By Ludwig Rellstab (1799-1860)
Translated to English by Richard Morris

An enormous column of light spilled into the air above the old gothic mansion that Jacob Kell was converting to a temple devoted to his own ego. The Quickening was a huge, writhing band of energy that boiled away the clouds shrouding the sky over the East River. Joe Dawson held his breath as pure white power boiled up, deep into the boundless night, then seemed to gather in on itself and collapse to a solid spear that fell of its own massive bulk back into the building, shattering every window in the place and vibrating the area with the force of a small earthquake as it was absorbed back into the victor of this epic, tragic battle.

It was over. The stars, suddenly so clear and bright in a cloudless black sky, were an incongruously silent, peaceful backdrop to such devastation. Then Joe realized the brilliant clarity of the night sky was possible because all around them was darkness; a power failure plunged the whole area into black, and a wild cacophony of different car alarms wailed in the night.

It was over, Joe thought again. Really over. His throat was locked tight, and he could not bring himself to look at the man standing at his right. The Watcher at his left took a long breath at last.

"I know the rules, Joe, and I didn't agree with what Hale was doing, but I think we'll have to take Kell down now," he said, his voice still a little shaky after viewing the largest display of Quickening power any of them had ever seen. "I don't know how many it will take, but it's going to be a bloodbath. Unless..." the middle-aged man with the receding hairline and the hard face turned to Methos. "Unless you think you can take him. We don't know how many heads you've taken, Methos. Frankly," the man looked at his shoes and swallowed before he spoke again, but Joe had to give him credit for having guts, "I don't know if you are any better choice for this kind of power than Kell, but at least you're not an active hunter."

Joe's opinion of the new head of the Northeastern Division ratcheted up another notch. The guy didn't just have guts, he had balls the size of boulders, especially since his predecessor had just been found shot to death, caught in the act of trying to kidnap and imprison one of Methos' few known friends.

"And if I don't, do you lock me up in your new version of Sanctuary like you tried to do to MacLeod?" Methos asked quietly. When the Watcher didn't answer, Methos' mouth twisted into a tight smile. "That worked so well last time."

"If there is a next time, Methos, it will be on Holy Ground!" the man snapped. "It isn't a mistake we will make again."

"A little late for that," Methos offered quietly.

Joe was still looking away, up into the dark windows of the battered, massive structure, swallowing tears that he knew would spill eventually. It wouldn't do to break down in front of the other Watchers--not over an Immortal assignment, no matter how renowned--but it was a struggle. Mac had been so much more than his assignment. He had once told Mac that he didn't want to imagine his life without him, but here it was. It was a cold, depressing, unfathomable, even frightening, thought.

"And not necessary," Methos added.

For a moment, the noisy symphony of alarms was all Joe was aware of as his mind slowly processed Methos' odd comment within the thread of both the conversation and his own thoughts. Only then did he turn and look at the oldest Immortal. The man was huddled in his raincoat, hands stuck deep in the pockets, shoulders hunched against the evening's wet chill. Joe was almost shocked to see an unexpected, satisfied gleam in the man's eye.

"Not necessary?" Joe asked, feeling stupid.

Methos nodded towards the building they had been watching since they followed MacLeod to its location. "Helluva display. An Immortal would have to have taken, oh, six or seven hundred heads, I think."

It took a moment for the Watcher Methos had dubbed "Smith" to catch on. "Don't be ridiculous," Smith snapped. "Even with Connor's Quickening, MacLeod wasn't strong enough to take Kell!"

Methos smiled, and Joe was struck dumb, stepping towards him, almost falling until Methos caught his arm in a steadying, strong grip.

"It's not always about strength," Methos said quietly, his words intended primarily for Joe. "Kell thought he could use all that Quickening strength to simply overpower an opponent, and until tonight, he was right. But Mac has such... passion," Methos said, almost wistfully. "He's one stubborn bastard. And he had Connor with him," he added softly, looking up again at the darkened building. The car alarms had mostly been shut off or died out, but now sirens could be heard in the distance.

"I think you better get your guys in there to clean up this mess before the authorities arrive," Methos reminded the two Watchers. Joe felt too numb to respond, his face and hands tingling as he realized he was close to hyperventilating at the wild swing of emotional extremes.

Smith raised his cell phone, but paused before he used it. "I don't think I want to send any of my people in there right now. For one, I can't be sure you're right. But even if you are, we don't know how MacLeod would react to Kell's Quickening."

"He'll be alright," Methos assured him, but when the Watcher didn't move, the Immortal smiled and shook his head. "Alright, I'll go get MacLeod. You worry about whatever other mess needs to be handled and keep the authorities out until we're clear."

"Mac?" Methos knelt beside the still, huddled form. He couldn't see much in the bright beam of his flashlight, only that Mac was crumpled face down on the catwalk. The feel of MacLeod's amplified Quickening was a caustic sensation along Methos' spine, raw and powerful.

"Duncan," Methos called a little more firmly, pulling on a shoulder to roll MacLeod to his side. Blood and sweat smeared Mac's face, and his shredded shirtfront gleamed with dark liquid that dripped steadily onto the grating below.

Mac gasped, his eyes flew open, and he jerked out of Methos' grasp, slamming against the railing. "Connor?!" he shouted, his eyes scanning the darkness around them.

"It's me, Mac," Methos said, pitching his voice low and soft. He moved the flashlight so Mac could see his face. Mac just looked at him, eyes so filled with pain that neither of them could speak. At last Methos urged the battered man to his feet. "Come on, my friend. Let's get you out of here before company comes." Methos stood and pulled on Mac's arm. It took a moment, but Mac finally managed to stand, weaving unsteadily. Methos bent down, picked up the katana, and held it out, but Mac only averted his eyes, swallowing hard.

It was a slow trip down to the street, but at last they walked out through a phalanx of Watchers standing silent sentinel, eyeing the two Immortals with a mixture of awe and distrust. Joe was waiting for them in the middle of the street, and Methos didn't think he ever recalled seeing him look quite so old and frail, leaning heavily on his cane. The distant moonlight reflecting off his silver hair and beard made his face a small beacon in the dark. They stopped when they reached him, but Mac's eyes stayed focused on the ground. Joe reached out and gripped Mac's shoulder.

"I'm glad you're alive," he said gruffly.

Mac pressed his lips together and nodded, but didn't meet Joe's eyes.

"Where do you want to go?" Joe asked.

Mac closed his eyes and shook his head. "I don't know." He turned away, looking up the street. "I don't know."

"With the power down, getting anywhere is going to be a bitch," Joe said. "Why don't we get you into a car and you can just rest there until--" Mac had started walking down the street, away from the devastation he had wrought.

"It's okay, Joe. I'll stay with him," Methos murmured. An anonymous young Watcher handed over Mac's leather coat, and Methos followed his friend down the street. Then Mac stopped and turned.

"Joe," he called, and everyone on the street paused to listen. "Connor...Connor's body. I want to take him...home."

Joe nodded. "We'll see to it."

Mac jerked his head up and down. "Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Joe." Then he turned and walked away, shadowed by his friend.

They walked through the night in silence, ending up at last in Battery Park, looking out at the river, the Statue of Liberty barely visible in the low hanging mist as dawn began to lighten the sky. Finally, Mac sat on a bench, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

Methos spotted a public fountain not too far away. It took ripping a piece of his shirttail off to find something suitable to use, but he soaked the cloth and brought it back. Even though he had managed to get Mac to put on his coat, there was still blood smearing his face and neck and hands, and in the light of day the gore would draw unwelcome attention.

He wiped at Mac's forehead and cheek until the blood was mostly gone, then took each of Mac's large hands, cleaning them methodically. When he finished and looked up, he found Mac looking at him, seeing him for the first time that whole long, dreadful night.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Mac asked.

"Tell you what?" Methos responded tiredly. It seemed their conversations were always an endless round of accusation and response.

"That he had asked you about this, this Sanctuary." Mac shuddered. "You read my Chronicles. You knew how much Connor meant to me, and yet you let him do that to himself, never telling me, never giving me a chance to, to..."

"To what? Rescue him from it? Talk him out of it? He didn't want to be rescued or talked out of it. He just wanted peace. He did it more for you than anything else."

"For me?" Mac stood and went to the railing, leaning up against it, watching the gulls swoop overhead. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

Reluctantly, Methos stood, feeling the ache of exhaustion deep in his bones. They had been up too long, under too much tension, had walked too many miles. They stood together at the rail in silence for a moment. "He felt he only had two choices. He could go to Sanctuary, or let someone take his head, and the only one he would trust or want to do that was you." He turned to Mac, watching the familiar, hard, set profile, the square jaw darkened with stubble. "And he knew you would refuse, that you wouldn't understand."

"Well, now that sounds familiar," Mac said bitterly. "He knew. Just like you knew I wouldn't understand, wouldn't trust you, if you simply told me the truth," Mac snapped, rounding on the other man. "Everyone seems so sure they know how I'll react that they just make my decisions for me, so that I don't know anything until it's too late. That's bullshit! All I have ever asked is that you be honest with me. I would have struggled, I certainly would have objected--but I would have understood, Methos."

Mac closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then the angry set of his mouth softened, and his shoulders slumped as if under a heavy weight. "If I had known he was in that much trouble, I would have at least had the opportunity to talk to him, to tell him that there is always hope--to convince him not to abandon his life. He was my family! I should have been there when he needed someone. After all that's happened, Methos, you of all people should have known that."

Methos closed his eyes at the unwelcome, wrenching vision of Mac, on his knees, offering up his katana and begging Methos to take his head. But Mac had pulled himself back from that abyss, too. "He asked me not to tell anyone, especially you." Methos provided the only real defense he had. He took a long breath, then added, almost to himself, "I wish I had, anyway." He looked out over the water. "Maybe, together, you would have found a way to figure out what Kell was doing and stop him before things got as far as they did. We'll never know."

When silence was the only response, Methos looked over. Mac was breathing shallowly, carefully. His face had gone stark white, as though Methos' acknowledgement of Mac's righteous indignation had drained away any energy left, leaving only the empty agony of guilt, grief, and exhaustion. Methos steered him quickly to the nearest sidewalk and hailed a cab.

The trip to Methos' hotel seemed endless, even though traffic was relatively light in the early morning. They stepped into the tiny elevator to the Waldorf Towers, and Methos hoped the smiling operator, in her navy uniform with the gold buttons and the pristine white cotton gloves, was not examining the two men very closely. As it was, Mac smelled strongly of blood and sweat and a lingering sharp tang of ozone.

He let them into the small suite, noted that his message light was flashing, and decided to ignore it. Mac just went to the window and stood looking out over 51st Street toward 5th Avenue and the beautiful Byzantine church that stood on the corner. Methos pulled the leather coat off Mac's shoulders, then retrieved a bottle of orange juice from the mini-bar, opened it, and put it in Mac's hand. "Drink it," he instructed.

Mac looked at the bottle for a moment, took a breath, swallowed convulsively, took another breath, then swallowed several long gulps of the juice. He stopped, his face almost green, his eyes shut tight; for a minute Methos thought Mac was going to be violently ill, but after a few seconds he took another breath, and then swallowed more juice.

"If you'll give me your hotel key, I'll have your things brought over so you can change." Methos opened the closet and pulled out the hotel-provided terrycloth robe. "In the meantime, you can shower and put this on."

