RATED NC17 FOR ADULT THEMES & VIOLENCE. As always, The Highlander characters are the property of Rysher: Panzer/Davis. The character and circumstances of the birth of Sean MacLeod is being used with permission but should not be construed as making this story in any way a sequel to THE CHAOS CHRONICLES located at the HIGHLANDER QUILL CLUB This material may not be copied or distributed without our permission-we don't want R:P/D hunting us down--we have enough problems. Do not link, publish or post this material without permission.

Xan was as mad as Amanda had ever seen her, and she had known the woman for almost 700 years.

"I've worked for over 180 years to establish my place in this town, with whatever authorities I needed to, the police, the street gangs, the mafioso, the Russian strong-arm groups, and finally the Eastern Dawn," she murmured, moving ever closer to the ancient thief. "And you and your little circus troop come waltzing into town on some harebrained mission to rescue someone hardly worth the effort, and trash everything!" The murmur had ominously grown into a growl, a snarl and now a cold, snapping sound like the clashing of sharp teeth.

She had backed Amanda up all the way to the wall. She was not nearly as tall, but she was twice Amanda's age and had a power and presence that brooked no argument, even from another of her kind. But Amanda was not one to threaten lightly. Even as she paled and pressed her back to the wall to buttress her sagging knees, her mind was working furiously.

"You're only in danger if Abbas is believed. We've got to get him back to Sun's apartment and make it look like he killed him and arranged for MacLeod to escape." Her black eyes bored into Xan's, willing her to listen, to understand.

"If he's dead," she replied flatly, "there's not any problem of whether he's believed or not, is there?"

"His head belongs to Methos, Xan," Amanda warned. The tension between the two women could have stripped the finish off the furniture until Xan finally acknowledged that she, too, was unwilling to take that which belonged to the eldest.

Xan was stoic, exhibiting no emotion as the two Immortal women cut down the barely recognizable figure and pulled the knives from his chest and knees. She stayed behind the man, though, watching coldly out of his line of sight as Amanda leaned over him, whispering just as he awoke, gasping and groaning in agony, his flesh still dangling from his chest like a torn shirt.

"You have a choice, 'Bas. You can do exactly, precisely, as I say, or I can continue in Methos' footsteps. He gave me all kinds of advice before he left. The only thing I can't do, he told me, was take your head. That, dear 'Bas," she hissed, "he reserved for himself." Amanda casually wound the bloodstained wire around her palm, letting the general watch. The man's eyes, already clouded with pain, exhaustion and panic, widened.

"No, Amanda," he gasped, shaking his head slightly. "No more."

Under Amanda's careful tutelage, once he had healed sufficiently to be marginally presentable on video, a strained and somewhat disheveled General Bar Abbas of the Eastern Dawn instructed the guards at the front gate of the Pennsylvania Mental Research Facility to allow access to Dr. Adam Pierson and his companions, and followed up with a brief conversation with the director, who professed to know nothing about the whereabouts of Duncan MacLeod.

Abbas' cooperation was rewarded with a quick and almost painless death as the well-used dagger was slipped between his ribs once again, nestling familiarly with its tip in his heart

Connor drove. Sean would not release his hold on his father for love or money and his determination was so much like MacLeod's refusal to let anyone touch Methos after his rescue the thought of argument did not even enter their minds.

The idea of downing several bottles of good Scotch Whisky did enter Connor's mind however -- if only there were any truly good Scotch to be gotten any longer.

What little resistance they might have met leaving the medical facility was brief, even though Sean insisted on stealing a handful of IV bags on their way out. It was as if a plague had come upon them. The personnel, some looking at the blanket-wrapped figure in Sean MacLeod's arms with real horror, parted silently before them. Kir was muttering under her breath, face ashen...plans and promises of dire outcome, rescues of the others trapped in this nightmare, language shifting from English to Cherokee and back again with a healthy smattering of rather viciously accented French thrown in from time to time. <<If I could just join them there, we could all be quite mad, Connor thought idly, gratified when Kir seemed to gather enough of her wits to help him make sure the parking lot was clear before they made it to the van.

Something settled for them there...not that the van would offer them much protection against an assault team. It was not armored but it still felt that much closer to home. And Connor's concerns about why there had been no resistance also rose to the surface as they headed south, Kir in the front seat, literally riding shotgun, Sean in the back with his father and Methos also in the back although Connor would have been hard-pressed to say what state of mind the eldest Immortal was in. He wasn't even sure Methos was conscious despite the fact that the hazel eyes were open.

Then they all felt the tension ratchet up as Sean's hands began to move over his father, checking for pulse, leaning down to listen at his chest. "What's wrong?" Kir asked, dreading the answer, not even really wanting to know.

"His heartrate is too fast, getting really thready. Damn! I should've realized. I should've grabbed more emergency supplies while I had the chance. We've go to stop!"

"We can't stop!" Connor insisted. "We were lucky to make it out of there alive. I have no idea why we did, except that maybe Amanda worked some damn miracle through Abbas."

"But just moving him upset the balance. He had no reserves, nothing to draw on. He was barely alive and his body can't handle the healing. We're going to lose him!" Sean's voice cracked under the strain and for a second Kir was afraid the 150-year-old youngster would finally give in to hysteria. But the doctor in him took over as he took a deep, steadying breath. "His blood chemistry is probably shot to hell, and his hands have hardly even started to heal. I need real hospital facilities, Connor, please! I . . . how can we know I can get him back if we lose him like this?"

But the dye was already cast even as Sean begged. The barely discernable breath ceased, the great heart stuttered, stopped, stuttered again, then was quiet.

Without another word, Connor pulled over to the side of the road. The van was deathly quiet for a moment.

"He's Immortal," Kir finally said softly. She reached back and put her hand over Sean's whose big hands were still on his father's chest. "We've come this far, Sean. Have patience. Have faith."

All eyes gravitated to Methos, who had curled up in the far corner, long arms wound around his long legs, eyes dilated to deep black. They expected him to respond, to answer, to reassure, but the man was silent, his gaze fixed on the body lying still and lifeless under Sean and Kir's hands.

Connor wordlessly started the truck again and pulled out onto the road, pushing the old van's speed limitations to their maximum as they traveled on in silence, waiting as the Highlander's body cooled. A half-hour passed, and then another.

No one was more surprised than Connor when the eldest of them suddenly launched himself all the way across the van at Connor. "Stop!" The one word was ripped out harshly as Connor braked and tried to keep control of the vehicle as they ran off the poor excuse for a road, sending the passengers sprawling as Sean threw himself over his father's body to keep it from tumbling to the floor.

"What the hell?! You'll get us all killed!" Connor snarled, slapping his fist on the dash when he realized the engine was flooded. He absently rubbed the side of his face where it had slammed into the window, then turned to glare at Methos, who was scrabbling across the tumbled supplies to where Sean was checking to make sure Duncan had not been injured by flying debris.

"Hush!" Methos said, his face almost blank in concentration. "Don't you feel it?" he whispered.

Just then an almost inaudible groan emerged from MacLeod as his chest involuntarily expanded and contracted with his first breath. Methos shoved Sean aside. "Mac!" he whispered, pulling the limp form up into his arms against his chest. "Mac, it's Methos!" He was frantic, grabbing for Duncan's face and gripping it painfully in his long fingers. But the hollow eyes didn't open in recognition, the body unresponsive to any conscious command. Methos' jaw set in anger and frustration and his grip tightened until Sean, afraid bones would break, began to pull at his brother's hands. "Dammit, Duncan, don't do this!"

"Adam, stop! Let him go!" Sean growled, wrestling briefly with the wiry man before Methos suddenly relaxed, letting Sean move the Highlander's body back onto the makeshift pallet. For several minutes the group sat in silence, waiting for an explanation, but Methos only sat on the floor of the van, his face in his hands, the trembling that had taken over his body gradually diminishing. Finally he sighed and his shoulders seemed to drop several inches as he forced himself to relax and open his eyes, feeling everyone's curious and concerned gaze on him.

"I could feel him. Just as he came back, there was this... moment." He paused and again had to take a deep breath to reestablish emotional control. "I wasn't fast enough. I wasn't strong enough to reach him." Kir placed her long brown hand on Methos' shoulder, trying to comfort. "I don't think he wants to come back," he added so softly Kir wasn't sure she had heard correctly.

"It wasn't the Quickenings that drove him to this," he finally explained. "It was me." His face grew hard and distant. "And him and his fucking promises," Methos muttered, moving back to the rear of the van, folding himself up again, standing watch, they now knew, over the Highlander's spirit.

Glancing at Kir, Connor shook his head then pressed the fuel pedal down to the floor and re-started the engine.

They made it as far as West Virginia before they were forced to stop, Kir and Connor debating whether or not they could risk contacting the Cherokee Nation for a pick-up. There were at the outskirts of the last of the E.D. entrenchments but the area was sparsely inhabited. An abandoned strip mall provided shelter, the encroaching kudzu hiding the van and its occupants. There was little enough for comfort, anything salvageable having been taken long ago and the scents and remnants of other people, fugitives, animals having used the cavernous and empty storefronts for shelter were obvious. The New River was not far and Connor took the initiative to get water and check the area. The others were relieved but Connor was just as relieved and were he anyone other than who he was, were the people camping out in the steel and concrete ruin anything less than the only family he had...he would have kept going. He would have vanished into these ancient mountains and not surfaced for another couple of centuries. But they were and he was and that was that.

It made for a few moments of reassurance that he had some choices still, though. His return found the quick camp established and Kir handed him a cup of hot and fresh coffee as she stored the water. "Quiet as a tomb," Connor said, the irony not lost on their little campsite. Sean and Kir had managed to clean MacLeod up somewhat, putting soft bindings around his hands and wrists which were healing so slowly it was hard to tell whether he was really healing at all. They got him dressed in a loose shirt and sweats -- more irony as the clothes belonged to Methos. Sean had managed an IV out of the supplies pilfered from the medical facility to combat the dehydration. Kir pulled her brush out of her things and ran it gently through her lover's long, dark hair, speculating on the odd fact that someone had been taking care of that chore for all these months. Someone had instructed that the Scot be tended, shaved, kept relatively clean. Kiem Sun's obsession with Duncan MacLeod had clearly not ended until Sean had taken the man's head.

Kir took the dawn watch, alert for the last three hours until the sun began turning the surrounding mountains to gold rather than midnight purple. She glanced around watching Sean sleep the sleep of the exhausted and Connor the sleep of the seasoned warrior -- that is, anywhere, anytime he could manage it.  A useful gift.  Duncan also slept -- if it could be called that -- at least it was true that he was not awake. And Methos....her eyes lingered there for a moment. The haunted eyes were closed but he was sitting up, not sleeping, sitting up nor resting. He looked not unlike a vulture in the shadows, waiting, watching with a vision not requiring eyes.

They had agreed before setting up their shifts to try and get as far as the Carolinas before attempting to contact Atlanta for a pickup. Eastern Dawn curfews were in effect even in this remote area and it would be too foolish of them to press on at night when they had won free so far with no intervention. That meant another four hours or more on the road before they would dare but it could hardly matter, once in the Carolinas they would be relatively safe until they reached home.

Home. Kir closed her eyes at that thought. Yes it was still home, her home, her people, her life. But not the same. She had grieved and wondered and now there was a quiet in her soul as there was in the air around her. It was passing -- a method of coping with the tragedy that her life had become. Not an insurmountable tragedy -- Immortals did not have the luxury of wallowing in their losses for the rest of their lives -- or they did but that was a long time wallowing for most. No, she would still have time, need time, to grieve over her losses and reorder her life, to accommodate the changes. Even were Duncan to come to his senses in the next few moments she had to accept that things had changed, perhaps irrevocably. She could not be caretaker to Duncan. Without him, his leadership or Methos as his proxy, her people would look to her for guidance, for leadership -- the Immortal among them. Hawk would need her as advisor, perhaps Connor as well.

Which would leave the true task of her heart to others to carry out. Sean, Connor, Methos, the physicians and Mothers. Not that she would abandon them, abandon Duncan, but her strength would be what Sean would need, not her abilities as a nurse -- to protect these precious men from the rest of the Nation, the Community, to give them all time and space to heal. Her best, her only hope right now, was that she be given that opportunity.

