dating painting and sculpture, limited to a dozen masters or doctoral candidates. Mac had winced at the high-sounding course titles that the college had imposed, anticipating, accurately, Methos ragging him on it. MacLeod enjoyed the interaction with young people, and he found that teaching satisfied something deep down. He put up with the endless paperwork and meetings, and stayed out of the departmental politics.

It was late. He'd had a tough time concentrating on this task after returning home. He glanced over at Tessa's sculpture, which he had un-crated and displayed on his dining room table. He had an appointment with the museum director for Monday afternoon. Mac supposed he should have left the sculpture crated until he delivered it. He supposed Joe would shake his head at his sentimental journey. He supposed Methos would say he was masochistically re-opening old wounds. But the truth was that Duncan felt a part of Tessa was here with him, in his new house, with her sculpture gracing his table. So much of who she was went in to her work, particularly this piece.

Duncan packed his briefcase for his next day's class, piling in the stack of graded papers and his lecture notes and slides. He detoured through the dining room, and brushed the cool marble statue with his fingertips. He turned out the light, and mounted the stairs to his bedroom. As he undressed, he carefully pulled Richie's rune pendant from his jeans pocket. He ran his finger over the surface of the stone, rough in contrast with the smooth silver setting. He draped the chain over the post on the headboard bed, taking care it didn't tangle. By the time Mac climbed into bed, the clock blinked 2:00 am at him. He set the alarm and turned off the light.

IX. CHAPTER NINE

The bar was closed, last call had sounded an hour ago. Mike, was stacking chairs on tables and sweeping up. Joe, in the back room, was finishing up the days' receipts. Methos and Amy sat at an out-of-the-way table, cup of tea in front of her, a beer in front of him. Cole Porter's "Just One of Those Things" drifted over from the jukebox.

"No, really, Adam. I didn't think your dissertation was that 'out there'. I thought your reasoning was very... interesting."

"Well, you're in the minority view, especially in your Department", Methos replied, a bit petulantly.

"Martin was way out of line to publish that parody. Quite a few people objected to it." Amy sipped her tea.

Methos harumphed, and slumped even further in the hard chair. On the juke, Eartha Kitt purred "Someone To Watch Over Me".

"You don't have to keep me company, Adam. Joe will be done soon. Go home to bed."

"Actually, you're keeping me company. I'm pretty much of a night owl. And I'd only be going home to an empty apartment." *And an empty bed.* "What's the seminar about?"

"Advances in Conservation of the Petroglyphs of the Pacific Northwest Indian Tribes." She grimaced. "I know, I know, pretty dry. It's a little outside my field, but Martin was registered for the course, and had to cancel out at the last minute. I took his seat, all expenses paid. It gives me a chance to visit with Joe." Amy smiled. "Plus, I've been thinking of relocating to the States after I complete my degree. I thought I'd get a feel for an American University."

Methos took a swig of his beer before speaking. "MacLeod's on the faculty there, you know." She nodded. "He's in art history, not linguistics, but I'm sure he'd put in a ..." She interrupted him with a shake of her head.

"You know how I feel about the interaction of Watchers and Immortals." Amy looked at him earnestly. "Present company excepted, of course'"

"Yes, I know. I should also know if you don't want your father's influence exerted on your behalf in the Watchers, that you don't want anybody's help in furthering your academic career. Forget I mentioned it." He looked at her over the rim of his bottle. "But banishment to Myths and Legends does seem a bit reactionary".

Amy flushed at that, and glanced away. "Maybe it was... in the beginning. My first actual interaction with an Immortal would have sent anyone screaming for the library. But I love what I'm working on...and I'm actually quite good at it." She lifted her chin, looking him directly in the eye. "You were in Research for years. Tell me the truth, was that strictly self-defense, or did you enjoy it too?"

Methos leaned forward, glancing around the empty room, and whispered conspiratorially. "You've discovered my secret. I confess I am turned on by dusty tomes and disintegrating parchment. It's a sickness."

"Is that all that turns you on?", she said. Methos looked up quickly. "My father says beer is your one, true passion."

Methos laughed. He relaxed back in the hard chair, not quite able to sprawl. "That's why I was really on the Methos Chronicles," he said lightly, "searching out the origins of the brewski. It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it." He saluted her with his bottle and took a long swallow.

Her laughter was interrupted by Joe's approach. "I'm done, honey. Mike'll lock up. Let's go home." He helped her into her coat. All three exited the street door.

"Goodnight, Adam", said Joe.

"Goodnight, Adam, and thank you", said Amy.

"Sweet dreams, all", said Methos, and walked, shoulders hunched, hands deep in his pockets, in to the night.

X. CHAPTER TEN

MacLeod sat up abruptly, heart racing, all senses alert. He threw the bedcovers aside, and reached for his katana. He stood up. Everything was quiet. What had woken him? A glance at the clock showed it was nearly dawn. Too early for the alarm. He checked the bathroom, and then the other bedrooms, before heading downstairs. He reached out with all his senses, including his Immortal radar. He felt and heard nothing. As he turned a corner to the great room, he could see a light in the dining room. He distinctly remembered turning it off. He tightened his grip on the katana and cautiously approached.

Tessa sat at his dining table, turning the small sculpture slowly in her hands. Duncan stood stock-still, his mouth suddenly dry, the katana lowering. He shook his head. "Tess?", he said, weakly, then, a little louder, "Tessa?" She looked up, her face expressionless. She put the sculpture down gently. "Yes, it's me. I had forgotten how much I loved that piece." She looked up again. This time she smiled.

Duncan couldn't speak past the lump in his throat. He walked slowly towards her. Tessa rose from the chair she'd been sitting on. She was dressed in old jeans, a big white shirt, sleeves rolled up, feet in the tattered old Keds she had always refused to throw away. Her long blond hair was pulled up in a ponytail. As he got closer, Tessa raised both hands in a warding off gesture. "Stop, Duncan. If you touch me, I have to leave." MacLeod stopped in his tracks, but couldn't prevent his hand from reaching out to her. She moved back, out of his reach. He pulled his hand back.

"I'm dreaming, and you're not real", Mac said, flatly.

"Yes, ... and no", Tessa replied, then more softly, "It's been a long time since you dreamed about me, Mac".

MacLeod looked away. Without meeting her eyes, he said "Tess, I...I know. There's a reason." Summoning all his courage, he raised his brown eyes to meet her blue ones. "I have to tell you about Richie....I ...don't know how to..." He stopped. Tessa was looking at him with that warm and loving look she reserved for him, and that he had missed so much.

He couldn't help himself. Mac ducked abruptly away from that intense gaze, and turned his back to her. He couldn't do it. He couldn't face her. He couldn't look at her and tell her Richie was dead. That he was dead because Duncan had killed him. Not just failed to protect him, but cut his head off. With the katana he was holding. Mac dropped the sword, as if it was made of flame.

"Mac,...Duncan...look at me. Look at me!", Tessa commanded. MacLeod turned back slowly, and raised his eyes to hers. "I know all about Richie." The warmth and compassion he saw in her eyes broke something loose deep in his chest. "I know, my love, I know. But we don't have much time and I need you to listen to me."

Duncan found himself on his knees. He struggled to control the waves of emotion that threatened to break over him. With great effort, he pulled his hands away from his face. Tessa was kneeling before him, her expression intense, pleading. "Complete the circle. Go back to the beginning. Do you understand? You must complete the circle."

"What ...what do you m...?", he choked out.

"I have to leave now. Remember..." Her tone was desperate.

"I don't understand! Wait..."

His Tessa threw her arms around him and pulled his body to hers. She whispered in his ear, "Look up, Mac, always look up!" MacLeod pulled her tightly to him and his body was suffused in light and warmth. Time stopped. Then, he felt a wrenching sensation, and he knew he was alone.

Duncan opened his eyes. He was lying, tangled in a twisted mess of sheets, in his own bed. Something bright flickered at the corner of his vision. He looked up. The silver of Richie's pendant shone in the light of the rising sun.

XI. CHAPTER ELEVEN

Amy hid a yawn behind her hand. The lecture on petroglyph conservation had started early. The lecturer, Charles Hartridge, renowned expert in the preservation and translation of stone pictures and writings of Pacific Northwest Native American tribes, possessed a droning lecturing style. That coupled with the darkness of the room for the Power Point presentation was contributing to her drowsy state. Perhaps a bit of jetlag, too. She took another sip of her coffee. Joe, despite his late night schedule, had made her breakfast this morning and sent her off with coffee in his own thermos mug, and lunch in a brown paper bag. His solicitude made her feel like a schoolgirl, on the first day of class. Which, she thought wryly, wasn't too far from the mark.

Amy yawned again. She found the subject matter interesting, even if the presentation wasn't. Her fields of interest were linguistics and anthropology, with an emphasis on the Early Celts. Their clan structure was not too dissimilar to the American Indian tribes, and they shared an affinity for stone writing and art. Preservation of these ancient artifacts, from both the natural elements and the encroachment of humankind, was a worldwide issue. And the damp climate of the British Isles affected the sites there in much the same way that the temperate rainforest did here. She wondered idly if Duncan MacLeod chose to live here because it reminded him of his native Scotland.

She took another sip of coffee. Petroglyphs were the particular interest of her colleague at the University of Paris, Martin Guerre. Martin had a last minute conflict, and kindly offered her his place and airfare, knowing she had a family connection to the city. Martin was more than a colleague. He was a good friend. They had many common interests beyond their shared field of linguistics. Martin was charming and bright, with an acerbic wit, razor-sharp in the flesh and in print. Adam Pierson had certainly found out the latter. She hadn't wanted to hurt Adam's feelings, but she had thought Martin's article was funny. Amy enjoyed Martin's company but suspected that her friend wanted to be more than a friend. She was holding back. He knew nothing of her secret life in the Watchers, and she intended to keep it that way.

Finally, the break for lunch. All the coffee she had drunk this morning was clamoring for her attention. After she exited the bathroom (why are there never enough women's loos?!), she strolled around the campus. While there was a chill in the air this afternoon, there was no wind Amy looked around with interest. The University was quite charming. In a few more weeks, in the full flush of Spring, the flora would be lovely. There was a ubiquitous aura to any college campus, no matter where it was in the world. She felt at home in it. Amy eyed a sunny spot along a concrete half wall to have her lunch. She was halfway through her very good corned beef on rye, when something subliminal made her look up from her book. There was a parting in the sea of bustling people, which had caught her attention. A man, about 20 feet away, was standing still on the quad, watching her, people flowing by around him. It was Duncan MacLeod. She had no idea how long he had been standing there.

Their eyes met. MacLeod smiled, a rather tentative smile, but didn't approach. Amy didn't smile back, keeping her expression chilly. His smile faded as he got the message. He turned, and walked away, quickly blending in with the bustling students. *Good* A moment later, she felt a twinge of something other than relief. An annoying little voice inside of her, which resembled her mother's, said, "Regardless of how you feel, he is your father's friend, and your acquaintance." That little voice, and some less substantial feeling that she couldn't explain, impelled her to her feet, half a sandwich in hand, after him. She caught up on the steps of the Humanities Building. "MacLeod! Wait!" she called.

MacLeod turned. Surprise flitted across his face for a moment. Then his expression was casual, with a small smile that didn't reach his eyes. For a moment, Amy studied his face with a Watcher's detachment. His handsome features were unchanged, of course, dark hair a bit longer than when she had seen him in Paris last year, body a bit leaner. *He looks older*, she thought, with surprise. A moment later, she was bemused, as she realized that she had been taken in by the graying hair - the oldest trick in the Immortal book. Still, it worked, and it suited him. With a start, Amy realized that she had been staring at him, and looked away.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Then MacLeod broke the ice.

"Amy, I'm sorry I was staring at you. I was just surprised to see you. What brings you here?...besides lunch, I mean", with a slight nod to the half-sandwich clutched in her hand. There was that polite and reserved smile again.

Amy explained about the seminar.

"Yes, I was planning on dropping in this afternoon, after my class. You know I teach here?", he inquired. She nodded. Another uncomfortable silence stretched. Again, MacLeod broke it.

"Are you staying with Joe?"

"Oh yes. He even packed me a lunch this morning", she said, wryly, gesturing with the sandwich. "I told him not to bother, but..."

MacLeod nodded, and a genuinely warm smile transformed his face. "You should let him spoil you. It makes him happy." Amy was silent. His smile faded. "I'm sorry, you don't need advice from me on family relationships. I hope you enjoy your visit and the seminar." He turned to go.

Amy stood there, indecisively. "It's a lovely campus", she blurted out, making an effort.

"Yes. Yes, it is.", he said, politely. "You shouldn't miss the Arboretum."

"Mr. MacLeod!" A young man, carrying a backpack, rushed up. "I have my paper." He noticed Amy. "Oh, sorry." He stepped back a pace, impatiently shifting from foot to foot.

"Neal, I'll be right with you" MacLeod said, to the student. He turned back to Amy. "Well, I have to ..." He inclined his head towards the young man.

"Of, course." she said neutrally.

MacLeod walked into the building, the student talking animatedly, at his side. Amy stood on the steps, awhile. Now, students were streaming past her on either side. After a few minutes, she walked slowly back to the sunny wall and finished her lunch.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Duncan MacLeod stepped out of the bright morning light and into the semi-darkness of Joe's. When his eyes adjusted, he saw Joe Dawson behind the bar, a laptop computer open on the counter in front of him. "Hello, Joe." He took a stool, facing his friend. It was early Friday morning. The establishment wouldn't open for a few hours.

"Well, stranger, been awhile." Joe gestured with his mug of coffee, and moved the computer out of the way.

Duncan nodded. "I know, Joe, sorry."

"I thought maybe you were grounded." Joe poured coffee in a mug, and passed it over.

Mac sipped appreciatively. Joe made a great cup of coffee. "Nah, I've had a lot of homework."

"You know Amy's in town for a couple of days.", Joe said.

Mac nodded. "Yes. Actually, I ran into her on campus a couple of times."

"Yeah, she told me. She looks great, doesn't she?" Joe beamed.

MacLeod smiled warmly. "Yes, she does. How's her degree coming?"

"Degrees." Joe corrected. "She's in the dual doctorate program." He sipped at his own coffee. "Real good. She was telling me about her work the other night." Joe made a face. "She lost me after the first five minutes."

"She's a bright young woman."

"Not like her old man." Joe grinned.

MacLeod made a rude noise of dissent, and finished his coffee. "How long is she staying?"

"Just a couple more days." The telephone behind the bar rang. Joe picked it up. "Joe's. Yeah, Mike. The order's ready - just swing by on the way in. Yeah. Thanks." He turned back to MacLeod. "The University Journal published an article of Amy's last month. Something about early Celtic alphabet structure."

Mac was interested. "Really? I'd like to read it sometime."

"I thought you might, Mr. MacLeod. I have a copy in the office. Hold on a moment." Joe walked to the back room, as quickly as he could.

The Highlander smiled, as he helped himself to another cup of coffee. Joe's pride in his daughter's accomplishments was a continuous source of teasing from Methos, but Mac never ragged him about it.

MacLeod had been staying away from Joe's in the evenings, lying low to avoid running into Amy, without tipping off Joe that he was avoiding his daughter. Since his initial encounter with Amy on campus, Mac had nodded to her across the room of the conference center where her seminar was held. The fact that she had nodded back, MacLeod chose to interpret as a good sign.

Methos had dropped in at his campus office yesterday. He'd told Duncan that Amy had mentioned to Joe that she had seen MacLeod on campus a few times. He also mentioned that Joe was remarking on Mac's absence. So, MacLeod thought he'd put in an appearance at Joe's when Amy was least likely to be present. *Christ* He could almost here Richie's voice. *That's so high school, Mac* He smiled ruefully. From what he had seen and heard of the teenage educational experience, MacLeod was grateful to have missed it.

"I found it." Joe waved the journal in his free hand, as he maneuvered around the tables and chairs. Suddenly, his cane slipped. With a shout, Joe backpedaled frantically before his legs shot out from under him. The cane and journal flew from his hands.

"Joe!" MacLeod moved with reflexes honed over centuries, but he was too far away to break Joe's fall. His friend landed flat on his back, the breath whooshing out of him. The back of his head struck the floor with a thump. Joe lay still, eyes closed.

"Joe!" Duncan skidded to his knees. He felt for the pulse at Joe's neck. It was steady and strong. He lifted both eyelids. The pupils reacted to light equally. Without moving the unconscious man, he gently palpated the back of his head. No apparent fracture. No blood. Mac had seen the mechanics of the fall. Most of the impact had been absorbed when Joe landed on his back, knocking the wind out of him. His head had been thrown back after he was down.

Duncan had acquired more than a medic's knowledge of first aid and field medicine in his long life. Relief flooded him. Joe was probably just stunned. He should be coming around in a minute or two. If not, MacLeod would call an ambulance. His friend disliked hospitals even more than Duncan did. He would need to be checked out at the ER, but Joe would hate the fuss and furor of paramedics and ambulances at his place. While Duncan waited for some sign of consciousness from his friend, he loosened Joe's collar and checked his pulse again.

Suddenly, MacLeod was struck in the back by something small and heavy. He whirled, still on one knee. "Get away from him, you bastard." Amy pelted another book at him, hitting him in the chest. The petite young woman was on him in an instant, shoving him away from Joe's inert body. Duncan was off balance, literally and figuratively, and landed on his rear, too stunned by the intensity of her attack to react. She stood over Joe protectively, snarling at MacLeod. "What did you do to him?"

MacLeod put his hands up a placating gesture, but stayed down, trying to appear less threatening. "Amy! I didn't do anything to him. He fell, and he hit his head."

She glared at him for a long moment, breathing hard.

Mac reassured her. "I think he's going to be all right. He didn't hit his head that hard. Let me check his pulse again. Please."

Amy looked uncertain for a moment. "You stay away from him." She knelt down, keeping a wary eye on MacLeod. Then she felt at Joe's neck. At her touch, the injured man stirred and uttered a low groan.

MacLeod moved closer, relieved.

"Stay away", she hissed. Mac stopped. Amy lightly patted Joe's cheek, calling his name. She was rewarded with a faint moan. She glared at Duncan. "Get out."

"Amy. Listen to me. Let me check his vital signs." He smiled a little. "I wouldn't hurt Joe. He's my friend. Let me check him, please." MacLeod used the tone of voice to calm a frightened child. It didn't work.

"You wouldn't hurt him because he's your friend! You! You killed your wife, ...the boy who was your student...your teacher...and how many of your so-called friends?" Amy's voice was venomous.

Duncan felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach. He couldn't look away from Amy's face. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. For a moment, he feared he might actually throw up. Finally, he wrenched his gaze away from hers and took a deep breath. MacLeod spoke very slowly. "Amy. I'm going over to the bar to call for an ambulance. Once they get here, I'll leave. I won't touch him. But I'm not leaving until I'm sure Joe is OK."

Mac stood up slowly, giving Amy a wide berth as he walked behind the bar to the telephone. Just as he picked up the receiver, he felt the Presence of another Immortal. Mac dropped the phone and turned to the door. His hand was reaching into his coat for his sword, when Methos strolled in. He smirked when he saw MacLeod behind the bar.

"Barkeep, a tankard of your finest brew, and be quick about...", Methos trailed off when he saw Mac's expression. "What's ...?"

"Me...Adam! Come here!" Mac raced to the end of the bar.

Methos hurriedly followed his lead, and froze at the tableau on the floor near Joe's office. MacLeod grabbed his arm and dragged him over to Joe. Medical training kicked in, and Methos dropped to his knees beside the dazed mortal. He spared a glance at Amy, who was holding Joe's hand tightly.

"Adam, listen to me.", Mac said urgently. He detailed Joe's fall, the vital signs Mac had noted, and that Joe had moved and groaned a moment ago. As if on cue, Joe's eyes fluttered open and he looked up in confusion at Methos' face.

"Lie still, Joe." Methos commanded. He quickly checked Joe's pulse, pupils and felt for broken bones. He looked quickly for neurological damage. "He's OK, Mac", he called, turning to look over his shoulder. MacLeod was gone. Methos had been too focused on Joe to notice his absence. Puzzled, Methos looked at Amy. She was almost as pale as Joe. "Amy?" She looked down at her father and didn't answer.

Joe struggled to sit up. Methos and Amy helped him to a sitting position and Joe drew a shaky breath. Methos continued to examine him. "Joe, do you remember what happened?"

"My cane slipped on something, and I took a header." Joe gingerly rubbed the back of his head, and winced. "Man, I've got a headache." He looked at them. "When did you guys get here?"

Amy didn't answer and wouldn't meet Methos' inquiring look. "I was parking the car. I just got here.", the old man replied. He and Amy helped Joe to his feet. Amy handed Joe his cane. Carefully, and with Methos and Amy supporting each arm, he made it to a chair. After he caught his breath, Joe looked around the bar. "Where's Mac?"

Again, Methos looked quizzically at Amy. This time she flushed and looked away. "He left when I got here, Joe. I don't know why. Let me take another look at you."

Amy walked away, straightening a table and chairs that had been knocked askew. She picked up a couple of books and a Journal lying on the floor, and stared at them.

"Amy, honey? I'm all right." Joe's tone was reassuring. Then to his and Methos' astonishment, his daughter burst into tears.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Methos parked his car in front of MacLeod's house. He couldn't feel the younger Immortal's Presence, but he wasn't really close enough. He had just come from Joe's home. The bluesman had been quickly ensconced in his bed, already nodding off from the combined effects of the painkillers and muscle relaxers prescribed at the ER. Methos had called Mac's number from the hospital, but had only reached the answering machine. He reported Joe's lack of concussion or broken bones and urged Mac to call him.

Something was wrong. The Highlander would never have left Joe like that without a very good reason. Joe knew that too, and was worried that Mac left to face another Immortal. He didn't tell Joe, but Methos didn't think so. The vibe he was getting from Amy was more than upset and concern over her father's health. After she had regained her composure at the bar, she had been the picture of the concerned daughter, dealing competently with Joe and the ER staff. Joe had been gruff with embarrassment at all the attention, but Methos believed the younger man had secretly enjoyed her solicitude. Adam had effaced himself at the hospital, satisfied that Joe was getting proper care. But he knew Amy had avoided being alone with him.

Methos approached the front door. He still couldn't feel Mac's aura, but he rang the bell anyway. No answer. *Where are you, Mac?* He checked the garage. The black classic Thunderbird wasn't there. He walked around the back, and used his key on the door off the walk-in kitchen. Methos checked the answering machine. His message was still on the tape, but the light wasn't blinking. Someone had played the message, but hadn't erased it. *OK, Mac, what's going on?*

Methos began his exploration with the big desk in the great room. The research materials which Mac had shown him the other day were still here, carefully categorized and organized. The stack of student research papers he had seen was gone, but the briefcase Mac used for his classes was sitting on the desk chair. Methos opened it. Other than Mac's class materials, and one research paper of a certain Neil Basset, there was nothing of interest. The living room yielded up nothing. The old man walked through the dining room on his way upstairs, when he stopped abruptly at the object in the center of the table.

It was a small sculpture. He knew immediately that the artist had been Tessa Noel. Methos was familiar with much of Tessa's work, both what he had seen on public display and what Mac had shared with him, but he had never seen this piece before, not even in a catalogue or photograph.

It was exquisite. The woman had been a truly gifted artist. In this work, she had achieved a balance of realism and abstraction that was masterful. Methos recognized Duncan's hand, as realistically portrayed as if it had been a life cast. He touched the cold marble of Tessa's hand, and wished, not for the first time, that he had met this extraordinary woman. Methos knew that he would have been moved by this piece had he been an utter stranger seeing it in a gallery. With his intimate knowledge of the family represented here, the piece was heart-breaking.

Methos climbed the stairs to Mac's bedroom. The room was tidy, of course, the king-size four poster with the beautiful handmade quilt was neatly made. Methos looked around. No signs of hasty packing, no note, no travel brochure, no handy clues in the waste basket. He was about to throw his hands up in frustration, when he found the "note" the Highlander had left him. Scattered across the dresser top were a smattering of little engraved stones. Runes. He bent over them, his face a study in concentration. After a few minutes, Methos straightened, hands on hips. He felt better, but not entirely reassured. Mac was safe. There had been no other Immortal. He had gone to his cabin on the island several hours north of the city for the weekend. He didn't want company.

Methos went downstairs, concern partly assuaged but curiosity fully engaged. He helped himself to a beer and sat at Mac's desk. After a while, he turned on a few lights and locked up. He'd left a note of his own, in the new-fangled manner, with Post-it and pen:

Mac,

Took your file on the glacier cave writings. Call me.

Adam

Oh well, he needed a new project. He was out of the Watchers, out of school, and out of diversions. This one promised intellectual stimulation, without physical danger. After all, in the unlikely event that Duncan was right, and found his successor Champion, the battle with the bad guy wasn't scheduled for another thousand years. Methos placed the file carefully on the front seat of his Volvo, and drove home.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

With a cup of hot herbal tea in hand, Amy knocked on the door of Joe's bedroom. When there was no answer, she opened it cautiously. The lamp on the bedside table was still on, illuminating the bed and its occupant. Joe's reading glasses were perched on his nose, and a book was open on his chest. Amy approached quietly. Her father was asleep. She set the teacup down on the crowded nightstand. Amy listened carefully to his light, but steady snore, until she was satisfied that he was truly alright. She removed the glasses, and placed them in their leather case on the table, and turned off the lamp. Halfway to the door, she remembered the teacup.

