United Nations, Divided Souls

She went by Kir because it was easy to remember and because despite the governing pattern of tribal rule, most of the military force were trained under a different system and the tribal declinations made no sense to them. So she was Kir to all, Silent Storm in the Council and Ghost to the R&R elite teams. And in her gentler more private moments she was Mother and Healer -- Shaman.

The scar on her dark throat marked her as part of the old Community and with Immortality out now in plain view for all to see, her true age was no secret, nor her first death. She had not survived the original Journey along the Trail of Tears, but she made it now; not as one of the dispossessed but as one of the Reclaimers. R&R had managed to find its two tasks and she functioned as head of one, Search and Rescue. The R&R was a joke -- coined by the young and brazen teams that ventured to the Gates and beyond. Only those who could "Rock and Re-load" were allowed past what had once been the Mason-Dixon line but was now but a vague memory. That invisible geographic line was called The Gates and Kir's team moved north and west from Atlanta, alerted that one of their own -- one of the Community -- was in need of aid.

There were others needing rescue as well, mortal and Immortal alike, but they were impossibly far. The Eastern Whores, those Immortals that had found their allegiance with the invasion out of what had once been China, held the ground north of The Gates with a vengeance. Their influence extended well to the west into what had once been California but was now as much a desert as anything from Texas to Old Las Vegas. But the east and mid-continent were hard to hold onto and pockets of resistance still existed from as far north and west as Columbus all the way to the hold-out in Maine and Connecticut clinging to their borders and their allies in Canada

Pseudo-allies, Kir thought. Canada was literally fighting to remain neutral and having much less success than other detached countries to the North and South American Continents. Of all the previous alliances, only Australia had managed to stay out of the conflict entirely and even that was in jeopardy as Africa faltered under the strain.

She shrugged the thoughts off as she checked weapons and her team. They had enough to worry about in holding onto what had once been the Confederacy of the United States. Australia had turned them down flat when they asked. No blame, but unlikely to gain any real allies when their turn came. And come it would. Everyone else had already surrendered their tickets.

The harshest blow had come only three years before. Rome had fallen. Finally. The Vatican had been moved to Sydney only the year before and that fact as much as anything had kept Australia silent. But first Rome and then the inexorable sweep west had come. The last she heard was that Paris was no more and the United Kingdom had finally become united indeed as England, Scotland and Ireland finally had someone besides each other to fight. Kir had no doubt that the Germanic States and the Balkans would be the next to fall.

"Coming up on Knoxville, Commander," The skimmer pilot informed her through her headset and she acknowledged the information, settling her sword across her back. She had gotten the warning of an Immortal moving toward Atlanta two days ago, sorted the identity out and tracked him. But Knoxville was a weak point because of the airfield and she could only pray to the spirits of her ancestors that the other half of the R&R team had managed to secure them some space and time.

The skimmer geared down and her hopes fell. The fighting was heavy and her target was being hard pressed along with his small band. She pushed along that link that bound the Immortals together.

Hang on, MacLeod. We're coming!

Sean heard the skimmer before the others did, glancing quickly over his shoulder to see where Connor had taken the kids, but he couldn't see them -- probably a good thing. If he couldn't see them the Eastern commandos shouldn't be able to either.

The pack on his back was jerked around, the contents spilled with little care but his fingers closed over the flare gun. He loaded and fired and then swore as a different light show started. Oh, Da, he thought already moving toward the spot. We really need to get you to tone down your presence a bit, you ass. He moved again and this time pulled out sword as well as the semi he carried. The juggling act was familiar, one weapon for the numbers, one for the problems. Who had taught him that? Adam, he recalled with a grim smile, the smile bringing with it an ache of loss he didn't want to acknowledge.

And had no time to. His Da was on his knees, the Quickening still settling around him, nearly oblivious to the men moving in to flank him. Two quick shots took out one, and another shot, fired from behind him, took out the second. Sean glanced back to see his kinsman grinning like a fool.

"Ya, so you 're the better marksmen," he snapped as Connor moved up beside him.

"I'll cover. You grab the idiot," Connor said and Sean was moving. The Quickening had not quite settled but Sean only barely noticed as he grabbed at his father's wrists and pulled him up and over his broad shoulders. His knuckles scraped the ground as he picked up the ancient katana as well and he was running.

Then he was falling as a bullet ripped through the back of his knee. He rolled, pulling his father's body with him and heard Connor shooting. Onto his knees and sword up as someone approached. Mortal. No matter. Swords worked pretty well on them too. The man -- the fool -- practically impaled himself on Sean's blade.

"Sean!" A warning from close by and he rolled again, wincing as the pain in his leg robbed him of balance and stability. He needn't have worried as his father lunged, awkwardly, the face still reeling under post Quickening confusion. The attacker tripped, fell across Sean's legs and then went still as his head was connected solidly to and with the butt of Sean's rifle.

"You need to watch your back," Duncan MacLeod said accusingly to his son then dropped to his knees under a wash of weakness, dropping the rifle.

Adam, brother, come on, he can't do this alone, Sean swore, reaching for his father. God but this was getting harder for Duncan every time. Harder still on the end of another bitter search ending in failure. Sean tried for that tenuous contact, felt it --- grabbed for it and felt it slide away again. A silent oath and then he was up and limping, dragging his father with him.

"Nice cover," he snarled as Connor came forward to help him.

"I was occupied," Connor said without anger and Sean caught only a glimpse of the three bodies close to where Connor had been positioned. All three were dead -- one headless. "Skimmer is down but it's small."

"Take the kids," MacLeod said harshly, finally getting his feet under him, body tensing but he had control again. Experience prompted Sean to let go, but Connor didn't and Mac jerked away, physical contact too painful for the moment. "And you go with them," he said to Sean.

More fire and all three ducked. The shots were returned with the high-powered whine of a K-30. "Get over here!" Kir snapped and the three ran as Kir and her team opened up again, driving the attackers under cover.

"Assault team," MacLeod said as he ducked behind the truck Kir was using for cover. "No more than twenty."

"Or less," Connor chuckled. "Kids?"

"Kids?" Kir echoed and turned to face them.

"There," Connor pointed to a camouflaged stack of drums and tanks. "Twelve of them. Cheaper by the dozen," he quipped and Kir groaned.

"And?" she demanded.

"And nothing," Duncan said leaning back against the truck tire. Sean hovered close by and Mac finally relented and offered his son a faint smile. "Nice rescue."

The return smile was heartbreaking. And familiar, too familiar in the face of Mac's failure. There was so much of Methos in his son's face and manner, sometimes more than Mac's for all that he and his son were built along similar lines. Sean was more compact, skin paler, features more angular.

At least he got my nose, Mac thought.

"The skimmer can probably handle the kids but not them and the team," Kir muttered and dropped back, pulling another battery clip from her pouch. She fumbled and Connor yanked the weapon from her and took over.

"Let's move them, then," Connor said. "I'll cover."

Sean just rolled his eyes but he was moving, Duncan and Kir on his heels. Squeals of fright greeted them then both Mac and Sean had little ones clinging to them. Fathers Above, Kir sighed. Not one of them over eight years old. Not one that spoke English. French if she could judge.

"Orphanage in Paris...took a hit as we were leaving," Mac said, carefully holding a six year old girl in his arms. "The Sisters insisted, but they wouldn't come with us.

"I'm sorry," Kir said and smiled at a four year old who could not stop crying. She couldn't blame the boy. She was damn well near tears herself. "Come on, mes petites," she murmured gathering up the boy. She rubbed her chin against her shoulder, clocking on the sub-q mic. "Revas, power up. We got packages. Twelve little ones."

"You sound like such a commando," Duncan said and was immediately behind her. She turned her head and grinned at him.

"Practice," The kiss was brief but promising as she started forward, the skimmer hovering in. "Welcome home," she muttered and he laughed. Finally, she thought.

The load-in went without incident and Kir had to chuckle at the conversations she was following with her ear piece. Connor was an enthusiastic field leader but he drove her team bats. "He thinks he is fucking invincible," she heard Donatha snarl. But the burly sharpshooter was not a foot away from the mad Scotsman as they pushed the Eastern Assault team back into the fields surrounding the airport.

"Ready to Rock!" Revas called. "Coming?"

"Sean is," Duncan said and refused to argue with his son. "The kids need a familiar face. I'll see you in a couple of hours," Mac promised. "You agreed if I took you would do as I say." Sean's face was screwed up, ready to argue.