She couldn't even be jealous or bitter at the changes. Not here, in this quiet moment, not having seen and felt and been part of, however briefly, the web that wove these remarkable lives together. An honor and a privilege, for all that it sounded high minded and noble, she still felt the same. Love could be a terrifying thing. She had served witness to that phenomenon more intimately than she had ever expected or wanted. But in her own mind it was not the price it had extracted that remained with her, but the endurance of it. No matter Methos' actions, his savagery, there was no doubt that under it all, love had run constant as had Duncan's, Sean's...her own. Hatred could never have driven them so far or so deep within the darkness that resided in their own souls.

Sean stirred first and she smiled faintly, moving silently to put coffee on the small stove, to ready them for the day, then watched as this youngest son of their race woke, his own responsibilities as clear as hers. He moved to his father first, never even noticing Kir watched him. He changed out the IV, rigging more fluids, checked his father like a child to see if it were necessary to clean or dry him. Satisfied, he moved to his brother. Crouched in front of Methos, Sean spoke softly -- too softly to hear and to Kir's wonder, the eyes opened and Methos nodded, agreeing to whatever Sean said. He did not move, but his eyes followed Sean as he moved before they shifted to Duncan again and closed once more.

His aide came to him during a hot debate among the Elders -- the concept of pushing their capitol further north had been on the table for months. The strategic reasons were iffy at best -- but the propaganda gains would be considerable. Already the Eastern Dawn's borders were becoming blurred, weakening. For them to push North as far as Durham or even Myrtle Beach would be defiant message to their enemies and a huge and much-needed morale booster for their own people. They had already pushed the Western Frontiers nearly as far as Utah, reclaiming the badlands and sweeping up along the Rockies. A year or two more and they might be able to compress the Eastern Dawn tightly enough to coax the Canadians into a far more active resistance.

The debate was urgent -- there was no question. Vitally important to the Nation, to the resistance, to their survival as a people.

Three words from his aide had him calling the meeting into recess and running down the hall toward the communications center without any explanation -- he left the council room in an uproar, his sanity in question, and his continued position as Chief in jeopardy.

"Silent Storm called," was all his aide said and then followed him like a well-leashed dog.

Coded, decrypted and translated by the time he got to Comms, he had the message in his hand.

"Watch Post 22. No losses. No gains. Need bus fare. Storm coming."

Short and to the point. The smile on his face took years off that had all been gained in the last few months. The third segment gave him some concern. Had they not been able to retrieve Duncan, she would have left it at 'No Joy'.  But something had happened -- something was not quite right.

"Victor," he spoke to his aide. "Have the Trans put to pad. Team of three -- we aren't going outside our lines. And have my kit stowed. A medic...emergency supplies."

"You're going, sir?" Victor was clarifying, not questioning.

"I am. I want to leave in fifteen. That gives me five to settle the council."

It took him clear to seven and settle was hardly the result but the Trans was off the ground in exactly fifteen minutes regardless and winging its way toward the Raleigh-Durham area.

Watch Post 22 had once been a Greyhound bus station, old and venerable -- it still held the architectural grandeur of the first half of the last century. From the surface it looked like nothing so much as a transport depot. But below, dug out beneath the station, was one of the more modern and efficient command centers the Nation had ever constructed -- built in anticipation of the Northward move Hawk of Moons had cut the debate short on.

He was on the ground almost before the dust settled, moving quickly toward a man coming forward dressed in worn jeans and a plaid shirt rolled up at the arms.

"Commander Harper," Hawk greeted him, shaking hands.

"Good to see you, Chief," the man said with a studied lack of military decorum. Harper had been raised in the true military tradition -- the more guerrilla tactics of the Nation had been a big adjustment for him, but an adjustment he had weathered well. He had been holding these lines for the last decade and Hawk had no complaints. "Wish it were under better circumstances. Commander Storm has requested that no details of this operation be released so we have placed her and her party in quarantine with two of my squadron commanders acting as deterrent guards."

"I appreciate the precautions," Hawk said, waving his own team forward. "This will be a simple pickup." He followed Harper down the stairs and into a concealed elevator.

The quarantine area was small but clean, the two squadron commanders, sitting at a desk outside with a series of monitors, armed weapons in plain sight. They looked relaxed and unconcerned but their eyes were sharp and bright even as they opened the doors.

Kirin was the first person Hawk saw. Weary, worn but clean with fresh clothes, hair still damp from a recent shower. Her smile was blinding as she came forward to greet him -- not the reaction he expected given the less-than-optimistic transmission. But as he hugged and greeted her he realized that it was relief rather than joy that gave a curve to her smile. Relief that she no longer had to face the end of her journey unsupported.

Hawk started forward only to be stopped by Kirin's hand on his chest. "Before you go in, let me warn you. The wraith you met on our return from Rome has been multiplied by two. We found Duncan but I think...we were...are close to being too late. And because of that we are near to losing Adam again as well. There is no good news we bring back to our people. Not without hope, but it is still distant. So I must ask that on our return, none be told of what we sought or returned with."

Hawk was silent for a long moment, staring at the closed door. The protest that they were Immortal was hovering on his lips but his sister's words indicated that even that gift might not be enough to overcome what had occurred.

"I would tell you the tale first," Kir added, taking his arm. "But I think you will not believe me unless you see, with your own eyes, and feel, with your own spirit, and if you have anything to offer...as Elder of our people -- do not keep silent. The Grandfather will never hear the Voices of our people otherwise," she added softly.

Hawk nodded his agreement as Kir opened the door to the room to reveal her companions, all clean, quiet, Sean and Connor meeting his eyes and his greetings with the same stoic relief as Kir had.

It took only a glance at the other two occupants of the room to convince Hawk that his sister's warnings had been mere kindness, buffered and gentled for the simple reason that no words ever written or spoken could describe what he saw -- or rather what he did not see.

By no language could he describe either Duncan or Methos as being among the living or among the spirits but horribly caught between.

"You either are more cruel than I ever thought possible or have more courage than I, sister of my heart," Hawk of Moons said quietly withdrawing before he could be made physically ill by his own reaction. "For I would have taken their heads and left their legends to be their epitaphs."

He kissed her quickly. "I will make arrangements. We will leave within the half hour."

With his usual concern for time and his responsibilities, Hawk allowed himself all of ten minutes to be ill and wail his own anger to his ancestors before making arrangements to get the dead home.

Sean had carried his father's blanket-shrouded form into the Nation's headquarters, blocking the view of any possible onlookers with his own body. Hawk had cleared everyone out of the way and instructed that the security he had moved into place to guard every entrance and exit say nothing of the Highlander's recovery or the Immortals' return. A quick conference with Kir and the four Immortals were given their privacy in the penthouse. No one wanted to get the mortals' hopes up, and the sight of MacLeod's wasted body would only alarm the people in the compound. It certainly made even the dark-skinned Indian, head of the entire Cherokee Nation, go pale.

They put Mac in the second bedroom, recently occupied by Methos as he struggled with his own recovery, and Sean added nutrients to the IV he already had going. His father's heart rate seemed to have stabilized at a frighteningly slow but predictable pace, and his body temperature and breathing rate remained far below normal.

But Sean was equally concerned about his brother. He had hardly eaten or slept in days. His face was once again taking on that starved refugee look that Sean knew signaled the end of physical strength. Worse, the eyes were growing dull, the expression blank, almost slack. He had hardly spoken since his one effort to bring Mac back. The pale wraith had taken up position in the bedroom corner, again seated on the floor with his spider-like arms draped around his knees. Watching. Standing guard.

Sean shared a dark look with Kir, who observed from the doorway. She nodded slightly, then went to Methos, going to her knees at his side and stroking his hair as though he were a suffering, willful child.

"If you are to help him, you must rest, Methos. You cannot keep watch like this without sleep or food. That serves no one, not even him."

The hollow eyes shifted slowly from the still figure on the bed, meeting hers. "If I sleep he will slip away, Kirin Storm." Then he smiled sadly. "If I don't, I will slip away soon, and he will be lost anyway." A chuckle rasped out of his chest like the last cough of a dying man. "Brings new meaning to the old phrase "Damned if you do, and damned if you don't."

Methos barely registered that Sean had settled in front of him. "Is it that close?" he asked. "Can I give you my strength? Can we link with you and do this together?"

But Methos shook his head, barely moving. "The time and energy it would take to establish the link would distract me too long. I'm sorry, Sean. I wish it were that simple. Even talking like this is hard." And it obviously was. A sheen of sweat had broken out on his pale face.

Sean rose and walked to the balcony window, looking out over Atlanta where the light of dawn was just beginning to redefine the skyline. Kir watched him as he leaned his arms up against the glass, pressing hard, pushing his forehead into the cold surface, his body vibrating with despair and tension. Then he pushed away slowly. Light from the dawn touched the window and moved into the room until all Kir saw was Sean's outline, and a spear of that light seemed to almost envelope him, so bright it made her eyes tear. When her vision cleared, he had turned away from the window and had his arms crossed. His jaw was set in an expression so reminiscent of his father that it took her breath away.

"How much time do you need, Adam?" he asked.

The figure on the floor took almost a minute to respond. "Time?"

"How long will you need to bring him back?"

"I . . . don't know. It will probably happen quickly, or not at all."

Sean went to the bathroom, opened his medical kit and removed all its contents. Kir moved to the door to watch in fascination as he triggered a latch, opening up a false bottom in the voluminous bag. Inside, nestled in molded slots, were six hypodermic vials. He removed one, closed the secret hiding place and carefully replaced the bag's contents.

"What is that?" Kir asked.

"On the street it's called Midnight Madness. It is illegal, it is almost always fatal, and it can produce an incredible burst of almost inhuman strength and mental acuity for up to two hours, depending on the physical capacity of the person who takes it. Da made me keep some at hand in case his strength ever failed him at a critical moment."

"It'll kill him."

"I know."

"If it doesn't last long enough, it will kill both of them."

"I know."

Their eyes met as Sean held up the hypo, checking the dosage. Kir's lips thinned, but she gave him a short nod.

"Adam?" Sean called gently as he knelt before his brother. There was no response, but Sean knew he had been heard at least on a subliminal level. "I'm going to give you a shot. It's going to speed your heart rate at first, but it will settle down pretty quickly. You will feel much stronger, at least for a little while. It's the best I can do to help, Dhadam." He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, then opened them as he pressed the hypo into his brother's arm.

For a few seconds there was no response, then Methos gasped, his eyes opened wide, then closed as his head dropped back, his long throat extended as he took deep breaths and color suddenly rushed into his neck and face. A half-minute more and his breathing eased, his head came back up and he re-opened his eyes. A small smile played around his lips. "Midnight Madness?" the voice was raspy. "Excellent choice." Each word was stronger. The shoulders straightened and Methos stood in one easy motion. "I need just a moment," he said. He walked quickly into the living room where they had dropped their gear. Connor was standing at the window, and Sean and Kir followed closely behind. Methos reached into the long, canvas bag he had been carrying since their adventure began and pulled out the Ivanhoe blade he had carried for too many centuries to bother to count, or one almost exactly like it. Then he removed the knife, the one with Mac's initials on it. The one Duncan had given him before he left.

Methos eyes rose and the brothers shared a long look. "No," Sean whispered. "I won't let you."

"You won't let me?" Methos smiled sadly. "What are you going to do? Kill me?"

"If I have to. However many times I have to." Sean sank slowly into the couch, his eyes never leaving his brother's face. "He's my father, Adam. I am his son. I will not let you take his head."

"Ah, yes," Methos replied. "The son of Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. A heavy legacy, isn't it, brother?" He circled around the coffee table and sat beside his brother. "He doesn't want this, Sean. He doesn't want you or me or any of the people he loves to be going through this for his sake. You know that. If I can't do this, then ending it is a kindness, a blessing."

The light in the room slowly brightened as the sun moved further up the horizon and shadows chased themselves across the floor in preparation for a new day. Connor MacLeod, Sean MacLeod, Methos and Kir sat in silence, preparing their hearts and minds for the end of this long, painful road they had traveled together.

