Highlander fanfiction: On That You Can Rely by Nutmeg9cat

Disclaimer: None of the Highlander characters or the concept of Immortals belong to me. I am borrowing them for the purpose of entertaining myself and other fans of a wonderful show (she says, hopefully).
This is the second part of a multi-part series, which I am calling "As Time Goes By". Part One is "Fundamental Things". Along with many other stories, they are also posted at Daire's Fanfic Refuge.

SYNOPSIS of the prequel to this story, "Fundamental Things":
Two years after the events in "Endgame", Duncan MacLeod is settled in Seacouver, teaching art history at the local University. He has been quietly searching for the next Millennial Champion, engaging experts in various academic fields to research references to the battles between Good and Evil. Methos learns of his activities, and though not a believer, takes an academic interest in the work. Amy Thomas, Joe Dawson's daughter, comes to Seacouver for a seminar and a visit with Joe, and has a surprising encounter with MacLeod. Methos and Duncan travel to the glacier ice caves of the Austrian Alps and find a mysterious hidden cave with cave writings and statues that hint at the Millennial Champions. The Immortals are nearly lost when a flood causes a cave-in.
From Austria, Methos flies to Paris to use the archives at the University. MacLeod continues on to the Scottish Highlands, seeking a clue to the identity of his predecessor Champion. He returns to the hermit's cave, and removes the dead Immortal's sword and the bones he cast to predict Duncan's destiny. In the meantime, Methos successfully translates the words of the ancient writings, but has yet to find the cipher key that will put the words in the proper order. While at the University library, Methos encounters an old love. Before returning to Paris, Duncan visits the Donan Woods for old time's sake, and meets Cassandra.
We continue now with ...

ON THAT YOU CAN RELY

CHAPTER ONE
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Claude Manette, newest bell boy of the Hotel Versailles knocked tentatively at the door of Suite 879. Claude straightened his tie and tugged at his jacket. An aura of mystery surrounded the guest in Suite 879, growing daily over the course of his one month stay. The Hotel Versailles was known for its exemplary service to its clientele, from the best concierge in Paris to its two-star restaurant. The Hotel Versailles attracted only the most discerning guests. The Hotel Versailles not only tolerated eccentricities, but catered to them. In the Hotel Versailles, eccentricity was expected. Little was known of the occupant of Suite 879, except that he was a professor from America. However, the occupant of Suite 879 was unusual in his avoidance of the very service for which the Hotel Versailles was renowned In the beginning of 879's stay, there had been a few attempts to service him, but he had rebuffed all "disturbances" vociferously. "Disturbance" included even the daily fresh flowers and fruit delivery that were the signature features of the Hotel Versailles. 879's eccentricity had, at first, perplexed the executive staff. But, finally, 879 had been left alone, the executive staff concluding that to provide the celebrated service of the Hotel Versailles meant, in this case, to provide no service at all. Until now, when the delivery of a message to Suite 879 had been passed down the ranks to young Claude, who had no one lower to pass it on to.
The front desk had insisted to the caller that the occupant of Suite 879 had left strict and inviolable instructions not to be disturbed, to the point of switching off all telephones to the suite. The caller had apparently been more insistent, for here was Claude, holding the slip of paper, knocking on the door again. He continued to knock, increasingly louder, as he had been directed by the front desk. Just as Claude was about to give up and return downstairs for further instruction, the door was flung open. The bell boy jumped at the sudden movement, then gawked at the apparition in front of him.
A man, clad only in boxer shorts, leaned on the doorjamb, and squinted at him, as if the light in the hall hurt his eyes. He was younger than Claude expected of a professor, even one from America. His short black hair stuck out in all directions. A slice of pizza, sauce side down, was stuck to his side. The man leaned towards Claude. "What?" Claude recoiled at the smell of alcohol. He wordlessly handed the occupant of Suite 879 the note, and waited for reply. Claude's eyes widened as he got a partial view of the room behind the man. "Bloody Hell!" croaked the professor, as he stepped back and slammed the door on the astonished bell boy.
Methos struggled to clear his pounding head. He had been in, what could most charitably be described as a funk, after that farce with Genevieve DuFait in the bowels of the library. He'd had a few beers. The old man lurched towards the bathroom. He nearly went down, when an empty bottle rolled under his foot. Methos looked down at the carpet. There were a lot of beer bottles littering the suite. There were other empty bottles scattered around the room - wine, liquor. He gaped at the empty bottle of Glenmorangie, purchased weeks ago for MacLeod. Scotch?! He hated Scotch! He especially hated very expensive Scotch! He was astounded. Methos the wary. Methos the survivor. Methos the beer drinker. Passed out on the floor! From Scotch! *What day was it?* He looked down at the paper in his hand. The date and time were noted. It was three days later than Methos thought it was. He was about to crumple the paper and toss it on the floor, when the forgotten text of the message elicited another "Bloody Hell!" MacLeod had called from Orly Airport. His flight had landed and he would be at the Hotel Versailles as soon as he could.
Methos, hands on his hips, surveyed the suite with dismay. His belly itched. As he reached to scratch himself, he encountered an obstacle. After a long moment staring down at himself, he peeled the pizza off his belly, and wrapped it in one of the newspapers lying on the floor. Methos completed his survey of the room. With a sigh, Methos bent and picked up beer bottles. His head pounded and the room swam. While Immortal healing could and did put his body back together with amazing speed, he still suffered the effects of a binge the same as anyone else. Joe Dawson had once told him a very funny story of an outraged, newly Immortal Richie Ryan's discovery of this fact of life. Apparently the kid hadn't believed MacLeod, without his own empirical evidence. Methos shuddered to think of Joe's reaction if he had been the one at the door, instead of an open-mouthed bell boy.
A five minute stint in a frigid shower, and Methos emerged, teeth chattering, but head clearer. His search for clean clothes yielded only the hotel's complimentary terry robe. He donned it, and returned to the living room. It looked like a very powerful Quickening had occurred in the room. Either that, or a tornado. Methos had seen the aftermaths of tornadoes many times. Just not in Parisian luxury hotel suites. All of the furniture was buried under debris: books, newspapers, maps, takeaway containers, bottles. The research materials which Mac had kept organized with such care were scattered all over the suite. Coffee rings and grease spots decorated much of the looseleaf, books were open face down, creasing pages and breaking spines. Methos' own neat printing on the notes and references mocked him and was a sharp contrast to the disorder of the whole.
On his first round, Methos separated the trash from the good stuff, and gathered it into small garbage bags he found under the little sink, in the kitchenette. Next, the dirty laundry was stuffed into the duffels provided by the hotel. Then, he closed and stacked all the books, folded the maps, collected photographs, and gathered the looseleaf papers. Methos found a couple of file boxes and ordered the loose things as much as he could. He moved all the research materials into a bedroom. Other than a fine layer of dust on all the surfaces, it was pristine. This was MacLeod's room and, even drunk, Methos had considered it off limits.
The other bedroom, his bedroom, had been torn apart. Pillows and cushions from the sofa and chairs, together with tangled and stained sheets, made a nest on the floor. Methos put the bed and furniture back together, and stuffed the dirty linen into the canvas duffels. Eventually, he restored sufficient order to find a telephone, and switched it on. While the suite needed additional cleaning, it was good enough that the hotel wouldn't eject him bodily. He made some calls. Then he ferried bags to the door, putting trash on the left and laundry on the right.
When the first knock came, he helped the astonished young man load the bags of trash into his wheeled hamper. While he was doing that, the Valet appeared and all three pitched in to stack the laundry bags on his cart. As they were finishing, a young woman in maid's uniform appeared with her cleaning cart. It was like a truncated remake of the stateroom scene in A Night at the Opera. *And I'm Groucho.* Methos thought grumpily. The maid was quick and efficient, and with the application of some overnight spot remover on the carpet and upholstery, the shy young woman left with a big tip. Methos looked at his watch. It was six o'clock, as he closed the door behind the maid. He looked around in satisfaction. Order had been wrung from Chaos.

CHAPTER TWO
The front desk clerk of the Hotel Versailles peered suspiciously at the tall, bearded man, leaning on his elbows and peering over the high counter. In one long look, she took in the mud-stained hiking boots, the weatherbeaten backpack, faded jeans, and long sheepskin carrier slung over a shoulder. "May I help you, M'sieu?" Her words were courteous, but she radiated the profound disdain of a French maitre d' and Mother Superior, combined. The object of her disapproval stood a little taller, and fought the urge to smooth down his hair.
Unfortunately, the most charming smile he could muster was lost behind a thick growth of beard. "Yes, you can, Madame. I'm checking in to Room 879. My name is Duncan MacLeod."
Impossibly, the tone grew colder. "That room is already occupied, M'sieu."
"Yes, I know. My friend, Adam Pierson, checked in a few weeks ago. Perhaps you could check your records." MacLeod gestured to the computer.
Apparently, the computer never lied, and, after producing his American Express card, MacLeod found himself on the elevator with a key card in one hand. He had demurred when the bell hop offered to take his luggage. Mac stroked the beard. *I must look pretty scruffy.* He had offered to shave at Cassandra's, but she told him not to bother on her account. She and the cat liked the beard.
As the elevator rose, Duncan looked at his watch. It was six o'clock. He wondered if Methos was in the room, and whether he had eaten yet. Mac followed the signs from the elevator for Suite 879. As he turned a corner, MacLeod nearly collided with a young man, hurriedly pushing a large cart, piled high with bulging plastic bags marked "Refuse". "Pardonnez-moi, m'sieu!"said the flustered young man, as he hurried on his way. A moment later, Duncan was nearly bowled over when another young man, this time with a cart full of canvas laundry bags, sped down the corridor. Another apology. As Mac passed a pretty young woman in a black and white uniform, pushing her own cart, a dust pan fell at his feet. He bowed as he handed it to her, and she blushed prettily. This hotel was known for the quality of its services. It was impressive to see the service staff, bustling so energetically this late in the day. MacLeod found the suite at the very end of the elegantly decorated hall, next to the fire escape. As he approached the door, Mac felt the distinctive Presence of the oldest Immortal. He gave him a moment, then used the key and entered.
The suite was spacious and attractively furnished. It had a fresh clean smell that reminded him of the heather that scented Cassandra's cottage. "Methos? It's Mac." he called. Fresh coffee was brewing on the kitchen counter. A shower was running in the bathroom off one of the bedrooms. MacLeod concluded the other bedroom was his. It was a nice room. A couple of file storage boxes were neatly stacked in one corner. MacLeod dropped his luggage on the floor. He returned to the kitchenette and poured himself a cup of excellent coffee. As MacLeod sat at the table, taking in a view of the Champs- Elysees from the picture window, Methos emerged in a white terry robe, drying his hair with a thick towel.
"Hi." Methos said, nonchalantly. The scent of steam and soap wafted after him.
"Hi." Duncan, feeling positively grubby, scratched at the beard again. He was about to offer dinner on him at his favorite little bistro, followed by jazz at the club around the corner, when there was a knock on the door. Methos, still toweling his hair, gestured at his state of undress. Mac rose and opened the door.
A waiter wheeled in a cart laden with a domed tray, fresh flowers in a crystal vase, and a bottle of Glenmorangie. He set the dining table with snowy linen, china and silver, and placed the vase in the center of the table. Methos asked him to leave the tray and the dishes covered. Again, he indicated his state of dishabille, so Mac escorted the young man out and tipped him.
"Are you hungry, Mac?" Methos gestured at the big tray on the cart.
"Famished. I skipped the airline meal. I was going to invite you to dinner." MacLeod lifted the silver dome to reveal filet mignon with grilled mushrooms and Bearnaise sauce, potatoes Lyonnaise, asparagus, and strawberry tart. He was touched. Methos had ordered dinner for him, and selected his favorites. MacLeod was puzzled at the single tray. "You're not joining me?' Mac asked, curious.
"I had a late lunch. You go ahead."
"Well, join me in a drink?" He nodded toward the Glenmorangie. Methos made a face. "Oh, sorry. You hate Scotch."
Methos poured himself a glass of ice water and joined Mac at the table.
"No beer in the fridge?" Methos shook his head. "Well, we'll have to stock up. There's a grocery store on the Rue Francoise that carries that brand you like."
"Mac, eat it while it's hot." Methos gestured at the plate. MacLeod smiled and tucked in to the meal.
"How was your flight?"
"Flights." MacLeod corrected. "Not bad, but I spent more time in line than actually in the air."
Methos nodded, as he sipped his water. "How was your dreamquest?"
"Very interesting." Mac sliced off a piece of steak, speared a mushroom, and swirled it in the sauce. "I have a lot to tell you." He popped the morsel in his mouth. It was delicious.
"Me, too. I finished the translation."
"Wonderful! Thanks!" Mac was enthusiastic.
Methos held up a hand. "Don't get too excited. Still have to figure out the cipher." At Mac's puzzled look, Methos explained about the scrambled words and the missing cipher key.
Mac nodded in understanding. "Still, the translation itself is a big accomplishment, Methos. I really appreciate it."
"No problemo."
"Hey, let's celebrate tonight. How about we take in that little jazz club in the Latin Quarter?"
"I'm sorry, Mac, I can't. I don't have a thing to wear." Methos said, with a twinkle.
"Huh! I haven't heard that one in a while. That's up there with 'I just washed my hair, and I can't do a thing with it'".
"Well, as a matter of fact, I did." He patted his now dry hair. "Seriously, Mac, how about a raincheck till tomorrow. I'm a little tired."
"Sure, Methos, tomorrow is fine." MacLeod felt a little guilty. He had spent nearly a week with Cassandra, and had departed the Highlands well-fed, well-rested and well-loved, restored in body and spirit. Methos had been poring over ancient texts and dusty tomes, probably in that airless basement they call the "Dungeon" for the last month. *The old guy does look tired. And depriving himself of beer!* As he finished his excellent meal, Duncan made a mental note to pick up a case of the exotic dark brew Methos liked. The poor fellow looked like he hadn't had a drink in a long time.
CHAPTER THREE
In Suite 879 of the celebrated Hotel Versailles, Joe Dawson watched an epic battle between two Immortal Champions unfold. Ladies and Gentlemen! In this corner, Methos, the Really Old Guy, the Eighth Wonder of the Ancient World, dominated the room with his unorthodox anti-system of notes all over the table, the counter, the chairs, even the refrigerator, scattering his bits and pieces of notes on cards, backs of envelopes, cocktail napkins, whatever was at hand, including what looked suspiciously like toilet paper, but still producing order out of disorder with unerring accuracy. And, in this corner, Kid MacLeod, the Scottish Control Freak, wielding expandable files, organizer notebooks, and color-coded index cards, dazzled the crowd with finesse and style, cross-referencing and cross-checking with blinding speed. They were evenly matched, folks, the outcome was anybody's bet.
Of course, none of the research materials in the hotel room were originals, only working copies. MacLeod kept the originals, like Jason Landry's journal, in a safe. Still, the look on Mac's face when he picked up a photocopy of a Parsi religious text with a big brown coffee ring in the middle was priceless. Could be a technical knockout by the R.O.G., folks! Joe hid his smile in his coffee cup.
Mac had been in Paris a few days. Of course, the chastened young Watcher in Scotland had reported as soon as he had located MacLeod in Edinburgh, on Mac's way out of the country. Joe had reassured the kid. The Highlander was impossible to follow if he chose not to be followed. Shortly after, Joe's cell had rung. It was MacLeod. Mac was surprised to find Joe in Paris too. "On Watcher business, nothing to worry about, Mac."
Mac had invited Joe over to see the results of the Austrian and Scotland excursions. This
was the first time Joe had seen his friends since they had left the States. He laughed long and hard as they related the collapse of the hidden cave as a funny, exciting adventure. Joe knew better - it must have been a harrowing experience for both men. Still, he was wiping his eyes at the mental pictures of Methos on Mac's shoulders digging out of a fissure compacted with earth with only a dagger as a tool; pulling himself up by the dangling roots of a small tree; then Methos hauling the heavier Scot up on a "rope" made out of their harnesses, belts, and shredded clothing knotted together. Both men had collapsed on the surface, muddy and bloody, clad only in tattered underwear. They had hiked back up to their starting point in this bedraggled state, Methos plodding along in one shoe, to retrieve their gear and swords.
"Hey," MacLeod said, "I offered you my shoes."
"Yeah, right, with your bloody enormous feet. I'd have tripped my way up the mountain."
"Well, you know what they say", MacLeod said, smugly, "big feet, big ..." Methos made a rude noise before he could finish.
Joe marveled at the photographs of the cave wall writings and the ancient altar of little stone figures. He appreciated the age and artistry. But he was no linguist. He was hopelessly lost as his friends tried to explain the translation of the writings, how it was a sophisticated cipher requiring a key to order the words. Joe didn't feel too bad. Both Immortals were still struggling with sorting that part out. It was nice to be included in the discussion, though he didn't expect to contribute much to the intellectual pursuit. Mac shared the Champion search information with Joe as a safeguard of the knowledge learned. Only he, Mac and Methos knew what had been discovered so far. Only he and Mac believed in it.
"Refill, Joe?" Mac offered. Joe held out his cup. Mac poured the hot liquid carefully, then sat across the table from the Watcher. He looked solemnly at Joe. Without preamble, he said. "Joe, I went back to Scotland to find the hermit's cave."
"What! Why didn't you tell me?" During the Ahriman battle, Mac had told Joe of the hermit in the cave and his first Quickening. It came as a complete surprise to his Watcher. The Watchers had no record of new Immortal, Duncan MacLeod, until later that year, when he became Connor MacLeod's first student. His Chronicled first Quickening was really MacLeod's second.
"Because I had no idea that's why I was going to Scotland."
Joe looked questioningly at him. "Did you find him?" MacLeod nodded. "And you're not going to tell me where." Mac shook his head.
"It's his tomb, Joe. Let's let him rest in peace."
"Amen." said Methos. Surprisingly, Joe detected no sarcasm.
MacLeod looked at Methos, but didn't comment. "Anyway, Joe, I brought back what I wanted. I'll go get them." He disappeared into a bedroom.
Joe looked at Methos quizzically. "What?" said Methos. "You never thought some of those museum mummies might be friends of mine?" Joe had no answer to that.
MacLeod emerged from his bedroom, carrying a rigid leather sword case and a small wooden box. He set both on the table. He removed a drawstring pouch from the box, and emptied the contents into his hand. Mac carefully set a dozen or so small objects on the table. Joe, curious, picked up one. It was a carved piece of bone or tusk.
"I take it this isn't prehistoric Scrabble?" Duncan chuckled and shook his head. "Bones ... for casting? Like to predict the future?" Joe guessed. Mac nodded. Well, one point for me, Joe thought. He counted the bones. There were fifteen, polished and ivory colored, each with a different symbol carved on the surface. Joe looked at Mac first, who shrugged. He looked at Methos next. He shrugged, too.
"So, ...?" Joe raised his eyebrows.
"Exactly." said Methos.
"I also found this." MacLeod opened the sword case, and removed a long object wound in muslin. He unwrapped it carefully. It was an old sword, deep red with rust.
Joe's pulse quickened. He felt a thrill with this tangible connection to the mysterious Immortal who died, unremarked, in a Scottish cave four hundred years ago. An Immortal's sword was a part of him or her. This one had belonged to a Champion. From the shape, it was a type of broadsword. The heavy coat of rust indicated a considerable iron content. The pommel was dark, and he couldn't tell what it was made of. Joe touched it lightly with a finger. It felt like polished stone. This sword had survived a dark and damp cave, untended, for centuries. Iron swords rusted quickly in a damp climate. Wood and leather rotted. That it was still intact, despite the neglect, bespoke its quality. He looked up to see MacLeod watching his reaction.
"Wow." Joe sat back in his chair, stroking his beard.
"Articulate as always, Joseph." Methos's voice was muffled, as his head and shoulders were inside the refrigerator. He emerged with a beer.
"I'm just succinct." He turned to MacLeod. "You're the antiques dealer. Can you restore it?"
Mac shook his head. "Not to fighting strength. And I wouldn't try to give it an edge. But I think I can get down below the rust level, without damaging any remaining chasing or inset-work." He ran a hand along the hilt, reverently. "See here, Joe. The pommel is carved too, but it's crusted with dirt. I think it might be ebony. Very rare. And look at this."
Methos was entertained watching his friends' excitement over the old rusty weapon. He thought of a weapons cache of his own that he had abandoned in a cave following the First World War. It had been discovered a couple decades ago, in Morocco. The old junk had caused a stir in academic circles as scholars tried to match weapon to period , and ended up scratching their heads at ancient techniques applied to relatively modern materials, in a region where they oughtn't have been at all. Methos had followed the often heated academic debates with glee. *Oh, well. I've always been easily amused.* He tuned back into the present. Mac was talking.
"You should have seen me trying to get this through customs without provenance. I had to pass it off as an old movie prop that I picked up in Edinburgh."
"Is that what you were doing at that memorabilia shop?"
MacLeod frowned slightly. Joe winced at his thoughtless remark. Mac abhorred the constant surveillance of the Watchers; Joe didn't need to rub his nose in it.
"Why don't you show him that autographed picture of Ingrid Bergman you bought, Mac?" Methos said, innocently.
MacLeod's face flushed pink, and he looked sheepish. Joe was taken aback. As far as he knew, MacLeod hadn't known the actress. Not personally. Of course, he knew the man loved movies. Richie used to lay low at Joe's whenever a foreign film opened in town. But he'd never thought of Mac - debonair, sophisticated Duncan MacLeod - as an adoring fan. Joe opened his mouth to ask questions, already framing his entry in MacLeod's Chronicle. Then, he shut it. He had always liked Ingrid himself, especially in Casablanca. She had a warm and natural luminescence about her. When a certain female artist entered his assignment's life, Joe had noted that same radiant quality .
"Beautiful lady." Joe raised his coffee cup in homage to two departed women. "Say, Mac, did Methos ever tell you he has a thing for Maxine?" Joe ducked at the sofa pillow that sailed at his head. MacLeod snagged it, and tossed it back at Methos.
"Maxine?" MacLeod was momentarily puzzled. "Of the Andrews Sisters? That Maxine?" His head swivelled to Methos, who was studying the label on his beer bottle. "No, Joe, he didn't." A slow grin spread across his face.
Methos stood up abruptly. "Right then, so what do we think these symbols mean?" He scooped up the bones, rolled them between his hands, blew on them, then tossed them on the table with the panache of Nathan Detroit.