"We're back! You go. You are too important to lose."

"Don't say that! Ever!" Mac snapped, dark eyes flashing dangerously. "We're back when we are in Atlanta," Mac said, feeling foolish arguing with a son who practically looked older than Mac did.

"On board," Kir said and Sean relented, climbing in and securing the belts.

"Two hours or I'm coming back," Sean raised his voice over the skimmer's whine. He wasn't kidding.

"Yeah, yeah," Mac said and held out his hand. Without hesitation Sean gripped his father's arm below the elbow, hazel eyes meeting and holding brown ones before they released and Revas took the skimmer up.

"You can't treat him like a child forever," Kir said as Mac's arm slipped around her waist.

"Oh, yes I can," MacLeod said. "Come on. Let's go rescue your team from Connor," he grinned, shifting Sean's gun to his shoulder.

The skirmish cost Kir one of her team but not permanently. Donatha came back screaming epithets at Connor for being a blind, bloody, dangerous fool.

"You followed," Connor said unrepentant but he was solicitous in his care of the woman.

"I think they are in love," Kir whispered into Duncan's ear, gratified when he chuckled and nodded. His fingers tightened over hers.

He needed to talk and she needed to listen but the skimmer was not the place. Nor was there a time immediately available. Debriefing came first -- hers. Then Duncan's although he managed to find time to grab a shower and clean clothes.

She and Revas, her skimmer pilot, took the children to the Mothers. Kir felt like a Mother Goose character surrounded by chattering, crying, frightened small people. She consoled as best she could, but like so many damaged by war, these children would be forced to cope, to deal with far more ugliness than children were meant to bear. Kir observed Revas' stiff back as he watched the Mothers expertly herd the confused youngsters into the schoolhouse. They had all been damaged, she thought. Revas had been forced to leave behind two motherless little girls when they had been caught behind Eastern Dawn lines. Another of her team, Eddie Two Horses, had watched his tribe be nearly annihilated and chased off of their last remaining lands in Oklahoma. All of them had a story. That's why they were here, fighting to preserve what remained of their beliefs, their family, their freedom. Kir squeezed Revas' shoulder sympathetically, but he pulled away, too full of pain to accept her comfort.

Kir found Sean sprawled on the sofa of the large apartment he sometimes shared with her and Duncan. Sprawled, draped over furniture like he had no bones at all, but he was alert when she entered.

She could see Duncan in him. Sean actually looked Duncan's age or better, having come into his Immortality late -- and deliberately. She knew the story. Knew it still rankled Duncan that Methos and Sean had taken the decision from him. Old battles. But she could see his relationship to Methos in Sean's face as well, especially in the level and hidden hazel-eyed gaze. Sean was very much the union of those two personalities -- emerging as a formidable personality in his own right. She wondered if Duncan would ever see it or if Methos ever had.

"Tell me..." She prompted, making a pot of tea then turning to face the light streaming in through the windows.

"We never got to Rome," Sean said softly, his own regret apparent. "We hit Paris just as Bar Abbas did. Finding the kids was an accident."

"Fortuitous for them," Kir said.

"It's gone...burning...I think Bar Abbas may have spared the Louvre but I wouldn't take any bets on it," he added bitterly. Kir waited. Paris was home to Sean. As much home as anywhere. "But we couldn't make it to Rome. Da almost went on foot," he added, tone suggesting Sean would have joined him. "Connor, for once, was the voice of reason."

"Scary thought, that," she smiled.

Sean chuckled, his laugh so much like Mac's his father might have been in the room.

"And just as we were taking off, Da...he felt him...I thought he would jump out of the plane," Sean murmured and his distress was so acute Kir set her mug down and came to him. Sean curled himself into her open arms like the child Duncan sometimes treated him as. His fingers dug painfully into her hair as he buried his face in her shoulder. "And I felt..."

He could say no more. There was no way to express to Kir or anyone save Duncan what he felt when that ancient soul rose and surfaced briefly in his own. Three years since they'd lost Methos. Dead but not beheaded, lost and trapped somewhere in what had once been Rome -- they thought. It was where he had been going when the city fell and they'd lost him. Sean had thought his father would go mad when that connection, that link that bound the two most important people in Sean's life together was nearly severed. Father and Brother: They were that and more. The two men were his parents, his family, the ones that had raised him. Duncan MacLeod was his biological father through a series of events so bizarre Sean had trouble sorting them out. Methos, his Adam, was his biological brother by the same twisted configuration of familial ties. But the emotional ties were what blinded his reason now, tearing at the calm he had learned living with two such volatile personalities. That one was missing ate at the other two members of the odd family like a festering wound.

The link was still there. Methos was...dead on and off, but not. His Immortality struggling to bring him back and then faltering under whatever trap held him away from them. And it was a trap of sorts or else the oldest Immortal would be here. It was reassuring to know that if they could but find him, get to him, it would be all right. But until then, these brief resurgences were almost a torture of sorts.

Sean understood the link that ran through the Immortal Community better than most; his own odd blood heritage giving him an edge over most Immortals. He had tried to define it but could not. But as surely as his father knew the location and general health of others who had joined their strange alliance, he knew that Methos was the anchor for that link -- the anchor for Duncan.

Everytime Mac took a head, Methos felt it, would come just to the edge of wakefulness, of life, and then it would fade again and the only impressions Sean could hold onto were pain and fear. Then nothing until it happened again.

But Duncan could only tell the general location and remaining in Rome once the city fell had become far too dangerous. The Immortals supporting the Eastern Dawn knew exactly who was at the hub of the interconnected Immortals of the Community. They wanted that link broken, or better yet, they wanted to use that link to hunt down the Community members - which meant they wanted the Highlander.

They had tried twice so far to take the Highlander and damn near succeeded. Luckily Connor had been on hand at the second attempt. The first attempt had cost them Methos but MacLeod had made it out, but the cost had been higher than any of them could have imagined

Understanding only a small part of what so tormented the younger Immortal Kir gentled him and comforted him until he could draw away, once more in control. He called her his big sister and she thought it funny, her smile prompting a hesitant one from him.

Duncan's presence registered and Kir rose, greeting him at the door with a kiss. "Done. The kids are settled," he said. "I am heading back out tomorrow," he informed them and Kir made no effort to argue.

"You can't get to Rome!" Sean was not quite so restrained.

"I cannae' leave him there!" Mac snapped. "I cannae' let him keep...taking ...supporting this when he has nae the wit nor the strength to balance it out!"

"Da," Sean tried for reason. "They know who you are and what you look like. Every time you go to Europe you risk everything. Including the lives of the people who go with you."

"Then I will go alone," Mac said, his body was tense and Kir reached out only to have him flinch away. "There isn't any other way to find him."

"I'll talk to Hawk of Moons," Kir offered.

"We've tried that and I can't blame him. The survival of Cherokee is his concern. Immortals are just a nice bonus," Mac said.

"That's not fair," Kir said evenly. "Resources--"

"I'm not talking about Resources."

"He wants to find the Grandfather as much as you do," Kir said pushing her dark braid back over her shoulder. "But moving that much personnel and equipment into a zone that is so securely held--"

"I said I agree with him," Mac said, turning to face her as he leaned against the kitchen counter, facing them both. "Europe will have to fight her own battles but this isn't about the war." His face was a mask, hiding a pain so deep Kir had never been able to get at it or help ease it.

"If you can't find him, Bar Abbas can't either," Kir said.

"We can't be sure of that," Mac said. "We don't know what has happened. Where he is, what the conditions are -- they might find him by accident. I can't risk that. And I can't, won't risk losing him permanently. You know what they are doing to the old ones when they find them."

Kir did know. She didn't like to think about it. It would be bad enough that they were after those powerful Quickenings, she might even be able to forgive it that were all but it wasn't. The leaders of the Eastern Dawn, or rather their hired "scientific researchers" had a keen interest in Immortals - in Immortality. It would be politically incorrect and military suicide to experiment on their own Immortal allies but Immortal enemies or Unaffiliates; those were fair game. Not to mention the very threat of such experimentation was enough to bring them new allies - especially when there was a bounty offered. Join or die had become the new mantra of the Immortals of a mercenary mind.

"Then let me go," Sean said. He had made this offer before, well aware that his father had as much fear of losing him as he did of Methos. "If I am close enough I will know. Connor would go with me."

"Connor will most likely get you killed or worse," Duncan said darkly and shoved off from the counter. "No."