"If it must be done," Sean finally whispered into the disappearing shadows. "Then I will do it, Adam. You suffer so horribly with Quickenings, and his would be...too much. More than anyone should be asked to bear. I think it's what he would want."

"I think not," his brother replied with equal determination. "You are too young to absorb all that he was, all that he did. He conquered a Dark Quickening, Sean, but who knows what taint is still there? He has taken more ancients than anyone. As strong as you are, as great as your natural talents may be, his power would overwhelm you and you would be helpless in its grip. We would lose you and that is the last thing he would want."

Sean shot to his feet in an echo of his brother's trademark spurts of almost uncontrolled energy. "And what about you, Adam? Am I to lose you as well as Da when you take his head?" He whirled back to face the man who had read him Dr. Seuss stories when he was young, had listened patiently during his adolescence while he ranted about being smothered and controlled by his father, and talked to him without embarrassment or reserve about sex, about how to please either gender, who had never judged him or pushed him or been anything other than totally accepting of who and what he was at that moment. Who had, by mutual agreement, had enough courage and love to kill him for the first time.

"If I can't bring him back, Sean," Methos said softly into the gathering light, standing in preparation for what had to be done, "I am lost anyway."

"Enough!" Connor hissed in his distinctive gravel voice. "He's my kinsman. I have known him longer than any of you. That's an end to this gruesome conversation, because it will not be necessary. You will do this, Methos, because it must be done. There's much more at stake here than your damaged soul. The Gathering is rising, Old Man. Remember, "There Can Be Only One?" We had thought to never have to utter those words again." Connor MacLeod's hooded gray eyes were cold and deadly, holding Methos' glittering gold gaze.

Methos eyes closed at last and he nodded slightly. "For Sean, then," he whispered. He felt a warm hand on his shoulder and looked up into Kir's dark eyes.

"And for yourself, Grandfather," she whispered as her lips brushed his forehead. He took a deep breath and allowed her to pull him to his feet and lead him to the bedroom where Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, or what was left of him, lay still and pale beneath the covers.

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled MacLeod up into his arms, cradling the cold, limp form in his left arm. "It's time, old friend," he whispered. With that last benediction, he pressed, slipping the razor-sharp knife blade into the Scot's chest. He had last done this almost two hundred years before. He remembered having to press hard to get past layers of heavy muscle, a violent stab done in anger. But this time the knife slipped in easily as he skillfully maneuvered it in between ribs, up and into the heart. For a few seconds, warm blood slid over his hand, then stopped as the slow beats faltered and the heart gave up its faint effort.

The death was barely noticeable as any different from life. The skin was already cool and pale, the breaths had been barely discernable. The room was silent as Methos gently lay Duncan MacLeod's body back on the bed and carefully placed the red-smeared knife on the nightstand. Not much blood had spilled, hardly enough to stain the sheets. As they waited, Methos closed his eyes, quieting his mind, closing out external stimuli, listening with an inner ear finely attuned to the delicate frequency that he had so strained to 'hear' for so many months.

Light. Light so blinding it was a sharp pain in his eyes. He flailed his arms trying to block it, but felt resistance, which only increased his instinct to strike out. But there was no force behind his blows, no coordination to his movements. It felt like he was occupying someone else's body. It was an odd thought. He hadn't realized he was occupying any body for a long, long time.

"Mac! Stop it!" he heard a voice. "Mac, it's okay. It's Methos. Calm down."

Vision wavered, the pain making his eyes want to tear. Nothing would focus. He pushed against whatever was restraining him. Wherever he was, he didn't want to be. This wasn't where he was supposed to be. He wanted to go back where it was dark. Safe. He closed his eyes, striving to sink back into that place from which he had been so cruelly ripped.

But a voice shouted at him. Something shook him. "No!" the voice rang in his head. "Duncan MacLeod, listen to me!" The use of the name somehow dragged him back, caught his flagging attention. The light hurt his eyes even with the lids closed. All this noise hurt his ears. "Duncan," the voice kept saying, "look at me." The voice was insistent, compelling. Slowly he forced his gritty eyes to slit open, blinking furiously. A face wavered in front of him. Lean, sharp-boned, hazel eyes, short dark hair. He knew that face. He struggled to remember. Ah yes, Methos.

Then he hissed and drew back. This was why he had escaped, gone away, found that dark, safe place where no one could reach him. "No," he tried to say. His mouth formed the word, but nothing came out of lips that wouldn't respond. He was so thirsty, he realized as a sudden flood of physical sensation almost overwhelmed him. His skin was on fire, his lips cracked and bleeding, every nerve suddenly aware of touch, of air, of smell, of sound. It was too much after the long silence and again he reached for oblivion, sinking back into the darkness.

Fingers dug hard into his face as a hand forced his eyes open. Those hazel eyes were again drilling into his. "No, Duncan. I'm not going to let you go back. You've got to stay here, with me, with Sean, with those who love you." He felt strong arms fold around him, pulling him up, cradling him like a child. It felt so odd. Tears were falling from those green-gold eyes. Why would he be weeping? Emotion was something else he had insulated himself from. So messy, so painful. It was getting annoying. Why didn't they let him go back where there was no pain?

The voice changed. "Please, Duncan." The hand was on his forehead, soothing, warm. "Please don't go away again. Please." The voice broke and the arms almost convulsed around him. There was so much hurt in that voice. He didn't want to cause any more hurt, especially not to this man. That's why he went away in the first place. He reached up to touch that weeping face. He barely had the coordination or strength to find the hard cheekbone. It was smooth and damp. He hadn't felt anything, touched anything, for so long, the sensation was a curious one.

His last memory before the darkness was of not wanting to cause this man any more pain, and here he was, weeping over him. "Don't ...cry," he finally managed to whisper.

"I won't," Methos murmured. "Just ...stay...hold on." It was such a simple request but so hard to comply with. There was a cup pressed to his lips, water -- cool and sweet to ease the dryness, then there was more, not nourishment for his body but a strength, a will easing his fears, his weakness, bleeding off the fatigue and the pain and the sense of not-ness that both terrified and comforted him.

"Don't... not again," Mac gasped, recoiling back from that offering, feeling the gaps in his soul begin to close.

*No choice, beloved,* it was in his mind, not in his ears that the calming came and still Mac fought, tried to deny the offered strength, the needed healing.

"I won't hurt you...again," Mac whispered a promise he had made not to Methos but to himself.

The hands lifting his face were those of a friend or a brother, a parent to a child. And there was no pain in the sharp, delicate lines of the familiar face, the hazel eyes were clear and steady, only a trace of tears on the pale cheeks. "The only hurt you can cause me is with your absence, Duncan. I was a fool not to know it before. And there is no darkness where I cannot find you, or you me. Now let the rest find you as well."

It was as much plea as blessing and Mac gave into it, finally too weary to do anything more...or less, and felt the awareness of his friend settle as easily into his mind as Mac's body settled against the sure, strong embrace of Methos' arms.

There was no shock as those links began again, Methos controlling them, slowing what could have been an overwhelming assault on his battered senses. Such a homecoming he could not have dreamed of. He had been so long alone in the darkness, forgetting who he was what he felt or if he could feel. The familiar and almost painfully welcoming feel of his Sean, his son, came first, flooding him with a mixture of loss and love and gratitude and fear he could not bear it, his own tears beginning even though there was not enough moisture in his body to produce them. He had not meant to hurt Sean so....

"You can heal whatever hurt you caused," Methos murmured against his hair and began the process again, easing him into other perceptions, his kinsman, Connor and Kir, her presence sliding against his bruised mind like a favorite shirt against his skin. Never too many or too much, Methos taking deep breaths to halt the flow when he felt Mac resisting, the sensations too much or too fast.

MacLeod had no idea how long it took, nor when there were other arms moving in to hold him. Perceptions blurred his sense of time and the offerings of water, the feel of a cool cloth against his face, the murmur of voices, all of it mixed together under the buffering gentleness of Methos' presence. Standing between him and his wished for death, his hunger for the contact of others and his fear that those contacts would bring only more horror or pain.

Then Methos' presence faltered, pulling Mac back into a painful awareness with an inarticulate cry. *It's alright* the voice whispered faintly in his head. *So long as I know you are here waiting for me, I'll be back.* Then Methos was gone. He struggled, tried to move, to reach out, but it was Kir's soft hands he felt and whose Voice he heard.

"Sleep now, Duncan. Rest," she whispered in a Voice that could soothe the most troubled soul. "You are home and he is with you still. He will not leave you. You are not alone."

The Highlander sighed in her arms, the trembling eased and he drifted into deep sleep, his skin now warm against her own, his heartbeat strong and steady, the unique signature thrum of his power vibrating deep in her mind.

Kir looked over to the other side of the bed where Methos lay, pale and still, the long, thin hand still resting posessively on MacLeod's arm. The iron will had given out at last, the body and spirit pushed far beyond even Immortal limits. But even in death there was something new there. Something in the ancient, young face that Kir had not seen since they had pulled his tortured body from the ruins of Roman catacombs -- serenity.

Pre-dawn and Kir came suddenly, blindingly awake. There was no noise she could hear save the normal hums from the power sources in the apartment and the tantalizing smell of coffee.

Coffee. That was what had awakened her no doubt. The comforting thrum of the immortals she shared her home and heart with surrounded her, the underlying current linking them all once more steady and quiet.  The past 20 hours were a blur of exhaustion-fogged waiting for Methos' heart to re-start, of spelling one another in watching over the two Immortals dragged back from the gates of death, of brief respites of restless slumber.

But the bed was too big and too empty and no effort at all to leave as she slipped on a robe and got up, padding silently out of the bedroom. Rumbling snores assured her that Connor was still sleeping and another check revealed Duncan and Methos much as she had seen them before succumbing to exhaustion. Sean had taken the last watch and he was nowhere to be seen.

But there was coffee made -- the pot missing about a mugful. She poured herself a cup, smelling the brew and was reminded of advertisements she had seen centuries ago. <<The best part of waking up..., she thought and moved back into the second bedroom, slipping into the chair Sean had vacated. The seat was still warm from his presence.

He had gone...where? She had not heard the elevator so chances were he went up to the roof. Certain enough to leave his father and brother or just....she would have to ask him. Something had driven or lured him out and away.

Duncan stirred in his sleep and instinctively she reached out to soothe, eyes flicking to Methos. He was breathing at least, although he had not moved. His long fingers were still curled slightly around Duncan's arm.

Comfort or a necessary transfusion of awareness? It was difficult to tell.

Duncan stirred again and this time his eyes opened.  Kir felt the drop in her gut when the eyes stared blankly into space for a long moment. Gradually, though, she found awareness returning to the dark eyes. He blinked and focused on her face.

Setting her mug down, she slipped from the chair to her knees beside the bed reaching up carefully to touch his face, beard-roughened skin reassuringly warm under her fingertips.  He flinched instinctively, but Kir maintained the contact.  "You are safe and home, Duncan," she said softly, waiting for the words to be translated through the confusion still lurking in his eyes. She offered liquid from the pitcher beside the bed, smiling as he moistened his lips.

His eyes closed and she thought he had fallen asleep again but a few minutes later they opened once more and the blankness was gone. Repeating her reassurance she eased up to sit on the edge of the bed, eyes flicking once more to Methos and she saw Duncan track the glance, turning his head slightly to see his friend's profile. He stared for long minutes, gradually becoming aware of the fingers on his arm. Fingers that fell away as he moved it.

Methos made no move to reestablish the connection.

"S...Sean..." his words were a hoarse whisper.

"Taking a break. It has been a very long, very dark night." She eased the commentary with a smile.

"Methos?"

Not sure what he was asking or if he were asking anything, she glanced back at the man beside him. Unable to communicate what he wanted, Duncan closed his eyes again and seemed to fall asleep.

"How is he?" Connor's raspy whisper from the doorway startled her, a measure of her own frayed nerves and his talent for utter stealth.