Mac just stood, staring sightlessly out the window, his grip on the orange juice bottle dangerously tight.

Methos dropped the robe on the couch, his attempts at practical comforts forgotten as he realized that Mac needed desperately to let go or he would fly apart. Methos had taken powerful Quickenings in his long, long life, but none that could quite compare with Kell's--a man already poised to take the Prize, not by skill or intelligence or cunning, but by sheer force and will. Piling that on top of Connor's--Mac's teacher, his clansman, his brother, a man who was himself considered a serious contender in their genocidal Game--Methos could only speculate about what was going on inside Mac's brain and body.

Methos stood behind his friend for a moment, then rested his hands on tight, tense shoulders. "What do you need, Mac?" he asked softly.

Mac seemed to gather himself a little, finished off the rest of the orange juice, then meticulously set the empty bottle on the windowsill. "I need for Connor not to be dead," he whispered. "I need not to have that son of a bitch's Quickening burning through my guts. I need to go back in time almost three hundred years and not kill a woman I loved just so I wouldn't have to face her growing old and leaving me forever. I need..." but he was choking on the words now and didn't go on.

Methos gently turned his friend and pulled him into his arms. Mac's hands came up, grasping at his shirt, crumpling it tight as if he didn't know what to do with the comfort being offered. "I didn't want this," Mac gasped. "Not any of it. Not the prophecy, not Ahriman, not all...this," he added, looking at his hands as though he could see the energy surging through his system. "A long time ago," he said softly, "I loved an Indian woman who believed in reincarnation, that unless she lived a good life, her subsequent lives would suffer for her failures. She died for her belief. Do you suppose that's true? That I did something horrible in a previous life?" he asked in a strained whisper, as though afraid someone would overhear.

Methos rubbed his hands softly up and down Mac's arms in an instinctive attempt to soothe. "There's an old axiom, you know. That to avoid the corruption of real power, it should only be granted to those who have no desire for it."

Mac's harsh chuckle had nothing of humor in it. "You mean the more I don't want to kill, the more I'll have to? There's a thought. I guess I've been going about it all wrong all these centuries."

"You act according to your nature, Mac. You always have. The world is a better place for it, even if you have had to deal with an unfair burden of grief in the process."

Mac turned away, seeming uncomfortable with Methos' sympathy. "So what happens now? Do they lock me up, warehouse me like a frozen pot roast against the day someone else reaches for the Prize? Or does everyone start coming for me?"

"I honestly don't know," Methos answered. "I think Joe will try to keep the Watchers away, and you've been an active player and a target now for a decade or more, so I doubt that much would change."

"What if I want it to change? What if I want it to stop?"

Methos knew his friend didn't want to hear the answer to that question.

"You need sleep, Mac. You need time to let this settle."

The phone rang, and both men started at the noise.

"Pierson," Methos answered gruffly.

"Is he okay?" Joe asked without preamble.

Methos had to pause and take a breath to keep from snapping back an ugly reply. "We're working on it."

Joe waited for more, but Methos had nothing else to say. Not everything was Watcher business.

"Okay," Joe finally sighed. "We've got Connor's body. We have our own people in the Coroner's Office, as well as our own mortuary, so all the paperwork will be kosher. I checked, and the first flight to Scotland we can get the casket on is to Glasgow this afternoon, but I wasn't sure..."

The receiver was taken out of Methos' hand. "Do it," Mac instructed, apparently having heard Joe's comments. "And get me a ticket on the same flight and have transportation meet us at the airport, prepared for a drive to Glencoe. I'll make the arrangements from there."

"Mac?"

"Yeah."

"I'm really sorry about Connor. I wish..."

"I know, Joe. Me, too." Mac paused for a moment. "Are they going to come after me, now?" he asked. There was a long, pregnant pause. "Well, Joe?"

"An emergency meeting of all the regional directors has been called for tomorrow in Paris. I'm supposed to be there."

"I won't let them take me again. Not without a fight," his voice was low and hard.

"I'll tell them."

"You do that!" Mac snapped, his face suddenly twisted with anger. He slammed down the receiver, stared at it for a second, then picked it up and threw it against the wall with a shouted curse. Not content with that, he yanked out the cord and heaved the phone across the room, then looked around as though searching for something else to break.

"Feel better?" Methos asked.

Mac glared at him, and Methos clamped down on any further thoughts of needling him as the hairs on his arms rose in reaction to a sudden change of air pressure, or ions, or some unidentified sensation that set off a clamor of warning bells in his head, and he was vividly reminded of just why the Watchers were having their emergency meeting. He almost backed a couple of steps towards the coat he had hung in the closet, where both swords were stored.

"Yes! ...No." Mac closed his eyes and his fists, and took a deep breath. "Sorry," he added, and the ominous sense of threat dissipated. "What...what time is it?"

Methos warily glanced at his watch. "It's only around 7:30, Mac. You've got..."

"That means it's afternoon in Scotland. I need to call, to make some arrangements..." He looked around the room, apparently realizing with a slow flush of color that he had just destroyed the phone.

"There's another phone in the bedroom, but I think you need to shower and rest, and--" but Mac had headed to the bedroom on a single-minded track, focused on the practical issues of transportation and logistics, no doubt a preferable preoccupation to anything else he might be feeling or thinking.

Methos felt like a cross between a babysitter and a camp follower as he hovered all day, making his own arrangements by cell phone, catching quick naps in chairs as he eventually escorted Mac back to his own hotel, where Mac took a perfunctory shower, changed his clothes, packed, and checked out. Then they took a cab to the site of Connor's long-vacant building, denuded now even of the boards that had previously covered the windows. They slipped under the police tape cordoning off the area, and Methos waited while Mac wandered through the sodden, burned out shell, kicking at the debris. Methos didn't bother asking why they were there, or what Mac was looking for.

The several stories had burned through after the Quickening--was it only a week or two before? The fire had left charred timbers stabbing up from the floor and out from the bricks and mortar that held the outer shell together. The lingering strong smell of burned wood made Methos' eyes water, so he waited near the frame of the front door, watching as MacLeod stepped around and through the black puddles of water, glass, and debris. How he managed to hone in on what he was seeking was a mystery, but after a while, Mac pushed at a pile of tumbled timbers, reaching in between fallen floorboards to draw out a long, blackened metal object. He brought it out of the shadows of Connor's demolished home, and with preoccupied reverence, wiped away the gooey grime with a handkerchief.

It was an ancient claymore, over a meter long. As Mac wiped away the black soot, deeply etched letters appeared across the pommel in old Celtic script spelling out "MacLeod." Methos looked up from the blade and met Mac's eyes before Mac turned away, again unable to accept his friend's sympathy or consolation.

Mac slipped the claymore inside his coat, picked up his bags, and went to the street to flag down a cab. Again Methos trailed behind. He had stopped trying to have any conversations with the bullheaded Scot. As for why he felt compelled to play nursemaid, he had only to recall Mac's voice echoing in that dark cavern of a submarine base in Bordeaux as Cassandra hovered over him, the huge axe in her hands ready to fall. ‘I want him to live!' Mac had roared, past exhaustion, past patience, past rationality. By sheer will, Mac had imbued him with his own need, his own passion for life. Not just survival, but life.

And ever since, Methos had been listening to that voice urging him on to life, so that at Mac's darkest moment in the deepest pit of his own hell, when he had begged Methos on his knees to take his head, Methos had turned away in shock and disbelief, leaving Mac to find his way back to sanity, to life, on his own. Which, of course, he did, overcoming a very real and tangible power of despair and anger arising straight from humanity's universal shared racial nightmare. The child of prophecy, indeed.

It took him a while to realize he had done something utterly contrary to all his years of experience, all his knowledge about the best and worst of human nature. He had deluded himself, had allowed MacLeod's charisma to blind him to his humanity and vulnerability, when it was his humanity that set him so very much apart from other contenders in their all-too-inhuman Game.

Now Mac had been forced to kill his own teacher, his brother, and had used their joined power and passion to defeat Jacob Kell. Had he not, it seemed inevitable that Methos, however reluctantly, would eventually have faced that monster. Would he have prevailed? Methos had no idea. He only knew he wouldn't walk away from MacLeod again, not when that asshole O'Rourke played on Mac's vulnerabilities like a virtuoso, and not now, when Mac was so clearly doing everything in his power to avoid thinking, feeling, dealing with what he had done.

Time began to pass in increments of forgotten boredom and intense, stark clarity as exhaustion forced his mind to concentrate only on the absolute essentials: getting on the plane and keeping MacLeod from making a nuisance and spectacle of himself. The man seemed unable to sit for more than thirty minutes at a time throughout the interminable flight, constantly standing and pacing in the small galley or bathroom areas, or simply leaning against a bulkhead, dark and brooding, bruised eyes sunk deep into their sockets.

Dealing with customs in the wee hours of the morning, even with all their documentation for the weapons, took time and patience that was running short for both men. The Watchers had taken care of offloading the coffin into a hearse, but Mac insisted on standing by and supervising while Methos went off to rent a car.

Following the long, black hearse north from Glasgow, along the A82 that bordered Loch Lomond, was a beautiful drive, but Mac let the scenery go by unremarked. Mac drove, of course, and as tired as Methos was, he was unable to relax. Even so, he dozed periodically, jerking awake from time to time for no discernable reason. Mac's conversation was limited to asking if he was hungry or needed to go the bathroom when they eventually stopped for gas at Glencoe.

Only a quarter hour or so out of Glencoe, Mac sped up and surged around the hearse, signaling for the driver to follow. A mile or two further on, he turned off the highway onto a barely marked track, slowing considerably as the poor excuse for a road eventually disappeared altogether, and they continued on over the rocky ground and up a steep hillside. At last Mac stopped and turned off the engine, and the hearse pulled in beside them.

Methos heaved a sigh of relief at the sudden cessation of noise and movement, and stepped out into the welcome sunshine of a relatively mild winter afternoon. The cool wind sweeping over the rocky emerald hills shook him out of his sleep-deprived stupor, and he walked to the nearest hilltop, looking out over a lovely little valley, empty now of all but a few boulders that might once have been the foundation for a home. On the other side, a long wave of hills stretched to the horizon towards the rocky coast.

At his feet was one lone headstone. "Heather MacLeod, Beloved Wife of Connor" was roughly carved into the stone, the letters weathered and worn through four centuries of exposure to the elements. Neatly carved below was now "Connor MacLeod, Beloved Husband of Heather."

It took another hour for the two men and Mac and Methos to get the plain, elegant coffin muscled a little further up the hill, then dig a home for it in front of the headstone already in the ground. Mac did most of the digging himself, coat thrown off, somehow managing not to muss his white turtleneck shirt as he grimly shoveled out scoop after scoop of hard, rocky earth while the two Watchers traded off working at the exhausting task

Several feet down they found evidence of human remains: a portion of a skull, a partial leg bone, and a plain silver ring. Mac carefully set them aside, then deepened the grave a little more to accommodate the depth and width of Connor MacLeod's coffin.

"Enough," Methos finally said, when Mac's continued shoveling seemed more for avoidance than anything else. Mac stopped and looked up at him, his face flushed and sweaty from the effort. He pressed his lips together, took a long breath, then nodded, reaching up a hand. Methos took it, bracing himself as Mac used his leverage to climb out of the trench.