Joe, brow furrowed, studied the bones intently. "By George, I think I've got it. Don't ... Sit ...Under ... The ... Apple ... Tree, with anyone else but me, anyone else but me, anyone else but me." Duncan joined in Joe's husky song at "No, No, No, No". They sang until they were laughing too hard to continue. Methos smiled enigmatically from the sofa, and plotted his revenge.

CHAPTER FOUR
The skies were gray as a steady rain fell on the city of Paris. Most tourists, discouraged by the weather, had abandoned the sidewalks and streets. A tall man, in sweat shirt and pants, jogged along the tree-lined Champs-Elysees, head up and seemingly oblivious to the rain that was soaking him. Duncan MacLeod sniffed appreciatively as the Place de la Concorde gave way to Le Jardin des Tuileries. Everything was in bloom. He rounded the Louvre, by way of its garden, before stopping to stretch and catch his breath. Rivulets of rainwater ran down his upturned face. It felt good to get out and stretch his legs.
Since he had returned from the Highlands he had been cooped up in the hotel suite, catching up with Methos, and studying the translations of the hidden cave writings that his friend had completed. The old man had clipped the photograph of each section of the cave wall writings to his notes of the translation. Over the course of several hours, he had "walked" Duncan through his analysis, animatedly pointing out the connections he found to the primitive Teutonic roots. There was no trace of his usual world-weary, sardonic demeanor, and his enthusiasm was contagious. Methos' explanations were so simply and clearly made that Duncan was finally able to see the connection of the incomprehensible language of the ancient text to the languages that he knew. It was as if a light had been shone on a dark page. *Illumination* he thought, and marveled at his teacher's skill. *If I could only achieve half of that with my own students, I would be content.*
But while the ancient text was translated into English, the meaning was still a mystery. It was a jumble of disconnected words and phrases that made no sense. Methos believed it to be a cipher, but he had not found the cipher key. Without that, it would be impossible to order the translated text.
On that first night, Mac had looked up from his perusal of the photos with a magnifying glass, to find Methos looking at him intently.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Mac went back to the texts. After awhile, he looked up again to see Methos still staring at him.
"Methos, what is it?"
"Just wondering if you see anything." Duncan shook his head. "Sorry." Methos got up, retrieved a beer from the fridge, and sprawled on the sofa with a piece of the newspaper.
After awhile, MacLeod sighed and pushed back his chair. Methos peeked over his newspaper, and looked a question with raised eyebrows. MacLeod shrugged.
"I'd say it's all Greek to me, ... except I understand Greek. I don't know what I'm looking for."
"The key would be something that tells the reader what order to put the words into." Methos folded the newspaper, and set it on the floor.
"I understand that. I worked with ciphers and codes when I was with British Intelligence. Usually it was a book that the person on each side of the transmission had in common. You would need to refer to a specific page to get the key to the order of the alphabet to decode the message. Impossible to crack unless you know the starting reference."
"That's one way to do it. You also can use mathematical formulae, astronomical events, railroad schedules, Navajo Indians... anything really that puts the writer and the reader at the same starting point." Methos stretched like a cat and yawned.
"Well, this was created thousands of years ago."
"Just because they were not a technological society as we know it, Mac, doesn't mean they weren't sophisticated."
"I know. That's not what I meant. Maybe the key was written down on paper or parchment, and rotted away long ago. Maybe it was never kept in the cave in the first place."
"In which case, we're out of luck, since the only artifacts of this culture to survive were in that cave. And if I didn't take a picture of it, it didn't survive the flood."
Duncan turned back to the photographs.
"Mac, just tell me your impressions. Don't try to figure out what it means."
Duncan felt like an unprepared student called upon to speak in front of the class. He cleared his throat. "Uh...well, the word 'circle' appears a lot."
"Twenty eight times."
"Do you think it has anything to do with the statue-menhir arranged in a circle?"
"Yes, I do. I just don't know what."
"What about the symbols on the statuettes? They don't look like letters in this alphabet."
"They're not. I don't recognize them at all. They may not be letters. They might just be a stylistic detail that the sculptor added because it looked pretty." Methos looked thoughtful. "That part of the site was heavily damaged even before the cave flooded. The key, if it was there, may have been obliterated long ago." He sipped his beer. "I was hoping that you might see something I'm missing, coming in fresh with a different perspective. Younger eyes, you know."
"Sorry." Duncan laid the magnifying glass on the table, and rubbed at his eyes. "I'm afraid these 'young eyes' aren't any better than yours. We're both gonna need glasses by the time we're done with this."
That was three days ago. Methos was spending a lot of time on-line, or in the University library, researching the history of cipher codes in ancient cultures, but he was getting frustrated. Duncan continued to study the photographs and accompanying translation, but to no avail. Neither one of them wanted to suggest (yet) that the project might have been in vain. Their stay in Paris had not been planned at the outset. The University access was helpful, but neither had planned on staying indefinitely. Paris was a Mecca for Immortals, and staying in the city would invite the inevitable Challenge.
Duncan had begun the careful restoration of the hermit's sword. It was slow going as he tried not to damage the remaining metal underneath the centuries of rust. Initially, he hoped that by restoring the old weapon, something about the sword would lead to the revelation of the identity of the hermit. It was a long shot - Watcher records were sketchy at best, and the matching of a specific sword to a specific Immortal would be tough under the best of circumstances. Nevertheless, it was their best hope for identifying the anonymous Immortal. But he was enjoying the restoration of the sword for its own sake - it had once been a beautiful piece of work.
The sword wasn't the only tangible link to the old hermit. But, while the carved bones that the hermit had cast were unusual, there was no way to identify the dead man from his use of them. Joe tried - he searched the Watcher data bases for a connection. But as he told Mac, their systems were not set up to retrieve information about Immortals who used magic and the talismans they employed. Hell, Joe frequently expressed his frustration at the inability to retrieve most information about Immortals. Years ago, Don Salzer and Adam Pierson had created a very limited program, but after the Kalas debacle, it had not been permitted, for security reasons, to expand much beyond the preliminary work, the database composed of Immortals living at the time. The Watchers had centuries of information on the lives and deaths of countless Immortals. It would take lifetimes to search it all.
In the small gardens of the Louvre, Duncan sluiced water out of his hair. He almost had the gardens to himself. A young couple huddled under an umbrella, kissing passionately, oblivious to his presence. Duncan bent to tie his shoe. As he did, the rune pendant slipped out of his shirt and dangled from his neck. The pendant and the trysting couple reminded him of his stay with Cassandra. While Duncan recounted his tale of finding the hermit's cave to Methos and Joe, he held back about his encounter with Cassandra. Her little cottage in the forest was her haven. The Watchers had no idea where she was. Duncan would not be the one to destroy her privacy and so he had kept her a secret from Joe.
He hadn't told Methos, either, although he trusted the old man not to disturb her privacy. But the subject of Cassandra was a sensitive topic between them. They just didn't talk about her. After all, what was there to say?
Duncan had accepted that Methos was no longer the same person who had raped and tortured his young Immortal slave into submission three thousand years ago. It had been hard, and it had taken a long time. And it had required Duncan to accept things about himself that he had wished he could forget, or bury. "Life was about change..." He had learned that over four hundred and eleven years. How much more would he himself change over the next four hundred, or a thousand. His mind balked at that. He couldn't wrap his mind around one thousand, much less five thousand years of existence. God, he still got overwhelmed when he thought about the ages of his friends at five and three thousand respectively.
Mac would have liked to talk to Methos about Cassandra, to let him know that she was alive and well. But he hesitated. He didn't really know Methos' feelings and it felt presumptuous to speculate about them. After all, Duncan's own feelings for Cassandra were complex. They were the yearnings of a thirteen year old boy with a crush on a beautiful older woman who had saved him from harm, tangled with the thoughts and feelings of a grown man who had become her lover, her protector, and her comrade in arms. Another example of his being both "a child and a man" when it came to Cassandra. Strip away all the overlay of emotions though, and one simple truth emerged - he loved her. And, as he wished for all the people that he loved, he wanted her to be happy. She was happy, with the little cat, in that little cottage.
Duncan straightened. This little breathing spell was over. He had missed his exercise regimen with all the travel. While he was in Paris, he planned to run every morning. Running was like meditation. While his body labored, his mind soared. He started back up the Champs-Elysees, reversing his direction to return to the Arc de Triomphe in the Place de L'Etoile. Tomorrow, he would start again at the Place de L'Etoile and choose another of the twelve Avenues that radiated from the Arc, like rays from a star. It would allow him to catch up on the changes to the City since his last visit. Paris was always changing, yet always remained the same. She had a beauty that encompassed more than the individual buildings and monuments. It was his favorite of the Old World cities. Even more so, since he had met Tessa here.
They had tried to share their love of the place with Richie that first fall that he, Tessa and the boy had moved here. At first, Rich had resisted being dragged around the city seeing the sites. To Duncan and Tessa's surprise, he wanted to stay close to the barge. It had frustrated Duncan until he realized the boy, who had never even left Seacouver, except for trips to Duncan's cabin on the island, was homesick. At ground level, Richie, street smart and confident in his native Seacouver, had been overwhelmed by the foreign language, the crowded streets and cluttered sidewalks, the innumerable monuments and the impressive architecture. He kept losing his bearings and getting lost, and couldn't or wouldn't ask for directions in the unfamiliar city. It was only when Duncan had taken Richie on a helicopter tour, that the boy had recovered his bearings. Paris from the bird's eye view had even given Richie an appreciation of the grace and charm of the City of Lights. "Sometimes you just need a change of perspective" he'd told the youth, as Richie waved energetically to Tessa on the deck of the barge.
Duncan stopped so suddenly that he nearly lost his balance. After a moment, he began running again and quickened his pace until he reached the Hotel Versailles. As he navigated the lobby and turned toward the elevator, soaked and breathless, he attracted several stares from the more elegantly attired guests. He reversed course and headed for the stairs. Eight floors later, he opened the door to the suite with his key card and burst in to the room. Methos, dozing on the sofa, with the newspaper on his chest, scrambled to his feet, before registering that the Presence he had felt was Mac.
MacLeod went immediately to the long wall of the living room area and hurriedly began removing the framed pictures which decorated it. These he stacked against the sofa. He strode to the file box on the floor, and rifled through the research materials. He grabbed what he wanted, along with a stapler.
Methos watched his activities in silence, until Duncan began stapling the photographs to the elegant wallpaper.
"That'll cost you, you know." Methos said, mildly.
Duncan continued without answering, ripping away each translation page from the respective photo, stapling the photo to the wall, and putting the translation pages in a neat pile on the floor.
"Mac, what are you doing?" Methos asked.
"Changing our perspective."
After a moment, Methos saw that MacLeod was arranging the photographs in order, from top to bottom, overlapping them where they joined, to recreate the wall as it had been in the cave, using Methos' meticulous notation on the back of each photo as a guide. Intrigued, Methos stood back and let MacLeod finish the task without further comment. MacLeod finally stepped back, satisfied with his handiwork. Hands on hips, he surveyed the wall. Even in photographs, it was impressive. For the hundredth time, MacLeod wished that he had been able to see the wall and the altar intact. He closed his eyes and cleared his mind using meditation techniques learned over the years. He opened his eyes. After a few minutes, his heart began pounding. He turned to Methos, excitedly.
"I see it, Mac."
It was subtle, but it was there. A circle was formed within the center of the wall by the contrasting of slightly more elaborately-styled symbols set with the simpler, more compact writing style which was used on the majority of the wall. The symbols were the same, the language was the same, just slightly exaggerated in certain spots to suggest the circle. It was impossible to see the difference in the piece-meal photographs of the sections of the wall. You had to see the wall as a whole to see it at all.
Methos, grinning, stood with his arms crossed over his chest. "As plain as the nose on my face."
"And that's saying something, with that nose." Duncan interjected, wearing his own silly grin.
"You could have used Scotch tape, you know." Methos went to the refrigerator and extracted two beers. "Jeez, Mac, I live here a month with barely a crumb on the floor, and inside of a week, you're vandalizing a suite in the Hotel Versailles." He handed a bottle to MacLeod.
"I can't take you anywhere."
"Shut up, and tell me what it means."
"It means..." He clinked his bottle against MacLeod's and tipped it toward the wall of photographs, "we have a lot more work ahead of us."
CHAPTER FIVE
The moon shone through the open window on the Champs-Elysees and illuminated the figure on the bed in its pale light. Methos looked like a statue, the moonlight contributing to the effect as it gave his normally pale skin an alabaster glow. He was awake, his eyes seemingly focused on the light fixture on the ceiling. But his mind was farther away than the hotel suite in Paris. He was back in the ice cave in the Tyrol, wondering anew who built the hidden cave and created the artifacts inside so long ago. But, that feeling of wonderment wasn't what was keeping him awake. The truth was that Methos had the creeps.
Since MacLeod had tacked the photographs to the living room wall in a reasonable facsimile of the illustrated cave wall, the two Immortals had been working steadily to assemble the words of the ancient text in their proper order. The circle within the text had given them the reference points to accomplish this. It was slow work, involving the use of a mathematical formula to plot the words on the axis that corresponded to the reference points on the circle. They double-checked each other's calculations, before accepting each word as correctly placed. Once placed in context, more precise meaning to the words or phrases could be deduced. The task had taken a couple of days. But it was done.
The result was a series of, for lack of a better word, verses. There were seven distinct verses, separated by refrains. Each verse appeared to address a different person. MacLeod became very excited when that became evident, together with the refrains that spoke of a contest between Good and Evil. Methos was more outwardly reserved, but when the words came together in an apparently meaningful way, he shared in the younger man's enthusiasm. He felt deep satisfaction at unlocking the mystery of the hidden cave. Of course, the old man didn't believe in prophecies or portents, gods or devils, or good and evil with capital letters.
Earlier, the two men operated as a team, sitting at the little dining table, ordering in their meals from room service, easy in their camaraderie. Each took a circle reference point and assembled a part of the verse, then handed it over to the other for verification. Methos had just finished his last line of the last verse.
As he was about to hand it over to MacLeod, he noticed the Highlander was unnaturally still. Mac's grip on his pencil was so tight that his knuckles were white. Methos, surprised, looked at his face. Mac was very pale, staring down at his note pad.
"Mac?' he said, concerned. "Did you finish it?" No answer. His friend continued to stare. Methos doubted he had been heard. He touched Mac's arm. The muscles were rigid. Methos shook him gently. "Mac?"
MacLeod blinked, then looked at Methos. Methos was shocked at the expression on his face. Mac looked ... lost. Something stirred in Methos, that took him a moment to identify - it was a strong protective urge. He spoke gently, as if to a child. "Duncan, what's the matter?"
"Methos ... I ...." Mac shook his head. "Did you finish your part?"
Puzzled, Methos nodded. "Except for this one phrase. Here." He pointed it out to MacLeod. "Keep ... close, maybe. Keep safe, possibly. But, neither seems quite right ..."
"Hold fast." Mac said.
"Yeah! That's it." Methos scribbled in the change. "Let me have yours."
MacLeod wordlessly handed him the sheet of note paper. His ornate handwriting, learned centuries before in a monastery, was easy for Methos to read. Methos quickly assembled the verse, and read it aloud.
Look up, Dark Warrior, always, Hold fast the Pole Star, to find thee homeward bound. A falling Star shall keep safe thy Vow, But not thy Heart, Though you strive to change its course. Day waxes, Night wanes, as Light follows Darkness and Despair, always. Keep Day in thy Heart, and Night in thy Hand, and in thy Good Thoughts, shall thee know thy Path and thy Name. Beware Death before thy Path is done, Yet At Time's End, Be not afraid of Death, Thy boon Companion.

Methos looked back at Duncan, still puzzled at his reaction. This verse was similar in style and content to the previous ones they had finished.
"Mac?"
MacLeod closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "It's me. This is about me."
Methos reassured him. "No, Mac, this was written thousands of years before you were born."
Duncan's bleak smile chilled Methos. "I know."
The older man stood abruptly. He walked to the kitchen and returned with a glass of Scotch and a bottle of beer. "Drink up, doctor's orders."
MacLeod's hand trembled slightly as he took the glass. Uncharacteristically, he knocked it back in one gulp. A bit of color returned to his face. He set the glass down. "Check my calculations and I'll check yours." He reached for Methos' sheet and began to redo the numbers. The mental activity seemed to steady him. Methos, after a moment, turned back to the sheet that Mac had completed and did the same. Some time later, he set it aside.
Duncan finished his sheet a few minutes later. He looked a question at Methos, who nodded. He had correctly rendered his part of the verse. Both men were quiet. Duncan finally broke the silence.
"My mother named me 'Duncan' because I had such dark hair when I was born. She and my father were very fair." He grimaced. "They told me I took after my grandfather."
"Mac, 'Dark Warrior' could mean a lot of different things, besides 'Duncan'." Methos realized as he spoke, how inadequate his words sounded.
"My homeland is in the north."
"Yes, it is." Methos said neutrally.
"The Clan always celebrated the Winter Solstice, the day growing longer, and the return of the Sun. It was a feast day, a time to rejoice as the night retreated for another year and the light returned. And I was born on the Winter Solstice."
"Yes, you were. But so were a lot of other people."
"The motto of the Clan MacLeod is 'Hold fast.'"
Methos was silent.
"Methos, I know you don't believe that Ahriman existed..." Mac held up his hand as Methos started to speak. "No, it's alright. Just listen to me a minute." He toyed with the edge of his notepad while he spoke. "When I faced Ahriman, I was nearly consumed with hate. And, I was almost lost forever. It wasn't until I realized that hate wasn't the answer. That only peace could defeat him... There was a line in the Cabbala that guided me. That showed me my path. 'Never will I renounce a good mind.' I clung to that like a lifeline. And I prevailed."
Methos turned back to the verse. The hairs were standing up on the back of his neck. *This is ridiculous. This stuff is like your horoscope in the newspaper or that guy on the SciFi Channel that talks to the dead - so general it matches everybody. You read into it what you want to find.*
"Mac, it's coincidence. You can take any cryptic statement and stretch it to fit anybody. It can't be about you. This writing is at least four thousand years old, maybe even older. You could apply it to me. Let's see..." He looked at the verse. "I've certainly made a wish on a falling star, who hasn't?"
"It doesn't say 'wish'."
"Vow'...'wish'...it's not that precise, Mac. There are shades of meaning in any translation."
MacLeod stood up abruptly. He took a few steps away from the table, running his hands through his hair. He turned back to Methos.
"I made a vow on a falling star once, Methos. I never told anyone about it. Never." MacLeod gripped the back of his chair and leaned closer to Methos. "I was standing over Debra... the grave of Debra Campbell... I still had dirt on my hands... when I saw the shooting star. I thought it was a sign, a message from her, ... from heaven. I was twenty-four years old, and I thought my life was over. I swore..." He stopped, struggling to control his voice.
Methos couldn't help himself. "What did you swear, Duncan?" he whispered.
Duncan looked down at his hands, as if he could still see the earth clinging to them. "I swore never to marry."
Methos looked at him. He couldn't think of anything to say. He tried anyway. "Duncan, it doesn't mean anything. It isn't about you. Nothing is written."
Duncan picked up his long duster coat and shrugged into it. "Keep telling yourself that, Methos, and maybe one of us will believe it."
"Where are you going, Mac?"
"I don't know."
"Want company?" the older man asked, although he knew the answer.
"No, thanks."
As MacLeod opened the door to the suite, Methos called to him. "Mac!"
MacLeod stopped but didn't turn. "What?"
Methos stood there, fists jammed in the pockets of his jeans. "Be careful."
Mac nodded, and left, pulling the door shut quietly behind him. After he had gone, Methos gathered up the rest of the verses and notes, and put them away. He had lost his enthusiasm for the endeavor tonight. He got a bottle of beer and sat on the sofa for awhile. At three a.m., he went to bed. It was near dawn before he finally slept. He never felt the return of MacLeod's Immortal aura that night.
CHAPTER SIX
The cemetery was quiet in the damp early morning air. High in the trees, birds were chattering and chirping, busy with their springtime activities. It was too early for the morning commuter rush, so there was little traffic noise from the street. A young woman walked slowly along the gravel paths winding through the garden of headstones. She carried a small nosegay. Amy Thomas, sniffed at the fragrant bouquet of rosemary, violets, and tea roses, as she read the names and inscriptions on the headstones she passed. She had never been in this Paris cemetery before, had never sought this particular grave before. She was violating one of the oldest protocols established by the Watchers. Amy didn't care. Rebecca Horne was dead. Who could complain that she was getting attached to a dead Immortal that she had never met?
She found the double grave with the single granite headstone. There were no dates of birth or death, no written sentiment. Just two names: Rebecca Horne and John Newcomb. The husband she had given her life for had joined Rebecca last year. It had never occurred to Amy to attend John Newcomb's funeral, but now she wished that she had. With the death of the husband that she had sacrificed her life for, it seemed to Amy that Rebecca had finally and permanently departed this earth. Well, no, maybe some part of her still lived on - at least one of her students, Amanda, was alive. Amy had checked Amanda's Chronicle recently. Amanda visited the grave of her teacher on the anniversary of her death. She hadn't missed the date in over ten years. And when MacLeod was in Paris at the same time, he joined her.
Amy would have been hard-pressed to explain her presence here this morning. She had been studying Rebecca's remarkable life for nearly four years now. Recently, she had been re-evaluating her attitudes as a Watcher. She had been traumatized by her involvement with Morgan Walker, when she'd witnessed a murder of a young woman, and been prevented from doing anything about it by the strictures of her oaths. Walker had abducted and used her - as bait to force Joe Dawson to betray Adam Pierson and lead him into ambush and death. As a result, she saw all Immortals, except Adam, through the veil of the brutality of Morgan Walker. Studying Rebecca's life had opened her eyes... a little anyway. And had led her to open her heart to a second father, Joe Dawson. Amy believed in repaying a debt.
Amy knelt and swept dead leaves from the grass-topped graves. She laid the flowers in the middle of the shared plot. "'Here's rosemary for remembrance'", she whispered. Amy was not religious, but she said a small prayer for the peace of the souls whose bodies rested here. As she stood up, brushing at the knees of her trousers, she looked around the cemetery. It was actually quite beautiful. Dogwood and apple trees were in bloom and the grounds were nicely landscaped. Sections of it were old, but even the newer gravestones blended in with Old World grace. She decided to take the long way back to her car.
Amy thought she had the cemetery to herself at this early hour, but as she turned a corner and started down a new path, she saw a man. He was sitting by a grave, shoulder resting against the side of a headstone. His arms were wrapped around his legs. His head was bowed, resting on his knees. His dark coat pooled around him on the ground. Amy was reluctant to disturb him in his grief, and stopped in her tracks. She was about to go back the way she had come, when the man looked up at her. She gasped in recognition. It was Duncan MacLeod.