She rose, silently signaling that he should follow.  They moved into the kitchen where Connor appropriated a cup of coffee for himself, then fixed some toast while Kir sat at the table, her braids loose and messy from sleep.  "He asked for Sean, said something about Methos, then fell back to sleep.  Managed to drink a little more," she fell silent, not wanting to voice or deal with the multitude of difficult issues they now faced.  For the moment, all she wanted to do was relax into the relief of having both the Eldest and Duncan back.  The rest would follow soon enough.

Connor let the silence extend, carefully slathering butter onto a big slice of the homemade bread for which Oella was famous, then layering on a thick, sweet coating of strawberry jam.  He took a big bite, humming with the pleasure and luxury, and caught Kir watching him.  Her eyes were glittering with amusement and mischief.  He smiled back, waggling his precious toast in temptation for her to snatch at, which she did.  They both laughed as the mock battle resulted in jam splotches on the table, on their hands and finally, when the precious toast was triumphantly won by the smaller, quicker of the two combatants, a good measure of the sticky stuff smeared her face.

"Uncle, uncle!" Connor finally conceded with his harsh laugh.  "I can always make some more you know."  He put another piece of toast in to cook, and turned back to find Kir seated once again, tears pouring down her face as she stared sightlessly at the red stains on her hands.

The elder Highlander quickly pulled her up out of her chair and into his arms, where tears became sobs and the iron control which had held them all together all these many months was allowed release at last.  His own throat tightened.  "Thank you, Kirin Storm," he whispered, his voice catching in his throat. "Thank you for bringing them back.  For bringing us all back."

It was on her lips to deny it, to claim what a mess she had made of the whole situation but it was a slide into guilt that was neither in her nature nor particularly productive. "You are welcome," she said at last, slightly gasping from emotion. "And for you...not one of us, Connor. All of us." She pulled back, using her thumb to wipe at a berry stain on his chin. "I should check...see if there are repercussions from our little vacation," she said smiling faintly. "And see if Amanda has surfaced, or Xan," she added thoughtfully. She found little room in her heart to care for the opportunistic elder Immortal save that there was a ruthless resourcefulness in Xan that she could admire.

"Sean..." she began and glanced upward. "I think he is on the roof."

"He'll come back when he is ready. Do what needs to be done, Kir. I have no plans for the day."

She nodded, pushing her hair back off her face and then pulling the braid free. "I'll check with Hawk. I'll have my pager if you need me." She drifted off toward her bedroom.

True to his word, Connor checked on his kinsmen....surprised to see Mac stirring again and he moved closer, reaching out a hand for Mac to hold onto. A broad grin split his face. "You've been on a long journey, son..." he said in his gravelly voice.

"Connor?  Is that you?"  The voice was weak, almost unrecognizable, and the thin hand that clasped his own was shaking, the grip almost non-existent.  "I thought...I thought I remembered Kir..."

"She was here earlier."  Connor sat carefully on the edge of the bed, trying not to disturb the other sleeper, but Methos merely rubbed his face further into the covers and curled into a more compact ball.

Mac looked over at the Eldest Immortal.  "He looks so tired, so thin.  What happened?  And where's Sean?" the voice was getting raspy and Mac tried to sit up, sounding anxious.  "Where's Abbas and...and...the others?"

"Hush, Duncan, stay still.  The Old Man went through a lot to bring you back and Sean is fine.  Well, he will be as soon as he's sure you and Methos are both okay."  Connor picked up the glass of nutrient and electrolyte-laden liquid they had been pushing on the younger Scot every time he had showed any signs of consciousness, but Mac pushed the glass away.

"Enough of that, Connor!  My bladder is about to explode as it is."  Mac pushed the covers back and struggled to stand, first rejecting his clansman's helping hand, then grabbing onto strong shoulders as his knees gave out.  Then, with only a feeble protest from his reluctant patient, Connor managed to get Mac as far as the bathroom where a similar argument ensued along the lines of who would be necessary to support what parts of whose anatomy before Mac firmly closed the door in Connor's face.

The unseemly noise of their argument was at last enough to disturb the ancient man slumbering on the bed.  He slowly opened his eyes, his hand automatically reaching for the arm it had gripped when he was last conscious, then the focus followed the voices and he watched as the two elder MacLeods argued about bathroom privileges.  A slow bemused smiled soothed the harsh lines on the pallid face.  The empty hand reached for a pillow, snagging one Duncan had been using and pulling it into his body before he drifted back to sleep.

Connor waited. It took only a moment for the expected thud to reverberate through the floor.  He opened the door to find Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod in an undignified sprawl on the bathroom tiles.

The two Celts shared a few choice but obscure Gaelic phrases as Connor hauled the other man to his feet, then silence fell when Mac froze in shock at the apparition he had spied in the mirror.  The thin hand reached out to touch his reflection.  "How long?" Mac whispered.

"Four months."

"Why didn't I just die?  Why didn't Abbas or...why didn't they take my head?" Mac asked, clearly astonished.

"They wouldn't let you die, Duncan," Connor answered sadly.  "Someone was determined that you stay alive, but just barely."

"Kiem Sun."  A shudder passed through the thin body and Connor moved quickly to prevent another fall.  "So much hate..."

"Sun is dead, Duncan," Connor murmured reassuringly, practically carrying his former student back to the bed.

"Dead?"

Connor nodded, tucking Duncan back under the covers.  The man's skin was suddenly cold and clammy and he was starting to shiver.

"Who?"

"It doesn't matter, Duncan.  The bastard's dead and can't hurt you or anyone else anymore, now go back to sleep."

"It was Sean, wasn't it?"

Duncan read the answer in Connor's eyes and he groaned, curling away onto his side, turning his face into the covers.

"In time, we'll all heal, Mac. Just give it some time."

"I never meant for him to do that," Mac's sigh was almost a sob.  "I never meant for Methos, for any of you to..."

"Hush, Duncan!  We wouldn't have it any other way.  Now rest."

Connor sat by the bed until the shivering stopped and Duncan drifted back to sleep, then slipped soundlessly out of the room.  When he checked back awhile later, Methos hand was once again curled around Duncan's arm.

Leaving the two men sleeping he edged back to the main room, deciding that he needed a little something more substantial than toast and jam.  He found Sean finishing the last of the coffee. "We were contemplating sending out a rescue party for you," he said with a smile.

"Not even mildly amusing," Sean flicked his gaze over his kinsman. "I heard you. He woke then."

"Yer Father? He did. Asked after you...and fought me about needing help in the bathroom. I'd say he's recovering."

Sean nodded. "And Dahm?"

Connor chewed on his lower lip, not liking Sean's flat tone. "He's in and out...moved a bit. Give it a little time."

"We have plenty of that."

"Or maybe you should take some time to yourself?" Connor suggested. "We have them back, Sean. What we asked for ...prayed for...alive...they'll recover...we all will."

"More or less," a voice like rusty hinges said from behind them. Both men turned, to see Methos clinging to the doorframe, a faint cynical smile on the pale face.

Sean's veneer of disinterest faded as he moved forward, arms extended to steady his brother -- and for the first time in months Methos did not flinch away. "I know I smelled coffee," Methos murmured allowing his sibling to take most of his weight. He was not limping, only moving like a stiff old man.

"I think we can dig up another cup...or four," Connor said and set about making another pot as Sean helped his brother to the couch to sit again.

Gold-green eyes met gold-brown ones, but Sean couldn't hold his elder brother's stare for more than a moment.

"Will you?"

Methos looked quizzical, then smiled.  "Recover, you mean?"

Sean nodded.

Methos sank down into the couch, his long legs extending out far enough to be a traffic hazard.  He closed his eyes and lay his head back into the pillows.  "You should know better than most that we do what we have to do, absorb the blows and move on.  That's what I plan to do.  Your da is a little less flexible, I fear.  He will brood and feel guilty and generally be a pain the ass, but he has remarkable resilience in the long run."

"Christ, why should he feel guilty?! He was betrayed and tortured and..." Sean was incredulous, his fist clenched in anger at the suggestion that his father had done something wrong.

But his brother's tired drawn face just studied the younger man, letting him work through his own thought processes.  Sean flushed slightly and looked away, his professional training and empathic talent finally overriding his protective instincts.  He took a deep breath and turned back.

"So you're going to move on?" Sean asked, carefully avoiding his brother's eyes.  "Just like that?

"In time..." Methos said, lifting his eyes as Connor brought him a mug. "Not soon...not until Mac is..." he let his words and his thoughts trail off for a moment. Sean's hand on his wrist brought him back. "I find myself...for the first time in a very long time...feeling out of place and out of time...out of a time I feel comfortable in. It will pass...but I need to see...I need to ground myself in the present. I'll be back, Sean."

Methos turned his attention to the youngest of their Race.  "And you?  Have you slept?"

"I slept...some.  The anger is gone.  That awful hunger...,"  Sean shook his head absently and took another sip of coffee.  "How did you live like that for so long?"

Methos shrugged.  "Many go mad.  Many retreat, like Connor here."  Connor's hooded gray eyes barely acknowledged the reference.  He appeared to be studying the view of the compound quadrangle outside the window.  "You never know for sure what you are capable of until you are tested.  And ultimately, every Immortal is tested to his or her limits and beyond."  Methos seemed to read the thoughts behind Sean's troubled face and his thin hand covered his brother's.  "Don't let Kiem Sun damage more lives than he already has, Sean.  If there's one trait of your father's you should avoid, it is useless self-recrimination."

"Dahm, he's inside me.  I feel him.  It's like...," Sean whispered.

"Don't!" Methos snapped.  "I can barely stand to handle one of you!"  He surged to his feet, wavered, then stabilized when Connor grabbed his elbow.  "I'm going to the apartment downstairs, take a shower that will violate every conservation mandate of the great city of Atlanta, then sleep for another day or so," he pronounced, then moved with slow but steady dignity past the MacLeods and out of the room.

The downstairs apartment was clean, ready for its occupants to return. <<How do they do that? Methos wondered about the Mothers, visions of Oella and her sisters bustling through the small space in the middle of the night, paeans to efficiency and purpose. <<There's the answer -- leave the world to the Mothers. They, at least, have a purpose and feel their value in the grand scheme of things. It was a bitterly ironic thought, as he sought the freshly made bed and then all but collapsed upon it.

It felt real. It felt solid...it felt...

Good enough that it just *felt* and he spent long minutes grounding himself against the rub of cool sheets, the mid-weight of the blankets laying lightly on his skin, the fresh fluffed softness of the pillow. The bed was solid and still, it was he that was drifting almost as if he had lost his anchor.

But he hadn't. His mind knew that his anchor slept some fourteen feet above him and a half dozen yards to the east.

Get up and bathe.  It was a command so sharp he could have sworn he heard it, moving almost without thinking about it. So clear and out of context that he was actually surprised when he found himself in a modern bath, when he had been expecting the large open pool that had not been fashionable for three thousand years or better.  Past and future butted heads and the past gave way once more leaving Methos feeling slightly nauseous even as he reached past the bright shower curtain to turn on the taps.

It was no doubt more sanitary but solitary too, he said as he dropped his clothes and stepped under the cool water. Cool, not cold, not hot. There was a time when baths were by and large noisy things...even private ones.

Ah, but what the Romans wouldn't have give for a little chlorine. Nothing quite so nasty or backbreaking a job as emptying a pool that had gone stagnant.  He lifted his face to the stream of water, acknowledging the shift to the present once more.

Cleaner, slightly more alert, he turned the water off, concentrating on the rough feel of terry cloth on his skin. Physical contact...sensation. He needed that as he had needed to touch Duncan -- dream and reality twisting together. But it couldn't be the only check he used. He'd have to find another and soon.

He worried and twisted the idea until his body and mind finally cried surrender and he slipped back into a sleep that cared little for the finer distinctions of waking dreams and sleeping realities.

Kir's mind wandered, unable to concentrate on the multiple tasks and voices that came across as so much irrelevant babble from the Council.  Hawk had attempted to field most questions, avoiding the issue of where Kir had been and the nature of her mission.  But the looks, the whispers, the innuendoes were getting more obvious as the meeting wore on.  Her heart was five stories above, struggling to reconnect with life.  That was where she was needed.  No, her intellect insisted, there were others there to gentle Duncan's re-entry into the world.  Her people needed her as well.