Mac put his coat back on and returned briefly to the car, coming back with Connor's sword. Then with a few terse instructions, he and the two Watchers broke the seal on the coffin, raising the lid one last time.

Mac blanched, swallowed, and went down on one knee, reaching in to touch the fine white linen shirt with the high neck and flowing lace at the collar. The material hid the damage that had caused his final death, and Methos silently thanked the Watchers. Dressing Connor in his clan colors had been a thoughtful last tribute to a great man. No doubt the sensitivity had been Dawson's.

Mac placed the remains they had found in the grave inside the coffin, then lay the ancient MacLeod sword on Connor's breast, pressing the silver ring they had found into his teacher's palm before folding Connor's hands gently over the hilt.

"You are with her again at last, my brother," Mac whispered. "Godspeed."

He stood, taking one long, last look at the handsome, powerful figure of a man, lean face gentle in repose, a man from a different time, a time before all the pain and loss and conflict that had so darkened his life, and which ultimately brought him to its end. Methos had known Connor only briefly, and long after those first happy decades had evolved to centuries of loneliness and loss. The Connor MacLeod he had known had held his pain close, unwilling to open his heart or to share his grief with those who cared about him. He watched as Mac gently closed the cover and stepped back, allowing the two Watchers to reseal the lid.

The four of them lowered the coffin into the grave, then Mac solemnly thanked the two men, shaking their hands, then watching as they got into the hearse and drove away.

Mac's shoulders slumped as he looked down into the open grave. Methos slipped off his coat. "Let me." Mac looked up at him in defiance for a moment, but Methos deliberately took the spade out of Mac's hand and waved him back. Putting dirt in was a lot easier than digging it out, but it was still hard physical labor, and in a few minutes Methos was sweating and grunting with every shovel full.

"Here," Mac finally said impatiently, grabbing the second spade the men had brought and taking over once again.

Methos stood back, brushing his hands off. "Mac, you are being irrational and compulsive, you know that, don't you?"

The taciturn man refused to answer, and at last Methos retreated to the car to wait until Mac made it through whatever rite of passage he was traveling.

Mac felt the sweat gathering again on his body, already sticky and itchy from his long trip and his previous exertions, but moving kept him from thinking. If he stopped, even for a minute, the future yawned before him like a bottomless black pit, so he just kept going. After a few minutes he realized Methos had disappeared, for which he was grateful. The man had hovered around him too long, watching him as though he expected Mac to go on some killing rampage at the drop of a hat.

He kept moving, shoveling the loose dirt back into the dark, deep hole that was Connor's final resting-place.

Not too surprising that Methos would be wary. Yet as understandable as it might be, it was depressing to be feared by the very people he cared about the most.

Mac could feel the Quickenings roiling inside like the remnants of a bad meal. His perceptions constantly played tricks on him, telescoping eerily from the tiniest detail to the grandest panorama of perceptions, from the heartbeat of the Watchers who helped him bury Connor, to the sense of weather that told him that the unusual winter warmth would hold for a few days. It was what had guided him to find Connor's original sword. He had just known. And he knew he should be tired beyond any capacity to keep moving, but there seemed to be some well of power still there to draw on. It wasn't physical energy in the usual sense, but it would serve his purposes for now, for as long as he could keep it going. Then maybe he would just shut down. It was a welcome thought.

There. The dirt was filled in, packed down. He smoothed the surface, brushing some soil off of the headstone. At last there was no more to be done. Reluctantly he put aside the spade and slowly pulled on his jacket. He turned in a circle, scanning the landscape. It felt so familiar, and yet so alien. He was not the same person he had been when Connor had found him in this land so long ago, taught him what he was. More than that--taught him what he could be.

He turned and faced the headstone at last, reading the words carved there. "I hope you found peace, my friend," he whispered, in part to the grave before him, in part to the spirit and energy that had found a home in his own body. The chill wind picked up, cooling his sweat-dampened flesh. One last time, he turned and looked down into the small valley where Connor had spent his happiest years, perhaps his only really happy years, so very long ago.

Enough, he decided. He had to face what lay ahead, not dwell on what lay behind. He forced his aching shoulders square and headed over the hill towards Methos waiting in the car below.

Methos was in the driver's seat. Mac paused for a moment, irritated at the man's presumption. But he knew he'd been difficult--he just hadn't cared. Maybe he should start caring. He swallowed his anger and got in the passenger side, handing over the keys without comment.

Dusk had begun to blur the landscape by the time they pulled to a stop. Mac looked around. He had been too preoccupied with his thoughts to pay attention to where they were going, but had been under the vague impression they would head back to Glencoe for the night, then drive back to Glasgow in the morning. Instead they had parked in front of a familiar old two-story whitewashed building with a few deserted wooden picnic tables in front.

"What the hell are we doing here?" Mac asked roughly, even though he knew the answer.

"It's called sleeping, MacLeod," Methos drawled, stretching with a grimace as he climbed slowly out of the car. "You ought to try it sometime." He looked over, but Mac sat motionless in the car. Methos leaned down, looking into the open driver's side window. "Mac, it's familiar. It's comfortable. It's close, and right now, it's private. Now you can stay in the bloody car if you want, but I'm going to go inside and have a pint or three." He pulled his luggage out of the boot and trudged inside.

Mac leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. He didn't want to go in. He didn't want warmth. He didn't need sympathy, and he truly didn't need to be reminded of all the failures in his life, represented by his father's claymore on display in Rachel MacLeod's pub and inn.

"Duncan?"

He looked up into Rachel MacLeod's concerned brown eyes, and his heart lurched. Damn. That kind of caring had more power to break him than the hardest blow.

"Aren't you coming in?" She opened the door herself, held out her small hand, and smiled at him. "I was so excited when Adam called and said you would be here tonight."

Mac forced himself to crawl out of the car. Rachel stood on tiptoe to hug him, and he found his hands at her tiny waist, painfully aware of how very small and frail and mortal she was, as though if he hugged back, she would be crushed. So he just gave her a gentle squeeze, bent down to kiss her on the cheek, and pulled away.

"Och, you feel like a porcupine," she teased, rubbing her hand on Mac's several days' worth of stubble. "And your hair! You've cut your beautiful hair!" she protested.

"Time for a change," Mac responded.

Rachel just gave him a long look, then stepped back. "Adam asked that I close the pub tonight. He said that you'd like it to yourselves." She turned and went to the open boot, pulling out Mac's luggage until Mac was compelled to move to take it from her, then follow her inside. "Old Mandy MacDougal had to be shoved out the door, cursing all the way, but the place is empty," she said, pushing through the ancient wooden door into the pub's dark interior.

Methos was already seated, a draft stout sitting in front of him, one-third empty now. A second full glass was at the table.

"I'm going to bring you boys some food, then I've got to, uh, run some errands," Rachel added. Mac could feel her eyes on him as she retreated to the small kitchen area behind the bar. As always, Rachel knew what was needed with an unerring instinct and acceptance.

Mac dropped his luggage at the bottom of the stairs and forced his feet to keep moving, settling into the hard chair across from Methos. His eyes automatically avoided the enormous blade on display on the heavy oak pillar in the center of the room. "I would have preferred to head back towards Glasgow," he grumbled. He picked up the pint of stout. It was heavy in his hand, but the bitter, dark taste felt good in his mouth and throat.

Methos shrugged, offering neither apology nor explanation.

A few minutes later, Rachel brought them enormous sandwiches on hard, crusty rolls, setting the heavy plates down, then standing with her hands on her hips, her gaze wandering back and forth between the two silent, tense men before she sighed and wiped her hands on her apron, reaching around back to untie it. "You two are always in some bit o' trouble, aren't ya?" she asked rhetorically, shaking her head. She reached out for a second, resting her hand on Mac's head, then letting it trail down to his cheek. "Well, if you need aught, just take it, Duncan. This place is as much yours as mine, maybe more." She leaned over and kissed him gently on the cheek, and Mac couldn't resist trapping her hand in his own and brushing his lips across her temple.

Then she was gone, and the door closed and locked behind her.

Mac looked at the sandwich, part of him knowing he needed to eat, but his insides clenched at the thought. He took a sip of his drink instead, watching as Methos devoured the food on his plate with obvious relish.

Then he pushed his plate away, washing the last bite down with a long gulp from the nut-brown liquid in his glass, and sat back, examining him with that all-knowing, speculative gaze that Mac had always associated with some imminent sarcastic observation.

"What now?" Mac asked, in a preemptive strike.

"What now?" Methos parroted. "Well," he said, pushing himself out of his chair, picking up his glass, and crossing over behind the bar, "I'm going to have another pint." He expertly filled his glass and returned, sitting with a sigh, then sipping at his drink.

"Has Joe called about his meeting in Paris?"

"Now why would Joe call me about that?"

"You were a Watcher, Methos. You're their ace-in-the-hole, right? You keep an eye on me until they decide whether it's time to take me down?"

"Is that why you think I've been following you around?" Methos frowned at his glass.

"I think it's one of the reasons. Maybe it's the reason they haven't already tried to kill or kidnap me, because they figure as long as you're close, they can bide their time on making a decision about it."

"You really believe I give a rat's ass about what they think?"

Mac closed his eyes, knowing that words were coming out of his mouth before they had worked through his brain, that what he was feeling and thinking seemed to have slipped into some dark realm of disconnected, random, irrational fears. Even so, his mind and his body had some singular goal in mind, some action, some absolutely essential truth to be forced into the open, like cracking open a geode, displaying the dark, jagged crystals inside a smooth, formless rock.

"Aren't you their pet Immortal, now?" Mac snapped. "Sent in to see if I was still sane, perhaps to take my head if I wasn't?

Methos shook his head in disgust. "Enough. If that's what you think, I'm outta here," he stood, threw down his paper napkin, and reached for the coat he had draped over the back of the chair.

"Not so fast." Mac found himself on his feet before he realized he had moved, and his chair fell back with a loud clatter.

Methos froze, and Mac felt the discordant power that surged inside him move and stir, like a wakening beast. The feeling in the room changed, as though the air pressure had suddenly, precipitously fallen to dangerous levels, and a storm was imminent.

"It's time to stop dancing around it, Methos," Mac said, his voice rough and almost unrecognizable even to his own ears. "It's going to happen eventually. If you're going to take me, it would be better to do it now, don't you think?"

"No. I don't. Mac, I don't know what the hell..."

With a negligent flip of his hand, Mac sent the table and its contents flying to the wall, the glasses shattering on the floor, spilling beer in a wide arc across the room, its acrid smell filling the air.

"Stop it, Mac. You don't even have a blade! You're just exhausted and grief struck. Now, calm down and--"

"Who says I even need a blade anymore?" Mac growled, stepping closer, forcing Methos to backpedal. Mac paused a fraction of a second, allowing the other Immortal time to reach his coat and pull out his broadsword. The sight of Methos holding the big blade defensively in two hands was oddly welcome, and a tiny bit of the unbearable pain that had taken up permanent lodging between his shoulder blades eased. "After all," he added with a deliberately provocative sneer, "I'm supposed to be the last one, right? The Solstice Child? The Child of Prophecy. The Champion? Killer of Demons? Everything pre-ordained from the moment of my birth?"