For a moment, MacLeod looked at her, his face expressionless. Amy stared at him in shock at the unexpected meeting. Then, she saw recognition come, and he turned his face away. Amy's hands flew to her flaming cheeks as she remembered their last encounter. At Joe's bar in the States, several weeks ago. She had hit him with books and her fists and accused him of attacking Joe, and shouted other terrible things. She knew now that MacLeod had only been trying to help her father, who had taken an accidental tumble. That night, Amy had lain awake for hours, horribly ashamed. She felt awful about the incident, but had no idea what to do about it. MacLeod must loathe the sight of her, and for good reason. She turned around and started back the way she'd come.
Amy had only taken a few steps when she stopped, torn with indecision. The man was obviously upset. No doubt he wanted privacy, or he wouldn't be here, alone, at this hour. On the other hand, she owed him an apology and the ugly incident had been weighing on her. She was convinced that MacLeod avoided her presence when she was with Joe. She might never get another chance. *At least we're on Holy Ground, and he can't throw things at me.* she thought with grim humor. Mustering her courage, she walked purposefully toward the Immortal, mentally rehearsing a brief act of contrition.
This time he didn't look up at her approach until Amy was nearly on top of him. She stopped in front of him, and forced herself to meet his eyes. Usually, the first thing she noticed about Duncan MacLeod was how handsome he was, despite the fact that she disliked him. Not this time. All she saw was pain. Amy's innate compassion rose to the fore, and obliterated the careful apology she had prepared.
"Are you all right?" she blurted.
MacLeod blinked as if he didn't understand the question. He opened his mouth then shut it abruptly. He looked away, shaking his head.
Amy was nonplused. "Uh... is there anything I can do?"
His face still averted, MacLeod spoke, his voice husky. "Amy, I'm sorry. This isn't a good time right now."
"No, of course not. I'm sorry." She turned away, then turned back. "I am sorry. So very sorry for how I acted that day. I should never... I'm sorry." Amy turned again to go, when she felt him tugging the hem of her coat. She faced him again.
MacLeod looked up at her. "Amy, you don't have to apologize. I understand. You were worried about Joe. I understand why." He struggled to stand, holding on to the tombstone for leverage. "Feet fell asleep" he offered in explanation.
For the first time, Amy noticed the inscription: Tessa Noel. 1958-1993. She felt awful for disturbing him here, for her own selfish reasons. She looked up at him, and said slowly and clearly, "I was wrong and I should apologize to you. I know that you would never hurt Joe. I'm very sorry I disturbed you. Goodbye."
MacLeod stared at her. She walked away. Amy had nearly turned the corner to the next path when he called her name. She looked back. After a moment, he said, tentatively, "See you around?" She nodded and continued on her way. When she reached her car, Amy sat without moving for several minutes, before driving to the University for her first class.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Methos, supine in bed with a pillow over his face, groaned when he felt the Buzz of MacLeod's Presence. He breathed a sigh of relief, and burrowed deeper into the covers. But further sleep eluded him. He looked at the clock. Three hours sleep. Scrubbing at his face, he padded out of the bedroom, and sniffed at the aroma of brewing coffee.
MacLeod was sitting in his usual chair at the dining table, old newspapers spread before him, wiping the rusty old sword with a rag. As Methos stumbled to the kitchen counter, Mac looked up, and smiled at him. It was small and sad, but it was still a smile, and it warmed the old man to see it.
"Good morning." Duncan was intently examining the blade as he spoke.
The old man grunted. He poured a cup of the fragrant brew, and sipped it slowly as little by little his eyelids became unglued. Methos sat down at the table across from the Scot, and watched him work. Mac was unshaven, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He was wearing yesterday's jeans and sweater. But he worked carefully and proficiently with the solvent and rag. When he finished his coffee, Methos sprawled back in his chair and scowled at the younger man across the table.
"Where have you been?"
Duncan stopped polishing the sword in surprise. Not at the question, but at the tone of voice. Methos sounded exactly like a querulous parent interrogating an errant child who had broken curfew. It was a tone he himself had used often with Richie, when the boy first moved in. Unfortunately, it pushed all of the short-of-sleep MacLeod's own buttons. He was four hundred and eleven, for Chrissake. Before he could stop himself, Mac snapped back. "Why, were you worried?" He was discomfitted to hear the smart-ass tone of a teenager coming out of his mouth.
Methos looked him squarely in the face, and said very clearly. "Yes."
Duncan blinked. All resentment at the question vanished at that simple and honest response.
"Oh." He started wiping the sword again. "I was on Holy Ground. Just thinking."
Methos rose and helped himself to orange juice from the refrigerator. He leaned against the kitchen counter as he drank it. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah." MacLeod was concentrating on the sword again. "I knew when I started this, that it wasn't going to be easy. I was just a little blind-sided last night." He vigorously polished the blade. "I'm sorry that I worried you."
"I'd say 'Don't let it happen again', but why bother?" There was a hint of a smile in the old man's voice. "I'm going back to bed." He padded back to his bedroom and closed the door.
Duncan sat back in his chair, the old sword momentarily forgotten on the table in front of him. He stared at the bedroom door. After a few minutes, he picked up the rag, added more solvent, and continued his task. Methos found him there, several hours later, head on his chest, rag in his hand, sound asleep. The old man roused him enough to shoo him off to bed, where Duncan collapsed fully clothed. Methos returned to the kitchen and helped himself to a beer, shaking his head in bemusement. He was just reaching for a refill when there was a knock at the door.
It was Joe Dawson. Methos ushered him into the suite, gesturing to the beer in his hand with his eyebrows. Joe nodded. The Watcher stared at the living room wall, adorned with the cave photographs, shaking his head. He wished he'd been here when Mac saw what Methos had done to that wallpaper. Joe walked to the table, where he saw the sword, the solvent, and the rag. Mac was making progress. Clean metal was peeking out from under the layers of rust. The smell of that solvent was very strong, though. No wonder, the cap was off the bottle. That wasn't like MacLeod. He replaced the top and screwed it on tight. Methos handed him a beer. The bottle was cold and sweating in Joe's hand. He took a swig before speaking, then tipped the bottle toward the long wall.
"Redecorating?"
"Yeah, think it might catch on?" Methos sipped from his own bottle.
Joe snorted. "Where's MacLeod?"
"In bed."
"Alone?"
Methos snorted. "Yes, alone. He's sleeping."
"It's four in the afternoon!"
"Keep your voice down. He had a rough night."
"What did you do to him?" Joe looked at Methos suspiciously.
Piqued, Methos' reply was sharp. "I didn't do anything to him."
"He faced a Challenge? Dammit, you guys have been holed up in this hotel so much, I pulled my team off last night. We've been short-handed. Who was it?"
"Nobody, Joe. Just his own demons." Methos winced at his choice of words. *Ouch, that was a little too close to the mark.*
"Oh." Joe didn't know what to say. "Been there."
"Haven't we all." Methos sprawled on the sofa. Joe walked over to one of the easy chairs and lowered himself into it.
"How's the translation going?" Joe swivelled his head to look at the wall. He squinted.
"It's done." Methos said quietly, watching the Watcher. Joe didn't hear him; he was frowning in concentration, peering at the wall. *Wait for it...wait for...*
"Hey," said Joe excitedly, pointing at the wall with his cane, "there's a circle in the middle of that thing!"
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was another lovely spring day in the City of Lights. The tourists crowded the streets, the shops, and the sites. The weather was a popular topic with everybody this season. Paris hadn't seen such a Spring in thirty years.. But the man who strode across the Champs-Elysees gave it little notice. Duncan MacLeod's thoughts were further away than the powder-blue skies and cotton-ball clouds overhead.
He was brooding. He knew he was brooding. He couldn't help it. Brooding was an essential part of his nature. In four hundred years, he hadn't learned how to stop. Sometimes, he brooded over how much he brooded. It was funny (not ha ha funny, but strange), that this next step in the Champion search had unsettled him so. Duncan had known years ago when he purposed to seek out his successor that it would be difficult; that it would exact an emotional price, along with a financial one. Still, it was one thing to know intellectually. It was altogether another to feel it in your heart.
Reading the translated verse, and knowing instantly that it referred to himself, had been like a physical blow. Duncan had recoiled from it, even though he knew it meant he was on the right track in his search. But still... still, a part of him wished Methos was right, and that Mac was just projecting his own fanciful thoughts into the verse.
With an effort, Duncan recalled himself to the moment as he was nearly run down by a young man on a bicycle. This time, he looked both ways as he crossed the street. He was near the University campus. He recognized the ubiquitous student digs and hangouts. Joe was staying in a small pension near the University, to be closer to Amy. MacLeod climbed the seven steps to the front door of the mansion turned hotel on the Rue de Verneuil. Though it had survived World War I and II intact, the old building had been a casualty of the post-war years, when its spacious interiors were subdivided to create a modest hotel.
In the twenties, the fine old manse was an upscale brothel in disguise, the home of a hostess legendary for her hospitality and her embrace of the hedonistic lifestyle of the Jazz Age following the Great War. Its proximity to the University had supplied the hostess with the poets, artists, and musicians that rubbed elbows with the rich, the dilettantes and the hangers-on. And, of course, there were the ladies. Though of a dowager's age in the second European conflict, the hostess had maintained a salon that managed to attract the literati and power brokers of the city, including its Nazi conquerors, while still catering to the pleasures of the flesh. It had been the perfect cover and pipeline as she spied for the Allies.
Duncan's work with British Intelligence had begun pre-war. His fluency in the major European languages had earned him missions all over the Continent. In France, he had worked frequently with Georges Dalou's cell of ridiculously young saboteurs. But, the hostess had also been one of his contacts. His frequent appearance at her establishment, needed no explanation. Well, no more than the obvious one. As a drop site, or information exchange, it had been unparalleled. Privacy and anonymity were expected. The one drawback had been his prior acquaintance with the lady of the house. Fortunately, she had been satisfied with the uncanny family resemblance to his late, lamented namesake uncle. For what other explanation could there be?
MacLeod hadn't been here since the renovations were completed. The foyer, while slightly careworn, looked clean and well-tended. He skipped the creaky little elevator and took the stairs two at a time. He easily located Room 202, and knocked on the door. While he waited, he flipped through the thin manila file he was carrying. He faintly heard the cadence of his friend's peculiar walk through the door - thump, step, step; thump, step, step.
Joe Dawson opened the door. He was wearing a white cashmere sweater that complimented the silver of his hair. "You made good time. Traffic must have been light."
"I walked, Joe." Joe motioned Duncan into the main room. Duncan looked around appraisingly. Whoever had done the conversion had an appreciation for the architecture of the building. They had preserved the best features of this bright and airy room - pocket doors, crown molding, hard wood floors - as a living room and kitchenette, while still creating other suites in this floor. He nodded to himself. The hostess would have approved.
"Have a seat." Joe gestured to a chair at the small dining table. "Beer or coffee?"
"Coffee, thanks." Duncan set the file down on the table and took the thick mug from Joe.
Joe maneuvered into an opposite chair. He sipped at his own mug before speaking. "Missed you yesterday." His tone was casual.
Duncan took a sip of the excellent dark brew before responding. "Yeah, I know. I was sleeping in. Sorry."
Joe waved away the apology. "How you doin'?" Methos hadn't disclosed what was bothering the Highlander, but Joe had accumulated his share of old ghosts in his mere sixty years. Couldn't imagine four hundred years worth...or five thousand.
"I'm fine, Joe." Duncan looked up from the mug. At Joe's disbelieving look, he retracted. "Well, maybe not 'fine', but OK." A quick smile, that was gone almost as fast as it had appeared.
"I gather you guys cracked the code."
Duncan nodded. "We found the key. It was right in front of us the whole time."
"I saw it, too, on that wall."
Duncan grinned. "You should have seen the old man's face when I hung the photos up! And then, when he saw the circle..."
Joe burst out with a disbelieving laugh. "You did it! Jeez, Mac, there'll be hell to pay when you check out."
"Not hell, Joe, just American Express."
"So, what does it mean?" Joe's curiosity was fully engaged.
"See for yourself." Duncan showed Joe six of the verses, each on a separate piece of paper. He explained, in brief, how they had assembled the words in the proper order. Joe was fascinated. And awed. He held the messages of an ancient people, dead for thousands of years, in his hands. It was like a time capsule sent forward from the past. It seemed each verse spoke of a different individual, but the words were cryptic. He was intrigued, but baffled.
MacLeod waited until Joe read each verse through twice. Joe looked up, puzzled. "Do you think this refers to the Millennial Champions, Mac? I thought there were supposed to be seven of you?"
Without a word, MacLeod handed him the seventh verse.
"Holding out on me, huh?" After the first several lines, Joe looked up at MacLeod, a stunned expression on his face. "Mac, this is about you."
MacLeod nodded slowly. He felt a surge of warmth for his friend, who knew him so well. At the same time, he was chilled. If Duncan needed confirmation of what he knew in his gut to be true, Joe had just provided it.
Joe read the verse through several times before speaking again. "Jesus, Mac."
"Amen to that."
The men looked at each other. Joe wondered what Mac was feeling. Joe himself felt hot and cold and sick to his stomach, simultaneously. MacLeod had resisted the idea that he was the Champion, the Chosen One, when confronted by Jason Landry. It had taken Richie's death and a year on Holy Ground to gain him that acceptance. It was easier to believe that you were sick, delusional than to see your life ordained for you ... predicted thousands of years before you were born... that you had this awesome responsibility ...
"Jesus", Joe said again.
"No, Joe, just me."
Joe reached across the table and patted his friend's arm. Sometimes, there were just no words. MacLeod covered Joe's hand with his own for a brief moment, seeming to draw comfort from the kindly gesture. After a moment, Joe turned back to the verse.
"Let's see. 'Dark Warrior' is 'Duncan', right? That's pretty basic. 'Hold fast'? The motto of the Clan MacLeod. The Pole Star is the North Star, so home is in the North. So far, so good. This next line about the falling star and a vow?"
"It's a promise I made a long time ago."
Joe waited, but apparently that's all the Scot was going to say about that. "OK, 'Day waxes, Night wanes, as Light follows despair, always'." He looked a question at MacLeod. "Your birthday?"
Mac nodded. "And also, I think, the Dark Quickening."
Joe swallowed hard. It would have been good to know back then that Light always followed Darkness. When Duncan had been overwhelmed by that dark force within him, Joe had been torn between the desire to help his friend and the need to stop him. The Watcher had come very close to taking his friend's head, but when he put the blade to his neck, he just couldn't do it. Thank God.
Duncan continued. "I think the next lines refer to the balance I achieved fighting Ahriman. I had both light and dark within me, I had to accept it, balance it, then let it all go, to achieve Peace."
"That means you're 'Good Thought'". Joe looked at his friend with awe, recalling the names of the seven Beneficent Immortals in the Zoroastrian religious texts.
Duncan snorted. "I'm no angel, Joe. You, of all people, should know better."
Joe managed a small laugh. "But, that line from the Cabbalah, about the good mind."
"'Never will I renounce a good mind.'" Duncan was impressed that Joe remembered the phrase. "It was the key for me. Once I understood that, I found my Path, and I was successful."
They both turned back to the last lines, and were silent. Finally, Joe spoke. "And this last, about Death?"
"I don't know. A warning, I guess. I don't fear death. Not for myself. Not anymore. But my Path is not complete. I haven't found the next Champion."
A warning bell went off in Joe's head. "Finding the Champion doesn't mean your life is over, Mac."
MacLeod shrugged, but didn't answer.
Joe looked back at the other sheets of paper. "Mac, it's one thing with 20/20 hindsight to relate the verse to you. But how are you going to find the next guy with these other verses? You don't even know the name of the last Champion."
"I don't know, Joe." Mac's voice was quiet, but determined. "But he knew who I was, and where I'd be. So did Landry. There are other references somewhere to help me. There have to be."
Joe was staggered at the enormity of the task facing his friend. How do you search for the next Champion with only hints like this to go by? "What's your next move?"
"Try to identify the hermit. I'm nearly finished restoring his sword. It's a longshot, but I'm still hoping to ID him with it."
"Longshot is an understatement." Joe muttered, under his breath.
Duncan shrugged. "If I can ID the hermit, then I may be able to match one of these verses to him. It may help me figure out which one applies to the next Champion. I'll continue to try to work on these verses. And I'll keep sponsoring my researchers." He shrugged. "I don't know what else to do."
"It's a good thing you're Immortal. This might take a while."
Duncan looked at his watch with an exaggerated gesture. "Well, I figure I've still got 996 years till the next Millennium, give or take."
"Got time for dinner? Even Champions gotta eat."
"Don't you know our favorite meal is breakfast?" Mac's eyes were twinkling. Just talking to Joe about this had eased his dark mood.
Joe puzzled it out. *Wheaties!* He groaned aloud. "Mac, you've been hanging around the old man too much." Methos reveled in inane puns and stupid jokes, the stupider the better. "Don't you know that a pun is the lowest form of humor?"
"Not according to Methos." Mac adopted a pedantic tone. "The modern world has inverted the value of the joke. The pun is a play on language, and is, therefore, one of the highest forms of humor, by necessity specific and limited to the shared language of the jokester and his audience." He made a face. "Really Old Guy's Lecture Number 256." He gestured to Joe with his cup. "You've heard his spiel on the Cultural Universality of Scatological Humor?" The capital letters were evident in his tone.
Joe shook his head, intrigued.
"I can't believe you haven't heard that one, Joe." Mac took a sip of his coffee.
"Well, you know how he gets with a few beers in him. Sometimes, I just tune him out, you know? Put in the occasional grunt, or nod, or 'you don't say.'" Joe smiled. "Bartender Defense Mechanism Number 101."
MacLeod smiled. "Well, according to Methos, every single culture on the planet, bar none, has independently evolved one common joke, which is universally understood and universally funny, no matter what the language."
"And what's the joke?" Joe looked at him quizzically.
MacLeod said, deadpan. "'Pull my finger.'"
Joe burst out laughing, Mac joining in. Joe was wiping his eyes when there was a knock at the door. He rose, balanced himself with his cane, and walked to the door. "In that case, I wouldn't go camping with him, if I were you."
"Too late." MacLeod's woeful expression set Joe off again. Joe opened the door, still chuckling.
"What's funny?", Amy enquired. Dressed casually in jeans and a denim shirt, she was holding a paper bag. A baguette and leafy greens poked out of the top.
"Amy." Joe closed the door behind her. He embraced his daughter, getting a face full of lettuce. "Tell you later."
MacLeod rose from the table, and stood, hands in his pockets. "Hello, Amy."
Amy let out a surprised "Oh, hi." She turned to Joe, flustered. "I'm sorry, Joe. I was in the neighborhood and I thought I'd surprise you with dinner. I didn't mean to interrupt..."
"You're not interrupting, honey. Dinner would be great.."
MacLeod was already moving, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair, and retrieving the file. "I was just leaving, Amy. I'll see you later, Joe." As he moved past the young woman, she laid a hand on his arm. It stopped his hasty exit. He looked down at her.
"Stay. There's more than enough for three." She didn't relinquish her hold.
MacLeod held his breath. "You're sure?"
"Yes. If you like pasta." She released his arm. "Please stay." When Mac nodded, she turned and emptied the bag of groceries on to the counter.
Joe looked quizzically between them. He didn't need Watcher training to know there was more to that exchange than met the eye. He watched Amy prepare the salad, while Mac set the table. Then, he shrugged mentally, as he opened the wine, and poured glasses for his daughter, his friend, and himself.
MacLeod wanted to pinch himself all through the fabulous meal. Not that the food was that great. Amy was no gourmet chef. But conversation and conviviality flowed, along with the wine. Mac hadn't seen much of Amy and Joe together - he'd deliberately kept his distance. It warmed him to see how much their relationship had grown, to witness the easy, open affection they shared. They had truly formed a family in the last couple of years. Joe was lucky, as was Amy. And they both knew it.
And together, they pulled Duncan into that family circle. At first, Amy's efforts were well-meaning, but awkward. Still, she was trying. And MacLeod met her more than half way. He had wanted this since the day he'd met Joe's daughter, and never dared dream it would happen. How many mortals appreciated these small things, the fundamental things - shared meals, quiet moments, the undeniable sense of family? However you defined "family". Precious gifts. Mac knew he had a sappy grin on his face through most of the meal, but he didn't care.
It was over too soon. Amy, too, had walked to Joe's hotel. Her apartment wasn't far, but it was late, and she accepted MacLeod's offer to walk her home. The night was cool and clear. A perfect Paris spring night. Funny, Mac hadn't noticed the particularly fine weather earlier. They walked in silence for several blocks. Then, both spoke at the same time.
"How long..." began Amy.
"How is ..." interrupted MacLeod.
"Sorry" in unison. Duncan bowed gallantly. "Ladies first."
"I was going to ask you how long you'll be in Paris?"
"Actually, Adam and I were just talking about that. We've finished the business that brought us here."
"The last time I saw him, Adam was working on a translation project for that televangelist. He finished it then?"
Duncan frowned, but nodded anyway. What televangelist? What had Methos told her he was working on?.
"And your business. Successful, I hope?" Amy said politely.
"Well, completed here, anyway." They walked in silence across the Boulevard Saint Germaine. "Amy, how are your degrees progressing?"
"I'm getting there. Actually, I'm taking a break from the writing for the summer. I'll be a teaching assistant for my Department Head."
"How is the fee... I mean, Martin?" MacLeod was glad it was dark, and she couldn't see his flush at the slip of the tongue.
"Oh, you know him?" MacLeod nodded. "Martin is Martin. Since you know him, I don't need to elaborate."
MacLeod smiled. "Yeah, he's about as arrogant as they come, but he has the stuff to back it up."
"That's an elegant way of putting it." Amy observed. "Not exactly how your friend would describe him."
"Adam? No, he wouldn't." MacLeod's voice lowered to a conspiratorial level. "Honestly, I've never heard Adam refer to Martin except as 'that feeb Guerre.'"
Amy laughed at the epithet. "I know!"
"It's gotten so bad I'm afraid next time I see Martin, I'll let it slip myself." He joined in Amy's laughter. They were nearly to her apartment.
"You do know why, don't you?" She said with a twinkle.
"Why what?"
"Why they don't get along?"
"I just assumed it was because they're two peas in a pod - sarcastic, opinionated and full of themselves."
"That's part of it, of course. But it really got bad when Adam turned in his dissertation."
Amy was thoughtful for a moment. " Didn't you ever see the parody?"
"What parody?" Mac was intrigued. He had been curious about the relationship between the two linguists for months. Methos had been as tight-lipped about it as a clam.