"What's your answer, Kirin?" a voice insisted, drawing her attention back to the conversation among the Council.

Her face must have betrayed her confusion because Hawk intervened.  "Storm's mission was necessary to the People, even as it served her own purposes, Brenda," Hawk insisted.  "It is not necessary to know the particulars."

"Because it is Immortal business?" Brenda insisted.  "Are the concerns of the Immortals now more important than the urgent business of the People?"  She tapped the table for emphasis.  "We have lost Duncan MacLeod.  We need to know whether we have also lost the Ancient!  There are rumors upon rumors upon rumors, Kirin!  Methos was seen.  Brought in looking like some wraith.  A form without spirit!  This Council demands answers, not evasions."  Her tone softened. The dark eyes almost hidden in her round face were sad, but determined.  "I know you have endured a loss greater than most of us can comprehend, but there is more at stake here than your personal pain, or Methos' and the MacLeods' vengeance on whoever killed Duncan."

Hawk and Kir shared a long look before Kir finally spoke.

She smiled slightly.  "What has happened is beyond my understanding," she began.  "It is also not yet concluded.  Therefore, all I can tell you is that that which we believed lost has been found."  The seven people sitting around the table went unnaturally still.  "Whether he bears any resemblance to what we knew and loved...I don't yet know.  It is premature to even acknowledge that he lives.  And the price that was paid for his recovery is yet to be known.  Methos is...not himself."  Kir wondered privately if she would ever know the Eldest well enough to understand exactly when he was "himself."

When she paused the questions began.  Most of them she couldn't answer and by the time she escaped she was angry and exhausted.  They wanted reassurances she could not give.  They wanted time frames she could not supply.  Hawk had to almost run to catch up with her as she darted out of the room and headed for the elevators.

"They mean well, sister of my heart," he said, putting his big arm around her waist as they waited for the elevator to arrive.  "Have you spoken to either of them yet?"

The elevator arrived and they entered.  Kir was grateful when the doors closed before anyone else managed to get on.  She leaned her head against the back wall and closed her eyes.  "Mac was conscious very briefly this morning before I left, but we didn't really talk.  And I haven't spoken to Methos at all.  It's best that no word get out about their arrival until we know how they are and what the future holds.  False assurances and building people's hopes would be cruel.  You saw them, Hawk."  She opened her eyes and fixed them on her brother.  "I truly don't know whether either of them will ever be who they once were."  Her eyes shone bright in the overhead light and Hawk gathered her in, giving what comfort he could, knowing it was not enough.

There was light and warmth, the scent of clean linens...not the cold, antiseptic smell he recalled. It was a dream. It had to be a dream. One he would prefer not to wake from but it seemed beyond his control as he opened gritty, tired eyes to see. The weight on the bed shifted and he went tense and still.

"It's me Da," said a soothing voice, a warm hand rubbing along his upper arm. "It's Sean, Da. You're safe...you're home."

There was a dizzying sense of deja vu -- another voice, rougher, telling him the same thing. Another touch on his arm. He tried to ignore voice and touch, but it was impossible. All of his senses, so long denied any stimulation, seemed to suddenly crave input and he opened his eyes again to stare up at the face close to his.

"Sean..." He didn't question it at all any longer. He knew that face. Knew the tone of voice and lest he forget and think the apparition a dream after all...well it wouldn't be. He had never seen his son look so old or tired or so fearful. Sean wasn't afraid of anything.

"I'm here, Da," Sean said it again and smiled faintly, an echo of the broad grin Duncan knew so well, the laughter burned out from the concerned eyes.

"Me too..." Duncan said and it made perfect sense to him, and he hadn't been trying to be funny but fate or God intervened to bring him something of a gift as the much-missed laughter returned to the hazel eyes. Not much, just a chuckle, but it reached the eyes...Sean's eyes.

"Yeah, yeah...you are. Finally. Feel like sitting up?"

"As opposed to falling over," Duncan said, a more deliberate try and not as successful but Sean still smiled, glad of the effort. He tried to push himself upward, only to find his arms trembling.

Sean's hand came around his waist to help and then to fluff the pillows. There was juice next, steel in his son's voice as he bade his father to drink.

Duncan didn't want the juice until he drank it. It was mildly acidic, sweet, smooth and chilled. It tasted like ambrosia. And the sugar alone went right to whatever misused part of his anatomy was in charge of fuel distribution.

It also triggered something he hadn't expected. Hunger. An aching in his gut, and a pathetic grumble.

"I think I can fix that too," Sean said, moving away only to find his wrist gripped in fierce clasp. Not as strong as Duncan might once have been able to grip him, but tenacious. Sean turned back to find his father's eyes searching his face, then his whole being.

There was a stirring along the link, just a whisper or flutter and Sean reversed the grip so their fingers were interlocked.

Duncan's eyes widened. "It's...back...the link...the Quickenings..but..." it wasn't the same. It flowed through him, not backed up into him -- he had carried it so long he knew the difference. "Who..."

"Methos," Sean said. "He's still...carrying the brunt of it. Won't let...me take it from him."

Methos. Who had been here but wasn't now. He remembered that much, remembered the warmth of presence. But it hadn't left him, not really. "Where is he?"

"Gone downstairs to shower and rest...and be alone, I think. Physically. It's been..." Sean's voice faltered and his gaze dropped. Duncan watched, dismayed. Was that shame he saw in his son's eyes, in the dull flush of color in the cheeks?

And Sun's damned soul rattling around in his son, as that sudden knowledge returned from the haze of his earlier awakening. It made him sick then, it made him sick now.

"Kir?" he asked diverting the conversation, his son and himself.

"Keeping the hounds at bay. We haven't ...The Nation, most of it thinks you are dead. Methos as well we think. She went to buy us time -- buy you time to recover. To report on the decay of the Eastern Dawn that we've seen. It's falling apart from the inside, Da."

"Too many fronts," Duncan said idly, his mind trying to twist around that bit of intelligence. Something Methos had said decades ago. That the Dawn had spread too fast and too far. They wouldn't be able to maintain their grip. As Rome had not, as England had not. No lessons learned from past mistakes.

Too many fronts. It applied to himself as well. He felt stretched thin and shallow. Time to regroup and his stomach gave another chirp. "Let me get you some food," Sean suggested and Duncan had to refocus on his face, lost in thoughts of battles that never saw the use of a weapon.

<<No battles, Duncan. You are wounded. Others will fight. A brush across his mind, not so much words as a feeling, protective, someone standing shield still. Someone not even in the apartment.

He wasn't ready to face Methos yet.

"Give me your arm." He said.  Sean started to protest, but he knew his father too well.  And it was such a joy to see that familiar stubborn set to the jaw, even in a face that was all bone and little flesh, that he could have denied him nothing.  But the trip to the kitchen was costly, and Duncan sank into a chair, shaking and sweating from the effort.  Sean quickly snatched an afghan from the living room couch and tucked it around the frail figure.  His emotions were swinging wildly between elation and worry, relief and fear, and he found his own hands trembling as he prepared a simple meal of toast and softly cooked eggs.

Mac took a bite of the eggs and a beatific smile crossed his face.  He chewed slowly, then closed his eyes and put the fork down as though it was too heavy to hold.

"Da?  Can I help you?  Maybe you shouldn't have gotten out of bed.  It's too soon."  He knelt by the chair, pushing the long tousled hair back from his father's face.

Tears dampened the long dark lashes and Mac's hand closed around his son's wrist.  "I'm so sorry," he whispered.  "I don't deserve this...you...everyone."

"Oh, God," Sean's tears broke through the barrier he had erected to keep himself going.  He grabbed his father and pulled him into a painful embrace.  "Don't!  Don't do that!  I love you, Da.  We all love you.  You deserve all we can give and more!  What happened...we'll talk about it.  We need to talk about it, but right now you have to get strong again."

Sean wiped away his father's tears with his thumbs and picked up the fork, filling it with another bite of eggs.  His father accepted it with a small smile, all the while holding onto his son's arm as though it were the only link that kept him in the here and now.

The vid was playing quietly in the living room as Kir stepped off the elevator.  She ached with bone-deep weariness that came from months of stress.  For a second she paused, reveling in the normality of coming home to Duncan again.  She fantasized about a long, long vacation, lying with her lover in the warm sun of some tropical isle, watching him grow strong again, making love for hours in some big four poster bed hung with a shear fabric moving slowly in the breeze from an overhead fan.

"Kir?"

She was startled out of her reverie by Sean's voice.

"You okay?"

"Just woolgathering," she smiled.  A little of the strain seemed to have cleared from the Youngest's face.  "How is he?"

"Ask him for yourself," he replied with a smile.  "He's in the living room."

"Should he be...?"

"Out of bed? Probably not, but he didn't give me a choice."

Kir moved into the kitchen, sorting her emotions into some sort of order before her encounter with her mate of 40 years.  "Has he eaten?"

"A little.  I'm feeding him little bits at a time.  If we press it will just make him sick."

Kir sighed.  "I know.  But if I know Duncan, by tomorrow he's going to be trying to do a kata or two.  How is he, uh,..."

"Reacting?" Sean supplied.  "He's very, very raw.  A lot of guilt."

Kir nodded. It was what she had expected.  "And Methos?"

"He was up and around a little this morning.  He went downstairs.  I suspect he's still sleeping.  And, no, he and Da haven't spoken," he answered the question he knew was on her mind.  "How's the Council?"

"Curious. Imperious. Demanding.  Like always," Kir answered.  "I'm holding them off for now." She smiled tightly.  "They want the leadership and experience and symbolism of the Immortals, but they don't trust them...us," she corrected herself.  "I think if they had their way they would put Duncan and Methos in a cage somewhere and just bring them out for public display when it suited them."

"You don't really think..." Sean began in alarm.

"No, no," Kir waived her hand.  "I'm exaggerating.  They want and need them, but they also feel compelled to control them in some way.  For the time being they are leaving us alone, but pretty soon we'll have to find a way to reassure the Council that neither of them are insane or a danger to the Nation."  She took a deep breath, settling her residual anger from her long day of trying to be a liaison between her two Races and turned towards the living room.

Mac was on the couch, an afghan tucked around him, one thin arm visible with the vid controller held lax in his hand. He appeared to be asleep, but opened his eyes when he felt the couch move.

"Hey, pretty lady," he greeted her with a smile.

"Hey, yourself," Kir answered.  She moved close, gathering him into her arms.  It felt so odd.  He had always been the comforter, his broad brawny shoulders a warm haven of strength and solidarity against the troubles of the world.  All she felt now was bone.  His arms moved around her, but his body felt cool and fragile, almost alien.  He must have sensed her unease because he pulled away, huddling under the afghan, flushing slightly under her intense scrutiny.

But Kir wouldn't let go of his hand, holding it in both her own.  "How're you feeling?"  It was the question of a nurse or a distant friend, not someone who had shared his life for 40 years, but the other questions that she wanted to ask were too intense for either of them to handle at the moment.

"Sean's taking good care of me," Duncan responded, without really answering the question.  In truth, he couldn't have answered it since each moment seemed to bring a different feeling, physical and emotional.  He was uncertain how to respond, embarrassed by his weakness, resisting the instinct to flinch from human touch, no matter how well intended.  Confused by the many things he wanted to say, no words came to his mind.  He wanted to ask why, he wanted to know how much they knew of what had happened, he wanted to ask just what had been sacrificed to bring him back.  But he was afraid to hear the answers, afraid he already knew the answers and the thought made him feel sick, so he avoided asking the questions.

The awkward silence was broken by the sound of the opening elevator and Kir turned her head, listening.

"It's Methos," Duncan said, straightening, his expression tight and pale and expectant.

So it was, and nothing in the elder's face showed anything of what he thought or felt. "It's good to see you up, Mac." He moved into the apartment slowly as if either unsure of his welcome or ready to bolt. An overlarge subtly rose sweater gave his pale complexion some color and hid most of his thinness until his hands came out in a gesture when Kir came forward.

Duncan had seen those hands in that condition before, thin, almost skeletal, but not trembling. Not this time. The familiar eyes regarded him solemnly, like the eyes of a stranger.