He deliberately turned his back, his soft-soled shoes silent on the dark, stained wood floor as he crossed to the clan sword on proud display. He reached up, gently touching the hilt in remembrance. Then he closed his hand around the pommel, feeling the weight as he pulled it off the wall. It seemed fitting that this particular battle be waged with the sword of the man who had first declared him demon.

Methos gripped his blade with both hands, willing his heart to slow from its near-panicked pace. He could feel the power raging through MacLeod, a wild, barely controlled surge of energy. Mac had skirted the edge of sanity so many times, but had always pulled himself back from that crevasse. Methos refused to consider the possibility that the power of Kell's and Connor's Quickenings might have finally pushed him over. He waited for whatever was bedeviling Mac to be revealed, watching as he glided over the floor, his big hand briefly touching the hilt of the old claymore like a benediction before he lifted it off the wall, then took it in both hands.

Methos lowered his blade to his side and deliberately slumped, making himself smaller, inconsequential, unthreatening. "Mac, I don't want to fight you. That's not why I'm here, and you know that."

Mac turned, straightening his shoulders. "It doesn't matter," he said softly. "This has to be done." With a sweeping wave of his hand, the dozen small tables in the pub clattered to the floor and skittered all the way to the walls, clearing a space.

Oh, shit. Methos' thoughts blanked for a moment. The incremental effect of cumulative Quickenings on an Immortal's speed and strength and agility was usually so gradual that it was barely noticeable, but then, he had never known anyone to take such tremendous power all at once--all the power of Connor MacLeod, who had taken the Kurgan, plus all the power of Joseph Kell, who by sheer dint of numbers was the unquestioned leader in the Game. Who knew what else could be achieved with that kind of wattage? Methos hoped he wasn't about to find out.

"Mac, please. Don't--" He had no more time to attempt rational discourse as the claymore cut through the air with a low musical thrum. Methos instinctively responded, and he danced back, blocking the blow high, but feeling his whole frame sting with the vibration.

In five thousand years, few battles actually were memorable, most blurring into an indecipherable morass of images of blood and pain and exhaustion, of anger and blood lust, of despair and grief. But here he was, trapped in a locked room with an Immortal whose power, strength, and fighting ability perhaps matched his own. Perhaps--Methos used his agility to dance around the tavern's thick oak posts, putting an obstacle in MacLeod's path--perhaps even exceeded it.

That point was brought home with a searing trail of agony across his back as Mac anticipated his diving roll across the floor to seek cover in the clutter of tables and chairs and raked his sword from Methos' shoulder to waist.

Then all he was aware of was that huge blade humming in the air, slicing at him again and again, relentlessly. He defended, parried, twisted his body, danced in and around every obstacle he could find, and still Mac kept coming, his face frozen in cold, determined concentration. No anger, no rage or lust or hunger, just set, hard steel in his eye and his jaw.

Methos' heart automatically kicked into a long-recognized pattern, slowing, conserving his strength. His breaths became deep and regular, and his mind settled into that emotionally vacant, analytical space that swept away any consideration other than the simple will to survive. There seemed to be no doubt that Mac was using every last bit of strength and skill he had, and even some new ones not previously known.

Mac moved a little differently, slipping into position in the blink of an eye, making it difficult to anticipate the next blow. Methos dug a little deeper, and with a quick and aggressive series of blows, he managed to press MacLeod up against the thick oak door of the pub, but instead of allowing himself to be trapped, Mac pushed against the old wood, using both his body and some other force Methos couldn't really identify. With a wrenching, splintering crack, the door shuddered and gave way, and they stumbled out into the yard, each of them now a scarlet collage of deep cuts. For just a second, Mac backpedaled, off balance, and Methos pounced, trapping him onto one of the wooden picnic tables at the front of the inn, pressing the claymore back and over Mac's head, both of them trembling with strain.

Mac pulled once again from that reservoir, one he had never realized existed, but now knew had been there all along. His arms were shaking with the effort, but slowly he pushed, forcing Methos back, their eyes locking in a battle of wills as well as strength and skill. Then Methos' strength held, and their positions locked. Impasse. Their eyes met, and Mac felt a brief flash of gratitude and almost triumph when he saw the grim determination in Methos' eyes. The man was not pulling his punches, was not trying to protect him.

But with a whoosh of expelled breath, suddenly Methos pushed away and jammed his broadsword deep into the earth. "Fuck you, MacLeod!"

Mac surged up, grabbed Methos by the collar, and shoved him hard up against the building, the edge of the claymore teasing the white skin at his neck. "You think I won't do it?" he rasped. "I will, you know. Eventually."

"Why?" Methos asked, lifting his chin in cool defiance. "Because it's been written in the stars? It's your Des-ti-ny?" he spat. "That's what this is about, isn't it? Connor added his voice to the chorus saying you had to be the Last One?" Methos watched Mac's face in a combination of pity and disgust, and Mac couldn't keep the anguish bottled up anymore.

"Fight me, God damn you!" Mac yanked Methos off the wall and threw him towards his blade.

Methos stood his ground. "You need to know if you can be beaten, and you figure if anybody can, it's me. Well, anybody on any given day can be beaten, MacLeod." He yanked the broadsword out of the ground, and with a quick twist of a wrist that had been handling blades for ten times MacLeod's lifetime, flicked the blade into the air, caught it, and hurled it like a javelin. Mac twisted, lifting his sword to deflect the missile. While the combination of moves managed to avoid a fatal stab to the chest, the long blade pierced his side and dug deep into the wall behind him.

"Are you so sure?" Mac gasped. He grasped the sword that pinned him like an insect and pulled. It cost him more blood as the sharp edges sliced deep into his hands, but at last the blade came free with a jerk, and he gasped in pain. He wavered for a minute, then stood, dropping his own heavy blade to the grass, and took possession of Methos' familiar broadsword. He took a deep, uneven breath as the wound healed almost instantly, leaving another bloody rip in the white sweater. "Now you don't even have a blade." He stalked Methos once again, and Methos danced back, putting the wooden table between them.

"Yes," Methos nodded slowly. "I am sure." The throwing knife that he produced from the folds of his clothes whipped through the air. It was clearly only intended to be a distraction as Methos dove over the table and rolled, taking up the claymore in both hands. Mac just negligently batted the throwing knife away, but now both men were armed once more.

"How much stronger was Kell?" Methos asked, circling back around the table. "And you defeated him because of a drive that had nothing to do with strength."

"You're only making it worse, Methos," Mac replied. "I shouldn't have been able to defeat Kell, but I did. I shouldn't have been able to defeat Grayson, but I did. I shouldn't have been able to defeat Kronos, but I did." He lunged, then feinted to the right, drawing Methos out, only to feint back again to the left, slicing low. If Methos hadn't pushed himself past his normal limits, he would have had his hamstrings sliced open, crippling him.

"Oh, you're good, Mac," Methos stepped back, disengaging for the moment. "I'll give you that. And you're a contender for the Prize, nobody would deny that. But nothing is written," Methos insisted. "I've been alive for five thousand years, MacLeod. And yes, history makes men, but that does not mean that any individual is pre-ordained to any fate. And...that," Methos suddenly attacked, swinging the heavy sword and forcing Mac back and back again, "includes...you!"

Methos swirled, slamming the claymore from the left with all his strength, then daring to move in close in the split second of unexpected numbness in Mac's grip afterwards, using the momentum of his body to jam his hilt straight into Mac's face. Mac's head snapped back, and he almost blacked out, toppling over. Some remnant of self-preservation made him roll to his side, and he tried to push himself up again, but his arms gave out, and he crumpled back to the ground, giving Methos time and opportunity to plant a boot on his chest and hold the tip of the claymore to MacLeod's throat.

"Checkmate, MacLeod," Methos gasped.

If it weren't for the blinding pain in his face, Mac might have smiled in admiration. Fighting a man with his own weapon carried a certain risk--such as your opponent knowing a blade's weaknesses as well as its strengths.

Mac rolled, not really caring about the sword tip raking a long cut across his chest. It was an ugly, wobbly scramble, but he managed to make it to his feet, broadsword in hand. He reached up to wipe away the blood flowing down his cheek and felt jagged bone poking through the flesh. But already he could feel the burning tingle of healing, the bones realigning under his skin.

Methos shook his head with a tired, breathless laugh. "You are relentless. Just too fucking stubborn. No wonder Kell lost; probably decapitated himself in sheer exasperation." He looked up at the sky for a minute, his jaw clenched tight, then focused on the battered, bloodied man still poised to do battle. "What do you want from me, Mac?" he finally asked, lowering the heavy claymore and leaning on it to catch his breath. "To tell you that you won't be the last one? That you won't have to kill all the people you care about? That's not up to me."

Mac could only see Methos' outline in the deepening night. "I think the question is whether it's up to anyone. Anyone at all. Even me." The words felt like they had to be dragged up out of the same dark hole in which he had buried Connor.

Methos stepped backward several steps, until the backs of his knees met the bench of the nearest picnic table, and sat with a tired, frustrated sigh. "I don't have a crystal ball, Mac. I learned long ago to take life one day at a time, to concentrate on the here and now. To dwell on all the dire future possibilities or on a past that is chock full of regret is a sure path to where Connor is right now." He laid his sword across his knees and leaned back with his elbows on the table behind him, looking too tired to continue. "Just tell me this, MacLeod. Do you want to live?"

Mac searched for an answer, but couldn't seem to find one. He felt trapped, frozen in a defensive stance, broadsword held at the ready in both hands.

"Mac?"

His arms were trembling with fatigue, and he let the sword descend at last. Mac shuffled to the bench, sitting heavily.

Methos waited.

"Not at the expense of everyone I care about," Mac finally replied.

"That doesn't really answer my question. Now. Today. Do you want to live?"

MacLeod grasped the hilt of the old broadsword, its tip sunk into the earth between his knees, and leaned his forehead on his hands for a long moment as his breath slowed, and the quiet of the night enveloped them. He was so afraid of saying the words, that saying them out loud might just make them true. "I'm so afraid, Methos," he whispered. "Of seeing all the people I care about die. Worse, of being responsible for their deaths. I just thought if I could push you, you might..." He ran out of air, out of energy, out of anger.

"...actually beat you," Methos finished the thought for him. "Thereby proving that you are not destined to take the Prize." He shook his head and added with a low growl, "I can only hope you assumed that I would choose not to actually take your head." Methos took a long, deep breath and blew it out hard. "I don't know if I can beat you at this particular moment, Mac. But like I said, anyone can be beaten. Even me. Even you."

It wasn't precisely what he had been after, and didn't carry with it the certainty he had been seeking, but it was enough. Or perhaps that well of energy had finally run dry, leaving him empty. They sat in silence for a long moment, their slowing breaths fogging the damp air.

"Duncan," Methos said softly, breaking the quiet at last, "I know you loved Connor, admired him. But what he did to you was horribly cruel. It was also the only choice he felt he had if he wanted you to live. Feeling angry and betrayed and guilty is all perfectly understandable. Those emotions need to be recognized for what they are, not taken out on me, or even on yourself." Methos shook his head tiredly. "I'm not telling you anything you don't already know. But sometimes what we know in our heads and what we feel in our hearts are two very different things."