In the darkness, she jostled the cup and sloshed hot liquid on to her hand. Amy flinched, nearly dropping the cup and saucer, but managed to save it with her other hand. Unfortunately, one hand bumped something on the table. It dropped on to the floor with a thud and a crack. Amy held her breath, but there was no change in the rhythm of Joe's breathing. Kneeling, she felt around until she touched a flat rectangular object. Amy picked it up, and stood. Taking the object and the teacup with her, she exited the room, silently berating herself for a clumsy oaf.

In the brightly lit kitchen, she set the cup and saucer on the counter, and examined the picture frame. Her face smiled out at her from behind cracked glass. This was the photograph she had given Joe last year. Amy had never seen this frame before. Heavy silver, Victorian styling, it was obviously antique, obviously expensive. She breathed a sigh of relief that the frame was intact. Only the glass was damaged. Tomorrow, before Joe was up, she would replace the glass. He would never let her do it otherwise.

Holding the frame securely over the kitchen wastebasket, Amy carefully removed the shards of glass. One piece was stuck under the frame. She couldn't pull it out without risking damage to the photograph or frame. After rummaging in Joe's junk drawer, she found a small screwdriver and gingerly removed the buckram back. She disassembled the pieces and set matte, photograph and foam backing aside. The fragment of glass went into the trash.

Amy laid out the components on the counter to reassemble the frame. As she picked up the pieces, a small white card fluttered out from between the backing and the photograph, and fell to the floor. She retrieved it, intrigued by the ornate, old-fashioned handwriting. The note was brief:

Happy birthday, my friend.

When you showed me Amy's picture, I thought it would look lovely in this. (To be honest, Amy's picture would look lovely anywhere.) She's a caring, accomplished young woman, and you are justly proud of her.

I don't always say what I feel when I should, Joe. I think you know that about me by now. But I want you to know that Amy will always have a protector and a friend. She and her children and her children's children can come to me for anything, as long as I live.

Duncan

Amy sat for a long time in Joe's kitchen. The tea grew cold in the cup, and she dumped it in the sink before she went to her own bed in Joe's guest room. Amy slept little that night. In the morning, she left early, and replaced the glass at a local photographer's shop. She returned with it, along with bagels and lox from the delicatessen on the corner. She placed the picture frame beside Joe's bed before waking her father with a cup of coffee and a smile.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It was late on Sunday evening when Duncan exited his classic black Thunderbird cautiously. When he saw the house lights were on, he parked on the street, instead of the garage. While he suspected it was Methos who had turned them on, centuries of training kept MacLeod on alert. He spent the last two nights at his cabin on the island, and was caught in the returning weekend traffic. He was tired and hungry, and in need of a hot shower.

There was no Immortal buzz as he let himself in the front door. After a moment, he was satisfied that there was no one there. Mac went to the refrigerator for a cold drink where he saw Methos' Post-it note. He smiled. So much was said, and unsaid, in the simple message. Curiosity aroused by the intellectual challenge, but no promises or commitments from the ancient man. Concern following Mac's abrupt departure from Joe's; restraint in waiting for Mac to call him. And a backhanded disdain for leaving cryptic messages in dead languages on dresser tables. *Oh, Methos, I can read you like a book ... when you want me to.*

Duncan rubbed at his neck and shoulders. As soon as he had stepped out of his canoe and back on to the mainland, MacLeod could feel the tension seep back into his body. For over a hundred years, the island, and the cabin he had built there with his own hands, had been Mac's refuge. His kinsman and teacher, Connor MacLeod, had not approved of his retreat to Holy Ground, perhaps fearing that it would become a permanent sanctuary for Duncan, like Darius' church was for the Immortal priest. It hadn't been. Sadly, it was Connor who had sought permanent refuge, first with his misguided retreat to the Watchers' Sanctuary after Rachel's murder, and finally by suicide at Duncan's hand. With all his heart, Mac wished that Connor had come to his island for sanctuary after Rachel's death. But Connor had been seeking more than a temporary respite from the Game.

Duncan had last been to the island after New Year during the college's winter break. He had carefully surveyed the cabin upon his arrival to see how it had fared since then. Although there had been no major catastrophes in his absence, there were always repairs and maintenance awaiting him, including a leak in the roof. Despite this, the cabin exuded an aura of permanence and solidity. It was an immeasurable source of comfort to him. Mac had introduced some modern amenities over the years, especially after he started bringing Tessa out here. But, if one ignored the indoor plumbing, solar panels and generator, it was like stepping back in time. Many times Connor would accuse Duncan of living in the past, words which the teacher knew would incite a strenuous argument from the student, usually ending in a wrestling match or sparring with swords. They never settled it. And now they never would. *Connor*, Mac thought, *I just needed a place of my own, to let me find my bearings, when I got knocked off course.*

Well, Duncan certainly had been knocked off course at Joe's on Friday morning. Once Methos had arrived, the Highlander had hastily fled the scene. He was a dozen blocks from Joe's bar before he'd stopped, and realized he had no idea where he was going. MacLeod had known that Amy disliked him; it was evident from her chilly manner on every occasion that they had met. He assumed it was because she disapproved of Immortals and Watchers interacting. Joe said she disagreed with some of the new protocols that the Watchers had instituted. Additionally, her disastrous assignment to Morgan Walker had exposed her to one of the worst of his kind. So, Mac tried to keep his distance, and for Joe's sake, maintain a facade that he wasn't doing just that. But the bitter words that Amy hurled at him, along with her books, had done more than shock the hell out of him. They had cut deeply. Because they were true.

He had run from the truth of it, and gone to ground. But MacLeod had been at a loss. He truly hadn't known what to do or say, to Amy, to Methos, and most especially, to Joe. His friendship with Joe had always been rocky, but it had endured. MacLeod had slowly gotten it into his thick Scottish head that the friendship of this loyal and honorable man was one of the most precious of his four hundred years. Mac had moved back to Seacouver to be near him, to live in the city that Joe thought of as home. He thought they had weathered the troubled waters.

Duncan had missed the Morgan Walker adventure. He had been in London at the time. Shortly after his return, on one of those long companionable late nights at the bar, a slightly inebriated Joe told him about Amy. Mac had been surprised, but happy to learn that his friend had a grown daughter. When Amy reappeared in Joe's life several months later, tentatively exploring a relationship with her biological father, Duncan had shared in Joe's joy. Now to learn that Joe's daughter hated him, and feared him....

In the last two days, during daylight hours, MacLeod had exhausted himself, splitting wood, repairing the roof, hacking at a tree stump that had defied him for fifteen years. He performed complicated katas after dark. Even with the physical effort, his mind was still on overdrive when he tried to sleep. He'd nod off for a bit, then jolt awake with Amy's invectives playing over and over in his mind. He knew he had a tendency to brood. "Yeah, Mac," Richie had said to him once, "You're like an Olympic champion in that event."

The events of the past week had taken a toll. It wasn't just the ugly scene with Amy which had overwhelmed his emotional center. Nor was it the disclosure to Methos of the Champion search which had unsettled Duncan. It was also the dream. He had taken to wearing the rune pendant to bed, clutching the stone tightly as if it were a talisman that could transport him, like Dorothy's ruby slippers, to the magical realm where Tessa held him, and all was light and love. It hadn't worked. If Mac had dreamed, he didn't remember. Still, there was solace in wearing the rune necklace, which Tessa had fashioned and Richie had treasured.

It wasn't until he had been halfway home, that his course of action became clear to him. Because of him, Joe had been forced to make impossible choices: between friendship and his oaths, between his brother-in-arms, Andrew Cord and MacLeod, between Duncan and the Watchers, between the restoration of his legs and the preservation of his soul. MacLeod would not force his friend into another difficult choice. Duncan would not allow himself to come between Joe and his daughter.

MacLeod wearily climbed the stairs to his bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt on the way. *Boy, do you need a bath.*, he thought, as he stripped. He yawned as he entered the bedroom, and tossed dirty clothes into the hamper. Mac stopped undressing, and stared down at his bed. A large brown envelope was on the quilt. Mac opened it cautiously. It was a bound manuscript. The cover read:

'I Was Here.'

Self and Identity: The Conceptual Art and Language

Of Neolithic Stone Piles of the Thames Valley, Great Britain.

Author: Adam Pierson, Doctoral Candidate

Duncan flopped on the bed, hot shower and meal forgotten, and began to read.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Methos jerked awake, Immortal Presence thrumming in his ears, his blood and his bones. He reached for the Ivanhoe under the bed. Then stopped. He took a deep calming breath, and put the sword back on the floor. The unmistakable aura of Duncan MacLeod was at his door.

He glanced at the bedside clock while pulling on a pair of jeans. It was one in the afternoon. "Coming", he directed to the door, and the Highlander on the other side. In five thousand years, Methos had never been able to distinguish Immortal auras among individuals. In his Horsemen days, he had tried multiple experiments with his brethren, to no avail. Neither he, Kronos, Silas or Caspian were able to tell the one from the other. Even Cassandra, with whom he was physically intimate, could not discern him from his brothers, nor could he distinguish her. In the early years of his friendship with MacLeod, Methos likewise couldn't tell the Highlander's Buzz (he loved Richie's term for the indescribable sensation) from any other Immortal. But since that eerie Quickening they had shared in Bordeaux, MacLeod's Presence practically shouted his name. It felt different from all the others, deeper, more resonant somehow. He had half expected it to fade as time passed. It hadn't. Methos still hadn't decided if this was a good thing.

He opened the front door. MacLeod had a case of Methos' favorite, and very expensive, imported ale under one arm, Methos' mail in the other hand, and a contrite expression on his face.

Methos snorted. "Apology accepted", he said, flinging the door open the rest of the way, and padded on bare feet to his bedroom for a shirt. He padded back out. MacLeod was putting bottles in the refrigerator. He cocked an inquisitive eyebrow to Methos, who nodded in response. Mac put all but one bottle away, popped the cap off and into the trash can, and handed the cold beer to Methos. He still hadn't spoken.

MacLeod looked around the apartment. Six months ago, the elder man had moved into this flat above the offices of Prometheus Gaming, Inc. The office space below was occupied by an ever-changing coterie of twenty-something computer geek game designers, in situ since 1995. They were completely unaware that their new upstairs neighbor was, in fact, their founder, employer and landlord. Other than an accountant and lawyer, only MacLeod knew that the mystery person behind the dummy corporation and putative CEO was Adam Pierson.

The flat was spacious and airy, and had the fortunate circumstance of four exits - front, back, fire escape and roof - not counting the windows. It was sparingly, though comfortably, furnished, and eclectically decorated. It took a visitor a while to notice that, except for the computer station, there were no chairs. Four divans of varying sizes and a multitude of colorful pillows dominated the living area. Mac sat on the closest divan, and looked up at Methos, who was leaning against the kitchen counter, his bottle half empty. Methos sprawled on the opposite divan and studied his friend's face. *He looks tired*, he thought.

"How's Joe?", Mac asked, his dark eyes intent.

"A little sore. More than he admits to. But OK." Methos drank from his bottle. "I think he enjoyed Amy fussing over him."

"Amy's gone, then?"

"Yeah, she flew out this morning."

There was a pause. "Mac, what happened between you and Amy?", Methos asked, gently. Duncan took a deep breath and related the events of Friday morning from Joe's fall to Methos' arrival on the scene. He left nothing out. Methos was silent through the recitation, wincing inwardly, when Mac repeated Amy's statements. He wanted to say something, something wise, or worldly, or witty, something which would ease the pain caused by those bitter words.

"I'm sorry, Mac", he said. It was the best that Methos could come up with.

Duncan nodded. "Did you...did you know she felt that way about me?"

"No. ... I knew she wasn't comfortable around you, or particularly friendly to you. But I chalked it up to the Watcher-Immortal thing, ...you know..." Methos shrugged.

"She's pretty friendly with you, though." Mac rearranged the pillows on the divan, then put them back the way they were.

"Well, I did save her life. I guess I get points for that." Another silence. "What are you going to do, Mac?"

"Well, I spent all weekend either brooding over that question, or working up blisters strenuously avoiding brooding over that question." Mac looked away, to a point behind Methos' shoulder.

"And...", Methos prompted. He took a swig from his bottle.

Mac looked down at his hands. "And I'm going to do 'the standard response to unforeseen dilemmas, perfected over many centuries.'" He looked directly at Methos. "'Nothing'."

Methos nearly snorted beer out his nose, as his own words were tossed back at him. "What!?"

Duncan smiled for the first time. "Almost got you there, old man." He sobered. "Talking to Amy won't help. Talking to Joe will only upset him. I won't put myself between Amy and Joe. I can't end my friendship with Joe without hurting him again. I've already done that too often. And frankly, I don't want to end our friendship. It's too important to me." This last statement was said rather defiantly.

"So...", Methos prompted again.

MacLeod ran his hands through his hair. "So, I'm going to lie to Joe and tell him some mysterious Immortal was stalking me, and I took off for the island to lure him away from the bar, where I lost him. But since I was so close, I thought I'd check out the cabin. And I'm going to continue to avoid Amy. If Joe notices, he notices. I'll cross that bridge when....What?"

Methos was shaking his head, and muttering to himself. "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod..."

"What!!"

"Just don't surprise me too often. I don't think the old heart could take it." Smiling, Methos patted his chest.

Duncan smiled back. "Speaking of surprises ... I read your dissertation last night. Interesting title." Mac said. He stood up, and retrieved two beers from the refrigerator. "I take it you weren't really there?", he asked. He handed a fresh beer to Methos.

"No. I told you it was the real thing. I didn't live it and I didn't make it up. It's pure, old-fashioned speculative scholarship on my part." Methos examined the label on his bottle with interest. "So, what did you think of my hard work?" He swallowed beer.

"Well, I'm not a linguist or archaeologist...", Mac began.

"Most of them thought my conclusions were pure bullshit.", Methos interjected.

"You know my Tessa was an artist." At Methos' nod, he continued. "I wish you had met her." Mac paused for a moment. "Tessa used to say that art was a message from the people who came before to those who will come after. She said it didn't matter what kind of art, or where the artist came from, the message was always the same." Mac looked down at the bottle in his hand.

"And what was the message?", Methos asked, curious.

"'I was here.'" Duncan looked up, his dark eyes shining. "It's not bullshit, Methos."

Methos looked away for a moment. He cleared his throat. "So, when does your semester end?"

MacLeod blinked at the abrupt change of subject. "Last week in April. Why?"

"I need to book our flight." Methos spoke casually.

"Where are we going?"

"The Tyrol. That feeb Martin Guerre screwed up on the glacier cave writings. He's missing all the important stuff!"

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

*Christ*, MacLeod thought to himself, *What a smell!* He was lying in his sleeping bag, trying to breathe shallowly through his mouth. The five-thousand-year-old producer of the noxious odor lay sleeping soundly a few feet away. The two Immortals were camped for the night halfway up the Similaun Peak in the Tyrolean Alps of southern Austria, a stone's throw from the Italian border. Methos' smelly socks were inside the tent, looped over the support pole. A strong reek of urine emanated from the tent itself. Methos had pissed on it before retiring for the night.

It was the last week in April. Their journey had begun with the flight from Seacouver to New York, and from there to Innsbruck . They were seeking the glacier ice caves, revealed to the modern world with the retreat of the Oztal Glacier in the early 1990's. The first significant discovery had been the famous Iceman, whose desiccated mummy was discovered by hikers in 1991. Amid all the hoopla over the prehistoric time traveler, quieter discoveries were made. Narrow openings into a labyrinth of a cave system were revealed. Cave paintings and writings and stone figures had been dated as far back as 2000 B.C. Linguists and archaeologists had been debating the meaning of the carved figures, and what appeared to be corresponding text for the past decade. Martin Guerre, one of the linguists to visit the site in the early years, had published an article on the apocalyptic references in the drawings and text. This had prompted MacLeod to fund Guerre's further research of this fascinating discovery. Guerre was currently working on a book about the find for popular consumption.

MacLeod wondered again what, if anything, was between the two scholars. Methos often sneered at people and their foibles, but the old man reserved an especially virulent contempt for the French linguist. Duncan knew Guerre was a rising star in the same department as Amy Thomas at the University of Paris, where Adam Pierson had been a graduate student. Guerre was well-regarded in international linguistics circles for his innovative interpretations of statue-menhir, the anthropomorphic stone figures with intricate markings found at many archaelogical sites. He knew Guerre possessed an acerbic wit and cutting sarcastic edge, which he tried, not always successfully, to curb with his benefactor. Mac assumed Guerre and Adam Pierson crossed paths in Paris, within their mutual academic circles, engendering a strong dislike on at least Methos' side of the equation. Methos had savaged the mortal linguist's interpretation of the cave writings and drawings, insisting that Guerre had missed something essential in the photographs he had sent to Duncan. Thus leading to this camping trip with the world's most irritating five-thousand-year-old.

Methos spent the last few weeks immersing himself in the research materials that MacLeod had collected, holing up in Mac's house, reading late into the night. Duncan was hard pressed to keep up with his innumerable questions and demands for beer and pizza. On many mornings, Mac came downstairs to find his friend curled up in the big armchair, poring over a book or file, in exactly the same position as he had left him the night before.

Methos was particularly fascinated by Jason Landry's journal, and the unfolding of the man's journey from a scholar interested in the universal myths and legends of heroes, to a true believer in Duncan MacLeod as the next Champion destined to save the world. To Methos, it was a study in obsession degenerating into madness, albeit a well-researched and footnoted one. Jason Landry, like J.R.R. Tolkien, Joseph Campbell, and other lesser known academics, had been fascinated by the striking similarity of myth and legend in cultures separated from each other by time and distance. Unlike those others, Landry had come to believe.

A well-regarded academician and popular author, Landry had not published in the last ten years of his life. Instead, he had been frantically searching for clues to the identity of the living Champion, whom he was convinced he must find and teach before the end of the millennium. When Landry finally found his Champion on the banks of the Seine, the scholar had dropped dead of a stroke. Methos said it was sadly ironic, an ending to the scholar that was itself shrouded in the themes of the myths that had been his lifelong study.

Landry's focus had been Babylonian myth, as preserved in the Zoroastrian religion still practiced by a small minority today. There were echoes of this same myth in other cultures around the world. Nearly all of the cultures which had a myth/legend record had a story of a great Warrior who battles Evil and saves the world. Gilgamesh, Beowulf, ... the list went on. Perhaps, Mac thought, ages from now, the list would include Luke Skywalker and Indiana Jones.

The Zoroastrian tenets were well-preserved and undiluted, due to the relative isolation of the religion in pockets in India, Madagascar and the Mideast. The Zoroastrians believed that the forces of Evil, dominated by Ahriman, constantly fought the forces of Good. The forces of Good were embodied by the Seven Beneficent Immortals. The Zoroastrians even named the Seven: Truth, Domination, Devotion, Holiness, Spirit, Good Thought, and Immortality. Similar, but less coherent, stories abounded in other cultures. The number Seven itself was mystical in uncounted cultures. The Christian Book of Revelations was replete with numerical references to Seven: Seven Seals, Seven Angels, the Beast with Seven Heads, etc. MacLeod knew from personal experience, though, that the historical accuracy of Revelations wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

Jason Landry had believed that Duncan MacLeod was one of the Seven Beneficent Immortals. From his journal, it appeared that Landry had no idea that actual Immortals did exist, side by side with mortals, in the modern world. As a member of that exclusive club, MacLeod knew Immortals weren't gods, or angels, or demons. He still had a tough time thinking of himself as the Champion of this Millenium. After all, he still put his pants on one leg at a time.

Methos made it clear that his interest in Mac's project was academic. MacLeod, grateful for the help and the company, was content with that. Hell, on his worst days, Mac had a hard time believing the whole thing hadn't been a delusion on his part, an attempt by his distressed mind to exculpate him from his responsibility for Richie's death. If it hadn't been for Joe ... well, he didn't know how it would have turned out without Joe, and he didn't want to imagine it. Joe once told him that he couldn't imagine his life without Duncan in it. How much more true was the reverse. They left Joe in Seacouver, assuring him there was no reason to follow MacLeod to Europe. His stay would be short term. No doubt the European Watchers Divison was already alerted to Duncan's arrival.

Their flights were uneventful, with the exception of getting the swords through baggage claims. Even with MacLeod's credentials as a dealer and teacher in antique weaponry, the task proved difficult. However, with the exception of Holy Ground, airports and commercial flights were one of the safest places for an Immortal these days. Security was so tight, even Methos was totally disarmed. *Well, maybe not totally;* Mac thought, *the old man could probably still behead someone with a disposable razor and dental floss.*

Things became more interesting after the final connecting flight from Innsbruck. With baggage in hand, they were walking from the tarmac into the terminal when they felt an Immortal Presence. Duncan was instantly on alert, all senses primed, adrenaline flowing, as he scanned the tarmac for the source. At the same time, he became aware that Methos was no longer at his side, and his Presence was outside of Duncan's range. Mac never knew anyone, not even Houdini, who could disappear as quickly and quietly as Methos.

A tall blond man with a suitcase in one hand, and a long canvas carrier in another, stood fifty feet away. He was catching a departing flight, ticket and boarding pass in one hand. When his eyes met Duncan's, the other Immortal gestured with his head to the area behind the terminal. MacLeod nodded and followed. He didn't recognize the other man. When they reached the secluded area, Mac said "I'm not looking for a fight."

The blond man dropped his suitcase. With very quick movements, he retrieved his sword from the carrier, before speaking. "Neither was I." His accent was faintly German.

"Look", Duncan tried again, "we don't have to do this. We can both walk away. Nobody has to die today."

"Coward!", the man practically spat at him, tightening his grip on the sword and assuming battle stance.

Duncan sighed and removed his katana from the carrier. He raised the sword hilt high, bowed, and said "I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

The man paled. "D...Duncan MacLeod?", he said. His sword wavered and he stepped back a few paces. "I d...didn't know...I never expected you here in... MacLeod, look...I'm sorry.... Mein Gott...look, MacLeod...", he trailed off.

MacLeod smiled grimly and put up his sword. The man backed away, muttering apologies. Scooping up his luggage, he ran back to his departing plane. MacLeod took his time putting his sword carefully into the padded carrier. He entered the terminal. An hour later, he felt the Buzz of his traveling companion, as he sipped at his third cup of coffee in a little café.

Methos sat down just as the waitress appeared to take his order. Methos ordered black coffee. Duncan raised an eyebrow at the choice of beverage, but said nothing. Methos waited until he'd had his first sip before speaking. "Anyone you knew?"

MacLeod shook his head. "He never introduced himself. German, I'd say, ...not young, ...at least from my perspective"

"Let me guess... when he realized he had just challenged the Sundance Kid, he headed off into the sunset as fast as his legs would carry him."

Mac snorted, and took another sip of his coffee. "Something like that." He was silent for a few minutes. "I wonder if this is what it was like for Cullen." He looked at Methos to see if he was understood. The old man nodded. "The world divided in two for him. Those that ran at the sound of his name, and those that ran toward it."

"Well, Mac, you know how the Immortal grapevine works. They know you took Kell." *And Connor*, he thought.

Mac nodded slowly. They finished the coffee without further conversation.

It was a day's drive in the rented Tracker 4x4 to reach Solden, the last big town before the mountains. Mac drove. Methos dozed, hunkered down like a turtle in his jacket, head against the window. They spent the night in a nondescript hotel and arrived early at their outfitters at the base of the mountains. They were quickly equipped and on their way by mid-morning. Several hours drive on increasingly rougher roads and Mac parked in a designated parking area. He woke his companion, who sat up blearily. "We hike it from here." Mac told him.

The day was sunny and cool, the air fresh with the scent of pine. MacLeod hoisted his pack, glad for the physical exertion after the many days of travel. They figured two days to get to the cave mouth and two days to get back. They spoke little, but walked in companionable silence. Duncan's thoughts were on the last time he had been in this part of the Alps. It was during the war- World War II. There had been a covert mission, one of many, behind enemy lines, and he had traveled the mountains on foot after a night drop from a B52. There had been some screw-up. He never found out why, but the double agent he was to rendezvous with, never showed. As a result, Mac spent an idyllic few weeks with a lovely girl, a member of the local Resistance. What was her name? Lili? Leni? Mac smiled at the memory.

His companion was not smiling. As Methos hitched up his heavy pack for the thousandth time, shifting it away from the sore spot it was rubbing on his shoulder, he also remembered the last time he had been in these parts. The memories were hazy. Oh, it must have been about 1500 years ago. He had been fleeing from the onslaught of some invading horde or another, striking out across the glacier to elude pursuit. Well, he eluded his pursuers alright. Nobody else was suicidal enough to follow him across that deadly plateau in early winter. He must have frozen to death a half dozen times before he found himself at the bottom of a cliff, bloody and battered. He had felt a kinship with the Iceman since the frozen mummy was discovered several years ago.