It wasn't exactly tension, Kir decided. Uncertainty perhaps, wariness from both of them. Duncan could only stare and Kir wasn't sure what she saw in his face.

"I'm not a ghost." Methos broke the silence between them. "Nor are you. Nor dreams," he said finally coming forward and reached out one hand to cover MacLeod's gently. "You are home."

"Am I? Are you?"

Kir remembered to breathe when that faint smile turned up the corners of Methos' mouth and crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Very much so," the eldest said and squeezed Mac's hand lightly before pulling back. "I thought perhaps it was time we had a celebratory drink -- only there was nothing downstairs and I hate to drink alone."

Kir's eyes moved between the two men.  Always so different physically, they looked oddly alike now, like brothers.  Both pale and thin and worn.  Mac was plucking at a loose thread of the afghan, unable to hold Methos' calm gaze.  "I'll see what I can find," she announced and rose, leaving them alone.

Methos sank into the space Kir had vacated and turned toward his friend of two hundred years, the closest in a lifetime spanning over five millennia.  "It will get better, Mac, if you let it," he said.  His hand moved over Duncan's and the Scot turned his palm up, letting their fingers entwine.

But Mac remained silent, finally closing his eyes against the powerful waves of emotion that threatened his thin veneer of control.  For the moment his existence was centered on the feel of that warm hand in his and the comforting thrum of Methos' presence in his mind.  His throat was locked tight and he knew if he spoke it would be nonsense, pure guilt-ridden babble and would undoubtedly only annoy and possibly anger this man who was his lifeline.  There was so much he needed to say but nothing would come, all he could do was squeeze the hand tight and pray for understanding.  But how much understanding can one man have, an inner voice demanded.  How much forgiveness can one person expect?  Mac cursed himself when, for the second time that day he felt a hot tear escape and he angrily wiped it away with his free hand.  He forced himself to pull away, pushing to his feet and heading towards the balcony in an effort to avoid Methos having to deal with his weakness.

<<You knew this wouldn't be easy, Methos told himself but even so, he had to take more minutes than he wanted to to make himself get up and follow Mac outside.

He found the man leaning on the railing, staring out and down, eyes tracking movement on the ground below, a small flock of birds crossing the sky.

"I expected it to be different," Mac said, voice raw and whispery.

"It is," Methos said coming to lay his hands on the railing, close to Mac without touching him. "Because you are..." he ducked his head. "Sorry. I seem to have fallen into the bad habit of being the font of Wisdom without you to laugh at me. Sean hasn't quite got the knack of it yet. We raised a very serious young man, Duncan."

"He's almost two hundred years old," Duncan said and then caught the hint of Methos' smile and something eased inside him. Not a lot, just enough to be noticed.

"All grown up," Methos sighed dramatically.  "But do you suppose we can trust him with the car keys?"

Sean looked up from preparing soup as Kir came into the kitchen and started pulling down glasses and filling an ice bucket.

"Has he been this chatty all day?" Kir asked, an edge of anger or anxiety in her tone, Sean couldn't tell which.

Sean frowned to himself.  "You can't expect him to be able to talk about things right away, Kir.  He was never much of a talker to begin with."

She stopped and leaned heavily against the counter, taking a deep breath.  "Yes, but...I guess I didn't expect this...this stranger.  I had hoped..."

When she didn't finish the sentence, Sean finished for her.  "You hoped he would take you in his arms and hold you and be the mate and friend and lover that he has been all these years."

"You make it sound so selfish," Kir yanked a drawer open to pull out napkins.

"It's not selfish at all.  You have needs, too."  Sean took her shoulders, stilling her almost frantic moves.  "We all do.  Immortal or not, we're only human."

"But what do I do, Sean?  You're the psychiatrist.  How can I help him when one minute I want to shake him 'til his teeth rattle and the next hold onto him and never let go!"  She sighed in sad frustration.  "I guess I didn't realize how angry I was until he pulled away from me.  But how can I be angry with him after what he's been through, it's not fair!"

Sean pulled her in and held her gently.  "Of course it's not fair.  Feelings aren't about being fair, they just are.  There's no magic here, Kirin.  Let's deal with one thing at a time.  Until he and Methos have gained some semblance of physical strength and control, neither will trust or deal effectively with what's happened.  Give it a few days, then let me talk to Dad."  He held her at arm's length.  "It's what I do.  It's the one thing I can offer that can make a difference."

Kir's troubled face warmed into an affectionate smile and she cupped her hand gently on the Youngest Immortal's face.  "You make a difference in a thousand ways, Sean.  To all of us."  She cocked her head toward the living room, listening.  "Well, no explosions so far.  Maybe they're both too weak to try to kill each other."

Kir stopped in surprise when she saw the outline of both men out on the balcony and heard their voices, wondering whether her ears were playing tricks or whether that really was gentle shared laughter. The glasses on the tray she was carrying rattled as she set it down, the noise attracting their attention.  She turned and watched as Methos gestured Mac to precede him and Mac stepped inside, grabbing the doorframe to steady himself.  Methos took his elbow, but immediately released it when Mac stiffened.  They may not have resolved anything, but at least they could co-exist in the same room, Kir observed.  It was progress.

But it seemed to be all the progress they were likely to make in the near term.  Mac slowly began to regain his strength, constantly testing it.  There were good days and bad over the next couple of weeks, both physical and emotional.  Sean's expectation that he could sit down and talk through the events of the past several months proved wrong.  His father pleaded exhaustion or just walked away when pressed by his persistent son.  Methos seemed bemused to watch the Highlander working through some of the same issues with which he had dealt upon his return from Rome, a difficulty regaining appetite despite everyone's nagging and an even worse frustration over the loss of strength and physical control.  But where Methos had developed a horrifying fear of small places, Mac found comfort in a dark room, alone with his thoughts.  It was troubling to them all to watch someone who had always touched, caressed and soothed those around him, and found comfort in that constant interaction, retreat from human contact.  He stayed in his room, read and slept, only leaving it to eat small meals or to attempt to exercise -- an activity his son and doctor discouraged until he had gained a little more weight.

Kir looked up from tending the late tomato plants in her rooftop garden, watching Mac as he moved slowly through a Tai Chi exercise.  Except for the long hair, from the back he looked like a stranger.  Thin bony arms and torso moved through slow, precise forms, graceful but oddly ethereal when Mac had always been so grounded in life and vitality.  He paused, one leg raised, arms in elegant arcs in front of his body, but then wavered and suddenly the form collapsed as his leg gave out and he stumbled, going down to one knee.  Kir instantly went to his side, her arm circling his back in comfort.

"You're pressing too hard again, my love,' she said softly.  "It will come, just give it time."

Mac was panting, his clothes soaked with sweat.  He rolled away from her embrace and sat on the mat, clasping his arms around his legs.  "I know," he sighed, putting his forehead on his knees.  "But I can't just stop, Kir.  There is so much I need to do."

Kir sat cross-legged in front of him.  He had avoided any personal conversations since they had brought him back.  Maybe this was her chance.  "What do you need to do?" she asked.

Mac shook his head. "I need to relieve Methos of the extra burden of the Community he's been carrying.  I need to talk to Revas about what happened.  I need to be in a position to make up for some of the damage I've caused..." his voice trailed off and he reached up to wipe the sweat out of his eyes.

"And what about me, Duncan?  What about us?" she whispered.  Her hand sought his and he held it, but it was a tentative touch.

There was a long silence as he just looked at their joined fingers.  "I love you, Kir.  Nothing can change that."

She leaned forward, touching his face.  "But...?" she prompted the unsaid qualifier she heard in his words.  Then her beeper vibrated and Duncan saw her focus change as she shifted her jaw to activate her implant.

"Yes?" she answered impatiently, listening for a moment.  "Alright.  Tell Hawk I'll be right there."  Her attention turned back to the man in front of her.  "We need to talk, Duncan."

He laughed gently.  "I hear that refrain about a dozen times a day from my son, Kirin.  You and I have never had a difficulty communicating."  He stroked her face.  It was the first time he had reached out to anyone since he had been back and she leaned into the contact, then stiffened as her communicator once again demanded her attention.

"I'm sorry, Duncan.  I've got to go," she said sadly.

"Aye.  Do what you must, Kir.  They obviously need you."

Kir was still nervous, but nonetheless relieved and pleased that the party was going smoothly.  Methos had been gracious and amusing, Connor had told a number of naughty stories that had both scandalized and titillated the Council members and their spouses and significant others, Sean was being his usual sweet self and Mac was being quietly charming and reassuring.  He had dressed in a dark loose sweater and it was only in his hands, face and neck that his thinness was truly apparent.  He had let his hair hang loose, and its dark wavy fullness helped provide additional camouflage.  She went out on the balcony, where a welcome breath of cool air provided a hint of the fall weather soon to come.  She felt a big hand on her shoulder, turned, and found Hawk gazing at her fondly.

"You see, my sister, the spirits will always look out for us."  He squeezed her shoulder gently.  "It is good to have them both back and whole."

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.  "Don't be fooled, Hawk of Moons," she said quietly.  "They have both been badly damaged.  It's just that they have learned to put up a façade that allows them and us to cope.  Methos and Duncan have yet to speak of what happened between them.  They tiptoe around each other, polite and distant.  Each waiting for the other to speak first.  Each so worried about hurting the other that they hurt each other by their very distance and overly solicitous care."  She shook her head.  "Mac has not come to my bed since he's been back, and hardly speaks to any of us.  I suspect as soon as he is physically able, he will leave.  And Methos is only waiting to be sure Mac is truly well before he goes, too, probably on a hunt for Abbas."

Hawk turned to face her as she gazed out over the Atlanta skyline, his face troubled.  "They can't both leave, Kir.  The Nation needs at least one of them, as symbol if nothing else.  Don't tell me they are both going to put themselves at risk again.  We can't allow that!"

"It is not up to us to allow or deny them anything, Hawk!" Kir found herself speaking sharply.  She took a deep breath and moderated her tone.  "They are not our prisoners or playthings.  Mac came to help us because he believed in what we stand for, and Methos followed.  If they choose to leave, there is nothing we can or should do to stop them."

"Kirin there is more at stake here than their friendship or even Mac's leadership," Hawk whispered urgently.

"I know that!  But if there is one thing this whole mess has taught me it is that these two individuals cannot, will not be controlled.  Their spirits are far, far too strong for us to be anything other than onlookers to the history they create.  We can care, we can stay as close as we can to be there if they need us, but we will never be any more than planets orbiting their stars."

Hawk watched his sister fight off tears, and realized she was talking not only about the Nation, but about herself, about her love for Duncan and her sense of helplessness in the face of his pain.  About her awe at the deep mystery that was Methos and her inability to understand any more than a small fraction of who and what he was.  He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, feeling the shuddering breath she took to control the sobs trying to escape.  "I'm sorry, Kir," he whispered into her hair.  "I have been blind to your pain, as has everyone else."  He pushed her back and their dark eyes met.  "What can I do?  Should I talk to Mac?"

"You can try.  He hasn't been very communicative lately," she smiled.  "But don't press, please.  You will only drive him away. He's feeling horribly guilty about what he did, both to the Community and to Methos.  And he's confused about whether Methos has really forgiven him.  Most of all I frankly don't know how he feels about what was done to him by Abbas and Kiem Sun.  I get the feeling he's somehow not quite all there yet, as though some part of him is still hiding in that dark place he went.  He's always had a tendency to retreat into an emotional shell when he feels inadequate or guilty, but now . . . " she sighed deeply.  "I'm afraid he'll retreat so far he'll never come back."

Mac smiled and listened with what he hoped was an attentive expression to Brenda Lighthorse's views of Eastern Dawn political strategy.  He was tired.  His head hurt and his legs ached from standing for three hours.  The room seemed noisy and close, with people constantly clustered around him, touching him as though to reassure themselves he was really there.  And if he heard one more comment about his weight he was going to dump a drink down someone's front.  But this was important to Kir and Hawk, and to the Council, to establish a reassuring appearance of normalcy, that all was well.  He glanced across the room at Methos, who was holding forth, evidently enjoying having an appreciative audience for his funny and frequently cutting observations on society and politics.  Their eyes met briefly as the Oldest felt Mac's gaze on him.  The expression was guarded, and he quickly looked away, reflecting their mutual discomfort at the unresolved tension between them.