If Mac had had any energy at all, he would have laughed. How many times had Methos acted against his own best interests, followed his heart instead of his head, just since they had known each other? When Mac finally spoke, his words had lost all their anger, all their energy, but they were the truth. "I don't want to end up like Connor, Methos. I don't want to lose hope."

"Then you do want to live, don't you?"

Mac nodded, but then realized Methos probably couldn't see the small movement in the dark. "Aye. I guess I do."

Methos slumped, letting his head hang down in relief. "Well, I'm glad we've gotten that out of the way, at least. You know, Mac, there is one advantage to all this."

"And that is?"

"Kell took out a lot of the active hunters and scared a lot of others into hiding. If you put the word out that anyone who hunted was likely to be the object of your active disapproval...who knows what might happen? The Gathering itself might slow. Might even stop."

"I'm not an enforcer," Mac snapped. "Not anymore. Besides, you think anyone actually has any control over that?"

"Never know until you try. And could you really stand by and do nothing while the Gathering decimated our ranks? It's never been in your nature, Mac. Maybe you could usher in a little bit of peace, for all of us. It would be a hell of a legacy for Connor, wouldn't it?" He pushed himself to his feet with a groan. "But speaking of threats, Rachel is going to have both our hides if we don't try to clean up this mess." He turned and held his hand out. After a moment, Mac took it and let Methos pull him to his feet, then they both shuffled tiredly towards the pub. "Although, by rights, I should make you do it all." Methos paused, and turned, his voice taking on a hard edge. "And if you ever use me for sword bait again, MacLeod, I might take your head just for the hell of it."

"You and what army?" Mac responded in a lame effort at humor.

"Seriously, Mac," Methos added as they set aside the blades and attempted to shut the inn's door, even though the ancient latch was shattered past repair, "I won't be used like that."

Mac maneuvered the door and its one working hinge back into place, his own latent resentment rising over the many times Methos had pushed him into unwanted and dangerous corners. "Join the club."

The two men's eyes locked. Their history lay thick between them, relatively brief, but intense and frequently contentious; instead of a barrier, suddenly it seemed a bond as deep as any Methos had ever known. Each had laid bare his soul before the other in a way seldom seen among their kind, where so much history usually provided impenetrable emotional armor.

Methos shook himself, tempted to let all the bitter words lodged in the back of his throat leak through that weakened armor; but they were too tired and too strung out to have such emotionally laden conversations without inflicting more damage than could be borne right now. Instead he reached to pick up chairs and right the tables that were clustered against the wall. After a moment, Mac joined him, every movement slow and considered, as though he had to consciously think about and instruct each muscle involved in the task.

Methos righted the last table, putting two chairs in place around it, and looked over to find Mac sitting on the room's large stone hearth, staring at the floor. "Mac?" Methos joined him at the fireplace, touching his shoulder, not knowing whether his thoughts had gone to some dark place, or whether the man was just too exhausted to move any more. Mac blinked, looking down at his hands clasped between his knees.

More dark thoughts, then, Methos concluded, and sat, waiting.

"I'm going to miss him," Mac whispered. A single tear almost escaped, but only dampened the corner of his eye. "He was my friend, my teacher, my brother. My own clan. A part of who I was. I loved his laugh, you know? That dry, raspy chuckle. He always did that when I finally figured out some hard lesson he had been trying to teach."

Methos listened, his mind wandering as an exhausted brain sometimes will. Somehow, as he did, he maneuvered Mac up the stairs and into a corner bedroom, the only one of the old inn's otherwise cell-like rooms that had a double bed. All the while Mac spoke of his first meeting with Connor, in the aftermath of a bloody battle where once again Duncan MacLeod had inexplicably been unable to die with his comrades.

And while Methos sat next to MacLeod on the small bed, pulled off Mac's ruined sweater, and unlaced his shoes, Mac spoke of the years of training, sprinkled with an ever-deepening friendship and many essential life lessons. Methos filled a basin with warm water, and Mac washed the blood from his face and hands as he described a relationship that had changed over the centuries as the student became equal to the teacher in skill, in experience, in shared grief. The two Scots remained very different in personality, though, and Methos' attention was snared when Mac laughed a little. It was a sound he had heard all too rarely in the years he had known the man, but the chuckle rolled naturally out of his chest, gentle and sweet.

"I was always making jokes," Mac recalled, lying down at last. "It drove Connor crazy sometimes. He is really a very shy man, but I loved to dance and was always dragging him into some celebration or another." Mac chuckled softly. "He claims...claimed that I had all the fun and most of the good women."

Fun. What a wrenching, nightmarish change the last decade must have been, Methos speculated. He couldn't ever remember seeing Mac dance.

"Methos?"

He realized he had almost drifted off. Mac was looking at him, eyebrows slightly furrowed, then reached out, clasping his wrist. "I tried to tell Connor that life was about the bonds we form, but he couldn't see how breaking our bond would break my heart." He spoke again, his voice rough. "We have a bond, Methos," he said, emphasizing the point by tightening his grip.

Methos froze for a second, his face tightening as he closed his eyes and swallowed, then he gave the hand a slight squeeze. He turned and moved to stand, but Mac held on, pulling him back down to the bed.

"Don't go."

"This is a small bed, MacLeod." Then he smiled grimly at his friend. "People will talk."

"I don't want to be alone."

A spark of resentment flared deep in Methos' chest, and he pulled his arm out of Mac's grasp. "I'm not your keeper, MacLeod, although one could hardly tell it after the last couple of days." Mac's bruised eyes darkened even more, but Methos seemed unable to censor himself anymore, and his own hurt finally found a voice. "And you can damn well stop treating me like your personal proving ground," Methos snapped.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mac asked in a small, dark voice.

"You're a bright young man," Methos murmured bitterly, picking up the basin of water and heading towards the door. "You'll figure it out."

"Wait a minute, dammit!"

"No, you wait!" Methos spun around, sloshing the pink water onto the floor. "You feel betrayed because Connor used you, forced you into a battle you didn't want, then you turned right around and did the same to me, but I'm just supposed to forgive and forget?"

"It wasn't the same," Mac snapped.

"Wasn't it?"

"It was for an entirely different reason," Mac said defensively, pushing himself up onto his elbows. "I had to know, Methos. So I had to push. Hard." Then he added in a low voice. "I trusted you."

Methos put the basin back down on the dresser a little too hard, then sat on the bed, leaning over him, his face tight with anger. "You don't get it!" he growled. "What if I don't trust myself? Did that ever occur to you? That my instincts, my needs, the innate desire in all of us for power, was something that in that last split second might just push that blade too far. Then I would have to live with killing a friend, forever. And you know what that's like, don't you, Mac?"

Mac stopped breathing, all the color draining from his face.

"Like killing Richie? Like killing Connor?" Methos added maliciously. "The blood of your son and your brother on your hands...forever?"

Methos looked down, and for just a second, Mac's tired, tortured face was replaced in his mind's eye by his last view of Connor MacLeod lying peacefully in his coffin. The thought of losing this sweet, giving soul made his whole body ache, and he was ashamed of his inability to control his own anger.

"Unlike you, Duncan," he whispered. "I have formed very few real bonds in my several millennia. When I do, they frighten the hell out of me, because I can't seem to control the power they exert over my life. Why else do you think I'm even here?" He reached out, touching Mac's face, generating a small gasp as Mac resumed breathing at last. "And you would curse me with your death?" He sat back with a slow shake of his head, eyes closed against the awful possibility. "You, of all people, should understand the cruelty of that."

Mac lay back, closing his eyes, remembering that he had spoken similar words to this man...when? Was it only yesterday? The day before?

"I...I didn't think..." Mac started, but words seemed grotesquely inadequate. Putting Methos through the hell he currently occupied, and seemed to have occupied for so long, was unthinkable. The enormity of his own hypocrisy was an unexpected, breathtaking blow, and he felt a hot tear trickle out of the corner of his eye and into his hair. Some disconnected part of himself was mildly surprised. Grief had been hovering, waiting for a weak moment for so long, yet it was this thoughtless treatment of Methos that finally caused him to shed a tear.

Maybe it was really just self pity, his thoughts wandered. That he had managed to totally mistreat and alienate one of the precious few bonds that still remained intact. He strained to gather some last shred of coherence, to do whatever was necessary to make what repairs he could. The bed moved, and he opened his eyes. Methos had stood again, reaching for the basin, prepared to leave.

Mac made himself sit up, putting his feet carefully onto the cold floor. "Methos?" The lean figure paused. "I'm sorry," Mac whispered. "I know that's not good enough." Methos didn't comment, but started to move away again. "But I promise..." Mac stated firmly, and once again the other man slowed. "I promise never to ask such a thing again."

Mac stood, holding onto the dresser for support because the pledge he was making seemed as reckless and frightening as anything he had ever done. As he plunged ahead he realized that somewhere in the last seven years, Methos had become his refuge. His equal in strength, and possibly more. He found himself reaching out, closing his hand around Methos' forearm. "I will never challenge you, Methos. And I will never again ask you to take my head." He raised his chin slightly, feeling oddly defiant in the harsh glare of Methos' penetrating, golden-eyed stare.

"Never?" Thin lips curved slightly into a doubtful smile.

Mac swallowed the sudden dryness in his throat. "Never."

Methos shook his head, looking down. "Foolish boy," he whispered. "You are over four hundred years old, Duncan. Haven't you learned not to use that word?"

"You don't believe me?" Mac demanded.

"Oh, I believe you, all right. That's the problem." Methos sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just go to sleep, Mac. We've already both said things we're going to regret. Don't make it worse."

"I'm not a child," Mac insisted. "I know perfectly well what I'm saying. I know there is a chance that we might have to face off someday. I didn't say I would never defend myself against you, Methos. I said I would never challenge you. That I would never ask you to take my head, whatever happens." Mac's heart was pounding. He needed for Methos to understand that theirs was a bond he would not break, that he knew that this was a dangerous and potentially disastrous pledge, but that he was prepared to make it anyway, and keep it. "I know what I am capable of, Methos. If there ever comes a day when what I am, what I have done, requires you to make that choice, I trust you to make it."

"God damn you!" Methos jaw clenched until the tendons on his neck looked as though they would snap, and suddenly Mac was shoved onto the bed, Methos over him, leaning all his weight onto Mac's shoulders. "Don't you dare lay that on me! I have no right to pass judgment on you. Never have, never will."

"And if I become a danger to you, to mortals, to everything you care about?" Mac insisted.

"You are everything I care about," Methos snapped. Their eyes locked for several breathless heartbeats. Methos' dropped his head and closed his eyes. "Damn," he whispered, shaking his head and sitting with a tired sigh. "I knew this would happen..."

Mac waited for an explanation, but Methos seemed frozen in place.

"Knew what would happen?" Mac asked at last. "That we would say things we'd regret?" The mental haze of exhaustion and emotional turmoil that had distorted and muddied Mac's thoughts suddenly evaporated, leaving behind a stark, almost unreal crystal clarity. He took Methos' downcast face in his hand, pulling it back up, but Methos refused to meet his gaze, the eyelashes a dark smudge against his pale face. "My God," Mac whispered. His whole body began to tingle, small pricks of sensation over every surface that took his breath away. "Methos?" he asked, waiting.

"I...I think we've said quite enough," Methos murmured, rising and pulling away.