Kir winced as her com-link sounded in her ear. She listened for a moment then swore. "Shit. We just lost Richmond," she said. "I'm needed in ops. Don't do anything stupid -- either of you -- before I get back or you will regret it," she warned and was gone.

"I'm really glad she is your girlfriend," Sean muttered rising from the sofa. His father nodded with a faint smile, face still marred by a brooding gaze. "Da, get some rest," Sean said softly, feeling the parent. It happened.

"Sean. Promise me you won't..."

"I already did. To you. To Methos," Sean sighed. "But you have to let me help."

"You are the last of us, son," Mac said. "There will be no more Immortals after you. That's a legacy of sorts."

"Like being the first?" Sean murmured. "That doesn't make you any more expendable for being born somewhere in the middle. And if you fall, what about the Community then? What about Darius--"

"Right now I could cheerfully curse Darius to perdition. There was no way he could have seen this coming, Sean. You are my heir in more ways than one."

Sean's bitter laugh soured Mac's mood further. "For want of a prince the kingdom was lost. I do have some choices here."

Mac didn't have an answer for him and he was tired of fighting with his son. Without a word he pushed past him and headed for the bedroom, avoiding further confrontation.

"Methos would be so proud," Sean muttered, dropping back onto the sofa with his head in his hands.

....the ground shifted, moved, rocked, slid and he could feel it...smothering, choking and then the faintest waft of air of oxygen and he pulled it into his lungs with effort....noise, sound, silence and he could not move, nor breathe again...nor....

Duncan surged up and awake choking, coughing, his chest constricting as he fought to breathe. Firm hands gripped him, soothed him, voice murmuring in the darkness in a language that was both harsh and comforting. Wisps of silken hair fell across his shoulders as those hands stroked his skin, eased the terror as Kir pulled him against her, unmindful of his sweating body, her own skin deliciously cool and smooth. Another second and she/he heard/felt and Sean opened the door, back-lit from the light in the living room, compact body all shadows and tension.

Duncan moved and Kir with him as Sean staggered forward, his own sob of grief buried against his father's knees as Duncan folded himself around his son.

Kir could not feel the link that bound the two men to Methos but she knew the signs. The Grandfather had awakened, however briefly, haunting them. She pulled on a robe and went to the kitchen to fix tea and whiskey. The physical comfort they needed was not in her power to give -- for this they could only find comfort in each other.

"Awake is he?" Connor asked, blinking blearily. Kir nodded. She was not aware Connor had been on the couch. She expected him to find sleeping quarters elsewhere. He usually did. She offered the bottle and he nodded, taking the cup without the tea.

"Do you get any of this?" she asked, peering around his shoulder to see the two men, still hidden by shadows, but close yet.

"Off Duncan, yes. A bit. Blood and water, you know," he said following her gaze. "My...cousin is not so hard as he likes to think," he commented and Kir smiled.

"You make up for it, right? Heart of ice, mind of steel," she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Connor leered wolfishly at her and it was not all in play. Duncan should count himself lucky to have caught this dark-eyed, warrior-souled beauty. Kir was easily Connor's height, willow thin, lean, sharp planed features from the bloodlines that had bred her. Midnight black hair fell to her ass with only the occasional white streak which she had never hidden. Dusky skin, bronzed and flawless was stretched tight across cheekbones and throat except where the pale scar gleamed. A matching one lay on Connor's throat, on all the throats of those who had joined the Community. Including his kinsman, only Duncan bore another scar across the palm and only one other hand bore that mark of unity -- Methos. Connor would have offered if he had but known and had since but the tie was too tight to be abandoned or altered now, he mused, reaching out to push Kir's hair back from her face with gentle fingers.

"Down, puppy," Kir said with good-natured indulgence but her eyes were still watching her lover and his son as they finally untangled themselves and entered. Something in the bloodline, she thought, watching them move together into the living room. Twins in their grace, in their stance, and not always so far apart in their temperaments. Duncan accepted tea and whiskey. Sean went for the tea alone. "Is he still...?" she needn't have asked. The tension in Mac's face told her even before he nodded tightly. Wherever he was, Methos was aware...or mostly.

"Shall I get a plane fueled?" Connor asked.

"Yes," Mac said. "Constantine is in London. I'll make the arrangements," he said and headed for the patch-phone, downing his drink. There were perks to living with the head of one of the R&R teams - the trans-oceanic phone link being one of them. In her more irritated moments, Kir thought his attraction to her more due to the access she had to the available technology. But it wasn't true and it wasn't fair. The MacLeods, all three of them, had done much in securing that technology for the Cherokee Nation.

Watching her lover, Kir pursed her lips. One of these little trips was going to cost him his head but she could no more stop him than she could keep him prisoner in what was supposed to be a "free" society. Without a word she moved past the men and disappeared into the bedroom. She emerged a few moments later, dressed in full kit. Connor looked at her in surprise.

"We do it once. I'll deal with Hawk of Moons when we get back," she said and Mac set the phone down, staring at her. She cocked her chin. "Patch to Res-Ops," she said into the mic. "Revas? I need volunteers and the Trans-skimmer. Want to see Rome?"

Less than an hour later the Trans-skimmer was warming up and gear and supplies were being loaded. Neither Kir nor Duncan were surprised at their bon voyage party.

Hawk of Moons was an impressive man, his heritage as apparent as Kir's. "You do remember what authorization is?" he asked of Kir, ignoring the other three Immortals entirely.

"When it suits me," Kir snapped at her adopted brother. "You do know what responsibility is, don't you? The elders did say it was imperative to save as many of the Ancients as we can."

"Here, not half a world away. They will have to come to us."

"If the Grandfather could he would," Kir said and laid her hands on her brother's shoulder. "You know this is about more."

"What I know is that what you are doing is suicidal," Hawk said icily. "I know his value. I also know yours and yours, MacLeod," he added and Duncan glared.

"But I am only part of it," Mac said. "Hawk, he is awake and aware and I can't do this alone. I never could."

"But you could choose another. You could use your son or your kinsman," Hawk said.

"I could cut off my arm," Duncan said. "But it would be foolish."

"As this is. We can't send back-up. Kir, please," Hawk of Moons' tone changed to one of personal concern.

"In and out, my brother. One attempt. That's all I have agreed to. Letting Mac continue his forays is just as dangerous as this. The right equipment..."

"The Trans-skimmer is a legitimate target for the East. The old planes are not," Hawk said. "Four of you, plus the team are hardly a viable trade for one Ancient."

Kir's face went tight. "Then you'd best seek your spirit guide again, brother. Mine is telling me to bring the Ancients home. As many as I can," she turned away, only to be stopped by a hand on her shoulder.

Hawk met her gaze for a long moment then motioned to his aide with a gesture. A small box was passed over. "Don't lose them," he said then spun on his heel and walked away, leaving Kir unsure if he meant the people or the equipment.

"What is it?" Sean asked.

"Pell trackers. We only have two dozen," Kir said and opened the box to hand out the small pager-sized clips. "Satellite linked. They can find us. Any of us." She turned one on and clipped it to her harness. "And if we get separated, we can find each other." She passed them out among the team as they boarded.

"He won't come after us," she murmured to Duncan as they belted in.

"I didn't expect him to. I didn't expect this..." he added fingering the small unit.

"I think he's just mad we didn't invite him along," Connor said and Kir laughed.

Maybe. Hawk of Moons was as much warrior as anyone but he was also leader. A good leader, she thought proudly. Worthy of being Chief.

Short of storms, nothing much would slow the Trans. Radar would not pick them up until they hit land, if then. Despite Mac's call, they went straight in, planning on using the United Kingdom as their off-launch once they completed their mission. Twenty-four hours. Revas would keep the Trans off the coast. They had fuel enough for that and to get them to the UK then they would have to fuel. Constantine was supposed to be ensuring that part of their plan. Land transport would have to be whatever they could find if they needed it.

"Pitch off," Revas informed them. "Coming up on what used to be the Vatican City."

Duncan had his head in his hands, concentrating. The strain was telling but he moved steadily enough.

"We got weapons fire," Tulsa at ops said. "Not heavy but somebody's fighting." She dumped her headset to check her weapon.

The Trans touched down and the doors popped, spilling out the small team -- four Immortals, six mortals -- into the fading sunset of Rome's fall.