"Martin had been hounding Adam to finish his dissertation for a long time. Did you know Adam holds the record for longest doctoral candidacy, not interrupted by a major war?"
Mac, smiling, shook his head. This was getting interesting.
"Well, Adam finally finished it and turned it in. Have you read it? Some odd interpretation of prehistoric stone piles scattered around England? It had a strange title?"
MacLeod nodded. "'I Was Here: Self and Identity: The Conceptual Art and Language of Neolithic Stone Piles of the Thames Valley.'"
"That's it." Amy nodded, and looked thoughtful. "Actually, his research is sound, but the conclusions were considered a little ... out there. Well, Martin thought Adam deliberately turned in this ridiculous treatise just to thumb his nose at him, since Martin had pressed him to complete it. So... Martin wrote this parody, which he printed out for some of the faculty here, but of course it got out to the students, and then outside our University to a few people in the field. Eventually, Adam saw it, and you can imagine..."
Mac was confused. "How do you write a parody on a linguistic treatise?"
"You start with a cartoon of Kilroy on the cover. You know, 'Kilroy was here'?"
MacLeod nodded again. The scrawled 'Kilroy was here' had appeared all over Europe in World War II. The big mystery was how the Americanism had gotten there before the Americans ever entered the conflict.
Amy's expression was mock-serious. "Have you ever noticed how much our mutual friend resembles that little caricature? I mean, they have the same nose. Martin just drew in Adam's hairstyle, and ... voila!" She grinned.
MacLeod lost it. He laughed so long and so hard that Amy, who had initially joined in his infectious mirth, grabbed his arm and helped him to a seat on a stoop. She pounded on his back when his howls of laughter became a coughing fit. He sat weakly on the step, holding his ribs and wiping his eyes. *Thank God I used the bathroom at Joe's or I'd be really disgracing myself right now.* It was worse than that time he'd snorted beer out his nose over that stupid T-shirt of Methos'. That memory started a fit of giggling that he labored to control before Amy thought him a complete idiot.
Amy was shocked. Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, the four hundred year old Immortal sophisticate and warrior, was helpless, laughing his arse off on her apartment steps! If she had been an Immortal, she could have taken his head with a pair of pinking shears.
"I'm sorry, Amy." A couple chortles escaped.
"Lucky you're an Immortal. I'd be worried about you 'blowing a gasket', as Joe says."
He gasped for breath, waving his hands in a warding off gesture. "Please stop. Not another word, before I embarrass myself."
Amy couldn't help herself. "Too late." she said, with a deadpan expression And she joined in the peals of fresh laughter, all the while marveling that she was even talking, much less laughing, with this man.
MacLeod finally regained control. He stood up, and dusted off his pants. "Let's get you the rest of the way home."
Amy nodded at the building in front of her. "I am home."
"Oh." MacLeod looked up, startled, at the building behind him. Recovering gracefully, he took her hand in his. "Thank you, Amy, for a lovely evening." He bowed slightly over her hand in an old-fashioned, but courtly gesture.
"You're welcome, MacLeod." She opened the door and entered the building. She turned back. "No. You're welcome, ... Mac."
MacLeod watched her until she entered the elevator. He walked back up the Avenue toward his own bed, whistling an old Scottish tune, enjoying the fine night air. He was seriously debating where to draw Kilroy in the hotel suite, and whether he was risking his head just to see the look on Methos' face. Probably, but it would be worth it.

CHAPTER NINE
Methos gritted his teeth. With great effort, he damped down the aggressive urges that were triggering the nerve impulses in his left hand to clench into a fist. Wiping the supercilious smile off Martin Guerre's face through physical means, was not an option available to Adam Pierson. The reason his right hand was not now forming a fist was because it was trapped in the firm handshake of the Linguistics professor. He couldn't use his best Death on a Horse glare either, since Adam Pierson was using the face at the moment to return an unctuous smile.
He was in Guerre's oh-so-tastefully decorated office, which had a view of the Seine. Spread across Guerre's desk were copies of the hidden cave photographs, Methos' notes on the translation, and Michel LeGros' original source materials. Adam Pierson and Martin Guerre had just completed a deal. Unambitious Adam Pierson, too indolent to do the real work required to exhaustively research and publish this linguistic find, had offered the opportunity to Guerre to add to his formidable accomplishments. With two conditions. First, credit Michel LeGros posthumously for his initial discoveries in the Pyrenees cave and preliminary work on the translation of a newly discovered proto-language. Second, leave Adam Pierson out of it, no credit, no questions, no bother. Both conditions were acceptable to Guerre, especially the last. He had no expectation that he would need assistance from a low-caliber scholar, like Pierson.
Methos and MacLeod were leaving Paris tomorrow. Having completed the translation that had brought them to Paris, there was no compelling reason to stay, and one very good reason to go. So far, neither had encountered another Immortal, friend or foe. Granted they had mostly confined themselves to the University library, or the hotel, and Mac had taken his month long sojourn to the Highland wilderness. But Paris was one of the crossroads on the Immortal superhighway. It was just a matter of time.
Methos was always prepared to pull a fade when he felt the aura of another Immortal. Mac was constitutionally unable to do that. Even though he tried to avoid the unnecessary fight, MacLeod needed to know who was around. Seacouver was his known stomping ground. Other than a friend, an Immortal in the area was either unconnected to the Immortal grapevine, and therefore relatively young and unthreatening, or he or she was there looking for the Highlander. In Paris, chance encounters were more likely. Methos' Guide to Living a Long Life Rule #12: It is never good to surprise someone who carries a sword.
Methos quickly concluded his business with the feeb and took his leave. He idly wondered how long, if ever, it would take the Boy Wonder to figure out the cipher key. He'd like to see the pompous twit stapling the photos on the wall of that office, right next to his diplomas and certificates. As he exited the hallowed halls of academe, hands in his pockets in Adam's habitual slouch, Methos was surprised at how deserted the building was. Well, it was a beautiful Spring day after all. A small part of him was regretting leaving the city in this most glorious season, and returning to the temperate rainforest that was the Pacific Northwest.
Methos left the building, walking back toward the old city center. He was headed to a specialty wine shop on the Rue Dauphine. Mac had asked him to pick up a special bottle of champagne for this evening. Joe and Amy were meeting them at the Hotel Versailles, where they would proceed to a very inelegant restaurant at an unfashionable address for a bon voyage dinner. For decades, Mac had enjoyed the best bouillabaisse outside of Marseilles there, the recipe having been passed from great-great- grandmother down in a direct line to the current denizen of the kitchen. No doubt Mac wanted to make a sentimental toast before departing for the meal. Something warm and fuzzy, which would reflect the man's current emotional state. How the Highlander had survived four hundred years wearing his veritable heart on his sleeve, Methos would never understand.
A little voice inside his head piped up - because he didn't. MacLeod doesn't survive. He lives. It was his greatest strength. It was also his Achilles' heel. And, be honest with yourself, old man, it is why you are here, and why you are getting on a plane with him tomorrow to return to that god-forsaken climate.
In truth, Methos was looking forward to the dinner engagement. Joe was staying on for awhile, using some mysterious and undisclosed Watcher business as an excuse to spend time with his daughter. Methos understood completely - he had enjoyed his time with the charming young woman. He was pleased with the rapprochement between MacLeod and Amy. In an unexpected development, the child had extended the olive branch to the young Immortal. Methos wondered if she had any idea how much that meant to MacLeod. Duncan had told him, in a voice soft with wonderment, that he had encountered Amy unexpectedly, and she had apologized to him for her attack in Seacouver, then followed it up with a home-cooked meal. The old man knew there must be more to it. There always is. Maybe someday, Mac or Amy would tell him the rest of the story.
He selected a Grande Dame Veuve Clicquout, and billed it to Mac's credit card. Methos ticked off in his head the events of the past several weeks: the hidden cave writings solved; Michel's life's work unearthed and passed on to posterity; harmony established among the extended members of the Clan MacLeod. And, don't forget, living high on the hog on MacLeod's tab in the most luxurious of hotels in Paris. Yes, he thought as he tucked the bottle under one arm, not too shabby.
All in all, this little "vacation" had been a success.
CHAPTER TEN
Joe Dawson leaned back in his chair content, as coffee and dessert were served by a smiling teenage girl. Sipping at the dark, bitter brew, Joe looked around the dumpy little restaurant. When they had entered what was clearly a local joint, the four of them had been the object of suspicion for the men at the bar, and the groups at the tables. Until a short, plump woman in a splattered apron emerged from the kitchen. She pulled MacLeod's head down to her level, kissing him on both cheeks. Madame Hortense led them to a table in the back, clapping her hands and issuing orders in dialectical French too fast for Joe to understand. Every provision, every comfort had been fussed over by the lady in charge, and the coterie of daughters and granddaughters that served them. By mutual consent, Mac had ordered for the table. Joe reluctantly passed on dessert, being too full of the best bouillabaisse he'd ever eaten, topped off with the crusty bread that had sopped up the rich broth.
At their little round table with the patched tablecloth, Mac was regaling Amy with the very funny story of the imminent breakup of his friends, Robert and Gina de Vallicourt, on the eve of their three hundredth wedding anniversary. His inspired solution had nearly resulted in the loss of the head of young Adam Pierson, mystery Challenger, and, even more potentially tragic, his barge. Mac told the story well, with the occasional dry comment supplied by Adam. Joe thought, not for the first time, that the two of them would have been exemplary Chroniclers. Of course, Mac had been a newspaperman on and off for more than a century, while Methos had been writing a Never-ending story for nearly as long as writing has been around.
It was a marvelous evening, beginning with champagne at the Hotel Versailles, continuing with the exquisite seafood stew in this seediest of Parisian eateries far off the tourist path. But it was the company that Joe most appreciated. He knew he was a lucky man to count these extraordinary men as friends. And he was so proud of Amy, who sparkled like a rare gem.
Tomorrow, the Immortals would be returning home. Joe had alerted Mike Barrett, his right hand man in Seacouver, who would coordinate the team of Watchers covering Mac. Joe had decided to stay on in Paris for a few more weeks to spend time with his daughter. Ostensibly, he was helping Amy with the little mystery she had uncovered regarding the old Chronicles shipped from England. A preliminary review of the old Greek entries in the mysterious little volume had indicated it was a Chronicle of Rebecca's - from a very long time ago. Why it was unsigned by the Watchers who had compiled it, and why the Watcher insignia was not on it were minor mysteries to Joe, but had inflamed Amy's curiosity.
Well, she was certainly entitled to her youthful enthusiasm. Unfortunately, there were a lot of mysteries and gaps in the Watchers history. It was an old, old organization, subject to all the disruptions that the world had experienced in the last four thousand years. Every disaster, natural and man-made, that had befallen the world affected their history. When World War II had engulfed Europe, Asia and Africa, whole Watcher cells had been wiped out. There had been several periods in their distant past when the Watchers had nearly disappeared. The Black Death outbreaks in the Middle Ages had killed a third of the population of Europe. Despite their secrecy and their longevity as an organization, individual Watchers, unlike those they Watched, had no immunity to that.
Joe joined in the laughter as Mac related the fate of his wedding present for the de Vallicourts. Robert and Gina were still on their honeymoon. For the men and women who watched them, the assignment was one of the most coveted, as the Immortal couple continued their ten year sail around the islands of the Caribbean.
Amy sipped at her cup of espresso. Emboldened by the congenial atmosphere, she turned to MacLeod. "Mac, do you know who Rebecca's teacher was?"
Joe sat up straighter in his chair. Amy had been puzzling over the identity of Rebecca's teacher for months. He never thought to ask MacLeod.
Mac looked to Joe, as if for permission to speak. Although Joe's unique relationship with MacLeod was no longer a source of consternation with the Watchers, Joe still walked a fine line between friendship and non-interference. Mac didn't want to compromise that delicate balance.
Joe thought a moment. *Well, why not? Rebecca was no longer in the Game. Her death closed her Chronicle years ago.* He shrugged, and nodded at MacLeod.
Mac was cautious. "Yes, I do, Amy."
Amy leaned forward eagerly in her chair. "Was it Methos?"
Mac looked at Methos who looked innocently back. "What does Adam say?"
"He doesn't think so."
"Why do you want to know, Amy?" Mac looked at her intently.
"Because ... I'm now in charge of her Chronicle. She lived a fascinating life. But the records are incomplete. I want to fill in the gaps."
"But why?" Mac said again. Immortals, to him, were not just entries in a book, of names and dates, and who took whose head. Rebecca had been a great lady, a mother and sister to Amanda, and a very good friend to MacLeod.
"Because ..." Amy stopped. Why was Rebecca's history so important to her? It was more than just an itch to complete the record. And why was MacLeod reluctant to tell her? She remembered MacLeod's words to Joe, when he rejoined the Watchers. Immortals were not playing pieces on a gameboard to this man. Neither was Rebecca to her. Amy realized that honesty was her best answer.
"Because ... she touched me." Amy cleared her throat. "Her life touched mine, and made me a better person, just from reading her Chronicle." She looked wistfully at Mac. "I wish that I could have known her, could have talked to her. I wish I could have seen her, just once." She remembered suddenly, that MacLeod held Rebecca's Quickening. Whatever remained in this world of her was within him.
Mac blinked, taken aback. Then, he smiled warmly. "No, Adam is right. It wasn't Methos. Rebecca's teacher was a very old woman. Her name was Lilith."
Joe and Amy looked at him in surprise. Even Methos looked startled. Lilith was a legend, even to him.
"Did you ever meet her, Mac?" Joe asked.
"Oh, no. Lilith died long, long ago." MacLeod poured himself another cup of coffee from the pot on the table.
"Did Rebecca tell you about her?" Amy was eager for more revelations.
"No, she didn't. She told Amanda, and Amanda told me." It was the night that Mac had killed Luther, her treacherous student who had taken Rebecca's head. Duncan and Amanda had held a wake of sorts, the two of them, and several bottles of champagne, as they sat at her grave and remembered Rebecca Horne. He had held Amanda close all night long as she mourned the loss of her teacher, sister and friend. As he had mourned. "I miss her still." Mac murmured. Then, louder, "I'm not surprised that you're still learning from Rebecca, Amy. She was a great teacher."
"Yes, she was." Methos agreed in a low voice.
There was a silence around the little table of four, but not an uncomfortable one, as each was lost in his or her own thoughts. Then, Methos spoke up. "Do you want to hear the true story about MacLeod meeting Amanda and Rebecca? Not the one that's in his Chronicle?"
Joe and Amy chimed in together. "Yes!"
MacLeod sputtered. "What are you talking about, man? I met them in 1635 in Verona. I caught Amanda picking my pocket."
"Yes, so your Chronicle says. And then you bought them drinks at a little inn, right?" Duncan nodded. "And then they bought you a drink, and you reciprocated, and then they reciprocated.... and you woke up the next day, hungover, in the lodgings above the stable." Duncan was frowning now. "Didn't you ever notice that blue ribbon, Highlander?"
"Adam..." Mac warned. What the hell had happened? His last coherent memory had been matching Rebecca and Amanda in a drinking contest that had been their idea. When he woke up the next morning in his bed at the inn, alone and fully clothed, he had no recollection of climbing the stairs to his room. He had sought the two Immortal women, only to be told they had left town hours before. But somewhere in his alcohol-befuddled memories, a strip of blue satin ribbon was ringing a bell. Duncan started, and a flush rose slowly in his face. He had forgotten all about that! How the hell did the old man know... AMANDA!!!!
"Adam...", Mac growled.
"What? I'm just relating something Amanda told me, to complete those gaps in Rebecca's Chronicle. In the spirit of historical accuracy, you understand." Methos' eyes were innocent, but his grin was wicked. Oh, how he loved messing with the Highlander's head. In truth, Amanda had told him Duncan had passed out in the bar, unable to hold his liquor against the two older women. They had carried him to his room, and laid him out on the bed. But the young man had been too far gone to rouse, or arouse. The ribbon had been Rebecca's idea, to remind the foolish young Immortal not to take chances with the more vulnerable parts of his anatomy, including his head. She was always teaching, that one. "You're right, Mac. Rebecca was a great teacher."
Despite Joe and Amy's urging, Methos refused to say more. Duncan's blush faded, but didn't go away entirely. The conversation shifted to safer subjects, and they left the restaurant on humorous terms. Amy and Joe snagged a cab back to their lodgings, while the Immortals decided to walk. As soon as the cab pulled away, MacLeod thumped Methos on the back of the head.
"Hey, what's that for?" Methos rubbed his head, offended. "I thought you were the one who wanted the Chronicles to tell the truth about Immortals?"
"Just wait'll I get my hands on Amanda ..." MacLeod muttered to himself.
"I think she'll like that." Methos said, as softly, as they walked towards the Champs-Elysees and their last night in the Hotel Versailles. They walked in silence for awhile, enjoying the night air, and the chance to work off some of that fine meal. The streets were deserted. They passed through the industrial district, skirting warehouses and machine yards. As they crossed a side street, on their way to the more affluent sections of the city, Duncan turned to Methos.
"So, how did you meet Rebecca? " MacLeod's face was a study in curiosity.
Methos smiled as they stepped on to the sidewalk. A streetlight above their heads illuminated the playful expression on the old man's face. "Once upon a time,...", he began.
Suddenly, MacLeod stumbled against Methos. Mac made a noise halfway between a grunt and a sigh. The old man reached out to steady him, surprised. Mac was never clumsy. But MacLeod's lurching movement continued. "Mac, what...!" Methos exclaimed, as his friend collapsed, taking Methos down with him. In the same moment, Methos heard, or felt, a rush of air past his left ear. With reflexes honed over millennia, he rolled away from Mac's inert form, and out of the circle of light of the street lamp. Then rolled again, behind a large, concrete planter, containing a single slender tree.
Methos thought furiously. They were under fire. Someone had shot Mac, and barely missed Methos. He looked frantically around for the sniper, adrenaline tensing his muscles, speeding his heart. A shooter could be in any of several dark buildings, or on a roof, or in that alley they had just passed, or even up in one of the trees that lined the avenue. His skin crawled, shoulders hunched, waiting for the sharp-hot pain of a bullet entering his body.
When nothing happened, Methos presumed that he was out of the line of fire. For the moment. That is, if there was only one shooter. And if he hadn't moved position yet. He scanned the area. It was late - no other pedestrians out for a late night stroll. An occasional car passed on the Boulevard de la Chapelle more than a block away. They could have been on the moon for all the good they'd do. The business district they were in was locked down for the night, and shut up tight.
Street lights lined the sidewalk, along with a row of concrete boxes every twenty feet, containing small slender maple trees. He crouched in the shadow of one planter. At least, he wasn't visible to a sniper. Unpleasant thoughts intruded. Unless, he wore night goggles. Or used infrared sensing. At times like these, Methos absolutely hated modern technology. Like the street light that was only ten feet away, illuminating any escape route he might take. He looked back at the circle of light. MacLeod lay there, as fully illuminated as if in a spotlight. Blood, shining in the glare, soaked his shirt. He was dead; his Immortal signature had faded away as Methos had rolled behind the planter.
As Methos watched, the body jerked slightly, as a silent bullet ripped the shirt high on Mac's chest, near the breastbone. Methos winced, though he knew Mac hadn't felt that one. With analytical detachment, he calculated the vector of that last shot. The shooter was somewhere across the Rue de Flandre, probably to the left of Methos' position. He reached out with all his senses. Nothing. Either the shooter was not Immortal, or he was out of range. Assuming only one sniper, then escape was behind him, through the little park. Methos just had to turn out the light.
Pulling up the leg of his jeans, Methos unsheathed the dagger strapped to his calf. He hefted the knife in his right hand. Not the best throwing weapon, but the target was a glass bulb. As he tested the balance of the knife, he stole a glance at MacLeod's still form. He had no choice but to leave MacLeod. The sniper or snipers had him pinned down. MacLeod was neutralized, out of the fight. Methos' broadsword and dagger would be no match against a high-powered rifle, or even a handgun. His cover was temporary, at best. His only sensible course of action was to take this one opportunity to escape with his head. There was no point in both of them dying. Mac wouldn't want that. He bounced the blade in his hand.
*Crap! Who are you trying to fool, old man? You have no intention of leaving Mac, defenseless and alone. Admit it and stop wasting time!*
As Methos extended his arm to throw the dagger, another bullet ripped MacLeod's shirt just below the juncture of his chest and neck. Methos' stomach lurched.*Gods! He's aiming at his neck!* The neck was an Immortal's most vulnerable area. Injuries to the neck, even short of decapitation, were the most difficult to heal. Any stray hope that the sniper was not Immortal, or didn't know how to kill one permanently, was gone.
With exquisite precision, Methos sighted on the street lamp, and threw the dagger at the bulb. It flew, end over end, and smashed, hilt first, into the glass. Methos was dazzled for a moment. Staring directly at the light had reduced his night vision, and the darkness was now absolute. He moved, before his vision had time to adjust. Sprinting out from behind the planter, he grabbed Mac's ankles. Methos dragged his friend's body behind the planter, just as a chip of concrete flew off its edge and struck his face. He dropped flat onto Mac.
Cursing inwardly at himself, he searched Mac for weapons. As expected, the Scot had only his katana and that jack-of-all-trades pocket tool that Methos had teased him about in the Tyrol. He peered around the planter, looking for his dagger. Even though his eyes were readjusted to the dimness, Methos couldn't see it. Then, he assessed Mac's injuries. His friend had been shot three times, by high velocity bullets, all in the torso, each bullet inflicting a messy and very fatal wound. It was going to keep the Highlander down for some time. Even when he revived, MacLeod would be in no condition to walk, much less fight.
Methos assessed the situation. *Okay, you're a fool. Your relationship with MacLeod is hazardous to your health. Get over it!* Time was short. He needed a plan. Methos was willing, happy even, to crouch behind this planter all night if necessary, but his attacker wouldn't be so patient. He was moving right now. All the sniper had to do was change his shooting position, and Methos would never hear the bullet that would take him down. *Think! Use what little brains you have and find a way out of this mess!* There had been no gunshot noise, so there was no hope of help on the way. Methos could make a ruckus. But they were not in a residential area. The offices were closed for the night. And, it would alert the attacker to his exact position, well before a helpful crowd would assemble. He could use his cell phone to call the police, but they couldn't respond fast enough, not against a rifle already on the move. And Methos would have a not-quite-dead body to explain if the authorities were involved.