At least it was spring this time. Methos hated the cold. He hated hiking up mountains. He hated his new boots, which were rubbing a blister on the small toe of his left foot. He glanced at MacLeod. The Highlander was smiling, his expression dreamy, his body language indicating he was enjoying this far more than he should. He noticed Methos looking at him, and grinned, dark eyes shining, as if to say "What a beautiful day to be alive", or some such Hallmark moment crap. Methos opened his mouth, a cutting remark on the tip of his tongue. Then he snapped it shut. *Leave the kid alone. Gods, you'd take candy from a baby just to make it as miserable as you, you old fart. It's not his bloody fault if every bloody bit of real estate on this bloody planet dredges up bloody bad memories for you. You have only yourself to blame for this little adventure.* With an inward grimace, the old man returned the smile.

They saw no other travelers. They pushed on until dark, wanting to get there and more than capable of establishing camp in darkness. Methos set up the small domed tent they were sharing, while Duncan scouted the perimeter and gathered wood for a fire. As he returned, arms full of wood and brush, he could just make out Methos' lean form. The older man was oddly hunched over, and slowly walking around the tent. Puzzled, Duncan peered at him as he approached. His jaw and the firewood dropped at the same time.

"What the hell are you doing!" Mac shouted.

"Pissing on the tent" said Methos.

"I can see that! What the hell for!"

Methos looked at him as if he were simple-minded. "To keep the bears away."

"Methos, there haven't been bears in Austria in over a hundred years!"

"Oh...Sorry." He zipped his jeans and shrugged.

MacLeod turned his back on Methos and gathered the wood he dropped, muttering to himself in Gaelic. He soon had a blazing fire going, and prepared their simple supper of dehydrated meals. Methos puttered around in the tent for a bit, then joined him beside the fire. They ate in silence.

"I put the deposit down on the gear, you know." Mac said, after a while. Methos couldn't see his face, but heard the hint of a smile in the voice.

"It does work. In five thousand years, I have never had my head chewed off by a bear in the night."

Mac snorted. "I was attacked by a bear in the night once. In the Highlands. She was after my food. As I recall, I pissed a lot that night, but it didn't keep her away."

"Well, you have to do it before the bear arrives for it to work."

"I'll try to remember that."

They were quiet, watching the fire.

"So, what happened?" Methos asked after a while.

"When?" said Duncan, puzzled.

"Between you and the bear?"

"Oh. ... I'll give you a hint. A Winter's Tale, Act III, scene 3." said Duncan, his eyes dancing as he stirred the fire.

The older man was silent for a long moment, then burst out laughing. *The most sublime stage direction in all of Shakespeare - "Exit, pursued by a bear."*

The night was clear and fine. It was a long time since MacLeod had sat around a campfire, looking at the stars. The last time was with Rich on the island. Methos and he talked into the night, swapping stories of travels and travelers, until the fire died down and they were yawning. Methos headed for the tent. Mac gestured towards a patch of scrub. "I'll just keep the bears at bay over there, shall I?" Methos grunted, and crawled into the tent. By the time Mac climbed in, getting a face full of damp sock, the old man was sound asleep. MacLeod curled up in his sleeping bag, taking care not to touch the side of the tent. He buried his nose in the sweatshirt he was using as a pillow. He had just time enough to utter a Gaelic curse or two before he too succumbed to sleep.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

They awoke at dawn. Methos was quick to point out that no bears had gnawed off their heads in the night. They struck camp quickly and pushed on up the mountainside. Halfway up the summit, they stopped. It was nearly noon.

Duncan studied a detail map provided by Guerre. "The entrance is narrow- not much more than a fissure. It should be over there." He pointed to the eastern face. A half hour passed before Methos found the entrance. The intrepid scholars to this site deliberately left the entrances unmarked. Prehistoric stone art was a hot commodity in the illicit antiquities trade.

It was a very narrow entrance. Methos just fit , with Duncan handing in the swords and gear. The larger man had to strip off his outerwear to squeeze through. Even so, there was a popping sound as a couple of buttons flew off. It reminded MacLeod why spelunking was not on his list of recreational activities.

Methos turned on one of the powerful battery lanterns. The fissure ended in a small antechamber. They made their way into a still larger cavern. It, in turn, opened into a chamber with pillars of rock holding the mountain above their heads. Stalactites and stalagmites stabbed ceiling and floor, beautiful in their swirls of color and crystal. In places, the ceiling was quite high; in others, low enough to force them to stoop. Enough natural light entered through the fissures and cracks in the ceiling that the hanging crystals sparkled. Dark pools with smooth stone islands rising from them composed the floor. Methos turned off the lantern.

MacLeod guided them to the "rear" wall of the chamber. Intricate writings and drawings covered the rock face. Some drawings were realistic, depicting lifelike animals and plants. The human-like figures were more stylized and abstract. There were symbols too. The walls were intricately inscribed, but of no language that MacLeod recognized. Mac's knowledge of German and primitive Teutonic did not extend to this ancient language which may have been the progenitor of those languages. Fortunately, his companion was familiar with the base language, or others very like it. Methos had studied the photographs of this wall for the last several weeks in Seacouver. He was convinced that there were more writings or symbols which Guerre had failed to provide.

Methos studied the wall closely, his nose nearly touching the rock. His concentration was absolute. He shushed Mac whenever the Highlander tried to ask a question, so MacLeod quietly explored the cave. Within this chamber, there were no other writings or symbols emblazoned on the rock surfaces. It was cool, the only sound other than his breathing was the steady drip-drip of water.

The water in the pools in the floor was clear. He took a small sip from one of them. Fresh water and so icy cold it made his teeth ache. He wondered if the pools were glacier melt or underground streams. Mac had read of scuba-equipped spelunkers exploring underwater caverns in Mexico, following the flowing water course until it emerged as a river from deep underground. Sitting warm and dry in his comfortable reading chair, MacLeod had shivered vicariously for the brave mortal explorers, who didn't know if their compressed air would last from air pocket to air pocket as they explored the unknown depths.

While he had never considered himself particularly claustrophobic, MacLeod had little love for caves. He shared with most Immortals of his acquaintance, the very real fear of being buried alive. Perhaps that had something to do with his aversion to places like this. *And maybe that first horrible Quickening in that cave played some small part too, aye?* He shrugged off that unpleasant memory. After he completed his circuit of the cavern, he returned to the rear wall to find Methos flat on the floor, examining the writings squeezed into the area where the wall met the floor. Mac sat on a large boulder, plinking small pebbles into the pools nearest his perch, until the scholar sat up, absently rubbing the small of his back.

"Apple?" the Scot offered, around a mouthful of fruit. Methos sat on a boulder facing MacLeod. He took the apple and chewed thoughtfully.

"Earth to Methos....Earth to Methos...." MacLeod tried after a few minutes.

"Sorry" the eldest muttered. "Much as I hate to admit it, I do agree with that feeb Guerre, that these writings tell of a penultimate battle between Good and Evil, where a warrior is chosen to save the world. It's pretty obviously the only conclusion to this sequence here." He waved vaguely at the middle section of the stone wall. "But, there's more to it than what's here, Mac. The feeb did photograph what's in this cavern. I'll give him that. But, there's something missing."

"Missing, as in removed from here?" Mac asked. Methos always referred to Martin with the epithet. It was getting so that Mac thought of the linguist as "that feeb Guerre" in his own mind. He'd have to be damn careful the next time they met.

"Not exactly. It's as if this ", Methos gestured to the rock face, "is for public display. But I get the feeling something more private, more select is alluded to."

"You mean...like a hidden chamber or secret entrance?" MacLeod said, amused. He tucked his apple core into the little refuse bag in his pack.

"Yeah, I know. It sounds so...'Indiana Jones'. Did you remember to bring your whip?"

"No, sorry, I left it in my other pants." Mac chuckled.

"Well, unlike Dr. Jones, Dr. Pierson here knows squat about secret entrances. Outside of a pyramid or two." Methos took a large bite out of his apple.

"Well, don't look at me. All I know about this stuff, is what I learned in the movies."

"I am looking at you. You are, after all, the alleged Champion."

"What do you expect me to do?" Mac retorted, "Use my sword as a divining rod? Or maybe, study the entrails of a chicken? Except we didn't bring a chicken with us. Well, in a pinch, I guess you'll do. No wait, you hypnotize me into a trance, and I'll ..."

"Never mind" said Methos. He stood up and tossed his apple core into the nearest pool.

"We'll just have to look around."

Mac stood up too. "What are we looking for?"

"Inspiration."

"Great" Mac muttered. He strode to the pool, and scooped out the discarded apple core. He straightened, about to lecture the world's oldest slob, then shut his mouth with a snap. He turned back to the pool and dipped his hand in. The water was cool, not icy cold. While Methos scrutinized the rock walls, Mac examined the other pools. The water in all of them was so cold it made his fingers ache. All but the one, the smallest one, closest to the illustrated wall. He knelt beside it. The water wasn't as clear as the other pools, and he couldn't see the bottom. He took off his coat, and rolled up his shirt sleeve. He reached into the pool. It was shallow. At its deepest point, the water came up to his elbow.

"Methos."

His companion was intently running his hands over an outcropping of rock and didn't answer.

"Methos!"

"What?" the older man said, looking over his shoulder.

The Highlander twisted a small rock in the center of the pool. The "pool" flipped over sideways, as if hinged in the middle, tossing a big gout of water onto MacLeod and into a dark opening underneath it. The "pool" hung there, bifurcating the opening beneath it. It was a single large stone, which someone had carved into a saucer shape. Whatever mechanism caused the swivelling, or held the up-ended stone in place, wasn't visible. It reminded MacLeod of a butterfly valve of the type found in the carbeurator of his Thunderbird. The hole..., no, the entrance, MacLeod thought, was wide enough for a man to slip through.

Methos, leaning over the shoulder of his dripping friend, peered into the darkness. "I'd say you've just been inspired."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Methos lowered himself carefully into the black hole opening under the pseudo-pool. His climbing harness was clipped to a length of rope, which passed across the strong back of Duncan MacLeod, looped around a large boulder, and ended in a sturdy knot. He had won the argument. "After all," Methos had contended, "I'm the linguist and I'm lighter." Duncan had demurred then. "Age before beauty", he said, with a slight bow. "Brains before brawn" the older man quipped back. "Well, it's not too bright to piss off the guy that has to haul your skinny ass back up, now, is it?" the Highlander groused, as he tossed a small stone into the hole. But the sound of the stone hitting stone was no help on gauging its depth. They had tried to peer into the hole with the lanterns, but it snaked away, tunnel-like, limiting their view.

For the first several feet, Methos dangled freely from the harness. The sides of the tunnel were rough, obviously hand-carved. There was no purchase for his hands or feet. MacLeod let out the rope slowly, so that Methos could see what was ahead of him as much as possible. He had a lantern and the a headlamp strapped to his forehead. Suddenly, the tunnel ended, opening into a larger space. Methos shone the lantern beam down between his feet. There was a floor, about twelve feet down. He tugged on the rope to signal Mac to lower him further. He found himself standing on mostly level ground, strewn with small rocks. He signaled MacLeod that he was down. Still tethered, Methos explored the small cavern, as far as the rope would let him. The only entrance was the one he had used. It was otherwise sealed. *Like a tomb.* Methos thought, grimly. In the beam from his lanterns, he saw a rock wall covered with writing and symbols about twenty-five feet away. The rope was too short. He unclipped it from his harness.

Methos approached the wall with barely contained excitement. The scholarly part of his psyche, the part of himself currently operating under the name "Adam Pierson" was breathless with the thrill of discovery. The hassles of travel, the discomforts of the hike, the rough camping - it was all worth it just for this feeling. How long had it been since anyone had been here? Who had built this fabulous hiding place? Why would they do so?

A stone plinth, roughly round, stood altar-like in front of the illustrated wall, its surface decorated with symbols. At first glance, Methos thought the top was covered in rubble. Curious, he walked slowly around the plinth, playing the light on the surface. Consequently, he didn't see the object on the floor until he tripped over it, stubbing his big toe badly. With a curse, he knelt to see what he'd stumbled over. It was a small statue-menhir. The little human-like figure was carved from white marble, laced with brown and ochre. It was completely intact, lying face up. The white stone was lustrous in the glare of his headlamp. He stepped over it and completed his circuit of the plinth.

It wasn't rubble on the top of the plinth. It was the remains of several stone figures, like the one on the ground. At one time, they must have been arranged in a rough circle, facing each other. Methos examined the little statues without moving them. All the figures appeared to be carved in the same rough manner, and in the fashion of statue-menhir he had seen before: intricate carving to the waist, and then rough and undefined below the belt. There were no distinguishing sexual characteristics, but he thought of them, rather chauvinistically, as little men. There were small depressions, like insets, in the plinth. Only one marble figure was still standing, its base set into one of the depressions. Standing, but nonetheless, it too was damaged. A stalactite falling from the ceiling had smashed the little stone man next to it into pieces, damaging the standing fellow in the process.

To keep them straight, Methos christened the remaining little figures: the "Standing Man" upright on the altar, the "Broken Man" smashed next to him, and the undamaged "Fallen Man" on the floor. The three figures differed only in the symbols on their surface. The carving of their features was identical. The rest of the rubble on the altar top seemed to be the shattered remains of other little men. They were too damaged, some almost pulverized, for Methos to tell how many or if the symbols on them were different. He counted the little depressions in the plinth. There were six, plus the one with the standing figure. So, seven statuettes had once stood here. *Seven Little Indians, all in a row*, he thought nonsensically, *but in the end, there can be only one*. He patted the Standing Man's head in empathy.

Methos turned to the wall behind him. Like the wall in the upper cave, it too was covered in symbols and writing. But the language was different. It was too much to try and translate now in the glare of lanterns. Methos opened the camera case dangling around his neck. He took pictures of the complete wall, in a grid pattern, taking overlapping close-ups of small sections. Then, he snapped shots of the symbols on the plinth, and the broken figures on top. He took a shot of the little man lying on the floor. Satisfied with the photographs, he began to put the camera back up into its case, when a thought struck him. Methos bent to pick up the Fallen Man. It was heavy. He turned it over. There was another, different symbol carved into its back. He stood there for a moment, but the sensation of familiarity faded. The other two statues had no symbols on the back.

Methos decided to photograph it standing next to the rather forlorn Standing Man. He set the Fallen Man firmly in one of the depressions. It fit perfectly. It was a good contrast to the damaged figurine. Satisfied, Methos backed away, camera to his face. "Say Cheese" he muttered. He snapped exposures, front and back, then closed the camera up, tucking it back into his shirt. He reached for the Fallen Man, intending to put him back where he'd found him, then stopped. "Keep each other company" he whispered to the two standing figures. With a nod of farewell to the mysterious little men, Methos turned back towards the rope. It was Mac's turn to see this remarkable place. Pictures wouldn't do it justice.

Suddenly, Methos heard a sound behind him that froze him in his tracks. A sound like all hell breaking loose. The old man turned. The illustrated wall was crumbling rapidly. Water poured in; a torrent of water with a sound like a rushing freight train. Methos ran for the rope, shouting "Mac! Mac!", though he knew it was too late. His last thought before the wall of water struck him was "Holy Shit" in a language lost long ago to the world.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Duncan, eyes closed, breathing relaxed, sat in meditation beside the secret entrance. A length of rope was laid loosely across his lap, one end down the hole with Methos, and the other securely hitched to a boulder. It was nearly two hours since Methos signalled he was at bottom. For the first fifteen minutes or so, MacLeod alternated peering uselessly into the hole, with impatient pacing around it. Then he had settled down in meditation.

His eyes snapped open. A moment later, MacLeod heard a huge roaring noise. Suddenly, the rope snapped out of his lap, scraped his face, and snaked down the hole. He sprang to the edge. "Methos! Methos!" he shouted into the opening. He could see nothing. The sound was phenomenally big as the roar of rushing water was amplified by the narrow tunnel. Mac pulled on the rope. There was resistance and he breathed a sigh of relief, as he began hauling in his friend. Relief changed rapidly to anxiety when the effort became easier. As he saw the end of the rope and its dangling lanyard, he knew the resistance must have been the weight of the rope and the pull of moving water.

MacLeod stripped off his coat and shrugged into his climbing harness. He checked that the rope around the boulder was still secure. He put on the headlamp, and strapped the hand lantern over his shoulder. He clipped the lanyard to his harness and lowered himself into the hole. The tunnel extended for about ten feet before it ended abruptly, opening into a larger space. MacLeod dangled above dark, roiling waters which filled the space a few feet below him. He shouted Methos' name as he shone the light frantically around the flooded cave. There was no answer. He took several calming breaths, then reached out with all his senses. Nothing, not a glimmer of Methos' unique aura. No sound or movement was distinguishable over the turbulent rush of the water. Methodically, Mac began playing the powerful lantern beam in a grid pattern until he had covered the entire cavern. The dark water was opaque in the glare of his lantern. He thought for a moment. Methos had carried a lantern and worn a headlamp too. Mac turned off his lights.

At first, the blackness was absolute. In the dark of the flooded cave, with the violence of the swirling waters pounding in his ears, the panic of claustrophobia threatened to overwhelm him. MacLeod worked to keep his breathing even and measured. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw faint illumination from the tunnel entrance above him. He scanned the roiling waters methodically. There! A light glowed eerily beneath the surface, not far from where he dangled. MacLeod lowered himself into the water, gasping at the icy cold. This was a subterranean river, the current both strong and swift. It must have broken through into this cavern, engulfing Methos in the process. Mac dove towards the light, grateful for the security of the rope and harness. It took a couple of deep dives before he reached the light. It was Methos' lantern. The shoulder strap was snagged on a rock. Mac felt around for Methos, but he wasn't there.

Duncan tugged the lantern free and came up for air. He turned the lantern off. Again, the darkness triggered the sense of panic. This time Mac was prepared for it, and his eyes adjusted quickly. He pulled himself up and out of the water, trying to get as much height as possible. He felt in his pocket for the granola bar wrapper he had tucked there. He tossed the shiny paper into the water and watched it follow the current. There! Another glimmer, very faint! Duncan turned on the lantern and played it over the water. The cave walls narrowed dramatically, causing the water to flow faster, surging higher and splashing off the rocky walls. That was where the watercourse flowed out of this cavern. Dammit! The rope was at least twenty feet short. He couldn't see Methos, and he couldn't see the glimmer of light with his own light on. Frustrated, Mac turned off his light again.

As he watched, the glimmer moved closer to the exit, then stopped again. Somehow, the light was working its way out of this cave. If Methos was still attached to it, he was in imminent danger of being swept away. Duncan dropped Methos' lantern. He lowered himself back into the water, and played the rope out as far as it would go. The current was faster and rougher the closer he got to the exit from this cavern. Mac coiled his body into a tight ball and unclipped his harness from the rope.

Instantly, the Scot was swept toward the turbulent exit. The water was faster than he had imagined. If he overshot his goal, the current was too strong to swim against. He'd have one chance at this. Mac fixed his eyes on the glimmer of light under the surface. As he approached, he uncoiled his body, reaching out with his left hand for the light, and grabbing for purchase on the rocky wall to his right. MacLeod slammed into the wall. He felt frantically with his left hand. There was the headlamp, still strapped to Methos' forehead. Mac felt further down and managed to grab the front of Methos' shirt. Duncan's head was barely above the water at this point. He turned on his own headlamp, took a deep breath, and ducked his head.

Mac could see nothing in the dark, roiling water. Through touch, he determined that the back of Methos' harness was caught on a sharp outcropping. The fierce current was pushing Methos towards the exit. At the same time, the swirling flow was doing its damnedest to unsnag him. It was only a matter of time before Methos was so much flotsam in the stream. Mac gulped air. His hold here was precarious. Only the force of the water pushing him against the rocky wall allowed him to keep himself in place. There was no going back against this current, even without Methos' dead weight added to the effort. There was only one choice.

Duncan took several loading breaths, and ducked below the surface. He removed Methos' head lamp, turned it off, and tucked it into the pocket of his own jeans. He wrapped his legs around Methos' body, and clipped his harness to the front of his friend's harness. He surged upward, freeing the snagged leather. They were borne away instantly. Duncan wrapped his arms and legs around Methos' limp form and held on tight.

It was a wild ride in the dark, with only Duncan's headlamp for illumination. It was like whitewater rafting, without the raft. He lost track after the third cavern and the fourth waterfall. The worst were the tunnels where the river completely filled the passage. He held his breath in the last one till his lungs were about to burst, before emerging into a cavern and tumbling over another waterfall. He struggled both to keep his head above water, and from having it dashed against a rock. After a particularly hard bash on a low-hanging stalactite that left him dazed, MacLeod realized he was instinctively protecting his companion from the buffeting. With cold detachment, he used Methos as a buffer, hunkering down in the lee of his body, letting the dead man absorb the battering. It gave Mac enough respite to think

They needed to get out of this main current. Mac could do nothing against it and it was bearing them into unknown depths. The water was frigid. Even Immortals succumbed to hypothermia. They had to get out of the water. MacLeod lifted his head, shining the headlamp from side to side. There, up ahead, to the right, the cavern opened up a little. Maybe it was a branch of this underground river with a weaker current than the main course. He kicked as hard as he could, using Methos' body like a raft. He broke free of the main current, but still had enough momentum to rocket into the stone wall of the branch. Even with Methos bearing the brunt of it, Duncan was still stunned. When his head cleared, he found they were in a shallow offshoot of the cavern, not another branch of the river. It was a grotto, a cul-de-sac, a dead end.

At least out of that terrible swift stream, Mac could tread water and assess their situation a moment. But it was hard to think straight. He had no idea how long they'd been careening around inside the mountain. The water was very cold. He looked at his companion. Methos' skin was dead white. Lacerations to his face were bloodless and gaping. Methos' clothing was ripped and hanging from the thin form. *I probably don't look much better*, Mac thought, *except I'm bleeding*, looking at a gash on his hand. He was no longer shivering, he noted, as he held up his hand. His normally olive skin was pale with the extreme cold. The cut was bleeding, but slower than normal. There was no evidence of Immortal healing. *I'm too cold.* Mac's thoughts were strangely detached. He was extremely tired. In a clinical way, he recognized the symptoms of hypothermia. Mac knew that if he died here, he and Methos would be lost forever, or until chance and the river brought their bodies back to the surface.

MacLeod swam toward the rear of the cul-de-sac, to get as far away from the main current as possible, but his movements were uncoordinated and feeble. Progress was slow, hampered by the body tethered to his harness. *I'm so tired. I'll just close my eyes a moment.* Somewhere in his mind, warning bells were going off, but they seemed so very far away. He stopped treading water, and began to sink beneath the surface. He felt warmer, relaxed, content. He was drifting, floating...

"Mac!"

*What was that?*

"Mac!"

*Who is that?*

"Mac! Look up, Mac!"

*Tessa? Tessa! Where are you, love?*

"Look up, Mac! Look up!"

"Tessa!" MacLeod was sputtering and coughing as his head broke the surface. "Where are you?"

"Look up, Mac...look up." The voice faded back to a whisper and was gone.

"Come back, Tess! Come back, please!" His shouting finally brought MacLeod out of his stupor. He looked up.

There, just a little above his head was a narrow ledge, that knifed back into the wall. If ..he could just... reach it. There! He got his right arm around it. But he couldn't pull himself and Methos up there. Mac struggled out of his harness, and looped it over his left arm. This gave him enough slack to keep Methos tethered to him, and still heave himself, little by little, out of the cold water and onto the ledge. It was torturous passage, inch by inch, but he was finally out of the water. MacLeod rolled over on his belly, trapping the end of the harness beneath him, and surrendered to his exhaustion.

Some time later, Duncan groggily lifted his head. He was cold and wet, and sore. A dim circle of light from his headlamp illuminated the rock ledge his head had been resting on. A moment later, the disorientation cleared, and he grabbed for the harness looped over his left arm. He eased his arm out of the straps, shaking his hand to restore circulation. MacLeod inched over to the lip of the rock ledge. Methos's body still hung from the conjoined harnesses, face down, bobbing up against the wall with the current.

MacLeod had no idea how long he'd been unconscious. The gash in his hand was healed entirely. Some of his strength had returned as well. Duncan braced himself in a semi-sitting position, and began hauling Methos up. The thin man was a dead weight. *Naturally, because he is dead.* Mac thought, irrelevantly. He was also waterlogged. Mac dragged his friend up the ledge, scraping off quite a bit of Methos' exposed skin. Finally, with much effort and frequent rests on MacLeod's part, his friend was out of the water.

Mac stopped to catch his breath. He looked at his companion for a long moment. Then, he turned Methos on to his belly, and forced the water from his lungs. Mac wrung as much of the water out of the shredded clothes as he could. He assessed the dead man's injuries. In addition to a broken leg, Methos' face was lacerated, as was most of his exposed skin. MacLeod set the leg as best he could. He could do nothing for the internal injuries Methos must have sustained. Immortal healing might take awhile.