He excused himself and threaded through the crowd to the bar, pouring a glass of wine and sipping it slowly. His alcohol tolerance seemed low these days and he wouldn't be able to stay on his feet at all if he drank very much more.  But the party was finally winding down, and once one couple left it started a trend, and soon there was only "family" left - Kir, Sean, Connor, Hawk, Oella and Methos.

He found his way to the suddenly empty balcony where the midnight breeze was almost chilly, making him shiver slightly.  Still it felt good against his sensitized, overheated skin.

"You okay?" he heard Hawk ask behind him.

"I wish people would stop asking me that," Mac replied softly.  "I'm Immortal, Hawk.  Of course I'm okay."

"The question really isn't about whether you will continue living, Duncan.  It has a lot more to do with how you feel."  When MacLeod just shrugged as an answer Hawk paused, considering his next words carefully.  "We've been friends for a long, long time, Mac.  I know it sounds presumptuous, given what you are and what you've been through, but if you need someone to talk to, someone not so close to what happened, I'm a very good listener."

"Presumptuous?  No, Hawk.  As Methos would say, age is not always a sure sign of wisdom.  Some of the best advice I've ever gotten has been from my mortal friends.  I've told you about Joe Dawson.  He was one of the wisest men I've known, and he lived only 67 years."  He leaned heavily on the railing, taking some of the weight off his aching legs and back.  He took a larger than usual drink of his wine, finally feeling free to begin to relax.

"Well, it would please me greatly if you'd consider the offer, Duncan," Hawk said, sliding his hands across Mac's shoulders, feeling the sharp, unpadded shoulder blades underneath the sweater.

 . . . and you do want to please me, don't you, Duncan?  The phrase echoed in his head as the feel of Hawk's hand moved across his back.  He swallowed the mouthful of wine he had taken and pulled in a sudden gulp of air as his stomach lurched.

"Duncan?"  The voice seemed to come from a long distance.

. . . and you do want to please me, don't you, Duncan?

"What?" he knew someone was speaking to him, but couldn't discern the question.

"What's wrong?  You've gone white as a sheet."

. . . and you do want to please me, don't you, Duncan?

"Nothing.  I'm . . . fine." . . . and you do want to please me, don't you, Duncan?

"Maybe you better sit down."  Hawk reached for his arm.

"No!  Just let me be.  I'm okay."  He stepped back, away from the threatened touch, stumbling, hearing the sound of shattering glass.

. . . and you do want to please me, don't you, Duncan?

"Mac?!" A hand snaked out to grab him.

"Don't touch me!"  He backed to the corner of the balcony, warding off the intruder, crouching into a defensive posture.

. . . and you do want to please me, don't you, Duncan?

The world contracted down and down to a very small place and he contracted with it, sliding down into the corner.  Then there were more voices, but he paid no attention, gasping with the effort not to react to the memories and sensations pouring over him.

Hawk watched in fascinated horror as MacLeod gripped the wineglass with enough force that it shattered, driving the crystal shards into his palm, one going all the way through the back of his hand.  The man didn't even notice the injury as he backed into the corner of the balcony and slid down, his eyes unfocused, his face ashen and suddenly dripping with sweat.

"Sean!" Hawk turned, stepping back into the living room where the others were talking quietly.

The man turned at the obvious distress in Hawk's voice and the conversation stopped.

"Something's wrong!"

In three heartbeats, Sean was kneeling in front of his father, with the others crowded silently behind.  He reached for a pulse and had to fight to get it as Mac cringed at his touch.

"Connor, get me my medical bag from my room," he instructed, standing slowly and backing away.

Kir crowded up against him, wanting to go to Mac but he kept her back.  "Let him be for the moment, Kir.  It's classic PTS.  He was tired and stressed and something triggered a flashback.  He's been denying this, refusing to talk about it.  It was only a matter of time before this happened."

"I'm so sorry," Hawk murmured.  "I was only trying to help.  Damn!"

"Don't blame yourself, Hawk," Sean responded quietly.  "Any one of us could have triggered it unknowingly.  My father is ever loath to admit that he needs help, especially to one of us he considers under his protection."

A slightly breathless Connor appeared with the medical bag.  Sean filled a hypogun from a vial and knelt again in front of the rigid figure folded up in the corner.

"Da?"  He got no response.  "Dad it's Sean.  I'm just going to give you something to help you relax so we can get the glass out of your hand and we can talk, okay?"

"NO!  No shots!  No more . . . drugs," Mac pushed his son away, smearing blood across the front of Sean's shirt and coming up to a half-crouch.  Sean's ears rang and his head spun with the strength of his father's denial.  The man almost never used the Talent that ran in his veins, magnified by power and time and the multiple Quickenings of other strong Talents.  This had been pure instinct, pure self-preservation.

Then Methos was there, his hands wrapped around Mac's wrists, holding him still.  "It's okay, Duncan.  I'm here.  Whatever it is, I won't let it hurt you anymore."  The voice was low and comforting, a soothing tone that vibrated softly against the mind as well as the ears.  "I won't let them give you any more drugs.  No more pain, Duncan.  This is only memory.  It's not real."

"Methos?"  Duncan's eyes slowly focused on his friend.  As he gradually took in his surroundings, at the crowd of concerned faces looking on, two bright spots of color appeared on his gray cheeks.  "I . . . Jesus, what . . . ?  I'm sorry . . ."

"Enough, Duncan," Methos whispered, helping him up, quickly circling his waist when Mac's knees started to buckle.

"Get him to the bathroom so I can get the glass out and then we can talk," Sean instructed.

Methos decided not to remind his brother in public than he had been a doctor for hundreds of years before Sean took his training.  The boy was both a highly trained physician and a psychiatrist and, like many in his profession, had developed a slight arrogance about his own skills.

Besides, keeping Mac on his feet was occupying his full attention.  His clothes were soaked with sweat, his skin clammy with shock.   They got to the bathroom, and Methos turned on the tap in the sink until it was warm, then tried to wash some of the blood that was pouring out of the five or six still-unhealed cuts in Mac's hand where large and small shards of glass protruded grotesquely.  Mac watched in mute fascination, occasionally shivering violently as his body dealt with the effects of shock.

"Da, this is just a simple anesthetic," Sean said behind him, startling him.  He had a small hypo in his hand.

"No!  I said no drugs," Mac said grimly.

"Dad!  You know I wouldn't . . ."

"It's okay, Sean.  Just pull the glass out," Methos intruded.

"But Adam . . ."

"For God's sake, Sean," Mac growled, "I've had arrows ripped out of my body without the benefit of anesthetic.  Do you think I give a damn about some glass?"  Mac's voice was raw, on the near edge of losing control again.

The three were silent as Methos held Mac's wrist firmly braced up against a towel that quickly became squishy with blood, while Sean carefully pulled long shards of crystal out of his hand.  Mac neither flinched nor moved, and his eyes were distant, focused elsewhere.

It only took a moment, and another moment later the bleeding had stopped and only thin pink lines remained where the cuts had formerly been, except for the long permanently angry red scar that ran across his palm, the sign of Mac's pivotal role in the Community.  It was a match to the small white scars on the throats of each of its members, and a match to the one on Methos' palm.  Someday, Sean realized with a chill, he would carry a similar scar on his own hand.

The men stood in silence as Sean carefully inspected the hand to make sure there were no shards left imbedded in the skin.   He gently wiped it clean, more for the comfort it might provide than for any medical or sanitary reason.  He raised his eyes to Mac's, gold meeting the swirling dark colors of brown and gray and green.

"Can we talk about this now, Da?  Please?"

He watched intently as those complex dark eyes shuttered closed and open again, despairing when the hard set to the jaw took on a vaguely bulldog look.  He had seen that look all too many times.  "I apologize for making a scene," Mac said quietly.  "I guess I just got overtired."

Methos and Sean shared a long, frustrated look as Mac left the room, going through the opposite door to the spare bedroom he had occupied recently.  Sean followed, determined not to let the issue rest now that an opening had finally appeared.

"Look, Dad," he said softly.  Methos smiled in appreciation and admiration of his brother's gifts.  The boy used his Talent without ever realizing it.  His voice was soft, sweet, unthreatening, soothing, full of care and concern.  "This is what I do, what I'm trained for.  It hurts me not to be able to help you through this.  What happened will happen again and again until you let yourself deal with it, talk about it, understand it.  I can help you.  Please let me."

"I understand you want to help, Sean."  Mac sat heavily on the edge of the bed.  He looked drawn and tired and utterly spent.  "But I'll deal with it in my own way, in my own time.  It's hardly the first ugly thing that ever happened to me.  It's not even the ugliest."

Sean sat next to him and Methos found himself deeply moved at the tableau.  Sean looked the father, Mac the son. A complete reversal of roles, but then over the centuries all their roles had become blurred and transferred back and forth.  Supporter, supported, friend, brother, father, son.  But no matter the label, this was his family, dysfunctional and stressed as it was, Methos realized.  He was bound to these two like no others in his long, long life.  Family.

"But why do it alone when you don't have to, Da?  When I can help?"

"Ye canna help me with this!" Mac answered harshly.

"Why?  Because of what Sun did to you?  Oh, Da, you of all people should know that more damage is done in the name of love than ever out of hate," Sean insisted.

His father turned to him slowly, his eyes wide.  "What . .?  You know?"

"I took his head, Da!  Of course I know!  I thought you must have realized that.  I'm sorry, I . . ."

But Mac pushed off from the bed.  "You know?" he asked again.  "Who else knows?"  He turned to Methos, who met his gaze evenly.  "Who else knows?!" he insisted.

"I saw some of it when Sean took the Quickening, Duncan.  But there was a video that both Sean and Amanda saw, and Kir and Connor were in the room when Sean took Sun's head."

Mac's face had lost any hint of color and Methos poised himself to be ready if the Scot faltered.  Instead he grimly pushed past both men to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.  Methos and Sean stood in silence, listening uncomfortably to the sounds of retching behind the door.

"Well, that went well," Methos said.

"Dammit, Adam, you didn't have to tell him everybody knew!"

"You'd prefer I lie to him?  He had to know sometime."

"But there are better ways to do it.  Christ, he has enough to deal with as it is."

After a few minutes, they could hear water running, then silence, then the door opened and Mac stood for a moment looking at them, white-faced, his expression set and hard.  He brushed past Methos to the closet, pulling down a bag.

"So now you're going to run away?" Sean dropped into the silence after a moment of watching his father pull clothes out of the dresser and stuff them into the bag.  "There's a good answer.  Why can't we just talk about this?"

"Ye're my son, Sean.  I can't . . . the very thought . . ." he stopped, going very still, and for a second Methos thought the Highlander was going to be ill again, but the man took a deep breath and continued his packing.

Methos put his hand on his brother's shoulder, speaking quietly.  "He's right, Sean.  This is not something he can talk to you about.  At least not right now."

"No! This is what I do, for God's sake.  What is the use of everything I've learned, of everything I know if I can't help him?  Is it the rape?" Sean asked, turning back to Mac.  "Is it that you can't deal with my knowing that you aren't the conquering hero every moment of your existence?  Bullshit, Da!  I already knew that even if you didn't.  You can't shut me out of this.  I need . . . I want to help you."

Methos turned Sean back to face him.  Desperate tears were shining in the man's eyes.  "Listen to yourself, brother.  You're talking about your needs, not his.  Let me talk to him."

Sean looked to his father for support, but Mac wasn't looking at either of them as he continued his packing.  "Damn you both!" he choked.  "You two are bound and determined to rip each other to shreds.  Well, I 'm tired of it.  I'm tired of being caught between you.  No more!" his voice was breathless.  "No more!" he whispered. He was out the door in long, angry strides, slamming it behind him.

The sound reverberated in the room, fading to silence, and Mac wearily sank to the bed.  Methos moved the mostly full bag to the floor and sat next to him.  Mac's eyes were closed, his hands folded tightly in his lap.  His hair clung in long strands to his damp forehead and down the side of his face.