In order to take the sniper out, he had to lure him out. One problem - an Immortal would feel his Presence long before he got close. The shooter could afford to keep his distance, with that long rifle. Methos needed him close if he was going to use the weapons available to him. Methos put his plan in action with quick and sure movements. He removed his broadsword from the special pocket inside his trench coat. Then, he stripped MacLeod's duster off the limp form, and muscled him into his own black coat. He arranged Mac's duster on the ground and plumped it up with dead leaves and hastily scraped together earth. He laid the katana at the end of a sleeve, as if it were gripped by an invisible hand. He thanked the gods of good fortune that both he and Mac were dark- haired and shared an affinity for dark clothing.
Pocketing the penknife, Methos removed his and Mac's belts. He looped one of the them tightly around Mac's chest, making a crude harness. He tethered the other belt through it, and cinched the buckle. If Mac wasn't already not breathing, Methos doubted that he could with this contraption. In the lee of the planter, he manipulated Mac's body into a sitting position. Guided by touch alone, since he wouldn't lift his head over the planter, he carefully looped the belt he was holding around the slender tree. When he was finished, Methos had devised a simple hoist for lifting Mac, that he could operate while keeping some distance.
With a silent apology for using his friend as decoy and shield, he pulled hard on the end of the belt with both hands. Mac's head and upper body rose up, over the edge of the concrete planter, exposing him to fire. The bait was taken. A bullet struck Mac's head, whipping it back with a force sufficient to break his neck. Methos instantly released the belt and Mac's body was flung back. At the same instant, Methos, broadsword tucked close to his body, rolled away in the gloom, then ran, crouching low, staying in the shadows. He found refuge behind a trash dumpster about a hundred feet away, sufficiently far enough away from the scene that he had staged that an approaching Immortal would (hopefully) not feel his aura.
Methos' thoughts were racing at lightning speed. The origin of that last shot was different. The shooter had moved. From his vantage point, he was able to see all the probable approaches to Mac's body from the Rue de Flandre and the alley, although the area where his friend lay helpless was in shadow. He squinted at his handiwork. From a distance, it did look like two bodies there. There would be no Immortal aura from the scene, at least while Mac was still dead. That nasty head wound would preclude an untimely recovery. He looked at his watch, and made preparations.
Methos checked his watch again. It had been ten minutes since the last shot was fired, and still there was no movement. How long would this bastard wait? The longer he waited, the more he risked one of them reviving. Another ten minute interval of Methos' senses strained to the max passed. Then, a dark shape was moving, very slowly and stealthily, towards MacLeod, coming in from the left, across the Rue de Flandre. The old man gathered himself. Timing was critical. If he gave away his presence now, the sniper would melt back into the shadows, still armed with that deadly rifle.
As the shooter approached, he was briefly illuminated by intact street lights. He too had an affinity for dark clothing. Methos could just make out the rifle in his right hand. Then, he lost him as he approached the dark streetlight. Methos didn't see him again until he was close to the planter, peering over it, the rifle cocked and aimed. The old man's heart was pounding in his throat. Then, the sniper slung the rifle over his shoulder. *He was buying it!* The attacker reached into his coat and drew a long sword. Holding his breath, Methos waited until the sniper was only ten paces from MacLeod. Then, the old man sprang into action.
He had always been a runner, usually distance, but when he needed speed, Methos could run like the wind. He did so now. Immortal presence rang in his head at fifty feet and closing. The unknown Immortal stiffened, but continued to look at the "bodies". He obviously assumed that one of them was returning to life. Shifting his grip on the weapon, the sniper raised his sword arm. He could take MacLeod's head with a stroke.
Whether the man divined that the Presence was behind him, or heard his footfalls, or figured out one of the bodies was a ruse, Methos would never know, but the man turned a split second before Methos lunged at him. Despite his surprise, the shooter countered the sword thrust. The sniper recovered quickly, slinging the rifle up towards Methos while he slashed with the sword. Methos countered the sword thrust, and slashed the rifle strap. It dropped to the ground between them. But before Methos could react, the sniper shifted his sword to his left hand and executed a complicated block, parry, thrust that forced Methos to give ground. *He was good. He was very good.* The movement placed the sniper over MacLeod's body. Holding the blade at the downed Immortal's throat, he spoke.
"Drop your sword, and walk away, Pierson, and live, or I take your teacher's head." His English was faintly accented. Eastern European? Possibly.
"You kill him, and I'll take you, when you're down." Methos instilled as much of Adam Pierson's youth and inexperience into his voice as he could.
"Perhaps, but your teacher will still be dead."
"I'm not going to give my life for his! I don't care if he's dead, so long as I get you right after!" He injected just the right note of desperate bravado.
"Ah, but actions speak louder than words, my young friend. You could have run away already. If you didn't care what happened to your teacher, you'd be long gone." The sniper's voice took on an admiring tone. "You were quite ingenious, very brave. Drop the sword, and walk away, and I'll spare your life, and his."
"No. I may be young, but I'm not that naive." Methos furrowed Adam's brow. "OK, we both back away and you leave. I'll stay with MacLeod."
"I see I underestimated you, Pierson. All right, it's a stand-off." The sniper moved the sword away from MacLeod's neck. He backed away, sword in the left hand, the right hand held out from his body.
Methos relaxed his grip on his sword, and backed away, matching the pace of the other man.
At five paces, the other man moved with lightning speed. He scooped up the rifle at his feet, bringing it up in one fluid motion, pointed it at Methos, and squeezed the trigger. At the same instant, Methos, who had anticipated the move, dropped to his knees, and hurled Mac's pocket tool, concealed in his left hand, at the sniper's face. All the blades were extended . The unbalanced weapon wobbled and spun - it was no Ninja throwing star. But Methos'aim was true and one of the blades, it looked like the can opener, slashed the sniper's left eye. As the other man screamed and clutched at his eye, Methos struck the blade from his opponent's hand. The sniper fell to his knees.
Methos kicked the rifle and the sword out of his reach. "Who are you?"
The other man, eye dripping gore, lifted his head, "I am the End of Time." His demeanor was confident, calm. "You can't kill me, Adam Pierson."
Methos' eyes narrowed. "Wrong." He drew back the sword, and with one fluid motion, swept the man's head from his shoulders.
As he waited for the Quickening energy to take him, he thought *The End of Time? That was Kronos' shtick.* He tried to get a name, an origin, something from the essence of the man. Nothing. Then bolts of blue-white energy were stabbing at him and in him, and he could think no more. Wave upon wave of energy poured into his body, flickering along his nerve endings, and setting them on fire. In the middle of the maelstrom, he lost track of his body, his sense of self. Sensation upon sensation overloaded his senses, and he was lost in the storm.
When Methos came to himself at last, he was on his knees, muscles jumping and jerking in reaction to that electric absorption of energy. In the dark. The nearest street lights had popped with the energy surge, spewing shattered glass on the sidewalk and street. On the next street over, shrieking alarms were going off in the parked cars. Thought processes were sluggish, hazy, but he knew he had to get away from here. Fast. He fumbled for his sword, when he saw MacLeod.
Shit! He'd forgotten all about the other dead guy. He used the sword to haul himself to his feet. Methos grabbed Mac's duster and shrugged into it, straining the inside pocket with his and Mac's swords, and pocketing Mac's bloody pocket knife. He took the dead man's sword, the headless dead man's, he corrected, and put it in the inner pocket of the coat Mac was wearing. With great effort, he hoisted MacLeod over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. As his knees threatened to buckle, he cursed Mac for being dead, for being a bloody big ox, and for having dessert with dinner. He staggered to the dumpster with his load, and lifted the lid. *What a lovely smell.* Methos tossed MacLeod in, head first, and winced at the thud.
Then, he sprinted back to the headless guy. There was little blood from his body. The Quickening energy had cauterized the neck wound as it often does. He carried the body to the alley, and hid it behind some dilapidated trash cans, covering it with the contents of the cans. Methos was reaching his physical limits, as his legs trembled and hands shook. He went back to the planter one more time. There was a lot of blood on the sidewalk - Mac's blood.
Wrenching the tree out of the planter, Methos threw it on the sidewalk. He dug out soil from the planter with his hands and scattered it over the blood stains. He pulled two more trees out of two more planters along the street, and scattered more dirt around them. Stooping, he picked up the rifle in one hand, and the head, by the hair, in the other. He gave up on finding his dagger. The head he buried deep in the trash cans, under a pile of very smelly garbage. That was the best he could do. Methos ran to the dumpster, and tossed in the rifle. The last thing he did before tumbling in himself, was call Joe Dawson.
A sleepy voice answered. "Dawson. This better be good."
"It is. Cleanup on aisle 7."
"Me...Adam? What happened?"
"Rue de Flandre, near the Boulevard de la Chapelle, the alley. Police are probably on the way."
"Wait, is Mac ...?"
Methos turned the phone off as a police car pulled up at the curb. He hoisted himself up and over the edge, landing on something soft. *Oops, sorry, Mac.* He carefully lowered the lid. It was completely dark inside. Despite the smell, he took several deep breaths, trying to calm the adrenaline and Quickening energy that were making him want to jump out of his own skin. He hadn't taken a head in a long time. After a few minutes, he felt through the refuse for his friend. Mac was lying face down in a crumpled heap.
Methos rolled him over, and pulled MacLeod into his lap. He uncinched the buckles and removed the belts from Mac's body. In the dark, he assessed the damage with sensitive fingers. The torso wounds had closed. No doubt there were internal injuries still healing. A bullet does a hell of a lot of damage. He rested his hand on Mac's neck, the skin cool to the touch. At least his neck was uninjured. Mac's face was sticky, and the head wound hadn't closed yet. Methos was actually grateful for the darkness. It wasn't a pretty sight. Well, at least Mac still had a head. The Watchers had documented at least one Immortal who had his head blown off by gunfire. As it was, it was bad enough.
Methos hated the head wounds. In his long existence, he had suffered a few himself, and he had seen other Immortals wounded so. If they kept their heads, they always healed, miraculously, or magically. Even when there was obvious brain tissue lost, the amazing healing powers of his race could restore an Immortal, without permanent impairment or memory loss. But, with this type of damage, he had seen or personally experienced temporary disorientation, confusion, aphasia, and amnesia, and other deficits, even combative or aggressive behavior. Mac would recover, it was just a matter of time. Inside a trash Dumpster, while police were prowling around outside, was not, however, the place to do it.
Little outside sound penetrated their hiding place, but Methos heard the sound of the car alarms as if from a great distance. He looked at Mac's luminous dial watch. They had left the restaurant at 1:30. It was now 2:45. Sometime later, the alarms diminished in volume, as apparently the police or the owners were able to silence them one by one. It was quiet, but Methos knew that was illusory. He just couldn't hear beyond the sound of his own breathing in this little tin can.
If he was very lucky, his second staging attempt of the evening, would work as convincingly as the first, and the police would attribute the damage to vandalism. If the verdict was vandalism, the Watchers' housekeeping team could get rid of the residuals of deadly combat before the city's clean-up crews would be out in the daylight. If the police found the body, or the bloodstains, the dumpster would be no hiding place. Methos willed himself to be patient, to meditate, to clear his mind of all anxiety and tension. After a little while, it worked. He kept one hand on Mac's chest, awaiting the return of breath and warmth.
Around four, he felt a flutter under his palm. At the same time, he felt the growing tingle of Immortal presence. Methos tightened his grip on MacLeod, and spoke softly in his ear, paraphrasing Mac's words to him in that Tyrolean cave. "Mac, it's me, Methos. You're safe. But you must be quiet." Over and over again. Suddenly, Mac convulsed with that galvanizing force as his heart thudded in his chest. He drew a shuddering breath. Methos kept repeating his mantra. MacLeod didn't struggle - he was probably too weak to do much more than breathe. Methos relaxed his tight grip. He continued to speak softly to his injured friend, while gently stroking the undamaged side of his face. Every breath that Mac took was labored. Obviously, he was in a great deal of pain, but the Highlander stayed quiet. Gradually, his breathing grew a bit easier. After a while, Methos leaned closer.
"What did you say, Mac?"
"D...dark." It was barely a whisper.
"Yes, it's dark. We're in a dark place, and we have to be very quiet. But we're safe." He continued to stroke Mac's face, and felt him struggle to speak.
"Who...?"
Methos gave an answer to all the possible questions contained in that one word. "You are Duncan, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Mac, to your friends. I am your friend. My name is Methos. Do you remember?" Mac moved his head slightly. "I don't know the name of the man who hurt you. But he can't hurt you anymore. He's dead."
Mac was struggling to say more, but the effort was too much. He gasped for breath.
"We're safe, Mac. You've been hurt, but you'll be OK."
Mac was still trying to speak. Methos put a finger to his lips. "Duncan. Don't talk anymore. Go to sleep. I'll watch over you. Do you understand? I'll watch over you. Sleep now."
As he slipped into sleep, Mac's body grew heavier in Methos' arms. Shortly afterward, Methos joined him, head back against the dumpster wall, one arm thrown protectively over the wounded man.

CHAPTER FORTY THREE
Joe Dawson watched the cranky police officer grow increasingly annoyed at the shrilling of the one remaining car alarm. All the other alarms had been shut off by their owners or the locksmith on the scene. But the poor guy was struggling with the last car - a Ferrari, while the burly cop balefully watched. Finally, he got it, and blessed silence reigned. The cop and the locksmith spoke for a few minutes. Then they parted with a wave, and returned to their respective vehicles. No doubt the police report would cite vandalism as the cause of the damage. Joe let out the breath he was holding. No one had explored the alley. Joe extricated himself from his rented Mercedes sedan. He signaled to the dark van parked several lengths behind him, which then pulled onto the Rue de Flandre. The van had arrived before Joe. Housekeeping was always on alert, ready to move at a moment's notice. Joe had been asleep in bed when Methos called. Since Viet Nam, he required more time to be up and at em.
Jean Mirron greeted Joe quietly. Jean's crew had less than an hour before dawn. Joe directed them to the alley, where they found the grim evidence of an Immortal battle. It didn't take long to haul the remains out of there. Joe took a look at the blond head before it was packed in a cooler in the van. Nobody he knew.
The team moved quickly with their ghoulish work, getting rid of all evidence of a fight to the death. And there had been plenty of evidence if you knew to look for it. In addition to the remains of one Immortal in the alley, they found a dagger and copious blood stains on the sidewalk closest to the park. The housekeeping crew was very good at what they did. Except for the "body work", they would have appeared to a casual observer as a very efficient work crew for the city. In less than an hour, they were on their way. Joe stayed behind, his mind awhirl with questions.
They hadn't found a sword. Methos and Mac must have taken it with them. What bad luck on their last night in Paris! And after such a joyful evening out. Long ago, Joe had given thanks that he was mortal. Live forever? How do you live at all, under the constant threat of sudden, violent death?
He tried Methos' cell phone again. No answer. It was still turned off. He had already tried the Hotel Versailles, and left messages there. They were probably holed up somewhere. He knew they were seasoned Immortal warriors, but Joe couldn't help worrying.
There were so many questions, and no answers. There were no witnesses to the Challenge. No Watcher. "Adam Pierson" was a mortal - he had no Watcher. Joe was watching MacLeod last night - hell, they spent several hours together at a restaurant. But, you couldn't cover every minute of an Immortal's life. And there was no reason to suspect that Mac would be challenged tonight. That's what made the scenario so odd.
MacLeod and Methos had left the restaurant and were walking back to the hotel together. The fight had obviously occurred while they were en route. A lone Immortal would need a lot of chutzpah to challenge an Immortal, when his buddy was standing right there. Actually, it would take a big set of cojones to challenge Mac at all. If it was a chance encounter with an Immortal enjoying the Parisian night air, both Methos and Mac would have been at pains to avoid a fight. And there had been no Watcher on the dead Immortal. Joe didn't even recognize him. A very quick search of his person revealed no wallet, or ID. He may have been unknown to their network. Well, the forensic team would be working on identity.
There had been a lot of blood spilled by somebody on the sidewalk and the area around that concrete planter. But not from the unidentified man, not from the wounds he appeared to have taken. It must be Mac's or Methos'. Probably Mac, who wouldn't refuse a Challenge if pressed. If so, that was a lot of blood to lose and still win a swordfight.
Joe walked over to the concrete planter again. He shone a small flashlight on the sidewalk, the streetlight, behind the planter. Something glinted in the grass. He braced himself with his cane, and bent to pick it up. It was a necklace, the chain broken, sticky with blood. Joe wiped it with his handkerchief. With a shock, he recognized it. It was a nightmare of deja vu. Joe had found this same necklace, stained with blood, once before. On that terrible night seven years ago, he had removed it from Richie's body. Mac must have been wearing it around his neck tonight. Dear God! What had happened here? A wave of weakness swept over Joe. He leaned heavily against the concrete planter for support. He gripped the edge with one hand, and winced. The lip was broken, the edges sharp. He stood up shakily and shone the flashlight on the planter rim. There! A gouge in the concrete front rim of the planter. Joe bent and traced it with his fingers. It looked fresh. A bullet?
Joe's perspective of the scene shifted dramatically. An Immortal who had used a gun against his own kind. Not a Challenge then, but an ambush! With a sinking feeling, Joe realized that his previous assumptions were totally invalid. An Immortal who would ambush another with a gun would have no compunction violating the Rules, or fear two Immortals together. There may have been more than one shooter. Thank God, he knew Methos had survived from his phone call. But what about Mac? Joe felt sick as he recalled the size of the bloodstains they had found hastily covered with dirt from the planter. He pictured the Quickening. It had blown the street lights and set off the car alarms a block away. The victor, flattened by the Quickening, would be seeking escape before the police arrived. But, the concealment of the body and the blood had taken precious time and great effort. It was nice of Methos to cover the "crime scene" and call in Housekeeping, but he had taken a big risk, chancing that he would be caught at the scene with a decapitated body. Joe shook his head - Methos wouldn't take that risk unnecessarily.
Why would he stay here, hastily hiding the evidence? Because he couldn't, or wouldn't, make a clean getaway. Mac and Methos had no car with them tonight. They had all taken a cab to the restaurant, and Joe and Amy had taken one home. Mac and Methos had walked. Their rental car was back in the parking garage at the Hotel Versailles. Something had held Methos here. Correction - someone. He looked at the bloody necklace again. Mac, alive or dead, temporarily incapacitated? *Please God, only temporarily.* All that blood. Whoever had lost it, even if he still had a head, wouldn't be running any marathons anytime soon. With new-seeing eyes, Joe leaned against the concrete planter and scanned the area in a slow 360 degree survey.
The dumpster! Joe moved as fast as he could. He lifted the dumpster lid with his cane and propped it up. Then, using his flashlight, he peered inside. Methos was sitting in a pile of garbage. He blinked and raised a hand to shield his eyes. The smell of garbage was rank and overpowering.
Joe was delighted to see his friend. "Well, well, one man's trash is another man's... " He stopped as his light illuminated the still form in Methos' lap. MacLeod was a mess. His head and face were bloody, his dark hair matted, bone gleamed whitely in the glare of the flashlight. Joe swallowed hard, and looked away. Christ, how do you heal from a wound like that?
"Is he alive?" Joe whispered.
Methos nodded. "Actually, he's sleeping."
In all the years that he had Watched him, Joe had never seen MacLeod look that bad. Despite his knowledge that Immortals could recover from virtually anything except amputation and beheading, he needed reassurance from the oldest Immortal. "Will he be OK, Methos?"
The old man nodded again. "Yeah. But we've got to get him out of here."
Joe's thoughts went into overdrive. It was nearly dawn. The city would be waking up soon.. "Stay here. I'll be right back." He quietly closed the dumpster lid.
"We're not going anywhere." Methos muttered.
Joe hurried back to his car. He moved it as close to the dumpster as possible. He opened the rear passenger door, and spread his coat down on the leather seat. Then, he retrieved a blanket from the trunk. He lifted the dumpster lid again. Methos was gently shaking Mac's shoulder.
"Mac, Mac, wake up. Come on, Duncan, wake up."
Slowly, MacLeod's eyes opened. He looked up at Methos, blankly. Methos helped him to a sitting position, keeping an arm around his shoulders. Joe could see Mac shivering violently. Methos struggled to get to his feet, and keep his footing in the shifting piles of trash. MacLeod was too uncoordinated to climb out, so Methos hoisted him up and over, hissing at Joe to get out of the way. The wounded man landed on the ground in a heap, and stayed there. Methos handed Joe a rifle with a scope, and then climbed out.
Together, they managed to get Mac on his feet. But, the Highlander was very weak, swaying precariously. They leaned him against the car. Joe handed the blanket to Methos, who eyed the bright orange emergency blanket without comment, and draped it over Mac's shoulders. Together, they bundled Mac into the back seat, wrapped in the blanket. They laid him down on the seat, both to keep him more comfortable and to hide him from view. Methos stowed the rifle in the trunk, before climbing in the passenger seat next to Joe.
Joe looked him over as he started the engine. Methos' clothes were stained with blood, but with his long coat buttoned up, he'd look presentable enough. He was pale and haggard. And he smelled very bad.
"My place? You can't go back to your hotel."
Methos nodded wearily. Joe put the car in gear, and using the special hand controls, pulled into the street. Methos looked over his shoulder. "I think he's out again."
"Is that good?" Joe drove carefully, not wanting to disturb the sleeping man.
"It's probably the best thing for him. His body can devote all its energy to healing itself. He needs food and fluids, though. Especially fluids. He lost a lot of blood." He laid his head back against the seat and closed his eyes.
"I know." Joe shook his head. "Who was the shooter?"
Methos shot him a sharp glance. "I don't know. He wouldn't tell me his name. I thought you'd know."
"I gather he ambushed you guys, shot up Mac, and you took him down."
"Yeah, I blew Adam's cover. You won't be able to finesse me out of this one, Joe." He swore vehemently in a dead language. "Shit! Our last night in Paris!"
"You're not outed, my friend. No one was Watching."
"What?" A hopeful look replaced Methos' scowl.
"I don't know who the s.o.b. was. He didn't have a Watcher. I had nobody on Mac for his short walk home. So nobody saw you take his head. Mac'll get the credit for this one." Joe glanced in the rearview mirror.
"Then, how did you know what happened?"
"Elementary, my dear Methos." Joe grinned as he related the thought processes that led him to open the lid of that dumpster. He was pleased to see Methos was impressed. "So, how'd you do it?"
By the time Methos completed his tale, they were parked behind Joe's pension. This time, it was Joe that was impressed. Methos, with Joe's key, went in the front door, gathered things in Joe's apartment, and wedged open the service entrance in the rear. It was dawn by the time they got Mac on his feet again, most of the gore covered by Joe's hat and coat, and a less garish blanket over his shoulders. The little hotel had no service elevator, but Mac couldn't handle the stairs, so they risked the little wrought iron elevator. Their luck held, and they got to Joe's suite without observation. They sat Mac on the sofa. Joe sat next to his injured friend, while Methos bustled in the little kitchen.