But Mac hung onto his arm and pulled him back down, refusing to let him go. "Perhaps not," Mac replied.

"Mac, I'm exhausted, and I don't even know what you are by this time. We're both babbling."

"I'm not babbling." Mac smiled, feeling the hard, cold fist that had gripped his heart ease, just a little. It was a real smile that felt slightly foreign, but good on his face. "Here." He reached for the hem of Methos' pullover. He started to pull away, but Mac just reached out, stopping him with a touch on the neck. Mac watched, and all those hyperaware senses that had been bedeviling him for days now had a focus, a purpose. He could sense the acceleration of Methos' heart rate, the minute dilation of his irises, the fine sheen of sweat that broke out on his skin, now slightly flushed as all the tiny capillaries filled with blood. For a second he lost himself in the marvelous details of Methos' reactions.

"Just rest, Methos. That's all," he reassured him. "Right now, I think we're both too tired for anything else." He tugged again on the hem of Methos' sweater. "There will be plenty of opportunity for talking, or anything else we might want to do."

Methos seemed suddenly, awkwardly shy, his gaze focused on his lap, but Mac could see he was struggling with his own instinct to flee, to object, to shield his reactions behind a curtain of sarcasm, and it moved him greatly, that this man so wanted to stay that he couldn't tear himself away, but so feared the consequences that he was frozen in place. Mac sat up, taking charge, pulling Methos' sweater off over his head, and watched as Methos slowly toed off his shoes, then pulled off his socks and pants, leaving him only in loose, utilitarian cotton boxers. Mac swept back the bedcovers.

"Mac," Methos started, his voice slightly breathless, as though he had been overtaken by events and somehow wanted to take back control. "I didn't intend--"

"Shhh," Mac whispered, turning out the bedside lamp and pulling his friend down next to him, and drawing the covers up over them both. "I told you I didn't want to be alone." Methos lay down beside him, and Mac turned on his side, pulling Methos close so he could share his body warmth, finding unexpected pleasure in the broad back pressed against his chest. His throat tightened at the almost overwhelming comfort of having Methos in his arms. He was suddenly, intensely moved as hot tears again gathered behind his eyes, and he found his hands clenching as he fought for emotional control. Then Methos' hand closed over his own.

"It's okay, Duncan," Methos whispered in the dark. "I'm here."

Mac took several long, deep breaths, letting the tension go, knowing he had been fighting sleep for far, far too long because of the nightmares that waited in the darkness behind his eyes. He knew the weeks and months ahead would be difficult and painful.

But Methos was here.

That thought became a reassuring mantra, and he let sleep claim him at last.

Methos lay in the dark listening to Mac's breath deepen and slow, his mind drifting, unable to settle, half-preoccupied with the physical sensation of Mac's warm body draped over him like a security blanket. It was rare that he found himself in a situation without having a clear sense of how he got there. But here he was, guardian of Duncan MacLeod, gatekeeper of the man's inevitable nightmares.

Well, not that rare, he decided. He really needed to work on his impulse control.

A small noise disturbed him, and he realized Rachel MacLeod had returned at last. Her footsteps creaked lightly on the old floorboards of the hallway, pausing briefly. He imagined she was standing in the shadows, wondering what had transpired to cause the broken door, the slightly rearranged furniture, wondering if she should find her clansman and offer him comfort.

Fortunately, her already-proven discretion won out over her curiosity, and the footsteps faded back down the stairs. Methos relaxed, only then realizing he had tightened his grip on the arm Mac had thrown over his waist, a possessive gesture that made him smirk at himself in the dark. He was five thousand times a fool, but that smile...that rare, wondering, delighted smile that had crinkled the skin around Mac's eyes and shown the brilliant flash of white teeth...had stopped him in his tracks and held him and brought him down. Or lifted him up.

He shifted, settling further into the warmth at his back. Mac probably wouldn't even remember anything they had said, including his so-called pledge, and hopefully including any other confessions Methos' own tired brain and indiscreet tongue had conjured. His face heated at that uncomfortable memory, but he finally drifted to sleep with the memory of Mac's smile, the one thing he definitely would hold onto.

Mac woke, but kept his eyes closed. Part of him wanted desperately to go back to sleep. Part of him wanted to avoid it at all costs. He vaguely remembered fighting Methos, scattering furniture in the public rooms. Talking about Connor. Oh, God, Connor. He sucked in a tight breath as the memory of nightmares touched him, icy fingers crawling up his spine, waking to Methos' reassuring whispers again and again. He reached out...but his hand found only sheets and blankets, and finally he opened his eyes. He was alone.

He sat up slowly, letting the room spin for a minute before it eventually settled into a level, reliable space. Tired didn't begin to encompass how he felt. Whipped. Beaten. Bludgeoned. Battered. And alone. At that moment, Methos' presence last night felt like it had just been another, more wishful part of his nightmares, except that the left side of the bed still had a man-sized indentation rumpled into the sheets and the pillow.

The floor was icy cold on his bare feet, and he could hear voices and feel vibrations from the rooms below. He supposed he was going to have to face the world at some point. He looked around and found his suitcase in the corner and his leather coat hung on a peg behind the door. Out of curiosity, he felt inside the coat, and sure enough, the katana was there, wiped clean. He didn't remember putting it there, only that right after he had killed Kell, the thought of touching it made him ill. He stood, the blade in his hand, thinking about Richie, about Connor. Remembering. But it wasn't the blade's doing, he knew. It was the arm that wielded it. He deliberately shut off that train of thought, as a memory of something Methos had said returned to him: "...emotions need to be recognized for what they are, not taken out on me, or even on yourself."

But he had taken it out on Methos, Mac recalled with a flush of shame. He threw his bag onto the bed, pulling out clean clothes. He had treated Methos like a servant, letting him trail along after him, without ever acknowledging what the man's generous friendship and patience and steady presence had meant to him. He could only hope Methos stuck around long enough to be properly thanked.

The old inn's shared toilet facilities at the end of the hall were unoccupied, and Mac filled the claw-foot tub partway with hot water before he turned on the handheld shower. He doused himself thoroughly and long, choosing to shave his several days of stubble from memory rather than look into a mirror at a face he didn't want to see. But the hot water was too tempting, and at last he sat, letting the huge tub fill, sinking back to let his aching body soak for just a few minutes.

The Quickenings he had taken still hadn't settled, making relaxation difficult, but he made himself run through some meditation exercises. He had taken strong or particularly bad Quickenings before, but this...this was raw power on a scale he had never even imagined. His muscles spasmed, making him jerk in the water, and he started his meditation over again, attempting to wrestle control over a rebelling body. It had been centuries since he had felt this disconnected from his physical self, like some teenager whose limbs and hormones had suddenly slipped their boundaries.

After long minutes of intense concentration, the combination of the warm bath and deeply ingrained discipline began to do its work, and he sank more deeply into the water's gentle buoyancy, letting his mind drift a little, so tired of working so hard at control.

He was pleasantly relaxed at last, just at the edge of sleep, when a light flashed behind his lids like a blade, and he was suddenly wide awake, holding himself absolutely still, not breathing, willing the sudden, ugly vision of Connor's last moment out of his head. An eternity later he finally had to gasp, taking in a shallow breath, then another, breathing through the agony. Then he sat up abruptly, curling in on himself, and all he could think of was how much he wanted Methos to be there, like he had been the night before, holding him, whispering that it would be all right, that it was going to get better. Someday.

By the time he dressed and made it downstairs, he had regained some of his emotional equilibrium, managing to present a smile and a hug to Rachel, who examined him with her usual sharp, critical eye.

"I was beginning to wonder if you were going to sleep the day away," she commented, looking up at him with a concerned smile. "Well, you look a little better, anyway. How about some lunch?"

"Lunch?" Mac responded stupidly. The lightly overcast skies had not given him any particular clue about the time of day, and he had not even considered how long he might have lain abed.

His confusion made Rachel laugh. It was a sweet, musical sound that seemed at odds with his raw, delicately sustained outward calm. "Oh, you've been a lazy one, for sure, Duncan MacLeod. Your friend was up hours ago, ate breakfast, and off he goes." She waved a hand towards the front door with a wry smile.

So, Methos was truly gone. Even though it was hardly a surprise, it still hurt. He swallowed and forced a smile as Rachel continued talking, while he considered that he had once again royally fucked up a relationship.

"Well?" Rachel said, looking at him oddly.

"Well, what?" he asked.

Rachel reached up, touching his cheek with her hand. "Oh, Duncan, whatever it is, I feel for ye. If there is anything I can do, you know..."

Mac dredged up what she had been talking about. "I'm fine," he assured her, taking her hand between his own and pressing it in reassurance. "I'm just still a little tired. Lunch would be great, whatever you want to fix."

He sat near a window, and Rachel brought him a pint of local beer, then put a sandwich in front of him. A small lunchtime crowd occupied her for a while, but at last she saucily told the couple of old-timer patrons that they could fend for themselves and sat opposite him. He had mostly just stared out the window at the familiar scenery of green, rolling, rock-strewn hills. The landscape was stark and beautiful, but little good for agriculture and mostly used for raising sheep. He remembered when each clan had their unique territory, protecting it with periodic raids against any other clan who let their animals stray. It had been a violent, barbaric system that gave birth to a violent, barbaric people, like himself.

"Are you going to eat that, or am I going to have to throw out perfectly good food?" Rachel asked.

He had forgotten the lunch, and smiled apologetically. "Sorry. Guess I'm a little preoccupied." He bit into the sandwich, and while the taste didn't really register on his palate, his body recognized it needed fuel, so he swallowed it down and kept at it until his plate was empty, all the while listening to Rachel's pleasant chatter about village affairs. It was a soothing sound, and despite his original objections, he was glad Methos had brought him here.

Then he noticed Rachel had gone silent, and he looked up. She immediately looked down, avoiding his gaze. "I think I understand," Rachel replied. "Duncan," she began again hesitantly, then looked up again with a determined glint in her eye. "Whatever happened last night, I'd hate to see anything come between you and Adam," she said in a rush.

"What?" Mac asked. He knew his brain wasn't operating at peak efficiency, but he had no idea what she was getting at.

"The fight," she clarified. "The broken door. Before he left for his walk, Adam said you'd fix it. But even if the two of you fought, whatever it was about, it can't be worth the friendship. Twice that I know of that man has gone to great lengths to be there when you needed someone. He obviously cares for you."

You are everything I care about. The words rang in his head as though Methos had just shouted in his ear, and the memory of Methos' anger and hurt, Mac's pledge, and Methos' declaration all came back in a heart stopping rush.

"Wait." Mac stopped Rachel's flow of words with a raised hand, trying to order his suddenly chaotic thoughts. "He went for a walk? You mean he didn't...leave?"

Rachel blinked at him a few times. "You mean you thought he had gone, really gone?"

"Well, what else was I supposed to think?" Mac snapped. "You said he got up early and left, and after last night..." he added, standing, suddenly feeling the need to move. "Sorry, I didn't mean to bark at you. Which way did he go?"

"He said he was going to walk into Glenfinnan, then maybe go down to the Loch. I told him it was a hefty trip, but he insisted that he was used to walking and that he thought you'd probably sleep all day."