"God Almighty," Connor said and Kir could not help but agree as the Trans lifted again. She had never been to Rome but she had seen pictures. She would not have recognized it. The city was nearly leveled. Revas had set them down in a plaza but she could sight no identifying landmarks at all.

"Here, this way," Duncan murmured leading them blindly. Well not blindly, she thought as they followed.

What they encountered was skirmishers, resistance fighter, scavengers. The East had destroyed the city more as a reminder of power than for any real military conquest. Leveled the Vatican to prove a point.

Duncan was like a dog on a scent, leading them, weaving among the ruins. Then Sean perked up, gripping his father's arm and the two of them moved.

This easy? Kir thought. We waited all this time and it would have been this easy? She should have known she spoke too soon.

"Christ help me," Duncan moaned. He could feel Methos, knew he was close, Practically beneath their feet.

Buried under what was left of the Vatican Library. A bulldozer would be the least of the equipment they would need.

Duncan was paying little heed after his initial shock. He moved into the rubble, stopping, pausing and moving again. Sean on the other side following the same pattern.

"What kind of explosives do we have?" Connor asked, watching his kinsmen.

"Tulsa, give me a munitions run," Kir asked. She could see the tiny ops lieutenant patrolling her edge of their perimeter.

"Carrying light, Ghost," the reply came back and Kir opened the external speaker so Connor could hear. "Grenades. Twenty ounces of Hi-plastique."

"Enough to move this pile or part of it?"

Tulsa clucked her tongue. "Maybe. A little. But only once..."

"Flyer to Ghost," Revas purred into her ear. "Could manage a scan for tracing,"

"You get your butt off-coast and save fuel!" Kir snapped. "No Texaco's out here, buddy." Connor was chuckling.

Duncan had stopped, almost swaying near a pile of loose blocks that might once have been a doorway.

"Ghost, found a map," Kir glanced up at a wave from Eddie Two Horses and moved toward him as he pulled a cracked plexi-glass panel out of the rubble. Parts of the wall-mounted map were shattered or broken, faded by the elements but it was legible. Eddie balanced the frame on his knee while Kir and Connor studied.

"We must be near the south entrance," Connor commented, glancing at the sky. "That would be the lower level entrance." His gaze followed his kinsman. "Methos would go low," he said half to himself.

"So he could be in the catacombs, underneath," Kir said. "And the entrance would be about where Mac is now. If we can get in there, if the tunnels held...could they have?"

"They have before," Connor murmured. "We only need enough room to get in. Duncan!"

The younger Scot turned, stepping off the pile as his cousin came up, Kir and Eddie trailing behind with the map. There was still the sound of gunfire close by but it was sporadic as the sun began setting. A dozen words and Duncan was nodding in agreement.

"He is that close," he murmured, closing his eyes to concentrate. Kir did as well, aware of Duncan's presence, of Connor's and Sean's and when she strained she caught the edge of something else. She passed her hand radio to Connor so he could talk to Tulsa and moved, letting the older MacLeods work out the placement of the munitions, calling the rest of her team in closer. Another structure stood half collapsed close by but it would be a place to set up camp.

Sean met her and she held out her hand. He took it for reassurance. Another strain and Kir could feel the faint ghosting of presence. Not what Duncan and Sean felt but the signature of an Immortal. It was weak but still there.

She was not quite sure she had believed any of it until this moment. Finding the Ancient had become something like the Quest for the Holy Grail, if only a the end of the Quest they might find some measure of peace. Peace for Duncan whom it seemed an elusive dream at best. Peace for the Spirits who had cried out in her own soul, trapped as they were in her memory, wailing their fear that one of their own should be so caught.

She wondered if those Spirits had kept Methos company for the past three years. For all his alliance to the Tribes, the Unified Tribes of the Cherokee Nation, Duncan had never asked of what value his friend might be. He had accepted that Methos had value for his own sake for the sake of the Community, but never a why for the tribes. Kir had not bothered to illustrate the need to him. Selfish in a way, not only for herself but for the Nation. Duncan understood why Hawk of Moons had been unwilling to lend personnel and equipment to his search -- he thought he understood. He might have been very surprised to find out that the Tribal Elders had as great a fear of rescuing the Oldest Immortal as they did of not finding him.

Ancient drums -- the drums of long-dead Storytellers beat through her mind as her heart beat in her breast. She closed her eyes against the evidence and listened to those tales she had been hearing since her childhood. No use at all in telling Duncan or Connor or even Sean that there was as much religion as mercy twisted around this mission to rescue who might well be the other half of Duncan MacLeod's soul. Translating the needs of the Tribes into the terms of the Epic of Gilgamesh might well make more sense to Duncan than anything Kir could try to explain. He had lived and loved and learned with the Lakota. A part of him had died with them -- Kir knew that part of Duncan's history as well as she knew her own. But he could not, and would not, if Kir had anything to say about it, learn the rest of the tale.

She released Sean's hand, unable to touch any longer the son of the man she may well have to betray. Loving Duncan would not stop her betrayal and seeing Methos' face so clearly etched into Sean's would not make it any easier.

"Let's get to it!" she snapped, voice crisp, clear and entirely in control. Her team moved as she and Sean climbed off the mountain.

Tulsa and Connor set the charges while the rest set up a camp of sorts -- quick camp with the bare essentials. There would be no sleep for any of them until they were back on the Trans. Perimeters set and checked and Kir had to grin as Modo, her very own Eyes of God, climbed like a monkey up the side of what had been a building to find his sniper's perch among the pigeons.

The smile faded as those Eyes reported movement from the North. "Land force, Ghost," he reported. "Not large. Two trucks but I don't think its farmers peddling produce. An hour, maybe."

"Shit!" She passed the word and her team, already on alert, suddenly became shadows. She dropped back, pressed between Mac and Sean as the charges were fired.

There seemed to be little difference to the pile of rubble but Connor and Mac were on it in an instant, clearing away the shattered stone, pulverized into more dust.

"They heard that!" Modo reported.

Kir acknowledge. They had brought the tools to dig and Connor took over the jackhammer, breaking through the slab of stone that still blocked what they thought was the entrance to the tunnels below. Mac stood back, Sean his unnoticed support, one large slender hand bracing his father's shoulder and then there was a shout as the slab chattered under the assault.

The Gates of the Underworld might have opened, Kir noted as rank and foul air spiraled upward. The Gods alone knew what else had been buried beneath the fallen palace. More bodies than Kir thought she wanted to count. Masks were passed out and Sean had to physically stop Duncan from entering without one and then urge caution. Stability could not be assured.

"I'll stay up," Connor volunteered but there was no noblesse in the gesture. The older Immortal's face was pale and strained. Kir brushed his cheeks with her fingers. No time to press for the cause of Connor's claustrophobia. There might be later. She hoped.

Lanterns illuminated the ancient passage and it was ancient, the stones of the steps they took downward worn in the center from centuries of footsteps. How apropos, Kir thought as she followed the MacLeods into the darkness. Methos' tomb might well be as old as the man himself.

Not a hundred feet in, Mac stopped, peering forward in confusion then turning again. Very much like a hunting dog on a scent. He backtracked, light falling across the pile of rubble that crowded against the stairs.

"Da," Sean's whisper was like a shout in the confining darkness as Duncan knelt beside the pile, setting his lantern on the steps and began working at the pile. "Da, you'll bring the roof down."

Sean and Kir's lights were on the pile and it was true, the cracked underside of the plaza loomed overhead, the building having driven through the roof to deposit its upper reaches to its lowest depths. The pile Duncan pulled at was like to collapse and give Methos company for his vigil.

Duncan would not be swayed even when they heard the gunfire echoed dully above them.

"Status," Kir hissed, prepared to mount the stairs, almost tripping over a flow of water that trickled down the worn stone and vanished between the blocks.

"They are holding back," Tulsa answered her but Kir could hear Connor close. "Uhm...Connor says to draw your swords."

Another curse. Immortals as well as a recon team. Not a good thing certainly. "Hold them. Get ready to drop back." She redirected her attention to the two men below her. "Mac, we have to go. We can't hold this position."

Duncan made no sign that he had heard her and Sean met her gaze, shaking his head. At this point, this close, they would have to kill the elder MacLeod and carry him out to get him to leave. Kir bit her lip, wincing as she heard the first explosion rock the world above. Dust filtered down on them, settling swiftly, washed away by the thin stream of water on the steps. She studied that stream, thoughts picking the back of her brain as she saw the water drain away into some hidden channel.