MacLeod inventoried their equipment, such as it was. Methos' headlamp, despite being in Mac's pocket, was smashed beyond repair. He salvaged the batteries. Mac had his headlamp, but the light was dimming. Duncan's lantern was lost in the wild ride through the underground labyrinth. Methos had a dagger strapped to his leg; Duncan a Leatherman's pocket utility tool strapped to his belt. That little tool had been a source of amused disdain from his companion. "The perfect accessory for the well-dressed Boy Scout" Methos had scoffed. *Well, I don't think I'll be using the can opener or corkscrew anytime soon.*

Mac carried on with his list. They had their belts and the climbing harnesses. And Duncan's luminous dial watch. He was surprised to see it was just over 12 hours since he lowered Methos into the hidden cave. It seemed a lifetime ago. Duncan's clothes, though wet, were relatively intact. Methos' clothes were shredded, and he had lost a shoe. Incredibly, the camera still dangled around his friend's neck, though the housing was damaged. MacLeod noted Methos had used all of the exposures. *What had the old man found?* He wondered whether the film was salvageable. Mac knew a good restorer in Seacouver, but sooner was better than later in saving damaged film. Well, he'd worry about that if they got out of here. All in all, not much to work with.

He checked his companion. There were still no signs of life. Mac wrapped his arms around his legs, and rested his head on his knees. Duncan realized this was the first time he had seen Methos dead. It was always unnerving to see a friend in this death-like state, even when you knew he'd be coming back. It was especially disturbing to see Methos so helpless. Suddenly, an old memory surfaced.

Flashback - Scotland, 1625

He had been with his teacher for only a few months, but Connor had become Duncan's entire world. The men were riding back to Connor's croft outside Glencoe, following their monthly trip to market. It had been raining off and on, all day. A violent thunderstorm rolled in while they were out on the moor. Connor was slightly ahead. Duncan, cold and wet, was focused on his horse's careful steps, looking forward to the fire that would reward journey's end. Suddenly, there was a flash and a boom, and he found himself lying next to his horse in the mud. The animal struggled to its feet, dazed, but otherwise uninjured. Duncan got up then, slicking the muck off his hands. He looked around for Connor. His teacher was down too, his own horse lying near him. "Connor", he called, "get your lazy arse up and..." He stopped.

For the first time since he had met the man, Duncan could not feel the thrum of his Immortal Presence. Adrenaline surged. He ran to Connor's side, only to skid on the wet ground and fall on top of him. The other Immortal was lying face up, eyes unblinking, his open mouth filling with rain. It was a terrible sight. He grabbed Connor and shook him fiercely. There was no response. Duncan found his voice and shouted Connor's name till he was hoarse. There was no answer. With trembling fingers, he closed the dead eyes.

Duncan held his teacher's body tightly, and shielded his face from the rain, too grief-stricken to weep, until an hour later when Connor's thundering Presence roared in his brain. Then, to his shame, he hadn't been able to stop the tears. "But Duncan", Connor said gently, "I told you the only way we can die permanently is if we lose our heads. Didn't you believe me, lad?" Duncan turned away, shaking his head, unable to speak for the joy. They talked no more of it, and shared Duncan's horse for the rest of the journey. If Connor realized Duncan was holding on to him more tightly than was necessary, he never let on.

Duncan looked down at Methos again. There was still no hum of an Immortal Presence returning, but the facial lacerations were now closed. Mac lay beside Methos and pulled his friend's lifeless form to him, curling his larger frame around the old man, sharing the warmth of his own body to speed the healing process. Mac wrapped his arms tightly around him, trapping the cold hands. He did the same with his legs. If Methos was anything like Connor when he returned from the dead, he'd come out fighting, and the space was too small for Duncan to keep his distance while the old man reoriented himself.

Nothing happened for a long while. Then MacLeod felt it. The Buzz slammed into his senses and echoed in his throbbing head. His ears rang, his stomach flipped. The body in his arms convulsed and drew a shuddering breath. In the next instant, it took all of Duncan's strength to subdue the struggling Immortal. He murmured into the old man's ear: "Methos, it's me, Mac. Calm down. You're safe. It's Mac." Over and over. Finally, Methos's body relaxed. MacLeod still held on. He could feel Methos' heart pounding. "OK, OK" Methos whispered. Mac let him go. The older man curled into a fetal position. MacLeod let him be, knowing there was nothing he could offer but empathy.

Mac looked around the grotto, searching for some way out of this trap. From his vantage point, there was no way out that Mac could discern. Except to let the watercourse bear them on in the hope of finding an escape in the next cavern, or the next, or the next... It was not an encouraging prospect. He turned, as Methos sat up with a groan. The old man looked like hell.

Duncan smiled at him. "Welcome back."

Methos harrumphed. He looked around in the dim light afforded by Mac's headlamp.

"Where are we?"

"I don't know exactly." Mac briefly described their wild journey.

"You shouldn't have come after me, Mac."

MacLeod ignored him.

Methos sighed. "What have we got to work with?"

"One lamp, two extra batteries, your dagger, my pocket knife, our belts and harnesses, a broken camera, 3 shoes and 5400 years of survival experience."

"And a partridge in a pear tree" Methos muttered.

"I'm glad you're back"

Methos snorted at that last. "What do you expect me to add to the equation, besides the occasional pithy comment?"

Duncan's smile was warm. "Well, you can at least keep me company."

Methos looked sharply at him.

"What?" Duncan asked, quizzically.

"Nothing."

They helped each other explore the grotto. In the dying light of the lamp, they could find no escape. They tested the current. Duncan could make no headway against it, and without Methos hauling him back into the grotto with belts attached to the harnesses, he'd have been swept away. Discouraged, they huddled on the ledge, building their resolve to jump back into the river and let the flow carry them on, in the dark, to escape or entombment. Their light was dying. The time to go was now.

Duncan turned to Methos. The old man was peering into the shadows above their heads. "Methos", he said quietly, "it's now or never." His friend didn't answer. He tried again. "Methos?"

"Look up, MacLeod. Look up!" the old man exclaimed. For a moment, Duncan stared at him. Then, puzzled, he too looked up. A faint light shone through a crack deep in a crevice above them, illuminating roots that dangled high above their heads. Duncan gaped at the light, hope welling. He looked at his watch. It was dawn. Methos pulled his dagger from its sheath. "OK, Boy Scout, get out that silly, over-priced gadget you call a pocket-knife. We're digging our way out!"

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Duncan settled back on his bed in the hotel room he shared with Methos in Innsbruck. He was surrounded by the enlarged photographs of the hidden cave and the statue-menhir found inside the Similaun Peak. They'd had good luck with the recovery of the film stock from the damaged camera. A photographer in Innsbruck had the skill and, more importantly, the interest in salvaging the film of an archaeological find. They lost only the last two exposures entirely. Other shots were damaged, but the photographer managed with computer imaging technology, to recreate the cave writings in sufficient detail.

Duncan wished he had seen the secret cave intact. The illustrated wall and the plinth with the stone figures were fascinating discoveries. What a shame that, after thousands of years in secret display, they had been swept away with the flood waters. The locals advised that the spring thaw had come early and there was a higher than usual rainfall. Presumably, that was the cause of the cave-in. Methos said it was the best example of the personal consequences of global warming you could find.

Duncan was relieved that their expedition was not responsible for the obliteration of the ancient site. He didn't know why these ancient people had hidden their art and their writing like hidden treasure. Obviously, it had been very important to them. It was gone now. But a record of it survived, if only in photographs and one very old Immortal's memory.

The older he got, the more Duncan appreciated the preservation of the past, even the past before his time. So much of what he had lived through was forgotten now, preserved only in libraries or museums, or, mostly, not at all. In a way, MacLeod had begun to feel like a repository of the past, like a living and breathing time capsule, carrying times past with him on his journey into the future. He recognized that the satisfaction he drew from teaching tapped into this feeling. Mac had tried to get Richie to understand this feeling, so the young Immortal would remember his world even as he left it behind. But Rich was very young, by mortal or Immortal standards. He hadn't lived long enough to see the world he had grown up in fade into "history".

Duncan, with only four hundred years under his belt, struggled not to live in the past. It was difficult, sometimes, to embrace the future, to welcome new ideas and new people. How much more must Methos feel this way. Or did he? Mac laughed at himself. Only a fool would presume to know what the world's oldest enigma thought. Right now, said enigma was soaking in the hottest bath he could stand, still trying to get the dirt out from under his fingernails from digging their way out of the earth-packed fissure in the roof of the cavern. Duncan would have thought the old man had had enough of water, hot or cold, for a while.

A repository of the past. The thought was an uncomfortable one. It reminded him that he was a repository in another way. He carried the Quickenings of uncounted Immortals within him.

When Duncan was newly Immortal, he would lie awake, night after night, wondering what the Quickening was. Was death by beheading a true death for an Immortal? Did the victor acquire his vanquished foe's soul, along with the power? Connor had roused him from frequent nightmares of being trapped forever in an enemy, denied both final judgment and eternal rest. The younger man had pestered Connor with endless questions that his teacher simply couldn't answer, till the elder man had held up his hands and cried "Enough, cousin. Another question and you'll see what happens for yourself. Go back to sleep."

Duncan learned to let it go, along with his simple beliefs in good and evil, glory and honor, heaven and hell. With Connor's death, and the infusion of Kell's powerful Quickening, these thoughts returned to haunt him. He knelt all night on that rooftop after Connor died. He felt Connor go. He felt his soul take wing. Duncan had been absolutely sure, in that moment, that his kinsman had joined his bonny Heather. All night, he searched his consciousness for any trace of Connor and had been relieved not to find him there. Yet something of his teacher had surfaced in the final fight with Kell. Without that, Duncan would have been defeated.

He held the Quickenings of so many that he had loved - Connor, Richie, Fitz, Rebecca. And others, so many others, inside him. Where did he end and the others begin? Standing at Connor's grave, a snatch of verse had come to him:

The last - the sole - the dearest link

Between me and the eternal brink...

It had disturbed him, later, to recognize the words were Byron's.

In desperation, he had told Connor that our bonds are all that hold us in this world. If that was true, how many more bonds had he acquired by taking Kell? How long would they hold him in this world? Until he found the next Champion? Or, until he was the last, lonely man standing? These were questions to which he, like his teacher, had no answers.

MacLeod sighed, and turned back to the photographs. Tomorrow, they would be leaving for Paris. Methos could not translate the language in the hidden cave. The older man speculated that it was a higher, perhaps ceremonial, version of the base language. It was probably reserved for use by the elite of the society, most likely, their priests. Methos needed the resources of the University of Paris archives. Duncan was a bit surprised by the continued interest demonstrated by his companion. But Methos was hooked. For now.

Duncan picked up the photo showing the plinth and the broken stone figures lying on it. What was the significance of the number of the statuettes? Seven kept appearing in the mythologies they were studying, but the references were so diverse. Jason Landry's research had focused on the Zoroastrian belief system of seven warriors on the side of Good. But, Zoroastrianism had not extended this far into Europe.

Mac wished for the thousandth time that Jason Landry was here to answer his questions. Landry's sudden death outside Duncan's barge that night had silenced the scholar before he could utter more than a vague warning. Well, not quite. Landry's journal had allowed the man to speak to him from beyond the grave, but not enough and not in time to save Landry, or his grandaughter, or Richie. *I wish... No, don't go there tonight.*

Maybe the ice cave, and the seven little men, had nothing to do with his Quest. After all, the French cave paintings that the Watchers had found, six years ago, had no numerical references, just a lone, unarmed Champion facing the Evil One and winning. Still, it was a fascinating find. What a shame that the stalactite had fallen and damaged the last two figures on the plinth. From the rough edges on the fallen crystal and the damaged stone men, Methos concluded that the fall had occurred recently, perhaps in the last decade, probably caused by the retreating glacier. MacLeod studied the picture of the little man on the floor, the one Methos had dubbed "The Fallen Man". Had it been knocked off the plinth by the falling stone? No, the mechanics of it weren't right - it had fallen on the side of the plinth, furthest away from the stalactite. What had knocked it down? Or had it been placed on the floor?

Mac held the photo closer to the light. The picture quality was good. The little statue was remarkably intact. The craftsman, no, the artist, who had sculpted the marble was talented. Tessa would have admired the form, the strong lines of the body, in contrast with the elegant, delicate carving of the face. *Ah, Tess, I wish I could have shown this to you. You'd have loved this little guy for that show you were curator for in Paris, that last one on the history of sculpture. What would you have made of this, love? Standing sentinels, in a hidden circ-...* Duncan bolted upright in the bed, heart pounding, scattering the photographs. "Complete the circle." he whispered. *How? How do I do that? The cave was totally destroyed.* "Go back to the beginning, she said." he uttered aloud.

"What?" Methos asked, exiting the bathroom in a cloud of steam. He looked at MacLeod curiously. The Scot was sitting on the bed, a strange expression on his face. "What is it, Mac?"

"I can't go with you to Paris." Mac's voice was low.

"Why not?"

"I have to go home."

"Go home? What's back in Seacouver?" Methos asked, surprised.

"No, home...Scotland. I have to go back to the Highlands." Mac replied.

Home. Methos fleetingly wondered what it was like to be from somewhere. He had no memory of home, of adoptive parents, of family life. Well, none other than his twisted relationship with the three Immortals he had called his "brothers".

"Why?" Mac said nothing for a moment. Methos stood, clad in the hotel's terry robe, rubbing his hair with a towel. "Duncan, what's the matter?" he said gently.

"I...had a dream. And now I have this feeling.... It sounds foolish, crazy, I know. But I have to go."

Methos sat down next to him on the bed, moving the photographs out of the way. "What was the dream about?"

Mac looked at him for a long moment. "Tessa." Then, he looked away. He told Methos about the dream. What Tessa had told him. How he looked at the photographs of the statues in the circle and knew he had to go home. Mac was grateful that Methos was silent as he told his tale.

When MacLeod finished, the older man still didn't say anything. As the silence stretched, Mac felt the heat rise in his face. He stood up abruptly. "Look, I know how crazy it sounds, how ... backward. I do." Mac ran his hands through his hair. "I worked hard my first century trying to forget all the superstitions I'd been raised on, not to cross myself when I saw a black cat, or wear charms against the evil eye. Not to think of myself as some kind of unnatural.... I stopped believing in fate, or spirits, and signs."

"'When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things.'" Methos murmured.

Duncan nodded. "Exactly. I was proud that I put away the old ways. Now four hundred years later, I'm thrust into the middle of a ...fairy tale...no, a ghost story, or worse. An old man dies at my feet. I see dead people I've killed,...or loved." He looked down at his hands. "And now, I'm off, around the world, chasing dreams and prophecies, dragging my friend into dangerous places under the earth..." Mac stopped himself with an effort. "I know how it sounds, I really do. I don't know why it feels so urgent, but it does....And I'm afraid to ignore this feeling. I ignored too much already, and Richie died...". He paused for breath. "I'm sorry, Methos, but I have to go home."

The silence stretched. "Methos, say something" he beseeched.

"Something." the old man replied, then held up his hands to ward off the pillow that was thrown at his head. "Mac, dreams do have meaning and portent, at least Freud and Jung and countless other reasonable men thought so. A message, maybe not from the Great Beyond, but from the unconscious mind. We can't always explain why we do the things we do." He looked at Mac, whose dark hair was tangled and awry. "You need a haircut."

Mac smoothed back his wayward hair with both hands, making it even more untidy, unaware of the unconscious gesture. Methos thought *Works every time* He smiled at the younger man. Mac smiled back.

"Where in Scotland?"

"I don't know. I'll start in Glenfinnan-that's my beginning, anyway."

"How long will you be gone?"

"I don't know. How long do you think you'll be in Paris?"

"A few weeks, at least. I have a starting point- a linguist who did some work back in the thirties."

"I'll keep in touch. I'll join you in Paris as soon as I can. I'm sorry, Methos."

The pillow was lobbed back at Mac's head. "Don't be. I get pretty single-minded when I work. You won't be a distraction if you're not there. Just give me your American Express account number on your way out of town."

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Joe Dawson hung up the phone behind his bar, and scratched his beard. It was late, his place was closed. But it was ten hours later in Austria. Simone Verot, assigned to the Western Europe division of the Watchers, just reported that Duncan MacLeod had taken a flight from Innsbruck to Paris, then to London, and on to Edinburgh. Was Adam Pierson with him?, Joe had inquired. Only as far as Paris was the answer. Another Watcher would pick up MacLeod in Scotland. Pierson, now that he was no longer with MacLeod, had been dropped off the Watcher radar.

Among all the Watchers, only Joe and Amy knew that Adam Pierson was an Immortal. For a while after he had left the Organization, and was observed hanging out with MacLeod, there had been some suspicion that the former Watcher researcher was Immortal. Joe had been able to quash that speculation by falsely reporting Pierson's need of medical treatment. It was the least he could do for the man who had saved his daughter's life. Most Watchers thought Pierson had wimped out on his oath, become an Immortal groupie. Those that knew Adam personally, thought the murder of Don Salzer by the Immortal Kalas, followed by the cancer death of his fiancee had demoralized the young man. To them, it made sense that the Jacob Galati affair had been the final straw leading to Pierson's resignation. A few Watchers even envied his friendship with MacLeod. But no Watcher except Joe, knew Adam Pierson was Methos.

What was going on? Mac told him they were going to the Austrian Alps to view the glacier ice caves, and expected to be back in a couple of weeks. Joe knew Mac was researching the identity of the next Champion. They had discussed it many times. Joe was the only person who knew the whole Ahriman story as MacLeod knew it. Mac had many redundant copies of his research made, to protect against the knowledge being lost. He entrusted Joe with the location of one of the caches. Mac's greatest fear was that, if he lost an Immortal challenge, the next Champion would be as ill-prepared as Mac had been when his time came.

Joe had experienced his own close encounter with Ahriman six years ago. He had surreptitiously used the Watchers to help Mac find some of the answers that he needed to face his foe. As a result, Joe had lost four of his people. They had never known why they had died. Joe knew ... he knew that their lives had not been thrown away, that they had helped to save the world from an unthinkable evil. After a time, Joe had come to peace with what had happened. Joe had offered his help to MacLeod for this new Search, but both had agreed that the Watchers had to stay out of it. Joe left out the Ahriman elements in his reports in MacLeod's official Chronicle. Joe kept his own private Chronicle of the events as he remembered them. He and Mac agreed that the fewer people who knew of the Immortal Champions and the thousand year cycle of Evil, the better... for now. The knowledge was dangerous. Besides, the world had been saved for the next thousand years. Joe wouldn't be around to see the next Battle, thank God.

It pained Joe that Duncan's Chronicle omitted the true facts behind the deaths of Richie Ryan and Alison Landry. Some Watchers thought MacLeod was unstable at best, or at worst, turning evil with age and loss. Many had expressed concern at Joe's continued friendship with the Immortal, especially after the Highlander took that s.o.b., Kell. But as time passed and MacLeod's life settled down to the quiet life of a college professor and antique dealer, many Watchers renewed their hope that he would be the One. Before he died, Darius had been that hope, Joe thought sadly.

Why was Mac in Scotland? Except for one short trip several years ago, and a second even briefer one to bury Connor MacLeod, Duncan had not been home in over 250 years. The place held too many memories for the man. And why had Adam gone to Paris alone? Joe was surprised that Methos was interested in the Champion search. After all, the old man didn't believe in it. Mac chalked it up to the intellectual challenge. Joe wasn't so sure. Methos rarely did anything for simple reasons. The Watcher's curiosity was fully engaged. But he was sixty now, and not so eager to hop the next plane in pursuit of his roving assignment. The Watcher assigned to Mac in Edinburgh would report soon enough, if the Scot didn't ditch him. Or Mac would tell him in due course. Let it go, Joe told himself.

Thoughts of Methos in Paris turned to thoughts of Amy there. His daughter seemed happy in her life as a doctoral candidate at the University, and Researcher for the regional Watcher headquarters. He was glad she declined field assignments, and stuck to the library. She told him at her last visit that she was thinking of moving here after she got her degree. Joe grinned at the prospect. He wanted his daughter closer, wanted to be a regular part of her life. She was a gift he gave thanks for everyday. Well worth the ever increasing beer tab of the world's oldest pain in the ass. Joe picked up the phone again and dialed. After all, it was noon in Paris. "Hi, Honey." he said, smiling.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Methos blew on his paper cup of hot tea to cool it. He sat at a table in the reading room of the University of Paris. He had the place to himself on this beautiful spring Sunday. The table was covered with papers bristling with post-it notes, open volumes and spread maps, and the photographs of the glacier ice caves.

The Immortal rubbed his tired eyes. He had been poring over a student treatise from 1939, the only work he could find remotely associated with the language he had found in the hidden cave. The author, Michel LeGros, had been a promising linguistics student at the onset of World War II. A curious and meticulous scholar, the man had cross-referenced archaeological sites across Europe, and found commonality among a few cultures where none had been found before. He had, of course, never seen the ice caves since the Oztal glacier had covered the area for centuries before its retreat in the 1990s. But LeGros had found another cave in the Pyrenees, used for ceremonial or religious purposes, which had similar writings on rocky walls. Like the Tyrolean cave, this one was also hidden, by an underwater rock wall that LeGros had swum under. The article contained no translation, but the French scholar had been hopeful that he was on the right track and would be able to report success in his next publication. Methos remembered the bright young man had a taste for dark ale, and the Andrews Sisters, something they had in common besides linguistics.

Their paths had separated in 1940, as Methos fled Europe and Michel had enlisted in the French army. Long after the war, Methos learned that Michel had perished at Dunkirk. There had been no next publication for him, and to Methos' knowledge, no one had followed up his work. If he was lucky, Michel's notes had been archived here, at the University. *Archived, huh!* If he was very lucky, the research materials were in a moldering box in one of the institution's dank sub-basements, yellow and mildewy, but still readable. He'd have enjoyed sending MacLeod down into the labyrinths, sneezing and coughing at the dust and mold, armed only with a flashlight. But Mac was in Scotland, following a dream.

Methos leaned back in his chair, stretching tired muscles in his neck and shoulders. He'd been at this for two days now, alone. Mac had flown with him as far as Orly, then continued on to Edinburgh. Methos had booked a suite for two in a hotel off the Champs- Elysees that Adam Pierson definitely could not afford. He'd stocked the refrigerator with imported beer, pate, cheese and other expensive delicacies. On Mac's tab, of course. It was good to have a patron again. It had been a few centuries since he'd had a Lord or Lady Bountiful. He smiled as he indulged in fond memories of a particularly bountiful patroness in Italy. *Milano or Florenza? I don't remember. Ah, but her name was Dona Celeste.*

Methos was thoughtful as he sipped his tea. Mac had been in Scotland for a few days now. He had an image of his friend, standing on the heath, tartan-clad and in full Clan regalia, long hair blowing in the wind. He had never seen Mac in Braveheart mode, except in his mind's eye. The mental picture amused him. More likely, the shaggy-haired Scot was sitting, in traffic, in a too-small rental car, dressed in Levis and a T-shirt, trying to find a familiar landmark among Walmarts, gas stations, and McDonalds'. "Or is it MacDonald's there?" he mused aloud.

"So, Pierson, talking to yourself now? That's the first sign."

Methos jumped at the voice behind his left shoulder, and sloshed hot tea on his lap. He turned and beheld the current head of the Department of Linguistics at the University of Paris. Immortal healing, thankfully, was taking care of scalded private parts even as he spoke.

"Hello, Guerre."

Methos regarded the man who'd startled him. Martin Guerre was about thirty-five with short brown hair and alert gray eyes. He looked like an athlete, a professional tennis player, lithe and compact. On first meeting, people were usually surprised to learn that he was a University professor. But invariably, within the next few moments, the flashing intelligence and ironic tone of voice belied that impression. The annoying thing about Guerre was that he was well-regarded in his field, fast-tracked to dual Ph.D.s in linguistics and anthropology, the youngest Department head at the University, a prolific writer of both scholarly and popular books. He was as different from the self-effacing Adam Pierson as night was from day.

"I thought you were living in the States now?" Guerre said, in lightly accented English. "But of course, you are fond of the alma mater. After all, you set the record as the longest doctoral candidate in our history."

"Well, we can't all be precocious wunderkind, now, can we?" Methos replied sourly. "I'm just here doing a spot of research." It was too late to cover up the photographs spread all over the table top.

Guerre reached over his shoulder and picked up a photograph of the ice cave. "What's this?" He recognized the picture as one he himself had taken of the upper cave. He laughed. "Wait, don't tell me MacLeod has hired you. Has he read your dissertation?" He laughed again. "The man has obviously more money than he knows what to do with." Guerre stopped laughing.

"What is this?" He grabbed several photos of the hidden cave, before Methos snatched them back. "Where did you get these pictures?" he demanded.