Despite Methos' assurances, Joe was worried about MacLeod. He was conscious, but looked dazed, unfocussed. His dark eyes were overlarge in his blood-smeared face. Mac still hadn't said a word. Joe touched his arm.
"How you doin', Mac?" he asked, kindly.
MacLeod looked searchingly at his face.
"I'm Joe." He looked up at Methos who was setting a tray down on the coffee table.
"He's disoriented, confused, a bit of amnesia, aphasia. He may know who he is, and who we are, I think, but the rest is probably a jumble." He busied himself opening a bottle of water which he handed to Mac. MacLeod looked at it for a moment, then brought it to his lips and took a healthy swallow. He'd have guzzled the whole bottle if Methos hadn't stopped him, instructing him to drink slowly.
After he finished the bottle of water, Mac regarded Joe again. Joe smiled at him, despite his worry.
At Methos' urging, Mac consumed a box of crackers, two bananas, a wedge of cheese, a quart of orange juice, and a candy bar, before balking. It was a scene from a Grand Guignol play, Joe thought, watching his friend, head and face caked with blood and gore, eating a Snickers. Mac kept nodding off through the impromptu meal. Joe and Methos managed to keep Mac awake enough to get him in the bathtub, where they scrubbed him clean. Under the gruesome mess, Joe could see the head wound had finally closed. It took a lot of water to rinse the blood down the drain. When they finally got him out, Mac was asleep on his feet. They bundled him into Joe's T-shirt and sweatpants, and put him in Joe's bed.
Methos took his turn in the bath. He gratefully accepted clean clothes from Joe. His own smelled so bad, Joe bundled them into a plastic garbage bag, along with Mac's ruined clothes, for Methos to dispose of later. The old man gobbled down the remains of the food Joe had on the premises. Methos was exhausted. Only the essentials needed to be dealt with now. He cancelled their flight. He advised the Hotel Versailles that they weren't leaving after all. All plans were off until Mac recovered. Finally, Methos stretched out on the couch on his belly. He was sound asleep when Joe left the apartment, and still in the same position when Joe returned a few hours later.
Joe put the orange juice, milk, cheese and fruit in the refrigerator, and the croissants and pastries on the counter. He moved as quietly as he could past the couch. Joe opened the door to the bedroom, and peeked inside. MacLeod was sleeping soundly. Joe approached the bed silently, and stood for a moment looking down on his friend. MacLeod was on his back, his left side facing Joe. He reached down and gently touched the side of Mac's face. It was unblemished, the skin whole and smooth. If Joe hadn't seen that terrible wound with his own eyes....
Joe sat gingerly on the side of the bed, and removed a small box from his shirt pocket. He carefully clasped the new silver chain around Mac's neck, and tucked the cleaned rune pendant inside his T-shirt. For a few moments, he watched the sleeping face and the regular rise and fall of Mac's chest. Then, with the help of his cane, he rose and left the room as quietly as he entered. Joe retrieved a blanket from the linen closet and spread it over the sleeping form on his couch. He settled into the easy chair and watched another eternally young face in repose. Joe Dawson, remembering his childhood teachings, offered two small prayers of thanksgiving, before
he joined his friends in slumber.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was dark. Raining. He was running. Running away? No, running to something. He was running down an alley, his feet splashing the puddles, dodging the garbage, knowing that he was too late already. Just as he reached the end of it, he heard a shrill scream and saw a flash of blue light. A dark head rolled to his feet. The screaming continued. How could he be screaming without a head? Or is it me? And with that thought, Joe Dawson woke up.
The cell phone on his lap was ringing. Joe fumbled to open the mouthpiece.
"Dawson." Joe cleared his throat. He looked over at the sofa and saw one hazel eye peering at him. Joe sat up straighter in the armchair. Jean Mirron was talking. "Yeah, Jean. Go ahead."
"No luck, Joe." Jean was nothing if not brief.
"OK, you know the drill. Keep me informed. Thanks." He closed up the phone and set it on the coffee table. Joe scrubbed at his face, and looked down at his watch. Four hours sleep. In a chair. He looked down at his prostheses. Getting up was not going to be pleasant. He remembered the dream - God, he particularly hated the ones where he could run. Not to mention the ones where his friends' heads rolled.
Suddenly, he was aware of a presence in front of him. Methos was holding two hands out to Joe.
"I can do it." Joe was testy.
"Sure, you can. A little help won't hurt, though, will it?" The older man looked at him with a combination of amusement and understanding.
Joe grunted, and took the outstretched hands, lurching to his feet. Methos steadied him, and handed him his cane. Joe stood there, stretching a bit, easing cramped muscles, before walking to the bathroom. When he came out, Methos was standing at the counter, making a pot of coffee. Two glasses of orange juice were on the counter.
"That was Mirron. Forensics hasn't ID'd the Immortal you whacked. He's not in our database. No identifying marks, or characteristics. Nothing on his person, just some cash." Joe sipped his juice. "Cautious bastard."
"What's 'the drill'?" Methos was curious. He drank orange juice, as the coffee perked.
"Checking police reports for missing persons, impounded cars that are left parked too long, unclaimed property left in hotel rooms, tracing the clothes he was wearing, emailing this guy's picture to all field agents, you know, police procedural stuff." Joe thought a minute. "We'll need that rifle. See if we can trace it. Where's his sword?"
"In my coat." Methos retrieved his coat from the closet. Whew. It still smelled of garbage, and Mac's blood stained it in several places. He removed the sniper's sword from the interior pocket and laid it on the kitchen counter. "The rifle's still in the trunk of your car." Methos examined the sword carefully. It was a saber. Looked relatively new, maybe a couple of centuries. Well kept, like most Immortal weapons. The grip was wrapped leather, very new. No chasing or inset work. A serious blade. Plain, utilitarian, deadly.
Joe winced as he sat on a stool at the counter. He looked hopefully up at Methos.
"Nothing here, Joe." He shrugged. "You can have it, though."
"Anything else you can tell me about this guy?"
Methos closed his eyes. "Eastern European, possibly, if that accent was for real. Good swordsman. Used his right hand, primarily. Had some classic moves, but not just one school of swordplay. Good shot. Real hunter." He looked at Joe. "He knew Adam's name, thought I was Mac's student."
Joe snorted at that. "He didn't tell you his name. That's unusual."
"Yeah, well, he was an unusual guy." Methos frowned. "He wasn't afraid when I killed him." He looked at Joe. "He was just ... surprised."
"Well, no wonder. A student sets him up, and then disarms him twice, first the rifle, then his sword."
"No, Joe. It was weird." Methos related the mysterious words of the sniper. "He was kneeling in front of me, with a very sharp sword at his throat, and still he was convinced that I couldn't kill him."
"Some nut, then. Delusions of grandeur." Joe was dismissive. "Still, he did a helluva job on Mac." He reached for the coffee and winced again at the stiffness in his back.
Methos noticed. "Sorry for taking up your couch, Joe."
Joe waved his apology away. "So, how long do you think I'll have Sleeping Beauty in my bed?"
"Don't know." Methos opened the refrigerator and removed a bottle of water, looked longingly at the beer, and closed the door. "I'd better check on him. Give me a hand?"
"Sure." Joe eagerly maneuvered off the stool and followed Methos to the bedroom. MacLeod was still out. It looked to Joe as if he hadn't moved at all. The Highlander was completely unaware of his and Methos' presence. An Immortal presence at that! It was a struggle, but together, they managed to rouse Mac enough to raise him up to drink the water. Obviously, all the Highlander was interested in was sleep. If it was sleep.
Joe burned with curiosity. He had rarely seen Immortal healing this up close and personal. Sure, Mac, Andy Cord, let's see, Richie and Amanda, even Methos, had been killed in Joe's presence. Hell, he'd even shot MacLeod himself. Joe's thoughts were rueful. Actually, he'd shot MacLeod on more than one occasion. A little voice inside him piped up. So, Joe, exactly how many times have you shot your best friend? He shook himself. The point was he'd seen a lot of Immortals shot. But they had all recovered fairly quickly. At least enough to conceal that they had been wounded. And get away from the scene as fast as possible. Mac was utterly and completely helpless here. Joe kept his hand on Mac's shoulder while Methos slowly administered water to him. Mac swallowed reflexively, but never opened his eyes, or spoke. Joe touched his neck. The sleeping man's skin temperature felt cooler than normal, the pulse under his hand slow and regular. Joe turned to Methos.
"This isn't normal sleep, Methos. It's almost like he's in a catatonic state. " Joe lifted Mac's arm, and dropped it. There was no muscle resistance. It gave Joe a slight pang to his conscience to observe an insensible MacLeod so clinically. But, dammit, he couldn't help it. He was Mac's Watcher, as well as his friend. And Mac didn't like to talk about the physical manifestations of Immortality.
"Well, you try sleeping normally after a dum-dum bullet carooms around in your skull." Methos' words were flippant, but his tending to the wounded man was very gentle. "There are limits, even for us, Joe."
Joe swallowed hard. "Do you mean that he might not come back from this? But you said ..."
Methos held up a hand. "No, Joe. I believe he will fully recover. I've seen a lot of head trauma among our kind before. I've had a few. But, let's be honest. Most Immortals that are shot like this, aren't usually around long enough after the shooting to recover. It will take time. Here help me lay him back down." They scooted Mac down in the bed. Methos tucked the covers around Mac carefully.
Joe realized that Methos had diverted him from the subject. He gestured at the unconscious man. "But this, ... this state, goes against .... " He stopped, at a loss for words. "Methos, he's defenseless. I've never seen Mac like this. It doesn't make sense."
Methos went utterly still for a moment. Then he straightened and looked Joe in the eye. His expression was serious, weighing. Joe held himself equally still, striving to pass muster, without knowing why. "Between us, Joe? No Chronicle, not even a private one?"
Joe nodded. "Between us."
Methos spoke softly. "He's not defenseless. I'm here."
"I know, but ..." Joe protested.
"Joe, Mac's diverting all his strength to healing as fast as possible. He needs to sleep to do that." Methos looked down at the sleeping man. "I told him to, when we were in that dumpster. I said I would watch over him."
"But, Methos ... he's not even aware of what happened. He's not aware you're here."
"Yes, he is, Joe." He smiled slightly at Joe's disbelieving expression. "Something happened. At Bordeaux. We killed Silas and Kronos nearly at the same time." He paused for a moment. "The Quickenings ... spilled over, ... overlapped, somehow. For a brief time, Mac and I were ... connected." Methos looked thoughtful. "Since then, I can recognize his Quickening. And, I think, Mac is able to recognize mine. Probably even more so on an unconscious level. He knows I'm here."
Joe looked down at MacLeod in wonderment. "How does it work, Methos? I mean, I saw brain matter mixed in with the blood. How do you heal from a wound like that, and come back whole?"
"It's a kind of magic." Joe looked at him sharply, but Methos' expression and tone seemed sincere.
Joe nodded. "Magic", he whispered. Well, thank God for whatever it was. He followed Methos to the bedroom door, and looked back at his friend. *Sleep tight, Mac.* As he closed the door, Joe wondered what was going on in Mac's head right now?
CHAPTER TWELVE
White.
The world was white.
No, the world was shrouded in white mist.
He was adrift in a world of white mist.
Water lapped against something.
The mist was soft, soothing.
He was floating like a boat on a placid lake. Or was he in a boat?
It didn't matter. He liked floating.
Time passed.
He was a feather in the wind.
Floating, drifting.
Something stirred him. He ignored it.
He drifted.
A touch. Or was it a sound? A voice.
*Look up. Look up. Look up....*
Which way was up?
He tried to reach out with his hand. He couldn't feel it. Did he have a hand? Did he have a body? He gave up, and floated.
Floating was nice.
*Look up! Look up! Look up!*
A twinge of curiosity.
He reached up with hands that weren't there.
And ... he was lying in a soft white bed.
Warm, soft covers enveloped him. He tried to burrow deeper into the bedding and return to the misty white place, only to be suddenly aware of an urgent feeling. Very urgent. He had to empty his bladder. More than half asleep, he rolled over, pushed the blankets off, stood and headed toward the bathroom. It wasn't until he walked directly and painfully into a wall that he woke up completely. He rubbed his sore nose. His eyes widened. Who moved the door of his bedroom? It took a moment , but, eventually, he realized he was not in his bedroom. He was standing in an unfamiliar room. He looked down at himself. He was clad in a pair of gray sweat pants and a white T-shirt. *Where am I?* was his first thought. *Where's the bathroom?* was his second.
He peered cautiously out of the bedroom door. It led into a short hallway. He spotted the bathroom doorway a few feet opposite. He padded hurriedly into it, and shut the door. He thought he'd never stop pissing. The relief was almost painful in its intensity. Finally, he was done. He washed and dried his hands, then peered into the mirror. Dark stubble peppered his cheeks and chin. He rubbed his chin and gazed at his reflection. He looked a little pale, although that might have been just the contrast to the stubble. The T-shirt and sweat pants he was wearing were too small for him. Something was under the shirt. He reached in, and pulled out a pendant on a silver chain. It was an etched stone set into a worked silver setting. He didn't recognize the symbol, but touching the stone was oddly comforting. He tucked it back inside the shirt. He took stock of himself. He was a little wobbly in the knees. He was also very thirsty. He drank several glasses of water, and felt better. Once he slaked his thirst, he realized he was hungry - ravenously hungry. He felt odd, off-kilter, but not alarmed.
He opened the bathroom door slowly, and peeked out. The hallway led out, past the bedroom door, and ended a few feet ahead. He could see one end of a sofa. He left the bathroom and proceeded slowly down the hallway. He smelled coffee. The smell made his empty stomach rumble. The hall opened into living room/kitchen combination. The coffee maker was on the counter, next to a plate of buns, croissants, and sweet rolls. At the sight of them, his mouth began to water. He looked around the living room. He jumped, startled, when he saw a young woman, seated in an easy chair. She was so still and quiet, he hadn't noticed her at first. She was staring at him. He stared back. He had a feeling that he ought to recognize her. She smiled at him, and spoke.
"Good morning. How are you feeling?"
He produced a sound. Then, he cleared his throat. "OK." That was better. His tongue felt strange, like it was too big for his mouth and in the way of his teeth.
"Do you know me?" Her large blue eyes were intent.
He shook his head. No, wait a minute, she looked familiar. Then, a name popped out.
"Tess?" *No, that wasn't right.* She was shaking her head too, about to speak. He put up his hand to stop her. "No, ... Amy? You're Amy!"
The smile that lit her face at that moment was as bright as the sun. He smiled tentatively in response.
Amy stood and walked to him. She squeezed his arm. "You've had Joe and me very worried. But Adam insisted you'd be fine. Are you hungry? Would you like some coffee and pastry?" She released his arm. She walked into the kitchen and removed a mug from a shelf.
He was frowning, trying to match the names "Joe" or "Adam" with a face, without success.
Amy watched his face as he struggled. "Do you know who you are?" she said softly.
He spoke very slowly, forming the words carefully. "I'm ... uh ... Duncan? That's right. Duncan." She was frowning at him. "Aren't I?"
"Yes, of course. Sit down. Have something to eat." Duncan sat and she put the coffee, juice and a plate in front of him. He didn't come up for air until he finished two cups of coffee, three glasses of orange juice, and four pastries.
Amy had watched him eat in silence. No wonder he was inhaling the food. He probably hadn't eaten since their seafood dinner on Wednesday night. "Duncan, do you remember what happened to you?"
Duncan thought about it. No, he couldn't really remember anything before waking up in that bedroom. For the first time since he left the misty white place, panic clawed at him. Why couldn't he remember? What had happened to him? He took a few deep breaths to calm himself. "No. I can't ... remember. What's the ... matter with me?"
Amy reached out and covered his large hand with her small one. "You were hurt. You injured your head. That's why you can't remember. But you will get better, completely well. You've already improved so much." She patted his hand. "You've been asleep for two days. Except when Adam woke you to drink some water. Do you remember that, Mac?"
"Mac, ... to my friends..." he murmured.
"Yes, Mac to your friends." She smiled sweetly at him.
"MacLeod! Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod!" It felt like a veil lifted from his mind. Of course, he was Duncan MacLeod. He rubbed his temples. A man's face, dark hair, angular features, appeared in his mind's eye - Adam? No, not Adam, another name? Another face - silver hair and beard, bent over a guitar. Joe? Joe! "I re ... member Joe!"
Amy was delighted. "Those are Joe's clothes you're wearing, you know?"
Mac looked down at himself. "Oh" He must be at Joe's place. "Where is Joe? And ... Adam?"
"They're down in the car park. Adam is helping Joe with groceries and such. They'll be here very soon." Adam had assured them any confusion was temporary. He expected Mac to be completely recovered within a week, more or less. Amy hadn't seen MacLeod the night of the shooting, but Joe had been very shaken when he told her about his condition. She hadn't wanted to imagine, but it must have been very bad. She looked at the man sitting across from her. His eyes were drinking her in, watching her face intently. *He has lovely eyes.* She refilled her coffee cup, and his. She babbled on. "It's just another example of Murphy's Law, isn't it? Adam hasn't left the apartment for two days, and as soon as he does, you wake up!"
"Was I in a ... car accident?" MacLeod reached for the cream. Amy noticed his hands were steady. He seemed completely recovered, physically. The recuperative powers of an Immortal were truly astonishing.
"No, it wasn't an auto accident." How much should she tell him? Amy decided to go on the offensive with the questions. That ought to help gauge how much he knew. "Mac, how old are you?"
"I'm four... that's funny... what, am I forty?" He looked quizzically at her.
"No, you're not forty. What's funny?"
"I almost said ... four hundred." He laughed, self-consciously. "I guess ... my brain really did get ... scrambled." His smile faded slowly. "I am four hundred. What the hell?" MacLeod suddenly clutched his head and reeled off the stool. Gasping, doubled over, he had one hand at his head, the other clutching the stone pendant dangling from his neck. Amy, alarmed, helped him sit down. As she did, she heard a key in the door. It opened, and Joe called her name.
"Over here. Is Adam with you?" She was still holding on to MacLeod's arm.
"Yeah, honey, here he is." Joe moved into the kitchen, one hand holding his cane, the other a suitcase and a paper bag. He looked with concern at MacLeod who had straightened on the stool, but was wincing as if in pain. "Mac, you OK?"
Adam strode in before he could answer. He set the bags he was carrying on the counter. He walked over to MacLeod who looked up at him, without speaking, still wincing and rubbing his head. "The pain will fade away in a minute, Mac."
It did, and when it did, a lot of the confusion fell away with it. He was an Immortal, and he would be four hundred and twelve years old on his next birthday - on December 21, 2004. The tall man with the sharply angled features was Adam, and he was very old. The gray haired man with the beard was Joe. They were his dear friends, although he couldn't remember their last names. And Amy was Joe's daughter. He wasn't too sure if she was a dear friend, that was still a little fuzzy, but he hoped so. They were in Joe's hotel room.
Methos watched the play of emotions across his features. Mac was as open as a book. He smiled, and was pleased to see Mac return the smile. "Welcome back, Mac."
Joe piped up. "Ditto. Boy, do you look better. How are you feeling?"
MacLeod thought about it a moment. His speech was slow, measured, but clear. "I'm not sure, exactly. ... I mean, I feel fine. ... But I think ... I'm missing a few ...days?" Methos nodded. "I don't remember ... how I got here. Amy says I was hurt,... a head injury, but ... I don't remember ... anything about that. Things are ... coming back to me, ... but I still feel ..." He groped for the right word. "Dis...dis..." He couldn't come up with it. He gave up. "Confused." He shrugged.
"Let me take a look at you." Methos examined Mac quickly, his physician skills evident in the sure touch of his hands. "What's the last thing you remember before waking up?"
"A beautiful ... white place ... full of mist. I was in a boat ... I think." Methos opened his mouth to speak. Mac beat him to it. "I know, ... you hate boats."
"That's right. What else do you know?" Methos stepped back, satisfied with his findings.
"I know ... that I was ... in a bad way. I know ... that I would not ... be here ... if not for my friends. And I know ... that I am ... very grateful." He met Methos's eyes first, then Joe's, then Amy's. He looked back at Methos. "That's what I know." Duncan rubbed his forehead ruefully. "However, I confess ... that the details ... escape me at the moment."
Joe snorted at that, much relieved. Mac was himself. Sure, a little fuzzy on the whole picture, but still Mac. He breathed a prayer of thanks. For the first time since he had seen Mac lying bloody and battered in that dumpster, Joe knew he would be OK. Amy slipped her arm through his and smiled up at him. She knew what he was feeling.
Methos did too. His look said "I told you so" without saying it. He retrieved a cold beer from the refrigerator as Mac ate another pastry. He sprawled on the sofa and took a long drink of his beer.
Amy, picked up her purse and slung it over her shoulder. "I have a meeting, Joe. Call you tomorrow?" She kissed Joe on the cheek. "Goodbye, Adam." Methos nodded at her. "Goodbye, Mac."
Duncan rose from the stool. He wiped his hands on a napkin, and extended one to her. She took it. "Thank you, Amy."
She nodded. "I'm glad you're well." Duncan watched as she closed the door behind her. He stood looking at the door for a moment. Then, he returned to his seat, and took another bite of his croissant. Joe sat in the stool next to him. He rested his elbows on the counter, and leaned toward Mac, a curious expression on his face.
"Mac, do you mind if I ask you some questions?"
MacLeod frowned at his serious tone, but answered "Sure, Joe."
"I'm asking as your Watcher now." Joe warned. "Don't answer if you don't want to."
Mac looked quizzically at Joe, then Methos. *What the hell was a Watcher?* "OK, Joe."
Methos was amused at the exchange. MacLeod obviously still had gaps in his long term memory. Also, his short term memory, language centers, and who knew what else. Equally obvious, Joe was itching to Chronicle the effects of massive head trauma on an Immortal who lived long enough to recover from it. This ought to be interesting.
"Do you remember where you were born?"
"The Highlands. ... Glenfinnan."
"When?"
"December 21st."
"What year?"
"1952?" Mac frowned at that answer. "No, ... that's not right.... 1592."
"What was your father's name?"
Without hesitation, Mac said "Da." He looked over at Methos as the old man barked out a laugh.
Joe smiled. "No, I mean his ... Christian name."
Mac pictured a hearty man with long red hair blowing in the wind, wrestling a sheep to the shearing. His Da. He couldn't come up with a name. "I ... don't re ...member."
"How about your mother?"