Drain? Through rock? She knelt, shining the light on the water. It was disappearing through a minute joint between the two blocks. Tomb. Absolutely. Immortal or not, Methos could not have come to even a semblance of waking buried under tons of debris. Not with the reality of coherent thought that acknowledged his situation.

"Under the stairs," she said softly and leaned over to grip Duncan's shoulder fiercely. "He is under the stairs!" she hissed and then moved upward as a second explosion sounded closer and was answered by the heavy whine of one of the K-30 assault rifles.

"There is something wrong," Connor hissed at her as she came up beside him. "Either they don't know who we are or they do. They are trying to keep us pinned, not trying to end this."

"God! What have you got?" Kir asked.

"They are hovering, not pressing too close. I don't know what they are up to. No one is moving to flank...you'd think they wanted to chat," Modo said.

"What's going on below?" Connor asked, the tone less than casual but not quite insistent.

"Close. I think. Keep them occupied," She said patting his shoulder and ducked down the stairs again.

Half-way down rapid fire sounded close and the passage was rocked by another explosion. Kir swore and jumped as loose stone stated falling down the stairs, Sean steadied her and then turned back again to help his father.

Duncan barely noticed. His hands were bloodied from scrabbling at the masonry, filthy from the dirt and mold. Sean cleared behind him, Kir watching their backs and outside they could hear Connor yelling like a mad man.

The pile shifted and Mac slipped backward coughing as dust rose around them. But the clearing left a hole beneath the stairs. Tiny, too tiny for a grown man.

Only it wasn't. Mac was not even aware of the tears falling as he reached in and felt flesh. Clammy, slimy but flesh. He worried not at all for further injury as he reached in and pulled, felt resistance in the tightly folded body but he finally had the still and near naked form out of the tiny hole.

He was barely recognizable in appearance. Skeletal, his clothes half-rotted of him from three years of leaking water and frigid nights, hot days. He weighed nothing. But his presence was there, strong, solid, muted by his comatose state. Sean pushed past his father, reaching into the hole and feeling around, emerging with Methos' sword and a rotting bag, weight and shape displaying books of some sort.

"Clear!" Kir snapped into her mic and passed Sean's gun back to him as Duncan rose, cradling the frail body in his arms.

Kir couldn't look at the ancient yet. She didn't want to see him. It had been hard enough to watch Mac and Sean fall to pieces periodically under the link that bound them, but to see the physical evidence of what Methos had been enduring was too much right now. She had to concentrate on getting them-all of them-out.

Duncan was in no shape to make any decisions, Sean was some better but he was hovering, hazel eyes wide in a kind of shock. "Connor!" Kir's yell could stop a stampede in full charge. Her team had dropped back and the Trans was on the way.

Mac stubbornly refused help with carrying Methos to the Trans, with Sean and Connor laying down cover fire as he sprinted to the entrance behind Kir and the rest of the team, using his own body as a shield for the frail, limp figure in his arms. Methos had a near-death grip on the front of his coat as he wheezed frantically for air, barely conscious, groaning against the pain of broken bones finally beginning to mend. Mac dumped the Oldest Immortal into a seat unceremoniously, having to pry away those claw-like fingers from his clothes before he could strap him in.

"Come on!" Revas shouted at them, "They're closing in. We've got to get out of here!"

"Hang on," Duncan growled, whether to Kir or Methos, Kir couldn't be sure. As Tulsa and the other mortals on the team dove into the entrance, he grabbed a weapon and headed for the door. He crouched in the doorway, firing toward the Alliance position, yelling for Connor and Sean to make a run for it, but Connor held up his hand for him to stop. In the sudden, deathly silence, Mac felt it; the thrum of another Immortal, not one of the Community.

A large, stocky, bullet-headed bald man stood, moving out from the cover of a broken half-wall, easily holding a green and black fatigue-clad body up with one arm, a sword resting gently against the exposed neck. The body was Sean, red staining one side of his face from a bullet to his brain. Mac's heart faltered, stopped, started, then faltered again as he felt the blood rush from his brain and he almost staggered under the crushing panic that squeezed his chest.

"I am Bar Abbas. I can feel you Duncan MacLeod. I hear you are a big hero. Well, now's your chance Highlander! Surrender or I kill the boy and everyone here! You're even more of a prize than the old man! How about it? You in exchange for all your other little friends. Come to me, and I'll let the rest go." The man signaled with his head, and a dozen fully armed troopers showed themselves scattered in a wide arc behind him.

"Mac, don't!" he heard Kir hiss behind him. He ignored her, stepping into the doorway.

"Let the boy go! Let everyone go, and I'm yours, Bar Abbas. Otherwise we all go down!" Out of the corner of his eye he could see Connor circling, moving from shadow to shadow. He tried to signal his clansman to stay still.

"No, MacLeod! That's what they want. They'll destroy the Community!" Kir insisted, tugging hard on his arm.

He shook her off. "If they've got me, they'll let you go. You've got Methos now. You don't need me, Kir, and I can't let him kill Sean!"

"Let the boy go and walk away!" Mac shouted, stepping full into the doorway, his hands up and weaponless.

"Mac!" Kir was yelling now, reaching for him. Other hands were on him as well, trying to pull him back into the relative safety of the Trans.

As he prepared to step down the ramp, a tall figure rose up behind the troopers like an incarnation of death. Connor had circled around using speed and stealth developed over centuries, and let loose with deadly accuracy. First however, he carefully, deliberately, methodically took aim at his clansman, lifting him off his feet and propelling him into the hovercraft by the sheer force of the three slugs that slammed into his chest. Kir dragged him out of the door and slammed it shut.

"Go," she shouted to Revas as she felt shots thump against the hard hull. She dove for a seat, engines screaming protest as they were pushed to maximum without warm-up.

"Spirits guide us all home," Kir murmured to herself, heartsick at leaving behind any of her team, especially those she loved. But if anyone could take care of himself, it was Connor MacLeod. She had to place her faith in that.

Connor moved behind the troopers, darting from cover to cover, firing the heavy weapon until his entire body was numb from the vibration, until his palms burned and blistered with the heat rising off the metal, until no one was left standing. He was distantly aware that he had taken some hits himself, but had neither the time nor energy to spare to pay attention to it.

Suddenly all seemed unnaturally quiet and he realized there was no more return fire. The silent pause seemed surreal in the early evening light as steam rose off the still, bloody bodies scattered in the rubble that used to be part of one of the great architectural wonders of the Holy Roman empire. He stumbled over the piles of loose stone to where Bar Abbas had fallen, two shots having found their mark, one in his shoulder, one in his neck. He was dead, but only momentarily. It crossed his mind to take the man's head, but the distraction of a Quickening was not one he could afford just now.

Connor grabbed young Sean, pulling him up by the arms and slinging him over his back. Behind the rubble he found one of their vehicles, a military-style all-wheel drive that carried about a half dozen people and their equipment. It required a computer coded key to start, and he lost precious time looking among the bodies, knowing that Bar Abbas was probably already stirring back to life. Finally he pulled the key out of a blood soaked pocket just as he felt Abbas' presence surge back. He sprinted to the vehicle and gunned the motor, spun it around and, holding Sean's body in the tilting, bumping truck with one hand, steering with the other, aimed straight for Abbas who had stumbled to his feet, sword in his hand. He hit the other Immortal, hearing a sickening thump as soft tissue encountered hard metal at 40 km/hr.

"Take that you son-of-a-bitch," he muttered, heading for the hills northeast of the city. He had to find a safe place, to get supplies, to hook back up with Kir and Duncan before they reached England. They had been betrayed. This would be tricky. Very, very tricky.

Methos winced as he felt the power of MacLeod's surge back to life, catching the residue of agony as Duncan's ruined chest fought to heal itself. Combined with the misplaced bones, the overwhelming thirst and weakness that was his universe, it almost sent the old Immortal back into oblivion, but that much desired release wouldn't come.

But the Scot had only one thing on his mind, he pulled himself out of the chair they had strapped him in, leaving a trail of blood from his still-healing chest across the floor of the hovercraft.

"No, Kir!" he gasped. "We can't leave them!"

"Too late, Duncan," she said quietly, calmly. "You've been out for over half an hour. Connor got you good. Knew exactly what he was doing."