"I took them. Just snapshots of what you missed in Oztal." Methos replied, coldly. *You insufferable feeb.* Guerre shot him a surprised glance. Methos started. For a moment, he thought he had uttered the invective out loud, then realized that Guerre was reacting to his very un-Piersonlike manner. He was letting this mortal push his buttons. That was not good. He retreated into his grad student persona, shrinking into his oversized sweater. He let Guerre examine the photos without further comment.

After several minutes, Guerre turned to him. "These are extraordinary." he said quietly. "Have you been able to translate them?"

Methos blinked at the change in tone. "Not yet. That's why I'm here."

Guerre straightened. "I envy you." He turned to go, then turned back. "Pierson, if you need any help..."

Methos met his gaze, and nodded without answering. Guerre left the library as quietly as he came in.

Methos sprawled back into his chair. He looked out the window for awhile, then turned back to his work. Maybe he could send that feeb Guerre down into the archive dungeons in search of Michel's notes, he thought, an evil grin on his face.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

It was a morning out of a Robby Burns poem. The mist lay soft and white in the hollows. The fresh scent of blooming heather invigorated the air. Duncan MacLeod stood on a hill overlooking Loch Shiel, and just breathed.

It was three days since he had taken his leave of Methos at Orly. Since then, Duncan had been staying at the Inn in the village of Glenfinnan, in the same upper room he'd had the last time he had come home. Not much had changed about the town or the inn. The whiskey was still the same smoky stuff that Joe Dawson had taken such a liking to. The fire blazed in the common room. The local men exchanged high talk and tall tales. And his father's sword hung high on a wall, on a background of tartan blue. But the innkeeper was a graying ex-stockbroker from Chicago, named Bob, who'd taken early retirement after a heart attack. The pretty waitress told Duncan that Rachel MacLeod had sold the inn a few years back, and now lived with her husband and daughter over in Inverey. "Aye, such a sweet little girl, Debra", she'd said, "so like her mother with that red hair." Duncan thanked her for the drink, and raised his glass westward, toward Inverey, before he drank. He was lost in his own thoughts, and after her increasingly blatant flirtations went unnoticed, the waitress gave up on him.

MacLeod had been here only a few hours when he knew that what he was seeking was not in the village of his birth. On his first day in Glenfinnan, Duncan paid his respects at his parents' graves in the old kirkyard, and Debra Campbell's lonely grave beside the loch. It had taken him several days to find Debra's grave the last time he'd been here. With this in mind, he took a few days to prepare. Now, on his third day in Glenfinnan, Duncan knelt in the small kirk and kept a promise made years before he was born. He lit a candle for Heather on her birthday, then others for Connor, and Tessa, and Richie. Standing outside the little stone building, with the sun rising behind him, Duncan was ready for his journey.

He was going back to the beginning. To another grave. To another cave. To seek a place he had fled, in horror and pain, nearly four hundred years before. To find the Champion to follow Duncan, he needed to find the Champion who came before him. The Highlander was resolute. He didn't know the Champion's name, or where he'd come from. Hell, he didn't know if he could find the hermit's cave again, after all this time. But he had a map and he had his memories. Duncan started the engine of his rented 4x4 and drove north.

Mac enjoyed the driving once he got away from the larger towns. It was not yet prime tourist season. As it was, he was heading for more isolated country anyway. His encounter with the old hermit had occurred in the spring of 1625. It was just a few months before Connor MacLeod had found him, dead on the slaughter grounds at the battle of Glen Fruin. He had been descending the mountains, after wintering over northwest of Glenfinnan. Duncan remembered hills and a mountain tipped with a rocky outcropping, a fast-moving stream he'd fished for trout, and a bonny little valley, dotted with rowan trees and blackberry bushes, with more thorns than green fruit. Well, that described most of the Highlands.

There had been a violent storm that night, and he'd wandered into the cave, seeking shelter. What else did he remember? Standing stones! He had stumbled upon a small ring of standing stones, hadn't he? He remembered white granite illuminated by lightning. He'd begged pardon of the fairy folk then, and backpedaled out, loathe to shelter in an enchanted place in the middle of a thunderstorm. Scotland was dotted with stone circles and standing stones. Ian MacLeod had taken his young son to see Beacharr, the giant alignment of standing stones on the West coast of Kintyre when Duncan was 13 years old. But this was a much smaller alignment than Beacharr, unscoured and overgrown even then, and set in a glade of beech trees. Well, the trees, the blackberries, and the trout might be gone, but the stones would still be there.

In the hills north of Glenfinnan, he started hiking. As the sun set, Duncan made camp. He thought of Methos' home-brewed bear repellant as he set up his little domed tent. The old man could probably bottle and sell his remedy as an "all natural product", and make a million. *I'll take my chances with the bears*, he thought, as he relieved himself on a patch of blackberry bushes. After his dinner of dehydrated chicken and pasta, Duncan studied the map in the light of his fire. He'd use a grid pattern to conduct his search, starting tomorrow, working his way around the compass points before moving on to another possible site. He looked with wonder at the detailed topographical map. What he would have given for a map like this when he first left home. *You mean, when you were cast out.*, a little voice reminded him. He hadn't been exaggerating when he'd once told Tess and Richie that what had been over the next mountain was beyond imagination to his Clan. And to himself.

He stretched out on his back, stargazing. The North Star, Orion's belt, the Big and Little Dippers, Cassieopia, ... It was a bonny night. He idly fingered the rune pendant on its chain around his neck, and wondered how Methos was making out with his translation. The old man had told Duncan that the mysterious writing was definitely related to a proto-Teutonic root language, but was much older than the writings in the upper cave. His analysis was lost on the Highlander, who just couldn't see the similarities between the wall writings and the primitive Teutonic that Duncan had learned to read. Well, that's why Methos was the scholar. It was an unexpected boon to have the old man's help in his search. As as long as he remained interested in the project, Duncan wasn't going to look a gift Methos in the mouth. Already Methos had gotten more adventure than he'd signed up for with the cave-in. They had been very lucky under the Similaun Peak, Mac thought, grimly. * I'm glad the old man's back in the library, facing nothing more dangerous than the odd paper cut. I hope.*

It really was a fine night. Duncan crawled into the tent and dragged out his sleeping bag. He unrolled it on a soft bed of moss and heather. And if the morning had been a page out of a poem, the night was a verse from a song. He slept deeply and dreamed, of summer nights of tending sheep with Richie and his cousin Robert, of chasing a laughing Tessa through fields of purple heather, of fishing with Joe and Connor and bragging of the one that got away, of Methos tapping the first keg on Samain night and his father pouring the first draft on the field in thanksgiving, of his mother and Debra singing softly as they carded the wool from the first shearing. Of kithe and kin and Clan, he dreamt all night long, until the sun rose over the eastern hills.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Methos groaned and buried his head under a pillow. He was lying on his belly, on sofa cushions scattered on the floor of his luxury hotel suite. Something dug into him. He shifted, reached under, and pulled out the thick volume he had been nodding over the night before. The noise that woke him intensified. *If I ignore it, it'll go away.* The oldest man could ignore with the best of them, but whoever it was didn't go away. It was probably the maid, or the concierge - in addition to the DO NOT DISTURB sign, he had turned off the phone as well. He rose with a grunt and blearily made his way to the door. Methos had his hand on the knob before he realized he was nude. "Ubi, ubi me es sub-ubi?" he muttered as he rummaged around the room. The Latin-English pun tickled him. He found his discarded boxer shorts under a pile of French and English newspapers, and tugged them on. The persistent knocking was louder. "I'm coming, I'm coming, don't get your knickers in a twist." He was shrugging into a shirt, when he flung open the door. "So, what part of 'do not disturb' don't..."

Amy Thomas stood on the threshold. She looked trim and lovely in a dark blue silk suit and scarf. Her mouth dropped open, then quirked up in a smile. Methos felt himself flush as he clutched the shirt around him. He maneuvered so he was half hidden behind the door. "Amy! What are you doing here?...Uh, I mean I wasn't expecting.... Sorry about...uh, what can I do for you?" *This is ridiculous! I haven't blushed since the 9^th century.*

"Adam. It's so good to see you, ...and so much of you!" she smirked. The scarf set off her large blue eyes, which twinkled with barely suppressed mirth.

"Very funny. Do you want to come in?" As he bowed her in with a surprisingly dignified flourish, still clutching the shirt around him, Methos belatedly remembered the state of the premises. Amy entered, still smiling. She took a few steps and stopped, surveying the chaos that confronted her. Beer bottles, takeaway food containers, books, journals, papers, photographs, maps, newspapers, clothes, shoes, sofa cushions and who knew what else littered the living room. It looked like the aftermath of a bacchanalia of librarians.

"I tried to ring you, but the desk said you weren't taking calls." Amy was impressed by the Homeric grandeur of the disaster area.

"Sorry about the mess. I've been ...working." Methos said lamely, as he scooped up newspapers, books and a couple of bottles off a chair, his state of dishabille forgotten. He motioned her to sit down.

She daintily picked her way through the debris field. "Martin told me you were back. He said you were busy translating an obscure religious text for a 'mysterious, but very wealthy, American crackpot'". Methos smiled inwardly at the description of the Highlander.

"Right, Martin. Of course. Well. Yes. It's just a little project, not very important. Something to keep my hand in. I've been a bit at loose ends since my degree last year. Thought I'd take on a little commission. Have to pay the bills, you know." *Stop babbling, you idiot.* He sat down in a chair opposite his guest, feigning nonchalance. "I needed the archives at the University, actually. Some very interesting preliminary work was done in the 1930s by a French linguist, who was killed in the War..." he began, conversationally. As he looked down at himself, Methos realized he was still clad only in boxers and shirt. He jumped up. "Amy!... Excuse me for a moment... while I slip into something ...less comfortable." With an effort at casualness, he strode into his bedroom and shut the door. Then he banged his forehead on it three times.

Amy burst out laughing. Joe had told her of Adam's single-minded pursuits, to the exclusion of sleeping or bathing or appearing in daylight. She picked up an empty beer bottle, noting its mates scattered around the room. Apparently, that devotion did not include forgoing his favorite libation. She had never seen Adam Pierson so off balance before. It was cute.

While she waited, she might as well make herself useful. Amy picked up the bottles and takeaway containers and put them in the trash. *Didn't the man believe in room service?*, she wondered. She was gathering up the loose papers within reach of her chair when Adam emerged from the bedroom.

He was barefoot, in his usual garb of jeans and big sweater, his short hair smoothed in place, hands jammed in his pockets. She could tell from the set of his shoulders that the sardonic attitude was back in place, as well. From what she had just seen, he had a nice body, lean and muscular, a runner's frame. Why hide it under the oversize clothes? He was actually quite attractive, if he'd just stand up straight and take that rather prominent nose out of a book. *Amy Joanna Thomas! You stupid git!* With blinding clarity, Amy realized this was not just another socially inept, charmingly awkward academic. Quiet, unassuming Adam was an Immortal, a superhuman forced to fight to the death on a moment's notice to survive. Of course he'd be in shape. And it would be to his advantage to hide that fact from an opponent. She felt a chill. How much of the person she knew as Adam Pierson was a mantle he put on, just like the outsize clothes, and the non-threatening manner? It had never occurred to her before. Did she know this man at all?

Amy shivered and her heart pounded. She looked away, suddenly uncertain if she should be here in this room, alone with him. Then she remembered. This man had saved her life, at the risk of his own. This man was Joe's friend. She took a deep breath and pushed down the doubts. Amy looked up into quizzical hazel eyes, and smiled brightly.

"I came to invite you to lunch."

Methos looked at his unexpected guest for a long moment. Then, he smiled. "Sounds good to me. Do I have time to shower first?"

Amy nodded. Methos turned back to the bedroom, then paused. "Promise me you won't clean up in the meantime?"

Amy held up her hand in her best Girl Scout manner. Her sleeve pulled away and revealed her tattoo. "I swear...on my oath as a Watcher." she said, solemnly.

Methos snorted, and retreated to the bathroom, old enough to know when he was licked. Amy tucked a book under one arm, and a newspaper under the other, as she attempted to re-fold a map of the world.

They walked from the Hotel Versailles to a little café of Amy's choosing in the Rue de Marignan. Daffodils and tulips bloomed in small plots and window boxes along their route. His companion chatted amiably about the restaurant and a concert she attended last night. Methos was quiet, enjoying the fine weather. It was a springtime in Paris that justified the lyrics of all those popular songs. Nobody ever sings of this city in winter, with the damp cold seeping into your bones, and your basement flooding, Methos thought. He breathed deeply of the fresh air.

When had he last been out of the hotel room? Tuesday? No, Monday. He wasn't sure. He was engrossed in the translation of the hidden cave writings, and was making steady progress. Methos wished he had someone to discuss the work with, but he hadn't heard from MacLeod in days. He missed Mac's last call, but Joe relayed a message: Mac would be in a remote region, don't worry if he was out of touch for awhile. Methos was amused at that last. As if he would worry about the four hundred year old Boy Scout just because he hadn't called in a couple of weeks. Then he understood the subliminal meaning of Mac's message. The Highlander would worry about a five thousand year old warrior, formerly known as Death, if he hadn't called in a couple of weeks.

Lunch was typical bistro fare, but well-prepared, the service efficient, but not intrusive. Methos enjoyed the meal and the company of a vivacious young woman. They talked of Joe, the Watchers they knew, and mutual acquaintances at the University, including that feeb Guerre. Duncan MacLeod was not a topic. Apparently, Guerre was honoring the confidentiality required by MacLeod as a condition of his largesse. Well, the linguist certainly wouldn't want to lose his generous benefactor because of loose lips. *The feeb might actually be smarter than he looked.* Their conversation was pleasant and the camaraderie unforced, but Methos felt Amy holding back on something. *She didn't just ask you to lunch for your scintillating conversation.* Over creme brulee and espresso, she got to the point.

"Adam, before you left the Watchers, did you work on Rebecca's Chronicle at all?" Amy spooned sugar into her coffee before looking up and meeting his eyes.

"A bit, where I was cross-referencing her history with Methos' past. Apparently, they had a few encounters over the years. Why?"

"I think she's fascinating. I mean, a woman who lived four thousand years or more, in times when to be a woman meant to be less valuable than the livestock." Amy shook her head in admiration. "That's such an achievement in itself. To have survived the Game that long."

"She was a remarkable woman, from all accounts." Methos thought of the woman he had known. More than remarkable.

"But what I find most remarkable is, with all of that, she kept her humanity. She died so her husband could live out his mortal life, for a few more years." Amy licked the spoon absently. "Did you know her widower died this past year?"

"Yes, MacLeod attended his funeral." At the mention of Mac's name, Amy colored a bit and looked away.

"I've been trying to figure out who Rebecca's teacher was. The records are so sketchy. Do you think it could have been Methos? "

"Why don't you ask the current head of the Methos Project?"

"There isn't one."

Methos sat back, surprised. "I thought Madsen replaced me?"

"He did, but only for a few years. We re-shuffled a lot of people lately. You know, after all the troubles. Madsen is a field agent now. He watches Amanda."

Methos barked out a laugh. If that didn't loosen up Madsen's rather tightly laced personality, he didn't know what would.

Amy grinned. "Apparently, he's quite taking to life on the high wire. Who'd have thought?" She sipped at her coffee. "I suppose I'm the closest thing to the current head of the Methos Project. It's been re-assigned to Myths and Legends. Frankly, it's been languishing since you left. Most Watchers believe that the real Methos died long ago, and that his name was appropriated by that New Age guru, who lost his head to William Culbraith, ... who, in turn, lost his head to Richard Ryan."

"Richie" he corrected automatically. Amy looked surprised. "Amanda was the only one who called him Richard, and only when she wanted something from him." Methos said ruefully.

"You knew him." Amy breathed. "I hadn't realized." She paused, and took another sip of coffee. "Joe visits his grave. He loved him, I think."

Methos remembered Joe weeping, as he stood over Richie's body, in that abandoned racetrack. "Yes, he did."

She looked away for a moment. "Adam, may I ask you something?"

"You may ask..." he inclined his head.

"MacLeod virtually adopted Ryan as a teenager. Took him into his home, gave him a job, kept him on as a student after his first death..." Amy hesitated.

"When his lover died, too." Methos reminded her.

"Yes." Amy looked stricken. "The bond between teacher and student is one of the closest relationships that an Immortal can have. How could MacLeod kill both... his student and his teacher?"

*What you're really asking is 'Is Joe safe?'* Methos took a deep breath. "Amy, you didn't take me out to lunch to ask me this."

"No, I really wanted to talk about Rebecca. But ...something happened in Seacouver...and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it." She was fiddling with the napkin on her lap.

"Amy, I know what happened in the bar the day that Joe fell." She looked up, startled, then looked down at her hands. "You worry about Joe, being so close to MacLeod." She nodded. "Why are you asking me, Amy?"

"I don't know." Amy shifted in her chair. Then, looked at him squarely. "Yes, I do. Because I trust you. I trust your judgment, your integrity. I trust you to tell me the truth."

*Oh, child.* Methos closed his eyes, suddenly feeling very old. *You have no idea how wrong you are.* He took a deep breath. He looked the naive young woman in the eyes. "You can trust MacLeod. He would give his life for Joe. What happened with Richie and Connor...I can't explain it to you, or explain it away. But Duncan would die before he'd hurt Joe. ... or you."

Amy stared at him. Then she nodded. She took up her spoon and broke the crust on the creme brulee.

Methos sipped his coffee. "So most Watchers think Methos died long ago?"

She nodded again.

*Hallelujah!* Methos rejoiced. "You know, I always suspected that his Chronicle was too good to be true. And the sightings in recent years - it was almost like Elvis."

Amy smiled at that. She finished the treat before speaking again. "About Rebecca...Where did Methos meet her?"

Methos settled back in his chair. He signaled the waiter for more coffee. "Once upon a time, ..." he began.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

He found them! Duncan MacLeod let out a whoop and danced a brief fling. He was atop a white granite boulder. After nine days of methodical searching, Duncan found the ancient arrangement of standing stones. Eight tall stones were arranged in a rough oval. One, the one he was dancing on, had fallen over, and was lying horizontally, juxtaposed with the remaining vertical stones. He shielded his eyes from the bright noon sun. There was a good view of the glen off in the distance and the mountains all around. While the stones gleamed white in the sun, they were well-camouflaged, grown over with vines and brush. He'd never have found them on a dark night, unless he literally stumbled into them.

Duncan sat down to a lunch of granola and dried fruit, washed down with water from a cold mountain stream. He was content, enjoying the exertion, the fresh air, the view. He could almost believe it was 1625 again, but for the occasional jet trails that appeared high overhead. That, and the fact that he wasn't hungry. From the time he was banished until he was found by Connor, Duncan was nearly always hungry. Today's simple meal of granola and fruit would have been a feast to his younger self. His supplies should last for awhile. For more than a week, he'd been supplementing his store of dehydrated meals and dried fruit and grains with small game and trout.

MacLeod hadn't seen another human being in nine days. That was something else that was different from that long-ago time. Not the solitude. Rather, that he was enjoying it. No telephones, faxes or email, no cars, no queues, no schedules, no Immortals, no Watchers. It had been a cinch to ditch his "shadow" shortly after leaving Glenfinnan. No, back then, he had been isolated, shunned. The loneliness had gnawed at him, as much as the hunger had. More.

Duncan studied his map. Where was the cave? He had been wandering back then, when he stumbled upon the stones and the hermit. Not far. But which direction? He had no idea. Well, he'd follow the compass points again, and cover the ground as carefully. It had worked for the stones. He finished his simple meal and stretched out on the sun-warmed stone.

Duncan scratched at his chin, buried under a thick beard. No doubt a companion would object to his aroma. Of course, personal hygiene was limited, as it had been back then. He'd jumped in the cold creek twice, and scrubbed quickly before jumping out, shivering in the warm sun. Forget airplanes and microwave ovens - hot water and indoor plumbing were his personal favorites of the modern conveniences. The memory of Tessa wrinkling her nose at him after just a short weekend at the island made him smile. She'd order him to the shower before he was allowed to kiss her. Where she usually joined him.

It was quiet here, but not silent. With eyes closed, he lay still and listened. Birdsong in the trees, the movement of the brush in the breeze, the chitter of insects. There was something elemental about the Highlands that resonated in his blood and bones like no other place on earth. Or at least like no other place he'd found. Duncan hadn't quite covered the four corners of the planet. Yet. Would the Highlands always feel this way to him? Probably not. Methos had no sense of home about any place in particular. Except Methos had no memory of home or family; nothing before his assumed-to-be-first Quickening. Duncan retained strong memories of hearth and home, the lie of the land, the change in the seasons. Maybe this feeling of kinship with the lochs, and the mountains, and the glens, will fade with time. It was hard to imagine. He shrugged and scratched at the beard again. *I never thought I'd lose the brogue.*

After a few minutes, Duncan roused himself and jumped off the stone. He turned slowly in a circle. He marked his starting point on the map and walked east into a copse of beech trees.

Two days later, Duncan was on a southeast heading, when he had a sense of something familiar. Gossamer-thin, almost like deja vu. He didn't ignore it or over-think it; he just continued to search. He half-slid down a rocky slope, when he saw it There, on the face of the hillside, a rock fall. It spilled out from an opening under an overhanging ledge. His pulse quickened. This might be it. There was a cave-in that night, precipitated by the Quickening. The young Immortal had barely escaped, stumbling on legs that wouldn't hold him, as the entrance had collapsed around him.

Duncan studied the cascade of rocks. Near the top of the opening, there was a dark space. He climbed over the rocks, ducking his head at the overhanging ledge. By excavating some of the stones on top, he was able to peer in with his flashlight. Yes, the cave structure was still intact, at least as far as he could see. But the entrance was blocked. Was it the right cave? He couldn't tell. *Start digging, Mackie-boy.* He bared himself to the waist, and pulled on heavy gloves. Most of the rocks were easy enough to pick up and toss out of the way. The larger ones he was able to roll down the cascading rock fall. A few big, unwieldy ones he had to muscle around. Soon, his torso was gleaming with sweat. The silver pendant he wore gleamed against his olive skin. He worked steadily for a few hours, drinking frequently from his water bottle, remembering a night long ago.

Flashback - The Highlands, 1625

He knew almost immediately that the strange man sitting by the fire was mad. But Duncan hadn't feared him, not at first. He had little doubt that he could defend himself against the scrawny old man. Duncan was happy to put up with his ravings, in exchange for a chance to warm himself by the fire and partake of the rabbit roasting on a crude spit. Except... the stranger hadn't seemed so old when he attacked Duncan with his sword. His movements were quicker, his sword thrusts stronger than he'd expected. Duncan tried not to hurt him, simply seeking escape from the cave. But the man kept cutting off his exit, taunting Duncan, urging the young man to take his head. When he grabbed Duncan's sword, and used it to slice through his own neck, the young man had been horrified. Horror became terror when the dead man's Quickening energy slashed into him. His last coherent memory had been falling on his knees outside the cave entrance, and hearing a rumbling sound behind him. In his clouded mind, he was terrified that the headless sorcerer (for what else could he be?) was coming to kill him with more lightning and thunder. His only thought was escape.

The sound of water flowing over rocks was soft and soothing. Duncan came to himself lying beside a stream, his right hand trailing in the cold water. The sun was high in the sky. He had no idea where he was, or how long he had been there. For the next fortnight, his sword arm tingled and burned. He drifted mentally, rousing himself with a start to realize he'd been walking in circles, tears drying on his face. He saw pictures in his mind of places he had never been; of people he had never known; always there were swords, and headless bodies, and lightning. He thought he was going mad, or worse, that he really was a demon. His only way of coping with the horror and shame was by repressing every thought about it. When he made his last stand with the MacGregors at Glen Fruin, Duncan had succeeded in suppressing the worst of it.

He recognized later, when there were words and concepts to describe it, that he had been damaged by this experience, traumatized, wounded in spirit and psyche. If it hadn't been for Connor's rough therapy in forcing him to talk about it .... Still, it had taken Connor a year to squeeze the story from him.. Duncan's voice was flat, his expression bleak, as he told his teacher of his first Quickening. His kinsman had clapped him on the shoulder. "Duncan, lad. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." Connor said, hoarsely, over and over, as his student shivered and stared into the fire blazing in the hearth.

Duncan never forgot what it was like - to be alone after that first death, to see the fear and revulsion of other people, to be ignorant of what it meant to be Immortal, to be invaded by that first Quickening. Throughout his life, he tried to ease the passage for a new Immortal. He kept an eye on the few pre-Immortals he met, hoping he, or someone he trusted, could be there, when and if their nascent Immortality was stirred. Connor swore at him, and told him it was foolish, quixotic, and destined to cause him unnecessary heartache. And Duncan agreed with his teacher. But he did it anyway. And he had taken this protective need too far with Kate. He had mistaken his selfish desire to end his loneliness for an act of love. It was the worst decision of his life, and one for which he could never atone.

After that, with the exception of Richie, he had stepped back from the pre-Immortals he discovered, lurking in the background, hoping he was never needed to tell them what they had become. And many times, his hope had come to pass. He was thankful, that except for Richie Ryan, Michelle Webster, and Claudia Jardine, the pre-Immortals he had "tagged" in recent years were living quiet, hopefully, mortal lives.