It was late in the day when he found him. He'd cruised slowly through the village, stopped, asked around about a young, handsome English tourist, and was pointed towards the path to the bothy. It was a strenuous climb up the slopes of Ben an Tuim, one he remembered from when it had only been a sheep path instead of a tourist draw. He found Methos sitting on his coat, which he had spread over the spongy undergrowth that filled every nook and cranny above the Loch. He had wandered so far off the path that if Mac hadn't been keeping careful eye out and noted the subtle signs of someone leaving the trail, he would have missed him entirely.

Methos didn't bother turning around at his approach, but did glance up to watch him take a seat beside him. Mac felt his close scrutiny for a moment, but evidently he passed inspection, and for a while they sat in companionable silence, listening to the wind rustle the thick bushy heather that softened the harsh slopes around them. It was too early in the year for the carpet of blossoms that would eventually decorate these hills, but they were still beautiful in a stark, dramatic way, especially in contrast to the nearly black water below. A hawk lazily swooped back and forth across the steep slope down to the Loch.

"Enjoy your walk?" Mac finally asked.

Methos nodded. "It's a beautiful part of the world. Rocky and wild, yet full of life. Seems to suit you, in some way. I'm surprised you don't come back here more often."

Mac shrugged. "Too many memories, I guess."

"You hold your memories too close, Mac," Methos said softly. "You need to learn to let them go."

"Memories define us," Mac replied. "We are the sum of our memories, our experiences. If we forget them, we forget who we are."

"I didn't say to forget them. I said you need to learn to let them go. To let go of the emotional pain, but keep the knowledge, the wisdom, the experience, the lessons learned."

"The pain is part of the wisdom, Methos. If I let go of the pain, do I also let go of the joy? And if I do that, what's left? And the pain gets better, with time, like any wound. I'll endure. I even once thought I had learned to slough it off, move on. But these last few years..." Mac shrugged. "There's been so much of it." He managed a half-hearted chuckle, not wanting to get overly maudlin. "Don't mind me. It'll blow over. I'm just being a dour Scot again."

Mac lay back, letting the sunlight filtering through the thin cloud cover warm his skin, intensely aware of every breath of wind, of the smallest sounds, of the contrast of the cold earth at his back and the light on his face. He didn't want all that sensory input. It was exhausting, and he was still tired to the bone. It would be so nice to just fall asleep, maybe like Rip Van Winkle, waking up a few decades later. Maybe the Gathering would be over then, the killing all done. But his body was restless, and he couldn't seem to stay still for long. He shifted uncomfortably, his muscles twitching and knotting, wishing he could achieve that languid sense of ease that Methos had always embodied.

Methos lay back beside him, eyes closed. So still. Just the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the warm flush of pale skin that had been exposed to sun and exercise all day. Mac wanted to touch, but knew the urge came from a combination of a pathetic need to connect with someone, to hold someone, to reassure himself that he could still care, and a bone-deep desire for that caring to be returned.

Wouldn't that be a great way to ensure the demise of this fragile friendship, one he'd already thought lost at least once in the past twenty-four hours? Hey,Methos, I know I've used you, ignored you, attacked you, tried to force you to attack me, but how about a long, hard fuck just for old times' sake?

He rolled away and sat up before his thoughts got more graphic than they already were.

"Problem, MacLeod?"

"I thought I'd go ahead and walk around the trail and head back to the car. I can wait there for you, if you like."

Methos sat up on his elbows, squinting up at him. "Duncan, relax," he said softly. "Sit down. I won't bite, I promise."

Mac looked down at his friend, feeling a sudden surge of strong emotion that had nothing to do with his raging libido. That Methos might actually want to spend time with him seemed bizarre, almost nonsensical.

You are everything I care about.

Mac made himself keep breathing, ignored the sense of unease that squirmed just under his skin, slowly took off his coat and spread it on the ground, overlapping it with Methos', then sat back down, careful not to get too close.

He was again hyperaware of Methos' close examination of him, but he kept his eyes carefully on the horizon, trying to identify precisely why he was so edgy and restless. He felt...dangerous. He had been used so many times as a weapon these last few years. By Cassandra, by Joe, by Methos, by Ahriman, by Connor. A deadly killing tool. Sometimes he wondered if he had any other purpose. Just point out the victim and set me loose. Handle with care. Sharp edges. He ought to have warning labels printed up.

Methos shifted behind him, and Mac drew in a long breath as hands rested on his back for a moment before they tightened around the muscles of his neck and shoulders, kneading and pushing at aches that were residing there like trolls under a bridge. Long fingers dug painfully deep, and gradually, incrementally, some of the iron tension that had been keeping him upright eased just a little and a low, involuntary groan rolled out of his chest.

At last the probing fingers stopped, and Methos pulled him back a little so Mac could lean against his chest, and Methos' long arms wrapped around him, warming them both against a cool late afternoon breeze. "It is possible to let the pain go without letting the memories go, Duncan," Methos whispered in his ear. "But sometimes I think you just feel more than the rest of us do. More joy, more love, more regret, more grief, more passion. For someone like me, it's like a mortal watching those terrifying trapeze circus acts. How can they do that? Wouldn't it be wonderful to be able to fly so high? But we're terrified to try because it is so dangerous, so far to fall."

Mac wrapped his hand around Methos' forearm, feeling powerful muscles and tendons flex beneath his fingers as the arms tightened around him almost painfully. "Methos?" he asked. He turned in that constraining embrace, and his eyes widened in surprise. Methos' eyes were glittering, his face flushed with emotion. He loosed his hold and ducked his head, but Mac wouldn't let him look away, taking Methos' face in his hands and pulling it back up.

"Methos, what is it?" he asked.

"Nothing," Methos said sharply, yanking his head away and pushing himself to his feet. "I think I've had about all the fresh air I can take for one day." He leaned down and snatched up his coat, pulling it on as he walked back towards the trail.

Mac just watched for a second, then picked up his own coat and followed. For a second there, he had thought Methos was going to... He wasn't sure what he thought Methos was going to do. Kiss him? There was a thought. He had to smile as he lengthened his stride to keep Methos in sight. It seemed their friendship had been tugging and pulling, moving close, then away, almost intimate, but never quite. And Methos was one of the few men Mac had met in his life where intimacy seemed a natural extension of who and what they were.

Or maybe he just believed that because he was both desperate and a master of self-delusion. He let Methos walk ahead, his eyes resting on the lean, athletic, sparse beauty of a man who had seen much, lived much, given much, felt much, despite his extensive emotional camouflage.

Unique. Unlike any other Mac had met in his long life. Unlike any he would ever meet, no matter the number of years or centuries that lay ahead. He wanted him; Mac knew that with a certainty that went beyond the urgent needs of his body. He wanted him desperately. Too desperately to trust his own judgment with all the grief and anger and unwanted energy pounding through his system with every beat of his heart.

"Methos!" he called, and the man paused, looking back over his shoulder. Mac tossed him the keys to the car. "You go on ahead," he said. "I need the walk."

Methos caught the keys, cocking his head at him curiously, but Mac didn't give him a chance to comment. Instead, he made himself turn away, heading the opposite direction down the path to the Loch, picking up the pace to a near run. Otherwise, the temptation to follow Methos, to be with him, to touch him, just might overwhelm his faltering sense of decency and common sense.

Methos watched the broad, leather-clad back quickly disappear down the trail, the setting sun throwing an elongated shadow over the gray-green rocks and bushes. Talk about tightly wound. There seemed to be so much more going on than just grief and anger, just the unresolved, unsettled energy of two monstrous, unwanted Quickenings. Mac was running--from Methos, from himself, unable to face either. Duncan killed the last two people he loved, and now he is running from me.

But who was really doing the running, here? His own troublesome, ironic eye asked him the hard question in an amused, annoying voice. He had awakened mid-morning, his arms still thrown over Mac's body. Mac had awakened, or at least stirred, over and over again throughout the long night, murmuring unhappily or even crying out in his sleep. Each time, Methos had whispered to him, held him, told him it was alright, shushed him with soft words in ancient tongues that soothed the trembling, quieted the desperate cries. It had been horrible, and it had been wonderful. That he had the power to chase away Duncan MacLeod's demons, to bring him even small moments of rest and peace, felt wonderfully satisfying.

Far too satisfying. Still half asleep, his hand had slipped down a smooth bicep to the gentle undulations of rib, traveling under the covers to the valley of a warm waistline until it reached the soft cotton of sweatpants--and stopped. He was wide-awake then, and lay very still for a long time, willing himself to move away before he committed an unforgivable act. Would Mac let him? Of course he would. He was an emotional wreck, desperate for human affirmation and contact. It would be the easiest thing in the world to manipulate him into something that could ultimately break both their hearts. He carefully removed his hand from that tempting flesh, slipped out of bed, and dressed in the room where he had originally left his duffle bag.

Had he run away this morning out of concern for Mac, he wondered, or because he was afraid, as he had told Mac, to "fly too high?"

Methos turned, walking thoughtfully back down the trail towards the car, the keys twirling musically around his finger.

It was almost dark by the time Mac reached the Loch. The sky had cleared, the wind had died, and light from the rising moon drew a long, bright line across the lake's smooth surface. He took off his coat, hooked it over his shoulder, and stood for a long time, letting the sweat dry on his skin. He seemed almost incapable of being still, and he fought the urge to move for no other reason than to assure himself that he could.

He took several long, deep, meditative breaths, deliberately clearing his mind of the painful jumble of images and violent and obscene notions that had been floating at the edges of his thoughts for days. This place held good memories, peaceful days of childish play and adolescent dreams. He had first seen Debra Campbell here, just a girl with wild, untamed red curls helping her mother with the wash. He and Robert had spied on the women, hoping to catch them bathing. But they had been caught, instead, and Duncan had hardly been able to chew for days after the nearly jaw-breaking smack his da had given him, along with two weeks of sharing the chore of daily cleaning of the pig stalls with his cousin.

It didn't stop them from trying again, though. Mac smiled, but then his expression tightened. Methos wanted him to let go of the past, but it was memories like these that kept the darkness at bay. He wanted those memories intact, as full of emotional poignancy as they had been so long ago, even if it caused some pain, as well.

It was memory that had him drop his coat and kneel, working at the ties on his boots. A few minutes later he stood on a boulder, recognized from his childhood, marking a steep drop off in the bottom of the Loch, feeling the intense cold of the weathered granite under the pads of his bare feet, the damp air moving erotically against his naked skin. He took a deep breath, preparing himself, and for a moment he was a child again, his cousin Robert at his elbow, laughing, egging him on. Then he launched into the air as high and as far as he could go, arching his body to come down, slicing through the water with his hands.

The blackness enveloped him in an instant cocoon of deadly cold and liquid silence. His diaphragm contracted, wanting to pull in a sudden gulp of air in shock at the impossible chill. Then, as he sank further and his momentum slowed, there was no up or down, no light, no identifiable sound other than the directionless gurgle and swoosh of moving water and his own heartbeat.

Oddly, for all the shocking, intense cold, he felt a great sense of peace, of suspension in time and space where there were no expectations, great or small, no good, no evil, no love, no hate, no life, no death. He floated unconcerned, his muscles finally still, and he closed his eyes, feeling the water's cold seep deep into his body.

Then an intruding sense of presence stabbed through the comforting blackness, and from reactions so ingrained over the centuries that he did them without thought, he kicked, and kicked again, finally breaking the surface with a noisy gasp, and air crashed into his lungs with a sharp, burning sensation very like pain. The air and the light and the sounds all were too much, and he cried out.