A flash of a careworn woman, in a full tartan skirt, thrusting a sword into his hands, saying fiercely "You are Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and let no man tell ye different." His mother. He realized with a sudden pang that his parents had been dead for centuries. "Mairi. Her name ... was Mairi MacLeod."
"What kind of sword do you carry?"
Mac looked blank. "I don't know."
"Who is President of the United States?"
"Bush."
"Which one?"
"George?" Mac looked perplexed.
"What's today's date?"
Mac frowned. "Um, I know it's ... 2004. May? No, ... June?" Joe nodded. "I don't know ... what day."
"Where are we now?"
"Your hotel."
"No, I mean what city?"
"Oh, Paris.... Right?"
"Right, Mac. What's the most famous landmark in Paris?"
"I don't ... wait, the ... Eiffel Tower?" Mac had a dizzying mind's eye view of dancing on a ledge of the metal structure, high above the streets of Paris, an unknown woman clasped tightly in his arms. A flash and the thought was gone. Had he really danced on the Eiffel Tower? He shook his head. Don't be silly.
"Right. What's my last name?"
A silence. "Sorry, Joe." Mac shook his head.
"How about Adam's?"
Mac shook his head again.
"What's ten times twenty?"
Mac looked blank again. "I don't know ... what that means, Joe."
"OK, no math questions. Do you like opera?" Joe smiled at Methos' harrumph.
"No, ... I don't like ... daytime TV."
Methos laughed again.
"What?" MacLeod demanded. Methos waved his hand at him, and didn't answer.
"What's Adam's favorite beverage?" Joe asked, a playful expression on his face.
"Beer!" MacLeod said emphatically. It was the surest answer he had given yet. In an uncertain world, it was a certainty that Adam Pierson would always drink beer. "Pierson! Adam's last name ... is Pierson!" MacLeod was pleased. Things were coming back.
Joe chuckled. "Who was your teacher?"
"Joe." Methos said, sharply.
MacLeod looked at him, surprised by his tone. But he answered. "Connor." Instantly, he pictured a laughing man, sitting on a floor strewn with rushes, and a woman, with golden curls, sitting on the edge of a bed, braiding his long brown hair, as he leaned back against her knees. Mac smiled, warm with the memory. He could almost feel the warmth of Heather's body, and the gentle tugs on his hair. He spoke, softly, almost to himself. "Heather always braided my hair, because I would do it wrong. She used to scold me all the time. But, I did it wrong on purpose. I just liked her doing it for me."
Joe froze. *What in God's name was happening here?* He looked at Methos. The old man was rigid, sitting up straight and staring at MacLeod. He rose slowly and walked over to them.
MacLeod had a dreamy expression on his face. He was obviously unaware that these were not his memories. Heather MacLeod had been dead and buried years before Duncan was born.
Joe turned to Methos, and opened his mouth to speak. Methos silenced him with a gesture. He spoke softly to MacLeod. "Duncan." Mac swivelled his head and looked at him, expectantly. *Good, he's answering to his name.* Methos licked his lips, suddenly nervous. This was uncharted territory. He knew of no one who could access the memories of an Immortal through the Quickening they had taken. He had tried over the centuries, even using hypnosis and mind-altering drugs, to no avail. Was Duncan actually accessing Connor MacLeod's memories through the Quickening? Or just remembering a recollection that Connor had related, and confusing it as his own? Duncan carried the Quickenings of uncounted Immortals, good, bad and indifferent. Some of them very bad. If he was accessing them... There was real danger here.
"What, Adam?" Why did Adam look so odd, tense? Mac looked at Joe. He could see the pulse in Joe's neck, beating a fast rhythm. Mac sat up straighter, alarmed. "What's wrong?"
"Mac, ..." Methos hesitated, reluctant to inflict pain on the younger man. But it was necessary. Was Mac in danger of losing his sense of self? Or just temporarily confused?
"Where is Connor now?"
"He's with Heather." Mac said innocently, obviously puzzled.
"And where is that?"
"At their croft ... in Glen Coe." MacLeod frowned as an image thrust into his head. A grave on a hilltop. A stone, with writing on it. He tried, but couldn't read it. "No, ... I don't ... know where ... they are." His mouth had gone suddenly dry. "Methos, I ... something terrible ... has happened ... to Connor, ... hasn't it?"
"Yes, Mac." His voice was gentle. "He died two years ago." *Please, don't ask me how.* A part of him noted that Duncan called him 'Methos' for the first time.
Joe cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, Mac. I should never have .... I'm sorry." He finished lamely.
MacLeod looked stricken. "He's buried ... with Heather, isn't he? On a hilltop ... in the Highlands?"
Methos answered calmly. "Yes, Mac. You took him there yourself."
"That's where he ... always wanted to be." Mac's expression was sad, but controlled. "With his bonny Heather." After a moment, MacLeod asked "My memories are ... off, aren't they?" Methos nodded. "Will I ... get it all ... back? In the proper ... order?"
"Yes." Methos radiated certainty. "I've had similar injuries in the past. I've seen others who did too. They always recovered everything." He thought a moment. "Mac, has this ever happened to you before?"
Mac smiled grimly. "I don't ... re ... member."
Methos made a swift decision. He forced his voice to remain casual, relaxed. "Mac, when you were very young, you met a man in a cave in the Highlands. What was his name?"
Suddenly, MacLeod was in a dark and dank cave, strange shadows moving on the earthen wall, cast by the flickering flames of torches. He was squatting by a small cookfire, poking a spitted rabbit to see if it was done. He felt a Presence, and looked up to see a tall young man, clad in rough furs and the rags of a tartan, long black hair tangled. In the next instant, he was grabbing the young man's sword and pulling it hard across his own neck. As his severed head fell from his shoulders, he was shrieking "I am Timothy of Corinth!" But the young man, white-faced with horror, didn't hear him. He shouted again. "I am Timothy!! Timothy!!! TIMOTHY!!!" And he opened his eyes to find himself on the floor of the kitchen of Joe's hotel suite, in a fetal curl, arms shielding his head. Methos was kneeling beside him, trying to pull his hands away from his face. His throat hurt. He stopped fighting Methos' efforts, and looked up into his concerned face. Over Methos's shoulder, he saw Joe's pale face looming. He forced himself to take a deep breath and slowly sat up straight.
"Duncan?" Methos' voice was tentative. He released MacLeod's hands. Mac rubbed his neck with his right hand a moment, then curled it tightly around the stone pendant.
MacLeod nodded. Yes, that was his name. Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Not Timothy. Not Timothy. Not Timothy. He forced words past the soreness of his throat. "I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod." Then, louder and with defiance. "And I'll let no man tell me different."
"We won't." promised Methos, reaching out a hand. MacLeod wobbled a bit on his feet, then steadied.
"God, I'm sorry, Mac. I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have started that. I didn't think..." Joe's face twisted. "I just didn't think." He finished lamely.
Mac nodded. "It's all right, Joe." Methos' hand was still on his arm. "I'm OK" he said. Methos let him go.
"Mac..." Joe began.
"I'm all right." MacLeod rubbed a hand across his two day growth of beard. "Joe, can I ... clean up?" His tone was nonchalant, but Joe heard a plea for space behind the casual words.
"Sure, Mac, sure. We brought your clothes and things from your hotel." Joe gestured to a small suitcase. "If you need anything, let me know."
Mac picked up the suitcase and walked to the bathroom. Methos and Joe were silent. They heard the door shut behind him, and the sound of running water.
"Jesus Christ, Methos! What the hell just happened?" Joe ran a hand through his hair.
"I don't know."
"Well, have you ever seen this before?" Joe gestured vaguely to a corner of the kitchen floor. "It was like he wasn't even here, like he was back in that cave, four hundred years ago, channeling that guy's death." He grimaced. "He scared the hell out of me."
Methos was silent. He was staring down at his hands.
"Methos ... hey, Methos!" Joe touched his arm to get his attention, and Methos started. "Sorry, man. Do you know what's going on?"
"No, Joe, I don't. I've never seen or heard of anybody being able to do this before." Methos's voice was low, and Joe had to strain to hear it.
Joe was even more worried. The old man looked and sounded as spooked as Joe felt. He couldn't think of anything else to say, so Joe fell back on old training. He retrieved two beers from the refrigerator and handed one to Methos. They drank the cold brew in silence, until MacLeod emerged from the bath, in Joe's borrowed robe.
Toweling his dark hair, Mac padded towards them. The scent of soap and shaving cream emanated from him. His voice was matter-of-fact.
"I've been thinking. ... I should stay ... on Holy Ground until ... I'm better."
Methos nodded. "That's a good idea."
Mac smiled ruefully. "The thing is ... I don't know where ... any Holy Ground is, or... or how to get there."
Methos smiled back. "Well, you're in luck. As it happens, I know every church, cathedral, synagogue, mosque, ashram, chapel, abbey and graveyard within a six hour radius of Paris. I'll take you to a little monastery I know, with a view of rolling hills and vineyards, where the monks still make the wine the old-fashioned way. They always have room. And they never ask questions."
"Thank you." Mac was grateful. "I'll be ready ... as soon as I ... get dressed." He made his way to the bedroom.
Methos gathered his few things which were scattered around the room and put them into his pack. Joe sipped his beer, thoughtfully.
"St. Crispin's?" At Methos' nod, Joe continued. "How long ...?"
"Until he's fully recovered? I would think a week, give or take." Methos' voice was confident and Joe looked reassured. Methos kept his doubts to himself.
Ten minutes later, MacLeod emerged from the bedroom, impeccably groomed, dressed neatly in jeans and a white cotton shirt, carrying the suitcase. Joe eyed him carefully. He looks fine, just like he did the night we were all at dinner, ... except for his eyes. They were wary, uncertain, though Mac was trying his best to conceal it.
Mac took Joe's hand and shook it. "Thanks, Joe."
He clapped Duncan on the shoulder. "Get well soon, buddy." *Jeez, that's something I never thought I'd hear myself say to MacLeod.* His expression was wry. "I sound like a goddam Hallmark card." Duncan looked a little blank at that, but nodded. Joe held the door for him.
Methos followed Mac. Joe touched his hand. "You take care of him, and yourself." Methos nodded. Joe watched them skip the elevator and descend the stair. He turned back into his room and shut the door. He sat down at the small computer on the desk, and keyed in his password. After a moment, he typed in "Timothy of Corinth". Well, he had to start somewhere.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The sun was behind low, gray clouds, and there was a taste of rain to come in the air. MacLeod and Methos exited the service door cautiously. They loaded the trunk of the rented Peugot, with their luggage and swords. Methos climbed in the driver's side. He pulled smoothly into the Rue de Verneuil, dodging the occasional student on a bicycle. MacLeod peered out his window constantly, looking for all the world, like a first time tourist in the City of Lights. For a fleeting moment, Methos envied his companion's clean slate, however temporary it might prove. Been there, done that as a way of life got old, fast. Well, let Mac enjoy the sights while he could. Conversation waited until they were out of Paris, on the highway heading south.
"Do you want to talk about what happened, Mac?" Methos kept his eyes on the road.
"I really don't know." Mac said, uncomfortably.
"It seemed to me and Joe that you were experiencing the old hermit's death, as if it was happening to you." His hands were steady on the wheel as Methos glanced at his companion.
There was a long silence. Then, MacLeod spoke softly. "It was like ... I wasn't me, anymore, Methos. I was him. ... I even saw myself,... my younger self, ... through his eyes, ... and I didn't rec ... recognize that ... it was me."
"Was it like the Quickening?"
"No, I know ... what you mean. That sense of ... being over -, over- ... "
"Overwhelmed." Methos supplied the word.
"Overwhelmed ... by the other Immortal's memories ... feelings, ... like you're being ... blotted out for a moment. ... This was different. It was like ...I ... switched places." Methos looked at him sharply. The car veered to the center line a bit, but in the next instant, he brought the vehicle under control.
"Do you still feel like that?" Methos' knuckles were white on the steering well.
"No ... not exactly. ... Not like I did ... at Joe's." Mac rubbed his neck, absently. "I guess ... I freaked out, huh?"
"A little." Methos returned to his point. "How do you feel now?"
Mac shifted in his seat, pulling at the seat belt, before speaking. "A little lost ... a little scared ... but I know who I am." He looked at Methos, seeing the signs of tension in his friend. He lightened his tone. "Even if I can't ... re ... member if I have a ... middle name, or ... whether I like ... snails, or what ... kind of ... car I drive, or where ... I lost my ... virginity."
"Archibald; no; T-bird; Ralphie's grave."
Mac frowned at him. "Archibald? ... You're making that up."
"Ask Joe."
"Ralphie's grave? What the hell ... are you talking about?"
"You and Ellen MacTeague, in the kirkyard, on the grave of Ralphie Frazer. You were fifteen. She was twenty." He looked over at Mac, whose jaw had dropped. Methos continued in a conversational tone. "Apparently, the kirkyard was her idea. And one she had had before - frequently. Ralphie's grave was the furthest from the kirk, and hidden by the undergrowth. You wrestled with guilt and lust, and lust won. But guilt set in fast. Old Father MacFadden clouted you on the head with his walking stick when you made your next confession, in addition to making you scrub all the headstones in the kirkyard for your penance."
Mac looked at him in astonishment, not sure what to believe. "I told you that? ... I can't believe ... I'd tell you that."
"No, you played 'Truth or Dare' with Amanda. She told me."
Mac fell back against the seat. Now, Amanda was a clear picture in his mind. Amanda on his lap, running her fingers through his hair; Amanda in a skintight leather pantsuit, dancing sensuously to a beat only she could hear; Amanda poured in to a red mini-dress that looked like it was painted on; Amanda in nothing at all. "Just wait'll I get my hands on her." MacLeod thought of the things he'd like to do when he got his hands on the little vixen. His expression changed slowly from a scowl to a lascivious half-smile.
"I think she'll like that." Methos said, with a sense of chilly deja vu. He and Mac had this same exchange, just before the sniper struck. Methos was lost in his own thoughts for awhile.
"Mac, do you remember...?" He stopped in mid-sentence. One glance at MacLeod showed his question would fall on deaf ears. The Highlander was asleep, head propped against the side window. No doubt his body was still using as much energy as possible to heal. Holy Ground was really the best place for him. It would allow them both to rest completely. Methos slid one of Mac's CDs into the stereo. Sidney Bechet's tenor sax perfectly matched his mood. Methos drove carefully, his policy of not attracting attention to himself extended to his driving skills.
Methos drove for four hours through rolling hills, dotted with small farms and vineyards. Normally, he would have enjoyed the quiet drive, and the lovely view. Not today. His thoughts were as dark as the thunderclouds on the distant horizon. As he followed a serpentine road around the last gentle hill, he caught glimpses, through the trees, of the abbey in the distance. The sight of its familiar stone edifice was comforting. The church had been built in the tenth or eleventh century, and dedicated to the martyr brothers of early Gaul, Saint Crispin and Crispinian, teachers by day, and, oddly enough, shoe-makers at night.
Methos had sought refuge and respite at St. Crispin's many times through the years, though it was more than twenty years since his last retreat. Some time ago, he had settled a well-funded little trust upon the abbey, which contributed generously to the upkeep of the buildings and grounds. As a condition of his largesse, a little cottage was maintained on the grounds for use by the descendants of the mysterious settlor. The deed of trust specified that the cottage was to be kept ready for occupation at a moment's notice, available instantly to any individual armed with the password. Methos' one dissatisfaction with the arrangement was the emphasis by the brotherhood on their excellent wine, at the expense of their brewery.
It was reassuring to see little exterior change to the place, despite the years. The two Romanesque towers were proof of the original construction at the beginning of the last millennia. The Gothic part had been added later, by prosperous Crusaders returned from the Holy Land. The car park traced its lineage to the 1980s. Only one very dilapidated truck was in residence, which looked suspiciously like the vehicle that had been here at his last visit. He shut the car down, and turned to his companion.
Duncan had been sleeping soundly since St. Lo. Methos reached for Mac's shoulder, to wake him. Halfway there, his hand stopped, almost of its own volition. He looked at it, as if it were an unfamiliar object. It took a moment, but intellect finally caught up with instinct. He was afraid. Methos was afraid to rouse his friend from sleep, because he feared who might be looking out of Duncan's eyes when he did. Duncan carried the Quickening of Kronos. The leader of the Horsemen. And Methos had been his betrayer. He tried to shrug it off. *We're on Holy Ground. Nothing will happen.* A mental picture of Kronos dragging an unconscious Immortal off Holy Ground before he beheaded him, intruded unpleasantly on his thoughts.
Methos took the keys out of the ignition, and shoved them deep in his jeans pocket. He got out of the car, walked around to the passenger side, and opened the door. One hand slipped inside his coat. With the other hand, Methos reached out and shook Duncan's shoulder. Mac was usually a light sleeper, like most Immortals. Still, it took a considerable effort to wake him.
Mac yawned. "Are we there yet?" he said with a grin, striking just the right note of childish whine. He got out of the car, and stretched. Still, Methos didn't release his grip on Joe's handgun until he saw Duncan MacLeod, looking out of his own eyes, at the marble figure outside the old stone chapel. It was Saint Crispin, (or was it his brother, Crispinian?), welcoming the faithful to worship.
"Where are we?" Mac asked, running a hand along the beautifully sculpted folds of the saint's robes.
"The Abbey of Saints Crispin and Crispinian. The cottage is on the other side of the courtyard." Methos pointed towards a little hut on the edge of an herb and vegetable garden, just beginning its lush growth.
Mac frowned, and closed his eyes, his hand brushing his forehead. Concerned, Methos took a step closer. Then Mac spoke, tentatively at first:
"'And Crispin Crispian ... shall ne'er go by, From this day ... to the ending of the world, But we in it ... shall be remembered, - We few, ... we happy few, ... we band of brothers;'"

Mac opened his eyes, and all that there was that was Duncan MacLeod shone forth. His voice grew strong and sure, as he continued:
"'For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition;'"

He stopped, at a loss for words. He looked hopefully at Methos, who intoned, in a ringing voice:
"'And gentlemen in England now a-bed Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,'"

Duncan nodding, recovered his place, and, joining his voice triumphantly with Methos', they finished the verse together:
"'And hold their manhoods cheap while any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's Day!'"

Mac laughed with joy, and threw his arm around Methos' shoulder. "Richard III! I remembered Shakespeare!" he crowed.
"Actually, it's Henry V." At Mac's crestfallen look, he patted him on the arm. "But pretty close, kid." Methos gestured to the little cottage. "It's not the Hotel Versailles..."
"It's perfect." Mac said, shielding his eyes from the lowering sun, finally peeking through the layer of gray clouds. Its golden light was falling on the vineyard, and the neat fields of grain in the distance, illuminating a little stone cottage, with a thatched roof. It reminded MacLeod of something, for a moment. No, he couldn't think of what. He smiled. It would come to him.
"We have just enough time, I think, before evening prayer to speak to the Abbe. Then supper after. Mac, there was a brother last time I was here who made the best bread I have ever tasted. And you'll love the wine. Too bad they haven't had a decent brewmaster since the fourteen hundreds...."
"Let me guess... Was his name, perhaps, Brother Adam?"
"Perhaps." Methos led the way, through the buildings and through history, as the shadows lengthened and the sun continued its descent.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Duncan MacLeod carefully eased open the door of the cottage, and stepped out into the cool morning air. The sun was just over the horizon, wreathed in a band of low, wispy clouds. He took great pains to be quiet, wincing as the door squeaked closed behind him. Methos was not a morning person. Living in a one room cottage for the past six days with the old man, had made that plain. Duncan hadn't thought it possible for the man's tongue to get any sharper, but Methos in the morning had proved him wrong. And in that kind of battle, the Highlander knew he was out of his league.
Right now, the old man was curled into a ball on his narrow cot against the wall, furthest from the eastern window. MacLeod had yet to catch him actually going to bed. Every night, Mac fell asleep while Methos read in the glare of the little oil lamp. It made MacLeod feel like a child, valiantly trying to stay up past his bedtime, and failing. But, Mac was sleeping a lot, twelve hours or more. Although, in the last day or so, his need for sleep seemed to be lessening.
MacLeod began his exercise this morning, like every morning here, in the small yard behind the cottage, surrounded on three sides by wildflowers. He exercised vigorously, ending his regimen with a different, complicated kata. None with a sword, of course, given the setting. His stamina had improved daily. He felt fit. Meditation followed the exercise. To Mac's chagrin, the meditation usually segued into a nap as a gentle, herb-scented breeze lulled him to sleep.
Methos was always up by noon, and they took their simple meal with the brothers in the common room. Methos was right - they didn't ask questions at the Abbey. While they hadn't quite taken a vow of silence, conversations were at a minimum. Their order was self-sufficient, growing and raising its own food. Their celebrated wine was their one cash crop. MacLeod willingly offered a hand with the daily chores. He took over the field and livestock duties of Brother Henri, who was ailing. Mac's faulty memory did not extend to the performance of these duties, and the labor was satisfying. Methos, however, preferred to lie in the sun, or walk the grounds, a book from the abbey's extensive library in his hands.
When they first arrived, Mac had been unable to read. Not a word. Printed or handwritten, the words on a page were incomprehensible markings. It had distressed him greatly. But Mac trusted that this ability, like his memory, would return in time, and said nothing to Methos. One evening, he was drawn to the little chapel as the brothers convened for prayer. Mac had sat in the back, caught up in the sing-song cadence of the Latin service. He opened the missal set in its place in the pew. To his joy, he found he could read along to the gospel of St. John. It was somehow fitting that he regained his literacy in this place, so remarkably like the monastery where Timmon had taught him to read so long ago.
All of his mental function had improved. His speech was fluent. The aphasia that had left him groping for the right word, had disappeared. The languages had come back, even the Ogham he had been studying. Methos tested his memory daily, with rapid-fire questioning. Recently, Mac had passed every test, even when Methos made up some outrageously false anecdote and tried to pass it off as reality. To Mac's embarrassment, his teenage tryst in the graveyard with the village seductress, was not a figment of the old man's imagination. Between his Chronicle and Amanda's loose lips, Mac's past indiscretions were ample fodder for the older man's twisted sense of humor. It wasn't fair, since Mac had no means to retaliate. Methos' youth was lost, even to him. The Methos Chronicles were patently unreliable. And the thousand year reign of terror of the Horsemen was not a humorous subject for either of them.
As far as Mac could tell, his memory was restored. (But, he wondered, if he had forgotten something, how would he remember that he had forgotten it? He decided not to worry about it.) To his knowledge, he had never suffered such a severe injury before. Sure, he'd had head wounds. But not from a high velocity soft-tipped bullet careening around in his skull. His last identifiable memory, before waking up in Joe's bed, had been walking with Methos from the restaurant. He had no memory of being shot or Methos' resourceful dispatch of the unidentified Immortal, or getting to Joe's place. But, of course, he had been dead most of that time.