Duncan slumped into a seat while he waited for his wounds to heal, looking disconsolately out at the darkness outside the window, his eyes loosing focus as he felt for the presence of his son and his clansman. They were alive, although Sean's presence was barely there. Probably still hadn't recovered from the shot to the head. The boy was still young, only a little over 100 years old. The youngest, possibly the last, of all the Immortals. Had they been captured? Duncan concentrated, his head aching with the effort. He couldn't tell. He sensed anxiety from Connor, but that would be expected. He knew wouldn't be able to rest until he knew for certain that they were safe, that his son was out of harm's way.

But at least he finally had Methos. He turned, meeting pain-filled hazel eyes. No, more than pain, there was anger there and fear and ... hatred.

"Methos?" he said gently, reaching out to place his hand on the painfully thin arm. "You're safe. It's okay." He reached for the water bottle he kept stored in one of the numerous pockets of his fatigues, holding it to Methos' lips. The ancient man drank a few swallows, but then turned his head away, closing his eyes. Already his Immortal healing had improved his color, the fluid they had given him had changed chapped, bloody lips to smooth, unblemished skin in a face that had always emphasized sharp angles, but now looked like a sketchbook for geometric figures.

If the old man didn't want to talk yet, then he would just have to be patient, Duncan decided. Besides, his own mind and heart were reeling with worry for Sean. It seemed he had at long last resolved one unbearable agony, only to be replaced by one equally as painful. He closed his eyes, willing himself to calm, to control. He would be useless to them all if he allowed himself to be overwhelmed with worry.

The skimmer settled gracefully into the ancient hangar outside old East Berlin with a light 'thump.' Modo carefully opened the hatch, lowering to a crouch and ducking out, followed quickly by Tulsa so they could sweep the area for possible hostiles. A different kind of search was being done by Duncan as he sat quietly for a minute, eyes closed, concentrating. The task, which usually gave him a bad headache anyway, was particularly difficult with his mind constantly rechecking the strong connection he had with Sean and the more tenuous one with Connor. That distraction, plus the nearness of Methos, was almost painful in intensity and he found himself distancing himself emotionally from all those concerns in order to achieve any kind of clarity of thought. Sean called it 'zoning out' and hated when his father's face took on that closed, hard, blank expression. But the boy didn't understand just how overwhelming constant, heavy sensory input could be.

His son had never even taken a head and, Duncan firmly told himself, never would if he had anything to say about it. He had been determined from the moment of Sean's birth that the development of the boy's awesome potential would be a matter of life experience rather than the violent, destructive amassing of Quickening power his father had been forced to endure. Duncan was certain Sean had greater inborn talent and power than he or even Methos had acquired in his five millennia. But those gifts would have to be realized with time and patience. They would be the gentle gifts of wisdom, of caring, of love, of life, not of death, of loss, of grief and regret.

These worries intruded again, distracting him, so again he refocused, pushing emotion away, sweeping the area, sensing only the R&R team nearby. He sighed and looked up into Kir's worried face.

"It's clear," he said flatly.

"Okay, people," Kir said in low, even tones. "Let's set up camp here today. We'll move out again at full dark and try to make it across the channel."

Methos had been sleeping during much of the trip. When he had awakened, Duncan was always there, hovering nearby, giving him sips of juice, small bites of food. They hadn't spoken and Duncan hadn't pressed. He could only imagine the shock and trauma of suddenly emerging from three years of semi-conscious hell. That first look, so full of anger and hate, had disappeared behind a careful mask. But Mac knew his friend as well as anyone ever could know a man with over 5,000 years of life experience, and he could see and sense an underlying, almost desperate panic that expressed itself in a tight, curled posture.

As soon as the team had moved out to set up sleeping areas in the old hangar, Duncan knelt in front of his friend of almost two hundred years.

"Methos?" The hazel eyes opened and looked at him without expression.

"They've set up a private tent for you with a cot, if you like," Duncan informed him. Their eyes met as they had so many times before. After a long moment, Methos nodded almost imperceptibly, moving slowly, stiffly, flinching under Duncan's touch, but relying on the muscular Scot to help him to his feet. But legs which had not walked in years wouldn't hold his weight, and MacLeod easily swept the man into his arms and carried him down the ramp, where a tent set up in the far corner of the hangar provided a small measure of privacy.

Duncan found a clean set of fatigues and a large bucket of warm water in the tent. Kir's thoughtfulness, no doubt. He set Methos down on the cot where the man immediately curled over on his side, folded again into a tight ball.

Working methodically, lips pressed together to push away the image of what the old man had endured for so long, MacLeod carefully stripped the rags from the bony body and washed the pale, almost transparent skin. As he did, Methos uncurled slightly, his eyes closed, expression uncertain, as though he were unsure whether he welcomed or loathed the touch.

When he was done and clean clothes now covered the bare body, Mac sat on the floor by the bed for a long time, hoping his friend would talk to him. The longer the silence went on the harder it was to just sit there. MacLeod was desperate for Methos to at least acknowledge his presence.

"Methos?" Duncan finally had to say, "I'm here if you need me, if you want to talk. Do you want me to stay?"

Methos rolled from his back over to his side, facing away. Eventually, the rise and fall of the concave chest was slow and regular and Mac carefully covered the sleeping form with a blanket and slipped away.

Kir felt Mac slip into the double sleeping bag beside her hours after everyone except the person on watch had gone to sleep. She reached for him but he had turned away, his back rigid with worry and tension. She ran her hand along the smooth, warm skin, but he didn't respond. Eventually she gave up, swallowing her anxiety, knowing there was little she could do to comfort him when he got like this. Only Sean and Methos could tease, cajole or irritate the Highlander out from behind the self-protective walls he sometimes built. Methos had once told her that MacLeod hadn't always done that, only after the Community had been formed, making it seem as though he felt responsible for MacLeod's tendency to get cold and hard at times, becoming a single-minded machine, capable of trampling on anyone who got in his way. Kir had added the mystery to the long list of enigmas about the turbulent history between the two most powerful personalities she had ever known.

Mac awoke with a start, feeling like he had just barely fallen asleep. Daylight was just beginning to fade, but the hangar was silent as all the team members had learned to sleep whenever the opportunity presented itself. Then he heard it, a groan, a small cry, a movement. He was on his feet and into Methos' tent in three heartbeats, finding the man writhing in the grip of a nightmare, the echo of which chilled Mac's soul as its tendrils touched his mind.

He gathered the bones held together by thin flesh into his arms, finding the body cold and trembling. He pulled him close into his chest, lending whatever of his strength, his warmth, he could.

"It's okay, Methos," he whispered. "I'm here. The nightmare is over. You're safe," he murmured the words again and again, rocking the man like the child he seemed, so slender, so delicate, so light.

Gradually, the trembling slowed and ceased, and those long, impossibly thin arms wrapped around him, clinging to him tightly, possessively.

"Duncan?" the familiar voice finally rasped.

"Shhh. Yes, Methos. It's Duncan. Sleep now. I'm here."

It was meant to be a reassurance, a comfort, but Methos found himself recoiling from the implication and had he the strength of will or body he would have rejected the physical as well. But he could not. A shudder wracked him at his own weakness for accepting what he found loathsome in the extreme. That he could both crave and despise the strength of the arms that held him, that he needed the reality of the Highlander's strong presence because it was still the only thing that was real to him, even now. In truth, he recoiled as much from his own need. His absolute loathing for the man who held him now brought the string of curses unbidden to his lips. His soft mutterings took a few moments for Duncan to identify but by then the words were spilling out in a steady stream that Methos could neither halt nor control.

Anymore than he could control his own body. The fluids and food they had been coaxing on him sought their natural, if long denied, course and the humiliation of that failure was what finally stopped Methos' multi-lingual tirade as he gave into sobs that also defied his will. Worse still that MacLeod took it all in stride, stripping him down again before cleaning him up. A new presence insinuated itself against Methos' consciousness, Kir's vaguely familiar voice questioning and different hands wrapped a thin blanket around him while MacLeod stripped the cot.

The feminine presence had the benefit of not ripping quite so rawly across his nerves and emotions, but neither was it the same comfort. Stubbornly he refused to answer questions, coaxing the pain that still worked through his body closer as a shield. Immortal healing might well keep his bodily functions working but it could not add muscle or flesh to his frame, only heighten and speed up the recoup of its loss over time. The result being that Methos could feel his own bones rubbing against one another and the shifting of his ribs and hips as Kir surrendered him once more, like an infant, into the Scot's stronger arms.

The distraction had some effect and Methos managed to formulate in words those feelings that had rendered him helpless. "Get the hell away from me, you son of a bitch."