Richie was the exception, as he was all his brief life. While still pre-Immortal, Richie witnessed an Immortal battle and a Quickening. Even Connor agreed the boy needed watching. Richie, the tough street punk, was balanced on the edge of a knife when Duncan met him. The Highlander took him into his home, gave him a job, began his subtle Immortal education. What had started out as a simple plan to keep Richie close and quiet until the teenager matured became so much more. He and Tessa loved the boy. Connor was right - it was foolish and quixotic and did cause him heartache, but Duncan wouldn't have given up knowing Rich for all the world.

There! He'd cleared the entrance enough to enter the cave. MacLeod wiped the perspiration from his torso and shrugged back into his shirt. First, he lowered his pack, then himself, feet first. He let go and landed with only a slight wobble on the uneven surface. There was a little light coming from the opening he had made. Duncan played the powerful beam of his flashlight on rocky walls and stepped further into the cave. A slight frisson at the dark confined space crept up his spine, but he quickly brought it under control.

A Celtic cross wrought in stone stood under an arched ceiling. He remembered this cross! If he remembered correctly, there was a stone archway ahead which then opened into the larger chamber where the hermit had lived...and died. MacLeod took a deep breath and walked under the arch.

It was hard to make out much of anything in the flashlight beam. He tripped on several rocks scattered around the floor. Duncan remembered a few rocks littering the floor of the cave. More must have fallen from the ceiling. Torches, he remembered, had hung from the walls. He found the sconces quickly and lit four in rapid succession. The cave was now illuminated enough to put away the flashlight. The flickering torchlight cast weird shadows around the chamber. It was nearly as he remembered it. Even the remnants of the hearth fire from that night were intact. The cave smelled musty and damp, and there was evidence of small animal occupation, probably bats and vermin. The cave-in had prevented large animals from getting in.

Nearly all of the hermit's possessions had rotted away. Metal cooking pots and implements, a knife, some arrow heads survived, but yielded no information. Near the ring of blackened stones that served as a hearth, Duncan found the carved bones which the hermit had cast, predicting Duncan's future. "Aye, you're blessed and you're cursed." the old seer had told the puzzled youth. The ivory pieces were inscribed with strange symbols. He had no idea if the arrangement had been disturbed by small animals in the intervening centuries. Nevertheless, he took several photographs of the bones before he put them carefully in a pouch in his pack.

He examined the one other object which might lead him to the identity of the long-dead Champion. Duncan handled the rusty sword carefully. It was a broadsword, the blade, under the rust, was intricately inscribed. The pommel felt cool in Duncan's hand. It was an unusual blade, exceptional in its workmanship. He wrapped it carefully in the sheepskin cover, with his katana.

Finally, Duncan looked down on the skeletal remains in one corner of the cave. The bones of the body were clean, scattered a bit by small animals. The skull was several feet away, gleaming whitely in the torchlight. He looked at the remains for some time, absently fingering the rune pendant around his neck. His encounter with the hermit had been the single most terrifying moment of Duncan's long life, and had haunted him for years. He was surprised to find no vestige of that primal fear. No horror, no revulsion, as he looked at the bones of the monster who had stalked him in countless nightmares and fever dreams. He felt only pity. No, there was something more. Empathy.

In that moment, the nameless hermit ceased to be a figure of dread. He was just a man. A man like himself, charged with an overwhelming responsibility, and driven mad by inconsolable loss. Duncan understood the dead man's eagerness - not so much to pass the torch to the next Champion, but to finally lay down the burden of living. Hadn't Duncan tried to do nearly the same, when kneeling by Richie's body, he begged Methos to take his head? Or as he knelt before Liam O'Rourke's blade, simply unable to bear the death of another friend, in retribution for Duncan's past deeds? What had this man endured? "Who were you? What happened to you?" he said aloud. His voice rang in the enclosed space. After a moment, he placed the skull at the juncture of the neck and shoulders. Duncan arranged the skeleton as neatly as he could. He made a cairn over the body, with the rocks and stones lying nearby. Then he removed a small vial from his pack.

The Highlander circled the cairn slowly, sprinkling holy water from the font where he had been baptized as a child. His voice was hushed as he intoned "Requiescat In Pace" with every step. Long ago, Duncan had consecrated another grave in the same way. It was all that the Champion of the last Millennium could do for the Champion of the Millennium before.

When Duncan returned to the cave entrance, he was surprised to find it was full dark. A hard rain was falling. He looked at his watch. Nearly eight hours had passed since he entered. He turned back into the chamber, and spread his sleeping bag near the old hearth. There was no wood for a fire, so he set a candle in the ring of stones and meditated for a time.

He had once told Richie: "Who you are can depend upon who you meet." In the flickering torchlight, Duncan thought for a long time about the filthy, crazy, lonely Immortal he had met so long ago. When the last torch sputtered out, he curled up to sleep. He may have dreamed of a shadowy figure, sitting, hunched by a fire, beckoning him to come in from the cold. But no nightmare disturbed his rest. In the morning, MacLeod sealed the tomb again before retracing his steps, back to the beginning of his journey.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

The sprawling gray stone complex of buildings outside Lyon attracted little attention from the outside world. The sign at the gate identified it as the regional headquarters of DeMaupassant Funeral Accessories, Incorporated, Europe's second largest distributor of the paraphernalia of death. Caskets, urns, plaques, hearses, embalming fluid - if it was sold or used by the funeral industry, this company supplied it. The smaller offices in the main building were fully equipped to minister to the needs of its clientele, without any of its customers setting foot on the premises. The legitimate business could and did pass muster with any entity, private or public, who was interested. But the real business occurred behind the facade, and was as secret, if not more so, than any other intelligence-gathering organization on the planet. After all, they had a lot more experience at keeping secrets. They'd been doing it for millennia. It was an effective cover for the Western European Hub of the Watcher Organization. It also made a tidy profit on the side.

Amy Thomas was not the first, nor would she be the last, to appreciate the inherent irony in the hydra-headed organization. Observing the lives, and deaths, of the Immortals gave one an appreciation of mortality and the rituals that society embraced to deal with it. Even Immortals, in the end, needed the services of their profitable alter ego. She drove to the east entrance. At the gated security station, she inserted her ID card key into the slot. She smiled at the video camera, and was admitted. It was a sunny day. *What a glorious spring they'd been having.* She parked in the shade of an old chestnut.

Two more security checkpoints and she was admitted to her wing. At the last, she inquired after a young guard's new baby, and was shown a picture by the beaming young mother. Her office was one level down, at the end of a long hall. As head of Myths and Legends, Amy rated a small, windowless office, next to one of the subterranean, climate-controlled archives. She opened her office, and switched on the light. She didn't actually spend much time here. Much of Amy's work for the Watchers was performed at her home, or school office, or in the University library. Amy "supervised" a department of four, five counting herself. Her associates worked independently from each other for the most part, and kept in touch with telephone and email primarily, and a monthly meeting cum brainstorming session cum gabfest. The informality that she fostered worked well. Her Department functioned smoothly and effectively, and the people and work thrived in that environment

The office reflected little of the personality of its occupant, except for the books. Books on the desk, in piles on the floor, on the two chairs, in, on , and around the bookshelves. Books were Amy's passion, particularly old books. The messages and memos in her mail were routine, requiring no immediate action. . She scooped up the inter-office mail that had been pushed through the slot in her door, and put it on the desk, next to a large package wrapped in brown paper. Amy hung her jacket on the rack behind the door. She made coffee in the little machine squeezed into a corner nook of the sparsely furnished office. While it was brewing, she dusted a little, and opened her mail.

In Myths and Legend, Amy had found her figurative home. It was a good match for her talents, interests, and abilities. Like all her staff, she always had a couple projects simmering. Mainly, Amy was an expert in the life of the Immortal, Rebecca Horne. It was a project that was close to her heart. She couldn't understand some of her fellow Watchers' disinterest. Dead Immortals, particularly to the field agents, were considered failures. How could a woman who survived four thousand years or more be considered a failure? As it was, Amy believed that the female Immortals often got short shrift from other Watchers who equated greatness with the headcount an Immortal racked up, like baseball stats. Under their lights, Kell would have been the greatest of them all! Amy had even heard of the shameful practice, before the Horton-Galati shakeup, of open betting on the outcome of the swordfights, like a football pool at a corporate office.

Throughout its long history, researchers and historians had been a fundamentally respected branch of the Watchers Organization. But the Organization, under years of uninspired leadership, had grown cynical, soulless. Field agents and ambitious bureau chiefs drawn from their ranks, had overshadowed the historical perspectives of the research wings. The researchers, who by nature and necessity, were buried in their own little worlds, had failed to notice their loss of power and influence until it was nearly too late. The Immortals had come to be regarded as inhuman pawns in a deadly Game of chess, their only value their ability to kill and kill again; or worse, as abominations of nature to be feared and eliminated.

Beginning with the murder of Darius by Peter Horton and his death squad and culminating with the Jacob Galati vendetta, the Watchers had been shaken to the core. Valuable leaders, like Ian Bancroft and Don Salzer, had died, in addition to the Immortals that were murdered. Galati himself was personally responsible for the deaths of a dozen Watcher higher-ups. The Organization had foundered, and nearly been lost. Joe Dawson and fellow Watchers who favored a return to the ideals which had formed the organization, had effected the changes. There had been substantive shifts, appointments in the leadership, a return to a credo which emphasized the humanity (good and bad) of the Immortal subjects, and the responsibility of the Organization to history. Once again, the Research and History divisions had emerged from the reformation as viable forces. Still, attitudes changed slowly. And, as in any large group of people, politics, ambition, and the high and low characteristics of human nature will play a role.

Amy relegated most of her mail to the wastebasket and the rest to her "To-Do" pile. She turned with anticipation to the package on her desk. She had been informed by email that the package had arrived, which had precipitated her appearance here today. She ripped impatiently at the strapping tape and paper. Her counterpart in London, Basil Treaves, had advised that several volumes of the Chronicle of Rebecca Horne had been found, misfiled in their archives. He had shipped them to her for inclusion in the archive in Lyon, per protocol.

Basil, on first impression, was a little mouse of a man. The impression belied the vibrancy of a man who came alive when he recounted the Chronicles of the Immortals he studied. He was an expert in the life of Juan Sanchez Villa Lobos Ramirez. In a remote pub in Dartmoor on a ridiculously appropriate stormy night, Basil told Amy of the epic battle between Ramirez and the Kurgan. As the Immortal Champions battled in a crumbling castle in the Highlands, the wind shrieked and thunder growled, and Amy, the hairs on her neck standing straight up, had been transported to the Highlands of Scotland in the sixteenth century. She had been unable to sleep that night as a result.

Basil had carefully packaged the volumes that he must have considered more valuable than gold. There was tape, tape and more tape, styrofoam peanuts, crumpled newspaper. Finally, Amy was able to unshroud them from the last layer of bubble wrap. What a treasure trove! There were six volumes in all, and they were old. She opened the first carefully. It was bound in leather, turned dark with age, the familiar Watcher insignia pressed into the animal skin. The language was French and it was in good shape. It was dated 1357. Tucked inside was a note on a slip of lined paper:

Amy,

I found these mixed in with the Ramirez histories. Do you think he and Rebecca have ever shared more than a bookshelf together? Let me know!

Basil

P.S. I envy you!

She pulled out each of the other volumes in turn. Four of them were continuations of the same Chronicle written by the same Watcher. But the fifth was an anomaly. While the Watcher insignia was tooled on the front, it was bound in thick vellum, older in appearance than the leather volumes. She opened it with particular care. The entries were faded but readable. It wasn't French like the other volumes, but Greek. Well, her Greek was a little rusty, but there appeared to be no date period, or Watcher name and signature on the front page as was traditional. She turned to the back. There was no name or signature there either. That was unusual.

She turned back to an examination of the cover. Amy had handled vellum before. In fact, one of her classmates at the Watcher Academy was a bookbinder and restorer in his real life. When he had learned of Amy's love of old books, he had invited her to watch him work at restoring a ripped and stained family Bible to its former glory. It had been a seductive experience, rich with the tactile pleasure of handling fine leather, and the scent of the beech tanning oil with its faint tang of cinnamon, while she watched David's skilled and sure hands at work. Their affair had been brief, but passionate, and they had parted friends. Amy blushed faintly as she recalled the abandon with which they had made love in his workshop, the memory always evoked when she handled an old leather book.

Recalled to the task at hand, she noticed the inside flaps of the vellum cover were loose. She slipped a finger under it, feeling for any tackiness of the old glue. Amy was surprised to feel another cover flap in place under it. Very gently, she ran her finger further under the vellum. It was pulling away very easily. The old glue had given up its hold. With delicate motions, being careful to do no damage, she removed the vellum cover. The vellum wasn't really any thicker that usual. It had only appeared so because it was overlaying another leather binding underneath. It was very old and stained. How odd that the bookbinder would not have removed it and replaced it with the new vellum cover, instead of covering it over. She examined the cover carefully in the light of her desk lamp. Unlike the other five volumes, and every other Watcher Chronicle Amy had seen, there was no traditional Watcher symbol emblazoned on the front or back cover, or on the frontispiece or endpapers. Instead, there was a different mark pressed into the front leather cover. She had never seen it before.

This must not be a Chronicle at all, she thought, puzzled. How did it get a Watcher cover, and what was it doing in the Watchers' possession, mixed in with one of the ancient Immortal Chronicles? Curiouser and curiouser. Amy rose and poured another coffee. She retrieved her Greek/English dictionary, adjusted her lamp, and settled in for a long read.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

Joe Dawson shifted in his seat, in a vain attempt to get comfortable. He was somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, on the last leg of his journey to Paris. The 747 had been over-booked. He was lucky to be on it at all. Security as always, had been tight, and at each connecting flight, he had been taken to a private room where he had to "drop trou" and display his artificial legs. Joe was used to the indignity and didn't take it personally. Still, flying wasn't what it used to be. Joe laughed at himself. *Listen to me, getting sentimental about the good old days, all the way back to the '70s and '80s.* If you got Mac going, he'd wax nostalgic about the days of the Pan Am Clipper service in the late thirties, when passengers had sleeping berths, and luxury amenities. Joe and Richie had been captivated one evening by the Highlander's description of the experimental airline service, rendered extinct when Germany invaded Poland. Joe never let on that the Watcher Chronicles dated Mac's initiation into the Mile High Club to a Clipper flight from London to New York in 1939.

Joe's unexpected trip was in response to a telephone call from his daughter. Amy as head of her Department in the Western Europe division of the Watchers Organization was charged with the task of correlating myths and legends from all over the world to actual Immortals, hoping to fill in the gaps in their Chronicles. Even the greenest Watcher knew that the Gilgamesh of Babylonian myth had been real. After all, the first Watcher and founder of their Order was Ammallatto the Akkadian, who had witnessed the Immortal's resurrection four thousand years ago, and chronicled his exploits until his death by beheading.

A few years back, Joe had suggested a match of the Immortal woman known as Catherine Grant to Cassandra of Greek mythology. Amy's Department was working on that one, even though Catherine Grant had disappeared off their radar in 1996, presumed killed by Melvin Koren, and his companions in Bordeaux. Joe had said nothing to correct this misapprehension of her Watcher, Simone Verot. Simone never knew the danger she had been in when she watched Cassandra cross paths with the Four Horsemen. She'd lost Cassandra in Bordeaux, when her temporarily dead body had been smuggled out of the Hotel de Seze by Kronos, Silas and Caspian. Another secret for the unofficial Chronicles. Joe couldn't chronicle the brief reunion of War, Pestilence, Famine and Death, without outing Death. It was every young Watcher's dream to find Methos, possibly a corruption of the name "Methuselah", the reputed oldest living Immortal, the chameleon-survivor who possessed wisdom and power in unimaginable quantity, who was legendary even among Immortals. *If only they knew. Methos, the all-powerful, the all-knowing, the all-seeing, was...just the guy behind the curtain, who liked beer, and told terrible jokes at Watcher social functions.*

Well, that's what the beer-swilling legend wanted folks to think, but Joe knew better. Still, Joe kept the eldest's secret from the Watchers. If he didn't, Methos would disappear faster than you could say "Adam Pierson". A new persona would be created that the Watchers would know nothing about. And Joe would never see him again. No, he'd take that secret to his grave, if necessary. Joe was a great rationalizer. He kept some secrets from the Organization because he believed it was the right thing to do. But, he kept a private Chronicle of the events he kept out of the official versions. It salved his conscience and fulfilled some part of his oaths.

Amy had asked for Joe's guidance. In the course of her research on Rebecca, his daughter had found something in the Chronicles which she wanted to discuss privately with Joe. It was all the invitation he needed. After all, his assignment was in Europe, although still in Scotland. Mac had called, the day before Amy had asked for his help. He had completed his task and would be returning to Paris by the beginning of the week. Joe had teased him.

"Taking a few extra days to walk down memory lane, Mac?"

"Joe, you have no idea."

"Well, watch out for the sheep. I ruined two pairs of shoes on your last trip home."

"Joe, I used to shepherd barefoot. Think about it." Joe could hear his chuckle. "I'll tell you about what I found when I see you. I'm not sure how long I'll be in Paris. Adam says it's going well. I'll let you know when I'm coming back to the States."

"Thanks for letting your Watcher pick you up again. Gives him a chance to redeem himself. He'll probably stick to you like glue for the rest of the trip."

"Well, I don't know about that..." Mac said innocently.

"You've lost him already! Why? Where are you going?" Joe was curious.

"Sorry, Joe. Gotta go. I'll talk to you in a few days." Click.

Joe hung up the phone, shaking his head. Life was so much simpler before Duncan MacLeod had found out about the Watchers. Well, he'd surprise his recalcitrant assignment by being in Paris when MacLeod finally showed up there. He wondered what Amy had found. She had refused to discuss it over the telephone. Joe knew his daughter well enough to know when she was excited by something, even under the cool British reserve. Well, he'd find out soon enough. He shifted again to let his neighbor in the next seat get out, presumably for the restroom. Joe smiled as she apologized for stepping on his foot, on the way out and, again, on the way back.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

Methos carefully packed yellowing notebooks, curling black & white photos, a few bound manuscripts, and reams of loose-leaf papers into a new storage box. The contents of the box were the brief life's work of one Michel LeGros, doctoral candidate (deceased). The Immortal had been able to translate the hidden cave writings in only a few weeks, by following Michel's lead. He'd still be working on the task without these resources, which had been moldering , since the 1940s, in the University's sub-sub-basement, known to every new generation of students as "the Dungeon". "You did good work, my friend." he murmured as he sealed the box with packing tape.

He was loath to send the box back to the Dungeon, but it was the property of the University, as that feeb Guerre had pointedly reminded him. Methos had wanted to take the materials back to his hotel room to work from relative comfort, but the Department head refused to sanction its removal. *As if the University was safeguarding Michel's stuff. They'd have rotted away before anyone would ever have found a use for them.* The materials had been uncatalogued; in library terms, lost in no-man's land. It was only because of his friendship with Michel and his familiarity with the University's storage practices back then, that Methos was aware of the work, and the possibility that it had survived the dead scholar. Methos grudgingly admitted to himself that he'd still have never found the materials without Guerre's influence. The feeb had made it known to the research librarians and the grim-faced guardian of the Dungeon (known as The Troll) that this project had his personal attention and approval. He had given Adam Pierson carte blanche access to anything the University had, so long as it never left the library.

As a result, Adam Pierson had more interaction with Martin Guerre in the last few weeks than he had cared to. It had been difficult to keep Adam's mild demeanor in place. Only centuries of self-control had allowed Methos to bite back the retorts engendered by the mortal's arrogance. There was an up side. He had more interaction with Amy Thomas as well. They had shared coffee, tea, candy bars, lunch, dinner, and the Paris equivalent of pizza. Amy, a linguist in her own right, had been helpful as a sounding board. She had offered several original ideas, which Methos hadn't considered, that proved helpful. Between Guerre's access and Amy's insights, the work had been manageable, even pleasant. He almost regretted that the translation was completed.

It was translated, but still inexplicable. He had translated the words, but they made no sense. He believed that the order of the words was deliberately jumbled, understandable only if you had a key to put them in the proper order. So far, he hadn't found that key. He decided to take a few days away from the work, and come back to the puzzle afresh.

MacLeod was due back in a few days. Methos was looking forward to Mac's impressions and insights on the translation. His friend had been vague on the phone, merely saying that he'd found what he went looking for. Now, Mac was taking a few days to roam his homeland before returning to Paris next week. He'd have thought the Boy Scout was ready for a return to civilization after weeks in the bush. Was it a measure of their difference in ages, that Methos loathed "roughing it", and resented giving up his creature comforts? Or merely a contrast in personality that Duncan's favorite retreat was a rustic cabin on a remote island, where he seldom used the few modern conveniences he had installed?

Methos hoisted the box under one arm, and his pack in the other. He nodded politely to the librarian at the desk, as he descended a wrought iron circular stair to the lower level. Two more levels down, he approached the Troll whose counter and high stool were stationed at the end of a long, dimly lit hallway. It was Kafkaesque - his footsteps echoed ominously, his shadow furtively followed him. The wizened old woman didn't look up for a few moments, until Methos shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. She gave him a disapproving stare over the half glasses perched on her nose. Her iron gray hair was skinned up in a bun so tight that it made Methos' scalp ache. Against all reason, she made him feel like a naughty child, caught in the act. The act of what, he didn't know. The feeling irritated him. He didn't say anything, and the silence stretched.

"Oui?", she said, finally, disapproval at his appearance, his parentage, his very presence in her domain were all contained in that one word.

"Uh, I'm Adam Pierson?" *Of course, you are, you idiot!*

"Oui?", she repeated with disdain.

"Uh, that fee...I mean, Professor Guerre, said I should return this box to you?"

She shifted her gaze to the box. "That is not a University storage box."

"No, well, I threw that box out."

Her expression conveyed her settled opinion that he should have thrown his dim-witted self out with it.

"It was falling apart. The bottom was black with mildew. There were mice droppings in it!" Methos winced at the hint of a whine in his voice. *This is ridiculous. I am not intimidated by an old lady librarian, a fraction of my age.* He was torn between unleashing his best Death on a Horse snarl, or another Adam Pierson stammer. Suddenly, a third battle strategy popped into his head.

He set the box down. Methos turned on his warmest smile, leaned his forearms on the counter, and relaxed into a languid pose. He looked at the Troll as if she were the loveliest incarnation of feminine beauty he had ever seen. Deepening his voice, he inclined towards her.

"I'm sorry, Mam'selle. I thought I was being helpful.", he shrugged and smiled self-deprecatingly, as if to say how foolish he had been not to seek her expertise on this very serious matter. "What should I do now?"

Hot damn! The Duncan MacLeod Method was working like a charm! The Troll simultaneously pushed up her glasses, patted her hair, and smiled sweetly back.

"M'sieur Pierson..."

"Adam, please.", he interjected.

"Alors,... Adam,... you may leave the box with me. I will take care of it."

"But, it is rather heavy." His tone implied a delicate flower such as herself could not be expected to lift a book, much less a storage box.

"Non, non, it is quite all right. Do not concern yourself. My assistant will attend."

"You are most kind. How can I thank you?"

A blush rose in her lined cheeks. "Oh, non. It is just my job."

Methos gave her an admiring glance, to show that he appreciated her kindness, her favor and her presence gracing his life. She handed him a pen.

"Sign here, s'il vous plait, to show the box has been returned and the date." He followed her instructions. When he returned the pen, he smoothly took her wrinkled hand, and brushed it lightly with his lips. For a moment he thought he had gone over the top with the charade, when she failed to pull her hand back. He looked up at her, puzzled. She had gone white, and was staring at him oddly.

"Mam'selle?" He was concerned.

She slowly retrieved her hand and looked at it. With the other hand, she slowly stroked where he had kissed her. She recovered herself and smiled a little.

"I am sorry, Adam. You reminded me of someone I knew ... long ago."

Warning bells clanged in Methos' head. He looked at the name plate on the desk.

G. Montand. It meant nothing to him.

He reverted to Adam Pierson mode immediately. "Uh, may I get you something,...a glass of water? Mam'selle Montand..."

"Madame... Montand... that is, ...Genevieve."

*Genevieve!* He looked into her blue eyes, still youthful in her lined face. Centuries of control kept his poker face intact. *This is Genevieve DuFait.* His mind raced. *Montand must be her married name. Oh, Genevieve.* Genevieve of the merry eyes, and the dancer's body. Genevieve, who had spent a school year in his bed, waking him every morning, with a kiss and café au lait. Genevieve, whom he had left without a word when the Maginot Line fell in May, 1940. She must be nearly 85 now. She was looking searchingly at his face. *I have to get out of here.*

Genevieve shook her head. "Pardonnez-moi. You are really nothing like him. Nothing at all." She laughed softly at her foolishness. "I will take care of the box, Adam." She gave him a warm smile, slightly chagrined at her momentary lapse, and shrugged. The echo of the girl that she had been resonated in that gesture.