The memories, his memories, had come back in the proper order, just as Methos promised. There was nothing dramatic about it. People and events he couldn't recall a day, or an hour before, would just be there. Whatever had happened in Joe's kitchen, with the hermit's Quickening, or memories, or Duncan's overactive imagination, had not recurred. Methos had told him that he had never heard of, nor experienced himself, the ability to tap into the Quickenings of Immortals. If that's what it was. Both hoped that, as Duncan healed, the usual barriers that prevented that interchange would be erected once again. Mac was in anti-brood mode on that one. He truly didn't want to think about that frightening experience too much, or the implications.
But, they had a name, now. Maybe. Timothy of Corinth, whose death in a cave in Scotland in the year of Our Lord 1625, was witnessed only by young Duncan MacLeod. The name meant nothing to Duncan, Methos or Joe. Joe was going to search the Watcher Chronicles, but an Immortal four hundred years dead would not be an easy retrieval.
Satisfied with this morning's workout, MacLeod sat down on the grass, cross-legged. He performed the mental rituals that led him to a meditative state. After an hour, he opened his eyes, pleased. No nap this time. Refreshed in body and mind, he stood, and stretched languorously. Mac began his labors with weeding and trimming the herb garden. The brothers' herb garden contained both culinary and medicinal plants. Chewing on leaves of spearmint, he worked steadily for two hours. As his hand brushed the sweet woodruff, he could almost taste the May wine that Cassandra had served with their evening meals. As he pinched back the catnip, he thought of her little calico, Nutmeg. This cottage, and the simple lifestyle he'd lived for the past week, was a strong reminder of his idyll with that beautiful lady. A sweet memory he was glad to have back.
When he finished the herb garden, MacLeod moved on to the animals in his care. The pigs were happy to see him, as they were every morning. They grunted and snuffled as he mixed the bucket of slops from the kitchen with their feed. The squealing began when he poured the mess into their pen. The sow, with the new litter, was in a small pen of her own. Mac filled up her feed trough, and watched, amused, as she lurched to her feet, piglets dropping from her teats, one by one. He scooped up the last stubborn hanger-on, and tucked it under his arm, stroking the little tuft of hair on its head with affection. He had always liked pigs, Maurice's brother-in-law's truffle swine notwithstanding.
It was nearly noon by the time he finished tending the stock. MacLeod returned to the cottage. He felt Methos before he saw him, of course. Still, he was surprised to see his friend, fully dressed and sitting on the rough bench in front of the cottage, a covered basket beside him. Methos' eyes were closed, his face upturned, soaking up the sun. He spoke without opening his eyes.
"Who was the lead singer of Smashing Pumpkins?"
Mac pondered that for a moment. "I don't think I ever knew that."
"Bright boy." Methos opened his eyes, and squinted up at him.
"Are we going on a picnic?"
"Two for two. You're on a roll. Get the swords, will you?"
MacLeod washed quickly, with cold water from the pitcher and basin on the stand next to his cot. He grabbed the canvas sword carrier from under his cot, and slung it over one shoulder. He tossed the coverlet from his bed over the other. He joined Methos, who pointed beyond the vineyards, and marched north.
It was a good stretch of the leg to the meadow that Methos had chosen for their lunch. They passed through the vineyard, and skirted the fields of alfalfa and barley. The meadow was not Holy Ground, secluded from the casual observer, and hidden by a hill from the abbey. MacLeod picked a shady spot under a chestnut tree, and spread the blanket. Methos plopped down, and unpacked the basket.
They feasted on crusty bread, smoked sausages, dried figs, and a wedge of ripe Brie, washed down with the bock beer leavings from last fall's brew. Methos made a face at the first swallow, but Mac liked the strong, dark taste. They used MacLeod's fancy pocket knife for their only utensil, for once, without a disdainful comment from the old man. Methos had returned the tool to him, clean and shiny, along with the story of how it had saved both of their lives. Mac had made a mental note to gift him with one as soon as he was able. After their meal, MacLeod stretched out on the blanket, patting his stomach with contentment. He put his hands behind his head, settled himself, and was beginning to doze off, when he felt the poke of a sharp metal object in his side.
"Hey! I just got comfortable!" Mac pushed the sword away.
"Exactly! Too comfortable!" Methos whacked him with the sword again.
MacLeod was on his feet in an instant. He removed his katana from the carrier. The ivory hilt felt good in his hand, and he hefted the blade, appreciating the familiar weight and balance. Methos stood apart, his broadsword resting on one shoulder, as he slouched. Mac had never seen Methos exhibit any of the formality of the disciplines, unless you counted his Inigo Montoya impression. He slumped or leaned on his sword or picked his fingernails, looking for all the world like a resentful teenager. It was one of the most effective weapons in his arsenal - not the blade, the attitude.
Mac, on the other hand, liked the forms. They grounded him, focused him. He saluted the older man with his blade. Methos smirked at him, and attacked. Steel met steel, muscle met muscle, as they sparred all over that meadow. By the time they collapsed on the blanket, they were both sweaty and bloody, and MacLeod was grinning like an idiot. Sparring with Methos was always diverting. He was just as likely to run you through, as he quoted The Princess Bride, or Zorro, or the Marx Brothers, or yell at you for stepping on a wildflower, or skewer an apple from a tree and fling it to you from the end of his sword. Mac had more than held his own in this duel, and wondered for the thousandth time, if Methos was ever showing his true ability. The only time he had seen Methos fully engaged in a fight to the death was against Silas, and Mac had been too busy with Kronos to watch the other fight. He didn't count Kristen.
After a long drink of water, MacLeod looked over at Methos. The old man sprawled on the ground, eyes closed, arms outflung. His posture revealed quite a few holes in his clothes. *I did get a lot of hits in, but you'd never know it from his poker face.* Mac knew, with bedrock certainty, that he was fully recovered. They'd be leaving Holy Ground soon. He made a decision.
"Thank you, Methos."
"For poking a dozen holes in you? My pleasure, Mac."
"No, for ... everything. This whole situation." MacLeod gestured broadly with his hands. "I know you only went to Austria with me for the intellectual challenge. But look what happened there. And then, everything that's happened since. I mean, you didn't have to ... "
"I don't have to do anything I do, Mac." Methos' tone was dry as the desert.
"I know. I know. I'm not saying this right, and I can't blame it on a hole in the head, anymore." Mac shrugged. "I'm just trying to thank you for saving my life. No, that's not exactly
right, either. Although I am deeply grateful." He took a breath. "What I'm trying to say is, thank you, for being my friend."
"No problemo."
Mac was irritated. "You're not gonna let me get all touchy-feely here, are you?"
"Mac, the last guy who tried to get 'touchy-feely' with me, lost his arm."
"Methos! That's not what I mean! God! You are so frustrating!." MacLeod ran his hands through his hair.
"I'm sorry you're frustrated, Mac, but I'm still not going to get touchy-feely with you. We are on Holy Ground, you know, or nearly." He clapped a hand to his forehead. "Oh, I forgot, that's one of your turn-ons."
Mac counted to ten, and back to one. "Methos, I'm going to say what I want to say, the way I want to say it. No matter how sarcastic you get." His voice was quiet, but determined.
Methos put an arm behind his head, and settled himself comfortably on the blanket.
Encouraged by the older man's silence, Mac continued. "OK, then. This thing with the shooter. He took me down, and I didn't even know it. I don't even know what he looked like. If you hadn't been there, the bastard would have taken my head while I was down." He paused. The old man wasn't even looking at him. "And all my years of study with the sword, all the discipline, all the Quickenings I've taken, the You're too important to lose' crap ... wouldn't have mattered. We think we're invulnerable. We think, if we only train harder, or learn this trick, or study with that teacher, that we'll live forever." Mac paused again. A ladybug crawled up his sleeve. He set it down gently in the grass. "But we're wrong. We forget how fragile we are."
"What a depressing thought. Thank you, Mac."
"It's the truth. I could have died that night. Permanently."
"So could I." Methos opened one eye. "But we didn't."
"No, we didn't. That's exactly my point." Mac shook a finger at him. "And that's why I'm able to sit in a sunny meadow, eating cheese and bread and figs, with my infuriating, aggravating, 'I hate mornings' friend and tell him some things I want him to know."
Methos sighed deeply, and sat up. "OK, Mac, I'm listening." He wrapped his arms around his legs, and rested his chin on his knees.
MacLeod looked at him earnestly. "I want to tell you something that may make you uncomfortable. If you don't want to talk about it, then I'll shut up."
Methos opened his mouth, a smart ass remark on the tip of his tongue, something about it being already too late for that. He saw Mac steel himself, anticipating his cutting remark. *Ah, the hell with it.* He shut his mouth and looked at Mac expectantly.
Encouraged, MacLeod began. "When I was in the Highlands, I saw Cassandra ..." He stopped at the closed look on Methos' face, as if someone had closed a shutter or pulled down a blind. Mac had seen it before. It always flustered him. Nevertheless, he soldiered on. "I didn't know she would be there, in her old cottage in the Donan Woods. I just had a feeling that I wanted to see the Woods again. Cassandra said I was drawn to her, to that place. I don't know." *Stop rambling, you idiot!* Mac shook his head. "That doesn't matter. Anyway..."
"What do you want me to say, MacLeod? Whether all the dark and depraved things I did to her were really true?" Methos said. His tone was glacial.
MacLeod shook his head. "No, I don't want you to say ..."
"Because they were."
Mac tried again. "But, she didn't ..."
"And not just her. I'm sure she mentioned the children."
"Just listen to me for ..."
"You're making me uncomfortable, MacLeod, please shut up now." Methos said sweetly.
As his own words were thrown mockingly back at him, Mac's temper flared white-hot. "SHUT UP! YOU CAN'T READ MY MIND! YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M TRYING TO SAY!"
Methos blinked and reared back at Mac's shouts.
MacLeod was infuriated. "I'm trying to tell you - she's OK! She's happy, Methos! I thought you would want to know that! I thought you might care about her, just a little! I thought you would never know it, if I didn't tell you! She's happy!" He stopped, breathing hard. Methos stared at him, his face expressionless. That enraged the younger man even more. "You're my friend! I trust you with my life! And I don't know whether you give a damn about anything, about anyone! She's happy! That's all I wanted to tell you! It was important to me to tell you that! I don't know if it means anything to you!"
Methos was looking fixedly at a point over Mac's shoulder.
MacLeod ran his hands through his hair, and forced himself to calm down. He was appalled at himself. What the hell was wrong with him? This was not at all what he had wanted to say to the friend who had saved his life, who had taken care of him while he was incapacitated. But the old man could push his buttons faster and better than anyone Mac had ever known. Fleetingly, he wished the amnesia back, so he could forget his angry words.
"I'm sorry, Methos, that's not true. I do know you care about me. God, you couldn't have shown it more clearly these past several weeks than if it was tattooed on your forehead. I'm sorry. That's all I wanted to tell you." Mac started gathering the picnic things and shoving them into the basket. "I'm sorry."
Methos reached out a hand and stopped him.
MacLeod turned and looked at the older man. The shuttered look was gone.
"She's happy? Truly?" Methos' gaze was intent.
Mac nodded.
Methos rested his forehead on his knees. When he finally spoke, his words were muffled. "Tell me."
MacLeod, surprised, sat back down on the blanket. He told Methos of his longing to see the old forest again, after he had returned to Glenfinnan; of feeling an Immortal Presence and the cottage appearing in the mist; of his reunion with Cassandra after their parting in Bordeaux; and her healing retreat on Holy Ground. Methos kept his head down on his knees during Mac's recitation, until Mac reached the events following his defeat of Kell on the metal tower.
"Methos, when I told her what you did for me ... , how you helped me ..., well, she jumped up, out of her chair..." Mac stopped. Methos had raised his head, and was looking intently at him. "Well, she paced for a few minutes, then she kissed me. She said I'm glad he was there for you.'" Methos looked away abruptly.
After a moment, MacLeod continued with his tale. He told Methos of Cassandra's strange words as she cast the hermit's runes, and the recurring dream she had; of the wonderful meals they shared; and the home she had made for herself and the mischievous little cat. By the time he was winding down, the sun was low in the western sky and his throat was dry. He took a sip of water, and wondered if he should tell the old man the rest. Methos spoke for the first time.
"You were lovers?" His voice was rusty too, and Mac handed him the water bottle.
Mac tried to find the words to explain how it had felt to gather Cassandra into his arms; to hold that extraordinary woman, the only person left in this world who knew him before he became Immortal; to feel that great strength and great vulnerability; to give himself to her as she gave herself to him - in honesty and trust. He gave up. "Yes." he said, simply.
Methos nodded. MacLeod waited for something more, but that was it.
"She is happy, Methos, truly happy."
Methos nodded again, without speaking. Mac was torn. He didn't want to press his friend to speak on a painful subject, but dammit, he'd never know how Methos felt, if he didn't ask. Why was it so, he wondered, that two friends, who had risked their lives for one another, could not speak of this? If MacLeod had learned nothing else in his four hundred years, it was that the things you leave unsaid will haunt you longer than the things you do say. He took a deep breath.
"Methos, what about Cassandra?"
Methos stood up abruptly, jamming his hands in his pockets.
MacLeod spoke hastily. "I'm sorry, Methos. I said I would shut up, and I will." He started packing the basket again.
"Don't apologize, Mac." The old man moved in the direction of the lowering sun. "Let's take a walk."
MacLeod leaped to his feet. His neck and shoulders were tight with tension, and he welcomed the chance to move. They walked together, following the small stream that meandered through the fields.
"It isn't an easy question to answer, Mac." Methos' voice was quiet. They walked for a bit, before he spoke again. "And I need to ask you some things first." He looked at the younger man with a searching expression. "Do you love her?"
Mac was surprised at the question, but he had started this. He answered as honestly as he could. "Yes. I do. But ... we aren't meant to be together. We both know that. We're too different. And ... the Game ... I can't see myself with an Immortal woman, not like Tessa and I were, or Robert and Gina are. I don't think I could handle it. But, yes, I love her."
"Does she love you?" Methos' tone was casual, but something told MacLeod that the answer to this question was very important to the older man.
"Yes. I think .... I know she does." Mac said, firmly.
Methos smiled, and it lit up his long face like the sun. "I'm glad." He patted MacLeod's arm. "I'm glad."
They walked in silence for a little while. Methos picked an apple blossom off a tree in passing. MacLeod thought the conversation was over, when Methos spoke again.
"'What about Cassandra?', he says. Out of the mouths of babes ..." The older man shook his head, ruefully.
"Who you calling a 'babe'?" Mac said, in mock outrage.
"You, kid. But you're more of a grown-up than I'll ever be." He chuckled at the expression on MacLeod's face. "Yes, that is a compliment. Mark it well. It'll probably be your last this century. And, no, I'm not changing the subject, merely gathering my thoughts." He sobered. "I have never told anyone what I'm about to tell you."
Mac held up his hand in protest. "You don't have to ..."
"I want to, Mac. It's about time, I think." Methos looked at his companion. "The question is, do you really want to hear it?"
MacLeod looked into Methos' troubled eyes. He could do this. He needed to listen to what his friend needed to tell him. Without judgment or recrimination. "Yes." he said.
"It's not a pretty story." Methos closed his eyes for a moment. "You know that Kronos killed Cassandra. It was her first death. He was going for her father, when she put herself in the way of his blade. Did you know that?" Mac nodded. "So, I killed her father. You didn't know that, I bet. When she revived, they were all dead - all of her people." He plucked the petals off the blossom he was holding while he spoke, and threw away the mangled stem. "I took her as my slave, my pet, ... my experiment. I tortured her, raped her, killed her, brutalized her in every way imaginable. I twisted her feelings, brainwashed her, gulled her into thinking she loved me. I did it as a game, a diversion, because I was bored. And I was so good at it."
MacLeod forced himself to stay quiet, to listen, without comment, to this shameful recitation. He clung to his knowledge that the Methos that he knew was no longer the Methos that did these vile things.
"I made Cassandra believe she loved me. Me - the monster who had slaughtered her tribe, her father. The man who took her innocence, who violated her in so many ways. It was a joke, funny to me, to my brothers. Some joke, huh?" His eyes were bleak as he looked at Mac briefly. "But she never really loved me. What she felt wasn't love. I couldn't do that, you see. I could destroy love, but I couldn't create love. Only a facsimile, a survival mechanism."
Methos crossed the little stream and sat down on a large boulder. Mac joined him.
"But the joke was on me." Methos laughed humorlessly. "I didn't know what love was. I never had it, or if I had, I'd forgotten it. Killing was all I knew. I didn't even know while I had her, what I was beginning to feel." He touched MacLeod on the arm. "Let me make that crystal clear, Mac. It was a beginning only, a glimmer, a hint, of what real love might feel like. When I was away from her, I looked forward to coming back. When I stole a pretty trinket off a dead woman that I had killed, I was anticipating Cassandra's expression when I gave it to her." He noticed MacLeod's wince. "Yes, I do know how this sounds, Mac. I didn't know what was happening to me. But Kronos did. He was usually one step ahead of me. And he put a stop to it. Instantly." Methos paused, thoughtful. "It was the best thing he could have ever done for me or Cassandra."
"What do you mean?" MacLeod whispered. God, it was hard to listen to this.
"If it had continued, she'd have been dead. I would have tired of her, and killed her eventually, or one of the others would have. And she'd have gone to her death believing a sick, perverted lie - that she loved me, and I loved her. But Kronos took her for himself, right in front of me, dragging her from my tent as she screamed my name. He raped her, while she screamed for me to save her. And I said nothing. I did nothing. And she got away from us, from me, and all the twisted ..." He stopped a moment, and wiped his mouth.
Mac had never seen that look of disgust, of self-loathing on Methos' face before. Nevertheless, it was familiar. He'd seen it in his own mirror. Mac didn't know what to say, so he leaned his shoulder against the old man's in silent empathy. Methos bowed his head, but didn't pull away. He continued, his voice steady, though MacLeod could feel the tension in his lean form.
"Eventually, she must have understood what I had done to her, the conditioning I had subjected her to. She must have recognized me for the monster I was." Methos rubbed the back of his neck, stretching to ease tension there. "You see, Cassandra knew what real love was."
"The real joke, the ultimate irony, that I have never been able to share with anyone, until now, is this. Kronos, by taking Cassandra from me, thought he was saving the Horsemen. What he actually did, was doom us. Not because of his brutality to her, or his power play over me. Kronos reminded me of what I was, and what I had done to her, and how I was fooling myself. No, by throwing ice-cold reality in my face, he destroyed the little illusion, the self-deception that I had created. I had wanted something more, something that the Horsemen could never give me." The sadness in Methos' voice was palpable. "I wanted those moments of sick fantasy with Cassandra to be real. Can you understand that, Mac?"
MacLeod swallowed hard. "I ... I'm trying."
"Don't sweat it too much. It took decades for me to understand, though it was a really simple truth. I wanted someone to love me. Truly. And I wanted to love." His voice grew stronger. "It started with Cassandra. I did love her, the smallest, most infinitesimal particle of love that I was capable of feeling then. It was a seed. It took a century for me to admit it to myself and even longer to seek it. And longer still to find it."
MacLeod's voice was hopeful. "But you did find it?" He already knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it from his friend.
"Yes, I did, Mac. And I have Cassandra to thank for that." Methos smiled fondly at the younger man. "I envy you, Mac. You love Cassandra, and she loves you. She is so worthy of love. As you are." He looked down at his hands. "I never had her love, and I never will."
"I wish ..." MacLeod shifted uncomfortably. "I don't know what to say, Methos."
"Mac, you have already told me the most important thing."
MacLeod was puzzled. "What?"
"Cassandra loves. She loves you, that silly cat, those refugee children, and who knows how many others throughout her life. She is capable of love. Despite what I did to her, what I tried to take from her. She is able to love." He looked at MacLeod. Methos' eyes were no longer troubled. His expression was open, warm. "She gave me that gift, and I feared I destroyed it in her." He stood up. "But I didn't. There are no words to tell you how happy that makes me." He reached out his hand and grasped Mac's arm at the elbow. "Thank you, Duncan."
Mac returned the handclasp. He had no words either. After a moment, Methos let him go. They turned to watch the sunset. MacLeod realized he was hungry again. In the distance, he heard the bells calling the brothers to evening prayer.
"What day is it, Methos?"
"June 21st."
"The first day of summer." The Summer Solstice. Day wanes, night waxes. Again. Four hundred and eleven of them, so far. Mac wondered if there would come a time in his life when he'd lose track of the years, when he'd count his life in a blur of centuries. Or stop counting. He sighed. He understood the purpose of the Standing Stones. You needed the markers.
Spring was over. The season of renewal had ended, as Mac's own recovery was completed. He would plan his return home tomorrow. He looked at his friend, whose sharp features were softened by the smile on his lips. Somehow, Mac knew the answer to his question.
"You're not leaving with me, are you, Methos?"
"No, Mac, I think I'll stay for a while." Methos looked at him. "But I'll be back home before the Summer ends."
MacLeod nodded. His Search for the next Champion had only just begun. He didn't know where that search would lead him, as he followed the path that had been set for him long before he was born. He thought back on this part of his journey which had begun three months ago, and where it had taken him. To the mountains of Austria, and the cave under the earth; to the Highlands; and the streets of Paris; to this quiet meadow in the French countryside. As with all journeys, he had learned much along the way.
It was fitting that he had begun this journey in the Spring. The season of life, of renewal, of new beginnings. Weeks ago, he had wondered how long his bonds would hold him on this earth. He looked at the young/old face beside him, alive with new hope. He thought of Cassandra, happy in her Highland cottage. And Amy, including him in the family she and Joe had made. As long as it takes. Yes, Mac thought, oh yes, as he remembered all the bonds he held dear, past and present, living and dead. As long as it takes.
THE END.
ENDNOTES:
There will be more to the story of Duncan's search for the next Champion. I hope you liked the story so far. It is continued in "When Two Lovers Woo", which is Part 3 of this series I am calling "As Time Goes By".
Somewhere in reading a vast amount of Highlander fanfic, I read that Duncan's middle name was Archibald; and that Methos had a thing for Maxine of the Andrews Sisters. These facts rang true, and credit goes to those unknown authors for these details. Maybe it was Sandra McDonald's? I'm sure there are other examples of unconscious pilfering that I don't remember. I apologize and plead homage, not plagiarism.