Dark eyes met his in shock but Methos held on to the anger and the hatred and the gut wrenching sense of betrayal until Mac did set him back on the cot and moved away.

Kir laid a hand on Duncan's arm, possibly understanding more than the Highlander when she met the rage burning in the hazel eyes. "Leave him be, Duncan," she murmured. "This is shock. It will pass." He nodded, tight-lipped before wrenching away, almost sending the sentry into a panic as he moved past her, silent as a phantom.

Kir moved back, torn between following MacLeod and knowing that as harshly as Methos had pushed her lover away, the effort had cost the ancient. She hesitated and made her decision, settling next to the cot and pulling her knees to her chest to rest her cheek against them and watch over her reluctant patient.

"I don't want or need you either," Methos murmured.

"No doubt," Kir said understanding more than he realized. "But we have need of you, therefore you will just have to endure," she said and pulled the blanket more securely around the thin shoulders.

Connor drove steadily on back roads, heading generally northeast through the dark. Having explored all of Europe for over 500 years gave him a distinct advantage now that road markings, villages and cities were few and far between. As the fuel gauge dipped dangerously he looked for a town, finally driving through a small village lying in complete darkness in the moonless night. No one wasted electricity for such frivolous uses as night-lights or street lights anymore, and Connor pulled off the road just past the edge of town, maneuvering into a stand of trees for cover. He sat in the dark, patient and still, waiting for Sean to recover, unwilling to leave the boy to reanimate alone. He didn't know how many deaths his clansman's son had suffered, but he doubted there were very many at all, given his over-protective parent.

The very thought of Duncan having a son, a real child of his own, was such a bizarre notion. Immortals didn't have children. But there was no doubt about this lad's genetic heritage. The nose, the mouth, the voice, the hair were all Duncan's. The rest looked much like old Methos which was a hell of a note, and even though Duncan had tried to explain the boy's family tree and the nature of the race of Danaa from which they had all sprung, it hadn't stuck. Oh well, Connor was never one to dwell long on complex puzzles or philosophical issues. In the long run -- and he had always considered the long run -- amusement, taking care of your friends, and survival, in that order, was the only enduring aspect of life's problems that maintained his interest.

Finally, Sean stirred, then groaned then would have yelped in pain if Connor hadn't quickly covered his mouth.

"Quiet lad, or ye'll wake the dead!" he growled.

The boy panted in pain for several minutes, his jaw clenched to prevent himself from crying out as he held his head. "I . . . was . . . dead!" he finally choked out.

Well, at least the lad had a sense of humor. Connor smiled to himself. "Well, we've got a little problem, my boy," he went on while Sean continued to struggle with the agony of reanimation. "We're somewhere north of Rome, in hostile territory, low on fuel and separated from the R&R team. Any ideas?"

"Just gimme a minute, dammit!" Sean whispered impatiently. He had only died once before. It was planned. Plotted actually, between himself and Methos, and against his father's wishes. But that had been relatively simple, a bullet to the heart. This ... his head felt like it was going to explode and the pain was fading so slowly! How did his father stand it? He always seemed to be on the receiving end of a bullet or a knife or some other lethal implement.

"It will be dawn soon, lad. Don't have time to wait while you lay about here. I'm going to find a vehicle or two to siphon off some fuel. Be back in awhile."

Sean moved awkwardly to follow but before he could even open the door, his cousin had disappeared completely, soundlessly. If Sean hadn't been able to sense his Immortal presence, he would have thought it magic.

In the hour it took for Connor to complete his mission, Sean discovered that the pain in his head was gone and for a few minutes panic set in. He'd been on numerous dangerous missions in the last few years, but always with the full R&R team at his back, and his father firmly at his side. As he purposefully calmed his rapid heart rate with meditations that had been methodically drilled into him practically from birth, he realized upon reflection that he actually felt . . . good. Kind of excited in a scary way. Then his heart practically leapt out through his mouth as Connor suddenly just appeared at the truck's window, tapping on the glass.

"What!" Sean gasped, having to again run through his meditations.

Connor held up two large canisters of fuel, a satisfied smirk on his face. "Got enough to get us almost to Paris, I think," he whispered loudly. "Made us a plan yet, boy?" Without waiting for an answer, Connor emptied one container into the gas tank and loaded the other in the back, climbed in and started the motor.

Finally on the road again, Sean turned to his companion with a pleased, knowing look. "The Pell Trackers. They can find us with the trackers, but we have to be in a fairly secure spot before we use them, otherwise that asshole, Bar what's-his-name, might find us."

"Oh, he already did that, lad."

"What do you mean?"

"He was waiting for us. Knew we were in the area and waited until Mac pulled Methos out to close in."

"Is that how we got separated?"

"Well, sort of."

"What do you mean, well, sort of?" Sean asked suspiciously.

"Well, you went down and . . . well things got a little out of control after that."

"What did Da do?" Sean asked in a resigned tone, "Offer himself up as hostage to save everybody?"

His companion pursed his lips, but kept silent.

"Shit!" Sean finally whispered, suddenly heartsick. "Did they take him?"

"No," Connor said jauntily. "I shot him, then blasted the holy hell out of Bar Abbas' little outing while Kir grabbed Mac and took off like a bat outta hell."

"Did they get Methos out okay?"

"From what I could see. He looked in pretty terrible shape, though."

They rode in silence for a minute. Sean turned to look again at Connor, his light brown eyes suddenly hooded. "Somebody betrayed us, didn't they? Someone who knew where we were going."

"I always knew the MacLeod's were a bright bunch, although it took your father awhile to show it," Connor said in his odd, sibilant baritone.

"Well, if we're headed north towards Paris, maybe we can contact Amanda and she can provide us a safe house where we can use the trackers," Sean suggested.

"Amanda!" Connor spat. "She's nothing but trouble. We can't trust her."

"Do you have a better idea?"

Silence.

"Well?"

"I'm thinking!"

"Oh, well I'll be very quiet then. I wouldn't want to disturb a genius at work."

"Cute. Watch yourself, lad. Just because you're the son of Duncan MacLeod doesn't mean you can't earn the back of my hand, or even the back of my sword, if you annoy me too much."

"I can handle myself with a sword just fine, Connor."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really. I had a very good teacher, better than you."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really."

"I was the one taught your Da to fight, ye little twit."

"Only the first of many, old man. He's the best there is."

"That has yet to be seen, hasn't it, little one."

"Stop doing that! I'm over 150 for God's sake! I've been fighting this war for years. I've killed and seen my friends die. I'm not a child, so stop treating me like one." The bantering tone was gone.

Connor drove for awhile in silence.

"Tisn't easy being his son, is it? Growing up in the shadow of a legend."

"Two legends, actually. But, no, it wasn't easy. Still isn't. But he's a good man, a good teacher, a strong leader and ... lord knows he loves me." The last came out with a sigh of something almost like regret.

"Feeling a little stifled are we?"

"Yeah, I guess. Sometimes. He has definite ideas about how I should live my life. Doesn't leave me a lot of room for experimentation. I guess it might've been okay if this bloody war hadn't started, throwing us all so tightly together with him the glue that binds the whole Community. He's even decided that I should never take a Quickening, afraid of what it'll do to me. You know he's stepped in three times, either stopping a battle or taking over, just to keep me from taking a head?" Sean shook his head in frustration. "I know he means well, but . . . he can't protect me forever."

"Unfortunately, lad, he can at least attempt to do just that." Connor looked sideways at his young kinsman, finding himself feeling surprisingly parental towards the lad. "Look, Sean, he hates the killing more than anyone, and he knows it can damage the soul. But especially the first Quickenings are . . . they're erotic, they're powerful, they're stunning, they're fascinating . . . it can be instantaneously addictive. It's happened to a lot of us. It takes all too long to realize that we're talking about taking a life, not just taking power, and there's ultimately a terrible price to be paid. Duncan's taken too many and now each one is an increasing agony of power overload. I know Methos doesn't take heads much anymore. I'm sure it's for the same reason. Your father just doesn't want you to start down that road."

"It's a road we all travel, Connor," Sean said quietly. "I don't have the slightest desire to kill anyone or anything, but if I value honor and integrity, the things most important to Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, how can he justify not letting me fight my own battles, whatever the outcome!"

"You've got a point, my lad. I assume you've had this conversation with your Da, though."

Sean's laugh was humorless. "Oh, yeah. Like talking to a rock."