*How could I not see? I have to get out of here, now.* He met her eyes. "Merci beaucoup. Adieu, Genevieve." He walked back down the long dark hall, ascended the stairs to daylight, and exited the library.

He had been sitting for awhile on a bench under an apple tree, white and fragrant with blossoms, when he heard Amy call his name.

He turned to her as she plopped down beside him.

"Adam, I called you three times before you heard me. Where were you?"

He closed his eyes briefly. When he reopened them, he no longer saw the skull beneath the skin. Just her face. Her young and lovely face. He managed a sardonic smile.

"Where was I? Paris in the springtime, where else?"

He listened to the lively recounting of her day as the refrain from an old song played over and over in his head.

Oh, Genevieve, sweet Genevieve,

The days may come,

The days may go.

But still the hand of memory weaves

The blissful dreams of long ago.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Once upon a time, in a land far away to the North, a chieftain's son, a boy both brave and foolish, was lost in the woods. His people feared he had been devoured by a ravaging wolf. But, he was not killed. The lad had been enchanted by the Witch of Donan Woods, who kept him for a night and a day, before returning him to the village that loved him. And though the child searched the Wood from time to time, he never found the Witch. Years passed. And when the boy had grown into a strong Warrior, he fell in battle, only to rise from the dead. Some said he was a changeling, left by the fairy folk. Some said his soul had departed and his body was claimed by a demon. Old Tom's widow said the Witch had cast a spell on the boy long ago. She was right.

The spell spanned centuries and continents. The Warrior and the Witch met again in a distant land by the sea, where he became her Champion, and defeated the Voice of Death. They shared one magical night, and in the morning when the Warrior woke, the Witch was gone. They met again to save the world from the Witch's ancient enemies: War, Famine, Pestilence and Death. So great was the Witch's power over Death, that he wept, helpless, at her feet. But the Warrior vouchsafed that Death should live. And in that moment, the Warrior knew, in his heart, that the spell had been shattered, and he would never see the Witch again. But still he suffered Death to live. And the Witch granted the Warrior's wish, though her heart was broken. The Warrior fought many more battles, in many lands, and though he suffered grievous hurt, he was never vanquished. And by and by, the Warrior went back to the beginning of his enchantment, and returned to the Donan Woods.

Duncan MacLeod sat on the trunk of a fallen elm that bridged the banks of a small stream. He drank from his water bottle, as he dangled his legs. By his reckoning, he had covered five miles from the 4x4, which he had hidden, covered with brush, in a stand of trees. This approach to the Donan Woods was the long way round.

Back in Glenfinnan, his Watcher shadow had picked him up at the little inn as soon as he returned to the village. Duncan kept him in thrall for twenty four hours, then lost him again, before ditching his vehicle. MacLeod wasn't sure why he was here, in the old forest. It was another indefinable feeling. But, he had to be absolutely sure he wasn't followed. The Watchers knew nothing of his childhood encounter with Cassandra. He wasn't identified as an Immortal until years later, when Connor's Watcher had discovered the older man had taken on his first student. No one Watched the Witch of Donan Woods in those days.

MacLeod didn't really expect to find Cassandra's cottage. Hell, it had been four hundred years. But he would not lead a Watcher into her private retreat, no matter how long it had been abandoned. Even if only a stone ruin remained. That is, if he could even find it. When he was a boy, Duncan had stolen away at every opportunity, searching for the enchantress and her little cot. He never found it again. By the time he was grown, Duncan had convinced himself she had been but a dream. Well, Cassandra had certainly starred in his dreams for years thereafter. When the real woman appeared in his life nearly ten years ago, she was exactly as he remembered her. Their one night as lovers had fulfilled a promise made long ago when Cassandra had kissed him, and satisfied a longing MacLeod hadn't known he'd had.

Cassandra's presence heralded more tumultuous events in Duncan's life. She was fleeing Roland Kantos, convinced that MacLeod was the only Immortal who could defeat her former student. Ironically, Roland had set events in motion which had been more of a threat than he, himself, had ever posed. Roland Kantos had chased Cassandra to MacLeod. That flight had put her in the path of Kronos, who was searching for Methos. Ironically, Kronos may have been on the trail of the Immortal who, assuming Methos' name, had preached peace and nonviolence as an alternative to the Game. Like pieces on a chessboard, the Immortals had been drawn together to follow the gambit begun three thousand years before in a Horsemen's raid.

MacLeod had been horrified at Cassandra's tale of her first death and enslavement in the Horsemen's camp. The slaughter of her tribe and the murder of her father resonated with his own memories of the destruction of his village and his father's death at the hands of Kanwulf and his Viking raiders. Her anguished tale had evoked, too, the more recent annihilation of the Lakota Sioux tribe that had adopted MacLeod as one of their own. He had personally witnessed the aftermath of Kronos's, aka Melvin Koren's, rampages in a trail of death and atrocities that spanned Texas. His horror was amplified beyond bearing upon learning that Methos was her tormentor, and one of the butchers of innocents.

Cassandra had shared his bed in Bordeaux, but they had not been lovers. Duncan had held her and stroked her hair as she started awake from nightmare after nightmare. It didn't take Sean Burns' expertise to see that the trauma, long suppressed, was still there. Mac's own world had been rocked by the events of those few weeks. MacLeod had drawn comfort from comforting Cassandra. And the resolve he had needed to take on the Horsemen. All of them. But his relationship with Cassandra had been forever changed by the events that had overtaken them, and the aftermath. Perhaps, it was irretrievably broken. Duncan had not seen or spoken to Cassandra since she had fled the submarine base in Bordeaux. He found a note on hotel stationery in their room, wrapped around too much cash to pay for the hotel bill. The note was in Gaelic, and terse:

"Don't trust him." MacLeod put all the money in the poor box at Darius' church, and burned the note.

MacLeod didn't look for her. He gave her privacy and time. And choice. He thought he would never see her again. But he worried about her. When he learned of the destruction of the Watcher Sanctuary and Kell's slaughter of the helpless Immortals, MacLeod had feared the worst, until Joe reassured him that Cassandra was not among the dead. Then, Joe told him that Cassandra had been erroneously reported as killed by Melvin Koren by her Watcher. She had managed not to re-acquire a Watcher, so far. If she still lived. Mac figured if Cassandra wanted to see him, he was easy to find.

So, what was he doing here in the Donan Woods, after all this time? He had been back to Scotland once, very briefly, since Bordeaux - to bury Connor. He hadn't lingered. But this trip was different. Perhaps, Joe wasn't so far off when he accused Duncan of tripping down memory lane. But it was even less substantial than that. It was just a feeling. He wanted to see the Donan Woods again.

While his course was straight on a northwest heading, his mind meandered. He remembered his youthful arrogance when he convinced his cousin Robert to hunt with him for the wolf who ravaged the flock. He recalled with a wince the hiding his father had inflicted after they returned to the village. But mostly, he pictured Cassandra emerging like some fairy creature from a misty pool, as his younger self watched, dumbstruck. The beautiful old forest encouraged fanciful ruminations. Clan legend said it was an enchanted wood.

As Mac walked, a snippet from Robert Frost played in his head. "The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep." Frost was one of his favorite writers. Duncan was bemused. The last time he walked these woods, he couldn't read, let alone write, his own name. Reading and writing was reserved for the village priest. A warrior didn't bother with such nonsense. That ingrained attitude had taken fifty years to wear off. Now, Mac couldn't imagine a life without reading. Didn't even want to try.

When he met Methos, MacLeod had been awestruck. He was actually walking and talking with the oldest living Immortal. Well, he'd gotten over most of that. Methos did everything he could to puncture the wise old man image. But MacLeod was still thrilled by the knowledge that Methos had kept a journal nearly since writing began. A journal which extended over who knew how many volumes, spanning five thousand years. The logistics of such a task floored Duncan. Where do you keep them, how do you keep them, through fire, flood, war, famine, and the ravages of time and bookworms? Methos smiled mysteriously and told him nothing. Someday, Mac hoped Methos would let him read a bit of them. If he ever did, no doubt the old man would require him to learn countless dead languages first. While MacLeod was fluent in several living languages, he had never tackled the dead ones - until recently. (He didn't count Latin, since it wasn't dead when he learned it. Of course, if Methos applied that definition... ) For the past few years, since he had begun the Champion search, Mac had been schooling himself in several old languages, including, the ancient Irish language, Ogham.

It was funny how his life had become rather scholastic in recent years. MacLeod did not neglect his physical conditioning or swordsmanship. But, he had spent his younger years just trying to survive, turning his attention to learning the sword and the other martial arts. But there was so much more to life than just staying alive. Maybe it was the natural evolution of an Immortal who lives long enough. He laughed to himself. Or maybe it was just middle age.

Still, these past few weeks out of the classroom, and out of doors, had been rejuvenating. If this was his middle age, he wondered what old age (for Immortals) felt like. Was his love of nature and revitalization in "roughing it" just a throwback to the familiar environment of his youth, or something that was an essential part of him? Was Methos just a crotchety old man who hated being without the modern comforts, or just a different personality who appreciated "civilization" more than Duncan did? He'd have to remember to ask the old man.

Methos had reported success with the translation of the cave writings, but confessed that the meaning was still unclear. He had been vague, not wanting to go into detail on the telephone. MacLeod's curiosity was piqued by his cryptic comments. Well, he expected to be back in Paris in a few days. He scratched his beard. While he had cleaned up in Glenfinnan, he still hadn't shaved. *I guess I'll get rid of this in Paris.*

Duncan hiked for several hours, heading northwest. The sun was setting as he approached a hillock where a large oak tree caught his eye. Yes, this looked a bit familiar. He hoisted his pack higher. It was an old giant, its trunk spanned a dozen feet or more. Oaks could live hundreds of years. This tree must have been here when he was a boy. He patted its rough bark with affection, and continued up the hill. The sun was low. MacLeod shielded his eyes with one hand.

MacLeod noticed that the forest was unnaturally hushed only a moment before the aura of another Immortal sent an adrenaline surge through his body. He fought the instinct to reach for his sword. He truly hadn't expected Cassandra to be here. Mac immediately regretted disturbing her peace. If it was Cassandra. He put his hands out, and turned slowly in a circle. He saw no one, nothing but the forest. He called out.

"Cassandra? It's Duncan. I'm sorry. I didn't know you'd be here. I'll leave if you wish."

Nothing. Just that unnatural silence.

"Whoever you are, I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. I'm not looking for a fight. I'll leave."

There was still no answer. MacLeod backed away, and turned to go back down the hill. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something ... a shimmer, barely perceptible.

"What the hell?" A stone cottage appeared, wreathed in mist or smoke, through which the setting sun's rays shone. "Cassandra?" he called again. Duncan stood immobile for a moment, and then approached the open door. The sun was setting behind the cottage, leaving the open door in shadow. When nothing else happened, Mac decided the apparition was an invitation. Still, his neck felt very exposed as he ducked at the threshold. He kept his hands open and out, away from his body. He straightened, and let his eyes adjust to the dimness.

The cottage was one large room. It wasn't completely dark. A fire burned in a stone fireplace on the far wall, which dominated the room. A wonderful smell wafted from the iron pot suspended over the fire. A rocking chair was close to the hearth, but its high back was facing him. As he looked, it rocked slowly. At the same moment, something brushed against his leg, and Mac jumped, startled. He looked down. A small calico cat wound her way around his legs. The rocker stopped. Someone leaned forward and stirred the contents of the pot with a long wooden spoon. .

"Cassandra?" he tried again, softly. Duncan scooped up the little cat, and absently scratched her ears. He hadn't wanted to step on her. She nestled in his arms, warm, soft and purring.

At that moment, the figure rose from the chair. The Witch of Donan Woods, clothed in a flowing green dress, her long hair bound with a flowering vine, stood tall and regal. A sword was in her right hand. MacLeod took an involuntary step back, still holding the cat. The Witch looked at the little animal, and then up to meet his eyes. Mac held his breath for a long moment, forcing himself to be utterly still. Cassandra set the weapon against the hearth, then turned. She smiled slightly.

"Hello, Duncan. I've been expecting you." Her voice was low, throaty.

"Cassandra, I...um.. I uh..." MacLeod stammered like the thirteen year old boy he had once been.

"Sit down, Duncan." The woman gestured to a plank table, and one of the two rush chairs before it.

He sat. MacLeod noticed the table was set for two with pewter plates and flagons, and utensils. A loaf of bread, wrapped in a piece of old linen, was on a wooden board. Apple blossoms floated in a bowl of water. Duncan was absolutely nonplused. Cassandra bent over the hearth and ladled something into a bowl, and set it in front of him. It was rabbit stew, in a thick herb-scented broth, with potatoes and carrots. His mouth watered.

"Nutmeg?" she asked.

That was an odd offer for rabbit stew. It jarred him out of his speechlessness. "Uh, no, thanks."

She rippled with amusement. "I was talking to the cat."

Duncan realized he was still holding the little creature, who had tucked her paws under her body and seemed content to nestle in his arms forever.

"Nutmeg! Let the man eat. You can have him later." Cassandra returned to the hearth and dished more stew into a bowl.

To Duncan's astonishment, Nutmeg yawned, stretched and jumped out of his arms. She walked daintily to the hearth, curling up in a ball on a colorful rag rug..

Cassandra took her seat opposite Duncan. She picked up her spoon.

"Eat it while it's hot."

"Cassandra, ..."

She smiled at him. "Eat first, then talk."

MacLeod nodded, and tucked into the meal. Cassandra did the same. His eyes never left her. Her beauty, of course, was undiminished with the passage of years. Her hair was longer than he had remembered. Her large green eyes were solemn. She exuded mystery and power and a sensuality that had rendered his thirteen year old self inarticulate. *Huh! It's still working on you at four hundred and eleven.* Two bowls and half a loaf of bread later, Duncan leaned back with a sigh and patted his belly. He hadn't had a meal like that, fresh baked bread, sweet butter, the simple stew, all washed down with May wine, in a very long time. He smiled at Cassandra, whose appetite had matched his.

"Thank you. That was wonderful."

Cassandra nodded. She stacked the dishes and rose. Duncan helped her carry things to a washbasin near the hearth. She poured hot water over them from a kettle on the hearth. She wiped her hands and turned back to him.

"Come sit by the fire."

She gestured him into a very comfortable wooden chair, with a little wooden stool for his feet. Cassandra returned to the rocker. The little cat jumped on Duncan's lap, and turned around three times, kneading his lap with her sharp little claws as he winced, before she settled down. He stroked her soft fur as she purred. Some tension inside him eased at that moment, and Mac settled deeper into the chair.

"Cassandra. How did you know I was coming?" Mac put his feet up on the stool. *This was a really comfortable chair.*

"I had a dream."

Duncan yawned. "Excuse me." He scratched Nutmeg's ears. " I didn't even know I was coming until yesterday."

"Well, I am a Witch, after all." .

He smiled at that. "Cassandra, there's so much I want to say to you, I don't even know where to begin." Mac searched her face. "Yes, I do. How are you?"

Cassandra blinked, and looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. "I am well, Duncan." She took a deep breath, and let it out. "It's taken much time and hard work to be able to say that. I am well."

MacLeod reached out tentatively, and laid his hand on hers. "I'm glad, Cassandra." She took his hand in hers. They sat like that for a time, just watching the fire.

Finally, Cassandra spoke. "And how are you, Duncan?" There was no answer. She turned and looked at him. Duncan MacLeod, her Solstice Child and Champion, the Highland Warrior, scourge of evil Immortals everywhere, and her hope for the One, was sound asleep in her armchair, a dozing cat on his lap. As the firelight played on his features, she could still see the earnest young boy in his face, despite the intervening years and that scruffy beard. Cassandra stood quietly, and removed a soft old quilt from the foot of her bed. Without disturbing the man or the cat, she covered them both. She brushed dark hair from his forehead, and rested her palm there. She closed her eyes. After a moment, Cassandra withdrew her hand and looked down at the sleeping man. *Oh Duncan, what has happened since we parted?* She bent and kissed his forehead. After banking the fire, she completed her nighttime routine, and climbed into her bed. The cat, her usual sleeping companion, had abandoned her for the night. *Nutmeg, I always figured you for a hussy.*

"Good night, Duncan. Sleep well. Time enough tomorrow for us to learn why you've come." she whispered to the slumbering man. Cassandra shivered and pulled the covers up and around her. She offered a little prayer to the Goddess to spare her from the dream that had ended in a screaming nightmare every night for the past week.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

Joe Dawson sat on the faded chintz sofa in Amy's Paris apartment, and methodically tuned her old acoustic guitar. His daughter was bustling about in the tiny kitchen, insistent on preparing a home-cooked meal for Joe after his long trip. Amy wasn't exactly a gourmet cook, but she made a mean frittata. Joe no longer kept a flat in Paris, since MacLeod had given up his barge and started teaching full time in Seacouver. So, he had checked into a little hotel on the Rue Bievre, close to the University. Staying with Amy was not an option. Her cramped quarters weren't even big enough for one person, even without all the books and papers that she kept here.

She had met him at the airport, despite his protestations on the telephone. Truth was, he was that glad to see her, and the waiting cab she had snagged. Orly was in the beginning of prime tourist season, and cabs, redcaps, and shuttles were in short supply. His back and legs ached from all the standing and walking; his butt ached from all the sitting. They had stopped at his hotel long enough for Joe to check in and change. After a cold beer from Amy's fridge, he was perking up. It was only on his second bottle that he noticed it was Methos' favorite brand.

His daughter poked her head out of the kitchen. "Pretty bad, huh?" she nodded at the guitar. Amy had taken guitar lessons as a teenager, but she wasn't musically inclined. She kept the guitar out of sentiment and for Joe's occasional use. "How about some music to cook by?" Joe grinned at her, and bent over the instrument. He closed his eyes. His whiskey voice caressed the lyrics of an old Billie Holliday song.

Them that's got shall get

Them that's not shall lose

So the Bible says and it still is news.

Mama may have, papa may have

But God bless the child

That's got its own.

Amy hummed along, as she assembled the potato-leek frittata. It was good to have Joe here. Amy knew she tended to brood. She tried not to over-think her relationship with Joe, and just accept it for what it was. *What it is*, she reminded herself, *is a gift.* Amy had loved her father, the man she presumed was also her biological father, deeply. Joe Dawson could never replace him in her heart. But Amy had found there was room in her heart for Joe, without diminishing her father's place. She was glad that Joe had given her a second chance after she had rebuffed him. Over the last few years, she had come to cherish Joe for himself. He was a man of many facets. And she was proud to be his daughter.

It was a far cry from the anger and resentment that had filled her when she learned the truth of her paternity. She had blamed Joe Dawson, and her mother, for the lie, for the secrets. The revelation had shifted her entire identity on a quantum level, pervading every aspect of her life. Amy hadn't known who she was anymore. She couldn't speak to her mother without bitterness. She even began to doubt the bedrock certainty of her deceased father's love for her. It had all blown up on Joe, on her disastrous first field assignment.

Amy's initial experience as a Watcher in the field had scared the hell out of her. But Morgan Walker's abduction of her, frightening as it had been at the time, had made a crucible for the three people caught in it. Amy saw, with her own eyes, the depth of caring that Joe Dawson had for her. How he loved her. And Adam Pierson had saved her life, at the risk of his own. Amy wasn't naive. What he did was for Joe, not for her. But she was very grateful nonetheless. She concealed the truth about Adam Pierson, former Watcher turned Immortal, discovering, in the process, that sometimes, there are very good reasons to keep a secret.

But mostly, her work in Myths and Legends, particularly the work she did on Rebecca's Chronicle, had altered her perspective. In the abstract, Rebecca was an icon, a super-hero, a legend. As she studied the woman's life, Amy was struck by her humanity, not her exploits and adventures. Rebecca, childless like all Immortals, had established family ties over and over throughout her very long life - with her students, her friends, her lovers, her husbands, and her adopted children. In time, Amy came to understand that family ties were not always blood, not always legally sanctioned, and not always conventional. Families love, fight, grow, understand, and forgive. She had Rebecca to thank for her reconciliation with her mother, for the restoration of her faith in her father's love. And her second chance with Joe was also Rebecca's legacy.

There, just run the frittata under the broiler for a few minutes, toss the salad, slice the bread, and dinner was done. She called Joe to the tiny table she had set with candles and wineglasses. Joe finished the last verse of the song, gently propped the old guitar against the wall, and stood up. He looked a little stiff as he moved, probably his prostheses were bothering him after all the travel. He sniffed, and smiled.

"Boy, that smells good. I haven't had anything but sandwiches or airline food since Wednesday."

She gestured with the bottle of wine, and he nodded. She poured them both a glass of Chardonnay.

They started with the frittata and finished with the salad, in the French manner. Both of them had hearty appetites, Joe from travel and Amy from skipping lunch while grading student papers. As a graduate student on assignment to the University, she was a teaching assistant to Martin Guerre for Martin's summer session. She needed the extra money.

During the meal, they had chatted about nothing in particular. She and Joe kept in pretty close contact by telephone and email, so they were up to date on each other's lives. Mostly.

Joe leaned back, and sighed appreciatively. "Honey, that was great. Thanks."

"You're welcome, Joe." She smiled. "More wine?"

"No, no. Any more and I'll end up asleep on your couch. I already had a couple of beers."

"Did you like that brand? It's Adam's favorite." she inquired. "Personally, I can't stand the taste of beer. They all taste the same to me."

Joe laughed. "Don't let him here you say that. Unless you want the "Beer is the Elixir of Life" lecture."

"I've already heard it." She laughed too. "He's quite passionate, isn't he?"

Joe looked at her for a moment before nodding. Amy looked back quizzically.

Joe cleared his throat. "So, you've seen a lot of Adam lately?"

"Yes. No. Well, not for the last couple of days. He's been translating an ancient religious text someone found carved in a cave in the Alps. It's quite fascinating, really, a hidden cave, apocalyptic references, mysterious battles between Good and Evil, and all that. I've been helping informally, tossing out the odd idea." Amy sipped her wine. "He completed the translation the other day. I told him he should publish, but he doesn't want to. Apparently, it's a private commission for some rich American." She made a face. "Probably one of those television evangelists who'll importune his followers to send him all their money before the end of the world happens a week from Tuesday."

Joe was silent, amused by Amy's depiction of MacLeod. "So, what are Adam's plans, now that he's finished the job?"

"Well, he's not quite finished yet. The translation is done, but it doesn't make sense." At Joe's inquisitive look, she explained. "He has the words, but they're all a jumble. Adam believes there's a cipher key that puts them in their proper order. Hopefully, something evident in the writing itself. Otherwise, it may be untranslatable. As I said, it's fascinating. Martin Guerre is pretty envious."

"Is Adam still piss - I mean, mad at him about that dissertation parody?" Joe already knew the answer.

Amy was surprised. "You know about that?" Then, she burst out laughing. "Don't tell Adam, but I did think it was pretty funny." Her laugh was infectious, and Joe joined in.

"So did I."

"Yes, well, Adam and Martin are like oil and water - they just don't mix."

Amy cleared the dishes and made coffee. She looked thoughtful as she stirred sugar and cream into her cup.

"Joe, did you ever see Rebecca Horne? In the flesh, I mean. Not a picture."

Joe set his cup down before replying. "Once, in Paris." Amy wordlessly urged him to continue. He leaned back, slipping easily into storyteller mode. "She and MacLeod were old friends. They go way back to when he was just a young pup." Amy smiled at that. "But in all the years that I watched Mac, I only saw them meet the one time. At Darius' church. I guess it was, oh, about 1980, the year he met Tessa. Tessa Noel." Amy nodded. She was familiar with MacLeod's Chronicle. "I couldn't believe it when I saw her. The legendary Rebecca." Joe was quiet for a moment.

"What was she like?" Amy was curious.

"I never 'met' her. I hadn't even 'met' MacLeod at that point. I followed him that night to St. Joseph's. Darius and MacLeod met often, whenever Mac was in Paris. They were close friends." Amy nodded, rapt. "It was an awful night, real blizzard, wind chill something ridiculous. After waiting across the street for a few hours, hot coffee alone wasn't doin' it. So, I went into the church and sat in the back pew to warm up. I was the only one there. After a moment, Father Darius came out of the rectory, and asked me if I was there for Confession. I told him no, that I just came in for a moment. I must have looked pretty cold because he offered me a hot meal and coffee. I thanked him, told him I was OK. He went back in the rectory, and just before he closed the door, I could hear Mac ask him something, but I couldn't make out the words." He took a sip of his coffee.

"Anyway, I was just getting up, figured I'd call it a night. MacLeod wasn't going anywhere. All of a sudden, the chapel door behind me opened. A tall guy in a long black coat walks in, snow and that coat swirling around him in the wind He had a hood pulled up over his face. I know it's Holy Ground, but I can't help feeling this guy is looking for trouble. Anyway, it was pretty dark in the back of that chapel. The only lights were the candles up near the altar. I don't think he could make out my cane, or maybe he mistook it for a sword. So, 'he' walked up to me, and said 'I am Rebecca Horne. We can take this off Holy Ground if you wish.' I felt this shiver go up my back. I couldn't talk. Then, the rectory door opened and there was MacLeod, standing in the doorway, with Darius behind him. He had that expression on his face. You recognize it after awhile. He calls out 'I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.', in that way he does."