After the immersion in comforting silence, the sound of his own voice ringing against the rocks shocked him.

"Mac?" A familiar voice called, but he was disoriented, the moonlight rippling on the broken surface of the water providing no reliable sense of place or distance in the darkness. "Mac! Are you insane? Get out of there before you freeze to death. I'm sure as hell not jumping in after you."

The voice came from a place out there, in the shadows, and now he could hear water lapping up against the stones. As his eyes and ears adjusted, he sluggishly moved his arms and legs to tread water, and he could see a vague outline that seemed to almost float in the distance, a pale face with sharp features.

"Damn you, Duncan. I swear, if I have to go in there after you, I'll kill you myself, several times. Painfully." He could hear muttering now, curses and motions. He moved towards the voice, but his limbs were getting heavy and hard to move. It would be so easy to sink back into that liquid cold, and he remembered his earlier wish to sleep for a long, long time while the world went on without him. Had it only been this afternoon, lying there next to Methos?

"Duncan!" the voice roared, bringing him back to the present. "Come here, now!"

It sounded like something one would say to an errant pet. Methos always had such a way with words. He obeyed the command, moved his arms, struggling against the lethargy that would have pulled him under. For just a moment he wasn't certain he was going to make it to shore, but then his toe stubbed against the rocks, and he managed to find some purchase with his feet, helped by a strong hand grabbing his arm. Then he was stumbling, slipping on wet boulders and hard ground, and cloth was being thrown around him. He wondered why Methos was making such a fuss.

"What the hell did you think you were doing?" Methos prattled on and on about foolishness and freezing to death and drowning, all the while tugging and pushing him up the slope where, miraculously, there was a blanket and various other shapes Mac couldn't identify in the dark, especially since he had started to shake uncontrollably and was occupied with just staying on his feet. Methos spread the blanket and pushed him down on it, tucking both their coats around him. Then he picked up Mac's foot, chafing it between his hands.

"What are you doing here?" The words came out slightly garbled between numb lips.

"What the hell does it look like I'm doing?" Methos snapped. "What I always seem to be doing, trying to save your ass."

"I just went for a swim," Mac tried to sound nonchalant, but the chattering of his teeth spoiled the effect. "I've done it thousands of times before."

"In winter? Naked? At night? What do you suppose the water temperature is, anyway? Forty degrees?" Methos picked up Mac's other foot, dried it with a corner of the blanket, and rubbed it to restore circulation.

Mac managed a smile. "Refreshing, eh? You should've joined me."

He was knocked on his back by a surprisingly intense Immortal who loomed over him in the dark. "I came back, Duncan, because I figured you'd be down here, brooding, likely to stay here half the night, and making us both miserable. So I went and got a blanket and some wine and food for us to share, and came the short way back. I was at the top of the trail when I saw you, poised on that rock in the moonlight, arms stretched high above you like you were reaching for the stars." Methos voice was soft, hypnotic, his eyes reflecting tiny sparks of light. "You dove in, barely making a ripple in the water, and I waited, wanting to see you emerge from the lake, in the moonlight, the water running off your naked body." Methos pushed a wet strand of hair off Mac's forehead.

"But you didn't come up," he finally added. "And I started to run, Duncan. I fell on the trail, almost broke my ankle, and by the time I got to the water's edge you still hadn't come up." Methos took a long breath and looked away. Mac could see a tiny trail of moisture under one eye. "I'm tired," Methos said with a sigh. "I'm tired of watching you almost die. You fly so high, and it's almost as if I'm up there with you, but then..." He shook his head.

Mac unwound a hand from inside the double layer of coats Methos had wrapped around him, placing it against Methos' face. His skin felt warm, almost hot, but then that was probably because Mac's fingers were ice-cold, like the rest of his body.

Then Methos turned his face towards Mac's hand.

Heat blossomed from his very core in response to that simple gesture, and Mac felt a tremor ripple through him from his feet to his chest. His hand trembled, and this time it wasn't due to the cold.

"Methos," he whispered. He wanted to warn him off, to tell him to keep his distance, that this--that he--was too dangerous. Handle with care. Sharp edges. Was he worried about Methos, he wondered, or himself? But Methos brushed his lips against the rough calluses of his palm, and the words stopped in his throat.

"You're so cold," Methos said softly. In the darkness, the only visible evidence he had spoken was his breath misting slightly in the air. Hands peeled back the layers of coats, and Methos moved over him, covering him in the warmth of his own flesh.

Mac was breathing so fast, he was afraid he would hyperventilate, but control, of anything, seemed just outside his grasp. "This is--" he warned. "I can't--" He was saved from any more attempts at speech by Methos' mouth closing over his. For one truly strange moment, he thought Methos was trying to give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and he froze in shock. But then a warm tongue flickered out, tasting his lips, exploring his teeth.

He didn't really believe it, couldn't quite fathom that Methos' hands were trailing hot caresses over his arms, his hips, his neck, while a warm, wet mouth consumed him. His hands closed into fists in the air, so afraid to touch, but the rest of him arched into Methos' body, his cock painfully full and tight despite the cold. But he couldn't just lie there when every cell of his body was screaming to act, to take. God, he had wanted, needed this for so long. He wrapped his arms around Methos' shoulders and rolled, pressing his full weight into the warmth below him, using his mouth to stake his own claim of ownership of Methos' lips, his teeth, his tongue, his chin, his neck. Cold-stiffened fingers fumbled at buttons, and his touch made Methos hiss, but Mac didn't think he could stop now if both their lives depended on it.

He couldn't keep his mouth off of one newly-exposed, hard, pebbly nipple as his hand clumsily attempted to undo buttons and the zipper of Methos' jeans. Miraculously, another hand was there to help; Methos' hips lifted slightly, and the fabric was pushed away.

"Oh, God." The useless, meaningless words were a strained whisper as Mac leaned on his forearms and closed his eyes when his cock was suddenly cradled in the warmth of Methos' groin. He pressed closer, aching with the intensity of the heat and hardness that moved and rubbed as if it had a will and life of its own. He tucked his head in the smooth curve of Methos' warm neck and let his body undulate against that pressure, unable to stop the low groan that rolled out of his throat.

Hot fingers moved over his back and down to his ass, pulling him close, and Methos pushed up into him as his hands held him. It was all happening so fast, the internal pressure building too high, and in an instant, Mac convulsed with a growl, spilling semen in hard, hot bursts between them. It was painful, in a way, because it wasn't what he really wanted, and he rode out the orgasm in panting frustration.

"I'm sorry," he murmured into Methos' shoulder. "So sorry." So sorry for so many things.

Methos' only answer was to take Mac's hand, guiding it down between their bodies to close over Methos' cock, now wet and slippery with Mac's come. Mac closed his hand around it, finding it fit his palm naturally, like the familiarity of his katana. Methos took a deep breath and surged into Mac's hand with a hum of need, and Mac just watched Methos' strong face as he pleasured himself in Mac's embrace, arching his neck back until tendons stretched tight, nostrils flared, then a quick hitch of his breath and he came, eyelids fluttering as the lean, beautiful man immersed himself in sensation. By the time Methos let out a long breath, relaxing in Mac's arms, Mac was hard again, just from watching.

While Methos was lying limp and still, taking long, deep breaths, Mac found his hand was tracing patterns on Methos' belly, feeling down into the comforting warmth between his legs, the heavy balls, the soft skin in the hot fold where thigh became torso. And there, where heat seemed to reside in the secret door to Methos' body. His fingers, slippery with come, pressed in, and Methos arched slightly and sucked in a small breath, lids opening just enough so Mac could see the gleam of his eyes as he watched and was watched. The moist warmth was a fascinating haven of soft skin and hard muscle, and for several minutes the men were silent, watching each other as Mac gently felt deep inside, so aroused by just feeling him, by watching his breath speed, his eyelids flutter, that he could easily come from that stimulation alone.

But his body demanded more. Without taking his eyes off of Methos' face, Mac spread come over his cock, slid his arms underneath Methos' knees, and pressed in.

Time stopped.

For all the days of tension and anger and grief, the interminable, grinding, grating energy that had been coruscating under Mac's skin until he feared for his sanity, suddenly everything was calm, still, smooth, just exactly as it should be. Methos grasped his arms, arching up onto him in a slow choreography of mutual pleasure. The chill of the night air against Mac's skin only enhanced the sensation of an enfolding, natural bond, and for the first time in so long he didn't even want to think about it, Mac felt truly whole. The cracks and split seams of his life and his heart closed as though a magic healing balm had been spread over his soul.

His climax, when it came at last, was wrenching, contracting his muscles until he thought his bones would break, and felt like it came straight from his heart instead of his groin. Watching Methos open his mouth in a soundless exclamation of sweet release, feeling that long, slender cock pulse in his hand, gave at least as much relief from all the pent up anger and grief as his own body was giving him.

Methos released Mac's arms from a death grip that no doubt would leave livid bruises for at least a few minutes, and closed his eyes as he sucked in long, deep breaths. Moonlight accented the high, sharp cheekbones, the vividly defined, strong features of Methos' face, where a fine sheen of sweat enhanced the luminous effect. Mac carefully lowered Methos' legs, gently stretching them out, folding him in tight to his body for warmth. Methos smiled tiredly as Mac reached for their coats and drew them over their rapidly cooling bodies.

"Such a Boy Scout," Methos murmured, snuggling up against him.

Mac's throat was too tight to respond to the affectionate barb. Methos opened his eyes and looked up, then reached a thumb up and stroked it under each of Mac's eyes. Mac pulled back a little at the unexpected gesture, but when Methos took his hand away, it was wet.

Mac had been weeping, and he hadn't even realized it.

"Since the moment I first kissed you," Methos explained. When Mac almost pulled away, his face heating with embarrassment, Methos reached for him again. "Shhh," Methos whispered, gently stroking Mac's lips with the tips of his fingers, still salty from Mac's tears. "I'm glad. It was time."

They lay in the dark for a long time, and now Mac could feel the hot tears still occasionally trickling down his face, utterly incapable of stopping them.

"Thank you," he finally managed to say in an almost normal voice.

"A superfluous and unnecessary declaration, although I suppose it's better than an apology," Methos replied with a smile in his voice. He shifted slightly in Mac's arms to look up at him. "I think if I really wanted any kind of declaration or pledge from you, it would be that you never lose hope. It is what defines you, Duncan. It's only when hope begins to elude you that you panic, that you overreact and start to do self-destructive, stupid things."

It was what Mac had told Kate, the night Connor had died. The night Kell had died. The night he had begun to fear that Destiny--the fatalistic concept he had denied all his life--had finally overwhelmed him and abandoned him on the long, lonely road to being the Only One. But right now, he didn't feel like "only one" at all.

"You seem to have a hard time remembering something very important, Duncan. You are not alone," Methos continued, as though reading his thoughts. "Not out here, and not in there." Methos pressed his warm hand against Mac's chest. They were words from their shared past, from a dim, barely remembered haze of destructive anger. Words that had been a lifeline back to sanity. Words whose truth had never been more evident.

And somewhere in the dim recesses of his mind, Mac heard the echo of a familiar, dry, raspy chuckle of agreement.