"Aye. That it would be, no doubt."

They drove in silence for a few minutes, both realizing the dawn was turning black-on-black shadows to soft outlines of gray and green bushes and trees. They would have to stop soon and find a hiding place during the day.

Connor spotted an overgrown road to one side and turned off, glad that the truck was built for off road travel. The rutted path led to an abandoned farmhouse. While it was dusty and the roof probably leaked badly, it would do for a temporary hiding place. As they unloaded their gear and prepared to sleep in turns with Sean taking the first watch, Connor put his big hand on the boy's lean shoulder. They were of equal height and looked about the same age, but the depth behind the old warrior's eyes told of centuries of wisdom.

"Look, Sean. While you're with me, at least, you're not a lad, not a boy. I won't do that anymore, or if I do I expect ye to call me on't. If we get into trouble, I'll watch your back and I expect you to watch mine. Equals." He grasped the younger Immortal's arm just below the elbow. A clansman's grip.

Sean's eyes shown with gratitude as he settled in to watch over his kinsman's sleeping form.

The skimmer was loaded once again as they prepared to move out, and Duncan hung back while Kir and Modo helped Methos climb unsteadily up the ramp into the vehicle. He was trying mightily to tell himself that the old Immortal's reaction was completely understandable. That he was in shock and lashing out at whoever was nearby. But it was still hard. With Sean in jeopardy and Methos here but physically and emotionally almost unrecognizable, he felt a little like the threads of his life, always frayed, were quickly unraveling.

The skimmer engines whined to a painful pitch as the vehicle rose a few inches on its column of air and moved elegantly out of the hangar into the night. The vehicle glided out over the cracked, weed-strewn asphalt. Modo did a electronic scan for nearby vehicles and gave the all clear. Revas revved the engines and the skimmer rose vertically to rooftop level, then higher - low enough to avoid satellite detection but high enough to mask the engine noise. Revas moved the craft slowly northwest and had almost cleared the old military airport when they all felt and heard it. A loud bang, and the craft suddenly lost height, dipping sickeningly to starboard.

"Status," Revas barked, hauling hard on the controls.

"Right stabilizer just blew," Claire, in the co-pilot's seat, shouted over the noise of the now screaming engines. "Only way to compensate is to shut down the left," she said, hitting the controls, making the ship swing wildly down on the other side and around, losing both height and forward movement.

"Get us down, Revas," Kir ordered. "Now!"

"No problem with that, Ghost," Revas growled with a grim smile. "The only problem is getting us there in one piece." His hands played over the controls like a piano virtuoso, but even so the craft lurched in stomach wrenching motions tilting and almost rolling, finally hitting hard on the starboard side before it settled with a slow whump to the ground.

They all sat for a few seconds in the sudden silence, everyone breathing hard at the adrenaline rush the wild ride had instigated. Mac quickly unbuckled and checked on each of the mortals strapped in the back. Looked like one had suffered a dislocated shoulder and Eddie Two Horses had a bad cut on his forehead. Methos had hardly even registered the event, and when Mac approached him, drew away.

Mac sighed in frustration. "Well, looks like we're here to stay for awhile," he said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

"Revas, let's see how bad the damage is," Kir ordered, unstrapping and heading down the ramp with the other team members. "The rest of you see if you can find anything to camouflage the shuttle."

Mac moved down the ramp with her. "I'll find us some shelter and get the wounded taken care of," he said softly, squeezing her shoulder. He could feel the tension in the hard muscles. This was her team and he had put them at risk. It was one thing for an Immortal to go into dangerous territory, but these mortals. The price they paid could be very high. Too high. They both felt the weight of that responsibility, but Mac knew Kir would never forgive herself if they lost one of them on this improbable mission.

By the time the night was gone and dawn made them dangerously vulnerable, they had hauled the skimmer by hand partially underneath some trees, then cut enough branches from nearby undergrowth to disguise the craft, at least to the casual overhead observer. This part of the base was primarily old metal quonset huts, some with rusted out double-decker bunk beds and ratty, stained mattresses. Some with what used to be old offices and meeting rooms scattered with weather-beaten, rickety chairs, a few tables and desks. Leaking roofs had made most of the furniture unusable, but they found a few chairs and an old table they put in one of the offices to use for a meeting space. The team scattered, searching out the livable rooms for a few private, habitable spaces, especially for Methos whom they all treated with awe and deference, even though he spoke almost not at all. They instinctively felt he should have a space to himself.

Mac had gone to work setting the injured shoulder, marveling at the stoicism of the young man as he hardly cried out when Mac moved the joint back into place. Eddie's cut was stitched and bandaged and by noon they had settled in for the long haul.

Kir, Revas, Mac and Claire met in the separate little office they had set up to assess their options.

"Well, it's not a disaster, but it ain't great news, either," Rivas reported.

Claire put a complex machined piece onto the table. "The right stabilizer on the compressor took a hit, but it was only after we stopped and the engines cooled down that we lost pressure for air flight. We have some welding and cutting tools on board, but they're not made for delicate work like this, and we may have to jury rig something," Claire said, wiping her forehead tiredly, leaving a streak of black grease. "It may take a day or two at least. I can't really tell."

Mac picked up the piece, examining it curiously. He loved to tinker with engines. "I'll help," he offered.

Claire blushed as she met his dark eyes. The famous and handsome Immortal intimidated her, but she knew her business and wasn't about to let anyone muck up the repair. "This is state-of-the-art equipment Mr. MacLeod," she said softly.

He chuckled. "I'll do whatever you say, Claire. I may have the reputation for being a little old fashioned, but I'm not entirely behind the times, I assure you."

"Okay," Kir sighed. "You two work on the stabilizer and the rest of us will make sure we've got supplies to last us, and will more thoroughly scout out the area. Mac, is Eddie okay for scouting duty?"

"Yeah. No concussion, just a nasty cut. I don't want him doing a lot of heavy activity, though."

They all went about their separate duties, and Kir settled Methos into one of the smaller offices next to a room she prepared for herself and Mac. Methos had finally started to eat again, suddenly evidently determined to regain his weight and strength, but still not talking. He tolerated Kir's presence and pretty much ignored everyone else.

As evening fell once again, Kir set sentries and went to visit the workroom Claire and Mac had set up. He looked up as she came in, sensing her presence, but Claire was absolutely focused on her task, welding goggles on as she meticulously tried to rework the piece to make it function. Mac had taken the entire unit apart and had its components spread across two desks. Kir nodded her head towards the door, and Mac followed her outside.

It was cool in the night air, making gooseflesh rise on her arms until Duncan circled her into his chest, holding her close and kissing her forehead. They were almost of equal height, and she took his face in her hands, examining it closely. His eyes were dark from long, sleepless days and nights and his face was tense with worry.

"He'll be okay, Duncan," she whispered. "Connor is with him."

Mac snorted. "Somehow, I don't find that particularly reassuring." He put his arm around her shoulders and walked her toward the quarters they had set up. "They're alive, I know that. I think I'd know if they'd been taken prisoner. Beyond that," he shrugged.

"Well, they've got the trackers, and both of them know France like the back of their hand. My guess is they'll head there. The best we can do . . ." she stopped and turned to him, looking him in the eye. "The best you can do is to not drive yourself nuts with worry."

"What? Me, worry?" he asked with a smile. "How's Methos?"

"Speaking of worrying . . ." she added with an ironic twist to her mouth, and then sighed. "I honestly don't know, Mac. He's . . . full of anger. The rage inside is eating him up. Time and a return of strength is the only thing I know to help him. I think you ought to just stay clear. He'll come to you when he's ready."

"It's more complicated than that, Kir. You know that, especially with Sean missing. He loves Sean, too. He just shows it a little differently."

"I know. But if anything dire comes up, you two will just have to deal with it. You've lived with this connection for over a hundred years, in good times and bad. Your friendship has survived this long, MacLeod. I assume you'll get through this, too. At least he's out of that horrible hole."

They had reached the door to their temporary quarters. "Coming to bed?" she asked, laying her hand on his chest in invitation.

He took her long, brown fingers in his blunt, callused ones and kissed them gently. "I need to help Claire and . . ." he looked at the adjacent door where Methos could be heard moving inside. "I don't think I could sleep anyway."

"Don't push the margins too hard, Duncan. We need you fully functional," Kir reprimanded.

"Yes, Ghost," he said with a teasing smile, kissed her gently and slipped soundlessly away.

PART TWO