"She turned around and pulled down the hood, and all this long red hair spilled out. He shouted, 'Rebecca!' You could tell he was delighted. She turned back to me, and I'm looking into these beautiful blue eyes, and she says, 'I beg your pardon, sir. Please accept my humblest apology.' All I could do was nod. Then Mac was there, throwing his arms around her. They walked back to the rectory door and closed it. I got out of there then. I cross-referenced with Rebecca's Watcher later. Apparently, she had been grounded in Paris because of the storm, and had dropped in on Darius while she was in town."

Joe poured himself more coffee. Amy leaned forward in her chair, her mouth open. "You were challenged by Rebecca Horne?"

Joe snorted. "And lived to tell the tale."

Amy, bemused, pictured the encounter. "Were Rebecca and MacLeod lovers?" she asked after a moment.

Joe shook his head.. "I don't think so. Not that anyone's chronicled, anyway. But, I don't think they were. Amanda staked her claim pretty early."

"You knew her husband, John Newcomb, died last year?"

"Yeah. MacLeod and Amanda attended the funeral." Joe shrugged. "So did I, I guess."

"She was at least four thousand years old, and she gave up her life, her Immortal life, so that her husband could live out what, another ten years?" The sadness in Amy's voice was evident.

Joe sat back in the chair. "She loved him.", he said simply. He thought of MacLeod on his knees with Liam O'Rourke's sword at his throat, ready to die so that Joe and Amanda could live. "MacLeod nearly did the same for me."

Amy's eyes filled suddenly, and she looked away. Joe reached out and took her hand across the table. "What is it, honey?"

"Nothing really. It's silly. I just... I've been studying her life, Joe, as much as we have chronicled, anyway, for four years. And it's such a shame, such a damn shame..." Amy stopped and took a deep breath. "I know we're not supposed to get attached.... It's just...I would have liked to have seen her once, that's all." She squeezed his hand.

Joe knew how she felt. There were times when he wanted to put his fist through a wall over the goddam Game. He didn't know how Mac, and Methos, and Amanda, or any Immortal, could stand it.

"It just seems like such a waste, Joe. And we watch them die, and we record it all in dusty old books we keep in musty old rooms..."

Joe rolled up the sleeve on his left arm, and pointed to his tattoo. "You see that? It's a little lumpy looking, but that's 'cause I've been tattooed on that same spot twice." She looked at him, surprised. "I dropped out of the Watchers once, did you know that?' Amy shook her head. "Yeah, me. I chose my friendship with MacLeod over my duty, because he forced me to choose one over the other. Then, the son of a bitch told me to get back in and make the Watchers right, make it what I believed it should be." Joe rubbed the tattoo. "I wish he'd said that before I had it removed." He smiled at his daughter, then looked at her intensely. "I'll never forget what he said: 'One day, there'll only be one of us left, and someday, maybe none at all. Somebody has to record that we've lived, somebody has to record the history we've seen, the lessons we've learned. And not some petty clerk, but someone who feels, someone who does, someone who has honor.'"

"Like you." Amy whispered. Joe took her hand, and pushed back her sleeve, revealing her own tattoo.

"And you." he said, quietly.

After a moment, she smiled and patted his hand. "I didn't ask you to come all the way to France to debate the merits of the Game." Amy pointed at the tattoo. "That symbol is fundamental to the Watchers. It defines us. It identifies us, to ourselves and each other. It's a symbol of our history and our oath, since our beginning."

Joe nodded, a little puzzled. This was basic stuff. First day at the Academy stuff.

"It's everywhere in our organization, right? It's stamped on every Chronicle, either on the cover, or frontispiece, or end leaf. It's on every facility we own, even tattooed on every recruit."

"Right."

Amy let go of his hand and stood up. She walked to her desk and unlocked the middle drawer. She removed a book, and carried it back to the table. From what Joe could see, it was very old, stained and worn. The leather cover was cracked and faded. She handed it to Joe. He tilted it into the light, trying to make out a strange symbol tooled into the cover.

"Then, what is that doing on one of Rebecca's Chronicles?"

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

Duncan woke to the smell of coffee brewing and bread baking and a woman humming a French tune. He sniffed appreciatively, eyes still closed For a moment, he was back in their apartment behind the antique store, and Tessa was in the kitchen preparing breakfast. Then, he opened his eyes. He was in Cassandra's armchair, which wasn't quite as comfortable as it had been last night. Glowing red coals were banked in the hearth. A coffee pot and Dutch oven hung over them. Mac rubbed the stiffness from his neck and stood up. The quilt fell to his feet, with an indignant yowl. He lifted the blanket. Cassandra's little cat looked up at him, offended at his discourtesy. After all, hadn't she kept him company all night long? He apologized and stroked her from head to tail in obeisance.

He turned to the table to find Cassandra regarding them with amusement. She was chopping mushrooms and herbs on a wooden board.

"Good morning" Mac said, sheepishly. "I think I fell asleep in the middle of a conversation last night. I'm sorry. It wasn't the company."

"That's all right. Did you sleep well?" She slid the sliced mushrooms into a bowl, and holding the herb over the mushrooms, stripped thyme leaves from their woody stems.

"Very well. And you?" MacLeod rubbed his neck, and stretched. He took a seat opposite her.

"Better than I have for a long while."

The resin scent of rosemary drifted across the table, causing Mac's stomach to rumble. "Sorry." he said, embarrassed, acutely aware that he had descended, uninvited, upon her home, disrupting her self-imposed retreat.

She smiled. "Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes."

"Cassandra, I didn't mean to just drop in on you like this." He shrugged helplessly. "I really didn't think you or this cottage would be here. I just wanted to see the Woods again before I left Scotland."

"Duncan. It's all right. I'm glad you're here."

She told him where the privy and the pump were, and he cleaned up before breakfast. Mac noted the chickens scratching in the yard, and the little clay pots of herbs set in the sun. The roof was thatched in the old way, a technique now lost to modern thatchers. When MacLeod returned to the cottage, Cassandra was at the hearth, finishing a large omelet, teeming with mushrooms and redolent with rosemary and thyme. They shared the omelet and fresh biscuits and blackberry jam, washing it all down with coffee and spring water.

After breakfast and the clean up, they took a walk in the woods. Duncan carried the basket as Cassandra gathered wild strawberries, and herbs, and cress at the little stream. The day was fine, the breeze soft. When they returned to the cottage, Cassandra pointed out a bird's nest high in a beech tree. Her little cat was clinging for dear life to a branch too thin to support her weight. When she saw them, Nutmeg let out a plaintive meow. Duncan climbed the tree and rescued the silly little animal, who scratched him in her haste to be saved. Cassandra, safely on the ground, laughed at her antics.

Lunch was a little feast of herbed butter on homemade bread, the gathered greens dressed simply with olive oil, and sharp cheese with the last of the walnuts and fall apples, wrinkled but still sweet, ending with the strawberries and cream.

When they finished, Duncan took Cassandra's strong hand in his. "Where did you go?" His dark eyes were intense as he thought back to Bordeaux.

Cassandra looked away, troubled, as her thoughts also returned to their last meeting. "At first, Holy Ground. I entered an abbey in the south of England as a lay sister. It's a place I've gone to before, when I needed time to think." MacLeod nodded for her to go on. "Duncan, I couldn't stay with you. I couldn't be your friend knowing that he was also your friend. I blamed you for stopping me from taking that bastard's head. I was so angry at you." She pulled her hand away.

"Cassandra..." MacLeod's voice was gentle.

"No, Duncan, you have to understand." Cassandra's green eyes were fixed on his. "At that moment, I could have taken your head. I shifted all the rage and hate to you, because you wanted him to live, knowing what he was, what he had done. You thwarted my revenge. I had to get out of there and away from you." Mac moved as if to speak. She held up her hand. "I know now that you didn't stop me from taking his head. You couldn't even stand up at that point." Cassandra took his hand. "All you did ..." She licked her lips. "All you did was say 'I want him to live.' How I hated you at that moment, Duncan." She shook her head, sadly. "But, you couldn't control me with your Voice. Your words could not have stopped me unless... I wanted them to stop me." She looked deeply into his eyes. MacLeod held his breath. "And it really wasn't you that I hated. It was myself - knowing all that he did, all the pain and torment, the death of my people - and I didn't want to kill him. I hated myself." She closed her eyes.

Duncan didn't know what to say. Even if he had the words, he doubted he could speak past the lump in his throat. He just held her hand in his, caressing it gently with the other. Nutmeg uncurled from her rug by the fire, and jumped into Cassandra's lap. Cassandra petted her for a moment without speaking.

"I spent five years at the Abbey, most of that in therapy with Sister Anna, a psychologist. Based on my rather condensed history, she diagnosed me as an abuse victim, with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder." She snorted. "I know, waaaay Post." Her smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. "Anna helped me help myself. So did the children I taught at the little school they had. They were mostly refugees - Bosnia, Sierra Leone, Afghanistan. We helped each other to let go of the hate." She paused. "I left the Abbey two years ago and came back here. It took me a year to rebuild the cottage, but the work was good." She stroked the little animal that was on her lap. "I was at the market square in Glenfinnan last year when Nutmeg adopted me as her human." She looked around the room. "I guess this is as close to 'home' as I have."

Duncan found his voice. "I'm glad you found your way back home."

She squeezed his hand, and let it go. Cassandra stood and gathered the breakfast things. "And you, Duncan, what happened to you after Bordeaux?"

He had been expecting this question. After her painful revelations, he owed her nothing less than the truth. Duncan stood and took her hand. He led her back to the chairs facing the fire. He wasn't going to get through this if he had to look at her face. They sat side by side, until the fire died out and the ashes grew cold. He told her of Richie, of his own retreat to Holy Ground, of defeating Ahriman in the guise of Kronos and Horton, of Liam O'Rourke, of Kell and of Connor. Duncan was only aware of the tears on his face, when she gently wiped them away.

When he told her of Methos' actions on the metal platform after Mac had defeated Kell, she abruptly stood up. She paced the room for a moment, then returned and kissed him on the forehead. "I'm glad he was there for you.", she whispered. Mac ended his recital with his return to the States, and the teaching that he loved. When he was done, he felt as drained as if he had fought an Immortal, then run a marathon. She took his hand and led him to the bed. They curled up like two and a half spoons, Cassandra on the outside molding herself around his back, Duncan in the middle, and the cat on the inside, and slept the afternoon away.

MacLeod woke to find a pair of green eyes looking deeply into his own. Nutmeg was sitting, Sphinx-like, on his chest. She yawned at him, and jumped to the floor. He looked around the cottage. They were alone. The slanting rays of the late day sun streamed in. This is a lovely place, he thought. While it was one large room, Cassandra had divided it into functions: the kitchen area with the table and chairs, bunches of herbs hanging from the rafters, pewter and copper gleaming; the living area with the rocker and armchair close to the hearth, a charming photograph of Cassandra laughing with a group of children on the mantle; the "bedroom" where he was warm and cozy in the feather bed. Dried heather in an earthen vase decorated the deep windowsill near the bed. Pine cones, feathers, shells, and pretty polished stones were tucked in odd little places. How did she keep the cat from considering them cat toys? On the other hand, who was he to say they weren't.

Thinking of cat toys, Nutmeg was playing with something, batting it across the living area. Mac could hear whatever it was scraping on the bare stone floor. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and stretched. He was glad he had come back to the Donan Woods.

"Nutmeg!? What do you have there?" Cassandra entered the doorway, a large basket balanced on her hip. She smiled at Duncan, as she set the basket on the table. It was filled with potatoes, carrots, parsnips, turnips, more mushrooms, and snippets of herbs. MacLeod rose and walked to her. He embraced her briefly, and whispered into her hair, "Thank you." She pulled back and touched his cheek briefly. "You are most welcome."

They were distracted by the antics of the cat. Nutmeg was under the cane chair, using the rungs as a jungle gym, as she swatted a small object around. Cassandra bent down. "What do you have there?" She stood up slowly, staring at something small and white in her hand. Duncan realized it was one of the bones he had retrieved from the hermit's cave. The little minx must have gotten into his pack. Duncan reached for the object, speaking to the little animal. "Bad cat, to go into my bag. What else did you get into?" He stopped short when he saw Cassandra's white face. Concerned, he said "Cassandra, what's wrong?"

"Where did you get this?". Her voice was strained.

"Cassandra? What's wrong?", he repeated. She just stood there gripping the bone. "I found it in a cave, north of Glenfinnan. There's a whole bag of them, if the cat hasn't scattered them everywhere."

"Find them!", she commanded, as she sat down heavily in a chair, tipping the basket slightly. Potatoes and turnips spilled out and rolled on the table. She was pale and trembling.

"Cassandra! Are you OK? Tell me what's wrong."

"Duncan, bring me the rest of these bones now. Hurry!" Cassandra took a deep breath and clasped her hands tightly. She breathed deeply, head bowed. Bewildered, Duncan rushed to his pack by the fireplace, and retrieved the pouch which the cat had opened. He counted out the bones. There were thirteen here, plus the one Cassandra was holding, that meant one was missing. He was down on his hands and knees searching around the floor, cursing the cat under his breath, when he found it under the rag rug. He hurriedly brought the set to Cassandra. She seemed calmer. In an even voice, she instructed him to clear the table of all but one candle, which he lit. She stared into the flame for several minutes without blinking. MacLeod sat down in the other chair.

As he watched, Cassandra, closed her eyes, and chanted in a low voice. Mac couldn't make out the words, or maybe he just didn't know the language. She rolled the bones around in her cupped hands. After a few minutes of this, she scattered the bones on the table top. Cassandra examined them silently. MacLeod could feel the tension creeping up his spine and nearly jumped when she spoke.

"Aye, you're blessed and you're cursed." Duncan stared at her. Her lips moved, but it was as if the old hermit was speaking, so close was the timbre and intonation. Then she blinked, and her voice changed to her own, though she spoke in a peculiar disconnected tone.


"Once born,
Twice sired,
Thrice motherless,
All have been.

Four times sire,
Five times mate,
Might have been,
Should have been.

Six as teacher,
and thy fate,
Seven thy number,
But too deep is thy slumber.

Six was tested,
And was true.
Two once tested,
Once untrue,
Two twice tested,
Might be you.

Cassandra repeated the verse, if that's what it was. Then she stopped speaking. She stared at the candle, unblinking. After a minute or two, Duncan gently stroked her cheek. He called her name over and over. He was becoming very concerned after ten minutes, not at all sure what to do, when she took a deep breath and bowed her head. Mac breathed a sigh of relief.

Cassandra looked up, into the very worried face of Duncan MacLeod. She smiled at him, and he was reassured, a little. "Duncan, do you remember what I said?" He nodded. "Write it down." Mac strode to his pack, and retrieved out a small leather bound notebook and pen. He sat across from her again. She was holding her head in her hands. "Cassandra, are you...?" She cut him off. "Write it down, Duncan." He wrote the strange litany down, then took her hand. Her palm was clammy, and her fingers trembled. "Cassandra, what can I do to help?"

"Make me a cup of tea, please, Duncan."

He bustled around the kitchen area, examining the dried herbs and spices hanging above his head. MacLeod selected a couple of bunches, and assembled them in the terra cotta teapot. He brought the steaming kettle from the fire and poured it over the leaves. The scent as it rose from the pot was refreshing. Mac let it steep for a few minutes, then poured the liquid into a mug, and added a dollop of honey. Cassandra wrapped her hands around the mug and brought it to her face. She inhaled the fragrance for a bit, then sipped the tea when it had cooled a bit. As she did, the strain gradually left her face and her color returned. When she finished the beverage, she held out the cup for more. Duncan refilled her cup. "Duncan, pour some for yourself." He did and sat opposite her again. Cassandra looked thoughtful, but not unwell anymore.

When she met his eyes, MacLeod gestured to the pot of tea. "How's your headache?"

"Gone. What was that? Chamomile and feverfew ...?"

"And willow bark and hyssop. Tastes better than aspirin." Darius had taught him this herbal remedy, and many more, so many years ago. The priest used to experiment with teas and tisanes made from all kinds of plants, most of which tasted horrid. Duncan still remembered one particularly nasty brew made from a mold form.

"Cassandra, what happened?" he asked softly.

"Trance."

"I know that."

"It's been a long time since that's happened." Cassandra gave a little shake and sat up straighter. "I can't control how or when, or even remember what I say. It was triggered when I touched the bone Nutmeg was playing with." She studied the layout of the bones on the table top. "There's Power in these things. You haven't moved them?" MacLeod shook his head. "I don't recognize these symbols, but their arrangement is important. I was in the grip of the Power when I cast them. Draw them exactly as you see them here." She gestured to his notebook.

"I can do better than that." MacLeod lit several more candles to illuminate the table top. Then, he retrieved his camera from the pack. He took several exposures, from different angles. Satisfied, he closed the camera up, and put it back in his pack.

"What does it mean?" Mac asked.

"I haven't a clue." She shrugged, studying the notebook page. Then, Cassandra looked up at him.

"Duncan, why did you come here? No, I don't mean to the Woods. Why to the Highlands?"

MacLeod asked her the same question he had asked Methos months ago in his house in Seacouver. "Are you sure you want to know, Cassandra?" he said gently.

"Remember I told you I had a dream that you were coming here?" He nodded. "What I didn't tell you was that I had the same dream, nightmare, actually, every night for a week before you arrived."

"What was the dream?" Mac asked urgently.

"Are you sure you want to know, Duncan?" She turned his question back on him. He nodded again.

"I was here in my bed, but looking out of that window." Cassandra pointed at the window, near the bed, where the heather decorated the sill. "You were fighting with someone. I couldn't see who at first. It was like I was looking out of a thick red curtain that obscured my view. But I knew it was you. I tried, but I couldn't move out of the bed. There were two bodies lying on the ground. A young woman I didn't recognize, very pretty, very pale. I thought she was wearing a red dress, but she wasn't. Her throat was cut. She was lying on another body, a man. He was dead too. Blood was everywhere."

"Who was the dead man?" Mac said tightly.

"Your friend, the Watcher. Joe Dawson."

"Who was I fighting?"

"At first, I thought it was Methos." MacLeod started at that. "Yes, I know, I used to have nightmares about him quite a lot."

"At first,..." Duncan prompted.

She went on. "There was a lightning storm going on. In a flash, I'd see Methos' face. Then, there's be another flash, and I'd see Kronos' face. Then, there'd be another flash, and the face kept changing. At one point, it was your student, Richie. I saw a picture of him once, in your loft. Other faces I didn't know." She stopped, and looked down at her hands.

MacLeod's stomach churned. Her words brought back the memory of his fight with Ahriman in the racetrack, when Richie .... With an effort, he brought his attention back to Cassandra, as she spoke again.

"But the last, Duncan, the last was my face. And when you saw it, you pulled back your sword and reached your hand out to me ... no, not me, the person with my face. I was still in my bed. I was screaming as loud as I could: 'Duncan, it's not me! It's not me!' You reached out and he or she or me took your hand and then swung the sword with the other, and...your head came flying at me. That's where I wake up, screaming at the top of my lungs." She wiped at her eyes, and took a shaky breath.

"Must have scared the hell out of Nutmeg."

She smiled a little at his joke, such as it was, and the tension in her neck and shoulders eased a bit. "I think that's why she's been cuddling up to you so much."

"And I thought it was my irresistible charm." She smiled wanly. "It was just a dream, Cassandra." Even to his own ears, MacLeod didn't sound convincing. Hadn't he come to Scotland on the strength of a dream of his own?

"No, it wasn't, Duncan, and I think you know that." Her gaze locked with his for a long moment. "Now, Duncan, why did you come to the Highlands?"

"I'm looking for the next Champion." he said simply. It took the rest of the night to tell her the rest of the story.

Cassandra lifted her head from her pillow as the morning sun streamed in through the window. She had slept late. They had talked till very late, when she could no longer keep her eyes open. She had fallen asleep in her bed, as Duncan tucked her in. She had sleepily invited him to share the bed, but he wanted to sit up and watch the fire for awhile. She rolled over and stretched languorously. She looked over at the fireplace. Both chairs were empty, the quilt neatly folded on the back of the armchair. Cassandra sat up abruptly. She couldn't feel Duncan. Then she saw his pack, propped against the hearth. She wrapped herself in the old quilt, and walked out of the cottage.

Cassandra found him bathing in the little pool, down in the glen.. Duncan had his back to her, soaping his hair. She stayed just out of sensing range and settled down to watch. A part of herself was amused at the role reversal. When the Witch had lured young Duncan MacLeod to the Woods all those years ago, he was the voyeur watching her bathe. Now, the shoe was on the other foot. Actually, she was barefoot. And there were no shoes on Duncan, or clothing either. Just a silver chain around his neck. His clothes were lying neatly on a rock. Nutmeg was sitting on top of them watching the man, who, oblivious to the observation by two females, was singing off-key. She winced at a sour note. Duncan was a man of many talents, but singing was not one of his gifts. Cassandra strained to catch the words. It was an old blues song of Lady Day.

Yes the strong gets more
While the weak ones fade
Empty pockets don't ever make the grade.

She joined him in the last verse, her contralto voice soaring across the glen to join with his. Duncan whirled, and faltered as soap got in his eyes, then joined his voice with hers for the finish.


Mama may have,
and Papa may have,
But God bless the child,
that's got his own.

She walked toward him then, shedding the quilt, then her long gown. Mac watched her approach in silence. Cassandra joined him then in the water, and he took her hands, and kissed them one at a time.

"You have a beautiful voice." he said. He looked tired, but he smiled down at her.

"You don't", she said lightly, "but you make up for it with enthusiasm". She touched the pendant on the chain around his neck. "Rather appropriate for my Champion."

Duncan was taken aback for a moment. Yes, the rune symbol would include "Champion" among its many meanings. Funny, he'd never thought of that. Cassandra took the soap from him.

"Turn around. Let me scrub your back." He complied, then claimed his turn. Cassandra stretched like a cat as Duncan washed her long hair. He gestured to the shore with his head. Nutmeg, sitting on a large flat rock, was daintily washing behind her ears with one paw. They lingered in the water, until Cassandra took Duncan by the hand and led him to the quilt she had dropped on the grass.

Their lovemaking was tender, and slow, each wanting to make it last. Duncan knew Cassandra, for all her years, and power, and mystery, was a precious and fragile thing put in to his keeping. Cassandra, old long before he was born, was very wise, and understood this man was a rare gift to be cherished. They lay tangled together in the morning sun, sated with loving, unwilling to break the spell. The cat did it for them, as she pounced on one then the other, demanding her breakfast.

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

Duncan turned and looked back up the hill toward the little cottage wreathed in morning mist. Cassandra, in a long white robe, her hair tousled from sleep, stood in the doorway. As he watched, she stooped and picked up the calico cat winding around her legs. She held the little animal close to her face, and Nutmeg rubbed against Cassandra's cheek affectionately. Duncan held his breath for a long moment, fixing the scene in his memory. This was how he wanted to remember the Witch of Donan Woods. Not a woman, face distorted with rage, raising an axe over a weeping, prostrate man. He lifted a hand in parting, and Cassandra returned the gesture.

Duncan whistled as he retraced his steps to the rental car he had hidden nearly a week ago. It was a bonny morning. The woods seemed brighter, more alive with animal and insect life on the return journey. The little brook babbled louder; the leaves on the trees rustled merrily at every puff of breeze. He felt different too. Lighter than air. He felt ... happy.

At that thought, Duncan stopped in his tracks. He hadn't felt like this since Connor died.

The restoration of Cassandra to his life, seeing a friend alive and happy, was an uncommon experience, and a very welcome one. He had lost so many that were dear to him over his long life. The losses seemed especially keen in recent years.

Maybe it was the return to his beginning, his childhood and youth. Maybe it was the completion of a circle that began long ago when he left his village to track a white wolf. Or the ghosts that he could so easily conjure in the morning mist: his parents, his first love, his kinsman, his teacher. Perhaps it was merely the siren call of the simple, uncomplicated lessons of his childhood faiths. What was it Methos had said to him, back in their Innsbruck hotel room? "When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child..." Whatever the reason, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod knelt in a sun-dappled clearing and gave thanks for all the gifts he had been given.

THE END

ENDNOTES:

The adventure is continued in "On That You Can Rely."

The quote of Byron's that MacLeod remembers at Connor's grave is from The Prisoner of Chillon, Part VIII, lines 215-16.

The quote "When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things." is from the King James version of the Bible, 13 Corinthians 11.

The classic Latin-English pun that amuses Methos as he searches for his boxer shorts, "Ubi? Ubi, me es sub-ubi?" translates to "Where? O, Where is my under-where (wear)?"

The prayer that Duncan says as he sprinkles Holy Water over the hermit's cairn is "Rest In Peace" in Latin.

Thanks go to the Highlander Holyground Forum and Ysanne who started this with Chapter One in response to a MidWeek Challenge.