"You got over Marta, Duncan," he whispered at last.  "You can get over this."

A small chuckle rumbled in Duncan's chest.  "You going to kill me again?  Is that your therapy of choice?"

"It's a thought.  Would it help?  I've still got the knife."

Mac passed a thin hand over his face.  "I don't think my son would approve."

"It's a little unconventional, I must admit, but it seemed to work last time."

"Last time it was just you and me, Adam.  Not half the universe knowing, watching for my reactions.  No wonder Kir's kept her distance."

"Not everyone knows, Duncan.  Just the family.  The rest are just worried about you."

"The Council is worried because they fear the political and military repercussions if the completely mythical, great and powerful Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod isn't around to scare the Eastern Dawn into caution," Duncan said with a small note of bitterness.

"That's only partially true.  They also care about Mac MacLeod, their friend."

Mac gave him an amused look.  "That sounds odd, coming from you."

"Why?" Methos seemed surprised.

"You have always made fun of my relationship to the leadership in the Nation."

"And you believe that's because I think they don't genuinely care?  Of course they care!  How can they not after everything you've done for them?  Gods, you've sacrificed and put yourself at risk for them again and again, given them the benefit of your experience and wisdom, your political and military and strategic expertise.  You've been their friend and their protector for a generation, Duncan.  The reaction when they thought you had been killed was . . ." But Mac was looking at him in genuine astonishment.  "What?"

"It's just that you've never . . . I thought you believed most of my actions to be silly and self-destructive.  That you went along partially because in your heart you wanted to help, but mostly because you figured you would keep me out of trouble and Sean out of danger."

Methos stared at Mac as though he were a stranger, seeing the yawning gulf open up between them.  "Oh, Duncan," he whispered.  "How can you have lived with me for over two hundred years and not known that I deeply admire you and your willingness to give so much of yourself to others."  He touched Mac's face, feeling the rough edge of the hard cheekbone and the slight stubble of his heavy beard.  Even so thin, he seemed solid and real, an anchor of purpose and reality in his life, where centuries were in danger of drifting past almost without notice.

Mac gently took the hand and carefully pushed it back into Methos' lap.  "Don't," he whispered.  "Don't mock me.  I know I deserve every barb you want to throw, but please, not now.  Not after what I've done to you, to Sean, to the Community, even to poor Kiem Sun.  It's not even remotely amusing."

Methos cocked his head in surprised curiosity.  "Why do you think I'm mocking you?  And what on earth do you have to feel guilty about with Kiem Sun?"

Mac stood and leaned against the wall, every movement carefully controlled, the retreat at least as much emotional as physical.

"You are always mocking me, Adam."

There was a long silence, and Methos watched Duncan retreat even further into himself, sinking slowly to the floor, wrapping his arms around his legs.  What an irony, he thought, I've always envied his openness and now he's closing up tight while I am feeling like one giant exposed nerve.

"I'm not mocking you, Duncan.  Now talk to me.  There's something you haven't said.  Something happened you haven't talked about.  Something important about Kiem Sun."

Duncan shook his head, laying his forehead down on his knees.  "It was a long time ago.  It doesn't matter now."

If the mountain won't come to Mohammed, Methos thought in frustration, and moved to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of his friend.  He hadn't seen him in such a dark Gaelic brood since Sean's birth.

"Clearly it does, or you wouldn't have included Kiem Sun in your litany of guilt trips.  Don't tell me you blame yourself for what he did?!  That's taking 'blame the victim' to a whole new level and I've never thought of you as a victim of anything other than your own bad judgment from time to time."

Duncan's look was murderous. "Bad judgment?  Is that what you're calling it?  Bad Judgment!  And you say you're not mocking me?"  The dark face flushed with emotion as his voice roughened and he ticked his failures off on his fingers.  "I abandoned you in that hell hole, put Sean in jeopardy, couldn't prevent him from taking one  . . no make that two Quickenings.  I rejected you and then couldn't keep my promise to sever the connection, but in the process of trying managed to nearly drive you insane and almost start the Game all over again, subjecting my own son to the Gathering madness.  Do you know we lost five of the Community in the past four months, including Adelle?  We hadn't lost that many in the previous 15 years!  Shall I go on?"  Duncan stopped, slightly breathless, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

"Here we go again," Methos said in his familiar sarcastic drawl while rolling his eyes, "Duncan MacLeod in the throes of self-flagellation."

"I just thought I'd save you the trouble, Methos," Duncan growled.  "I'm sure your list of complaints is even longer.  I don't even know why you're here, unless you figure its time to use that knife on me.  What do you want from me, anyway?  It surely can't be any lust for my body anymore, unless you're just into Kiem Sun's need to punish . . ." his voice trailed off suddenly.

"Punish? You?  For what?  God dammit, Duncan spit it out!"

"I cared for him once," Mac whispered finally.  "Not at all the way I love you, of course.  But just as I hurt you so badly without intending to, I hurt him.  Sean was right.  It's amazing the damage that can be done in the name of love."

China 1790

It had been a long, long trip and MacLeod was worn to the point of collapse.  He walked the last thirty miles to the temple, up a long, winding road into the high mountains and thin, crisp air of Northern China.  He rang the small gong at the entrance and gave his name.  The monk was utterly non-committal, but opened the door and led him down the long, magnificently decorated corridor, past the first enclosure, and into the inner courtyard, up into guest quarters where a simple but well padded cot awaited.  He sank onto the bed gratefully, pulling off thick, heavy, felt-lined boots that now felt as though they weight thirty pounds each.  It was just like Kiem Sun not to be around to greet him when he arrived.  Probably off looking for his secret herbs or tinkering with his potions again.  Mac smiled in anticipation.  They had become fast friends the last time he had been through China.  Sun had been a teacher, a mentor, a friend.  A caring man with no desire to kill his own kind.  His letter requesting that he come to visit had been a good excuse to travel again, but enough was enough.  He lay back on the bed fully clothed and was fast asleep in seconds.

It was the next afternoon, after a long day and a half of catching up on his sleep, a hot bath and several excellent meals when he was finally summoned by the same taciturn monk who had greeted him at the doorway and led through the long corridors and past a spectacular carved lacquer door to Kiem Sun's quarters.  Sun greeted him warmly, and told him about his research into a potion that would render mortals strong, fearless and utterly obedient.  He had demonstrated its effectiveness, so excited and proud of his achievement, only to have his Scottish friend angrily reject what he had done as wrong, as a perversion of his talents, slamming out of the room in anger.

Mac reached his quarters, breathless from the long fast walk in the high altitude back through the huge monastery.  He was near tears at the sense of betrayal.  Kiem Sun was one of the few Immortal friends he had in the world, one of the few he would trust with his life.  He had promised always to protect his friend, who had never shown any inclination to participate in the Game that would eventually destroy them all.

He sat, trying to meditate, to dispel the anger until the monks brought him his evening bath.  While they set it up he started packing his things.  He would leave at first light, head back to the Americas.  He stripped off the beautiful silk gown Kiem Sun had provided and sank gratefully into the warm water, knowing it would be the last bath he would have in awhile, letting its warmth take the last edge off his anger.  Kiem Sun had meant well, he knew.  He always meant well.  Such a brilliant, determined man.  Why did he want to try to control anyone through his potions when there were so many illnesses, so much suffering in the world to alleviate?  His thoughts were still circling his disappointment in his friend when he started awake, sensing the presence of another Immortal.

"Ah, MacLeod, enjoying yourself?" Sun asked as he entered.

"Aye.  I've learned that a warm bath is one of life's great luxuries," Mac smiled in answer.  "I thank you for your hospitality, Kiem Sun.  I'm sorry we quarreled."

Sun waived his hand dismissively.  "You are right, as usual, Duncan.  Perhaps I should concentrate my attentions elsewhere.  I'll have to deal with the Game sooner or later."  He rose and went to the dressing table, picking up a brush.  He crossed to Mac and knelt behind him, where his hair fell back behind the tub.  He began running the brush through the thick dark hair in long smooth motions.

"You have magnificent hair, Duncan.  Unusually long for a foreigner."

MacLeod relaxed, enjoying the sensation.  "I'm used to wearing it long as I did when I grew up.  Long hair was a sign of manhood among the Clan and without the weight of it on my neck I somehow feel undressed."

"Do you mind if I put it in a queue?" Sun asked.  "I'd like to see it as we wear it."

Mac shrugged his acquiescence, and he felt Sun's fingers divide, then twist his hair into a tight braid.

"There," he said finally in satisfaction.  "A true Chinaman's queue."  He came around to where Mac could see him, and sat on the edge of the tub.

"You foreigners are so fascinating, so different," he commented, his eyes travelling the length of Mac's body.

"Och! A body is a body," Mac scoffed.

"Oh, no, MacLeod.  You are very different.  Your skin is so dark.  So much hair on your chest, your arms, your legs."  He reached out to touch the dark, curly hair on Mac's broad chest.  "And you are so . . . large."

He leaned over, trailing his fingers down into the warm water onto Mac's abdomen, moving down further still.

Mac's related his story in almost a monotone.  "We were lovers for the next six months, during the heavy winter snows and into the Spring.  It was . . . intense.  Kiem Sun wasn't my first male sex experience, but he was my first true male lover.  At first I was terribly flattered and smitten with his sweetness, his obvious love for me.  And it was such a relief to get away from all the hunting and killing.  It seemed like a refuge. But after awhile he practically devoured me with his passion.  He got angry if I even left the monastery grounds and once ripped up all my clothes to force me to stay in my room all day.  He treated it like a joke, but it got worse and worse.  Whenever I tried to pull away, to create some distance, he would get all quiet and look at me with such a sad, sweet face and ask, "but don't you want to please me, Duncan?"  Mac paused, taking a shuddering breath.  "but instead of confronting him about it, dealing with it, I finally just packed up my things and left one night, deserted him without a word, slipped away while he was asleep.  I left a letter for him, trying to explain, but he never really forgave me for that. I didn't see him again for almost 200 years."

"And after Abbas captured me, every night Sun would come to me, always whispering,  "Don't you want to please me, Duncan?"  He finally looked up at the Oldest Immortal.  "He enjoyed causing me pain, you see.  It excited him.  I drove him from being possessive and slightly unstable to quite mad and grotesquely destructive and evil."

"I'm sorry, Duncan," Methos said quietly.  "But I'm not Kiem Sun."  He chuckled to himself.  "Although there are those who think me mad, as well."

Mac put his head on his knees, his voice muffled.  "I know."

Methos chuckled. "That I'm mad?  Or that I'm not Kiem Sun?"

Mac just looked at him with those wonderful, sad, dark eyes -- one feature left untouched by the ravages of Kiem Sun and Abbas.  A heartbreaking smile ghosted across his face.  "I don't know about being mad, Adam.  I'm hardly a good judge of that.  I do know that the only thing you have in common with Sun is my capacity to hurt you."

He moved to sit cross-legged, relaxing into an almost meditative pose.  "What has confounded me about . . . about us, you and me, for all these years, and why I think I have been unable to take this relationship and the love I feel for you to the next level is so fundamental that I just don't know how to get past it.  Every person I have ever loved as a mate has been a true partner, someone whose strength I needed, but who also needed me in some unique way.  Like Tessa, like Kir.  We have always been equals, giving and taking, completely sharing our lives.  But with you, Adam . . . I'll never be your equal.  I can't even fathom most of what you are!  It would make me feel like . . . like a catamite, a pretty face and body you kept around to please you until I got too boring to stand anymore.  So many times I seemed to annoy you so much I ended up driving you away.  I was always mildly surprised, but completely delighted, when you came back. But of course there was always Sean. But if that's what you want, . . . you can have me body and soul. In a way you already do."  He chuckled, stretching his arms out in front of him to gaze on his altered frame.  "But I think you'll have to wait awhile before it's worth the effort."

For once the Oldest Man sat silent, looking at his friend.  The mighty Highland warrior, six centuries old, probably the strongest of their Race, whose sweet nature and giving and loving heart had made it possible for the horrors of the genocidal Game they had played for uncounted eons to pause, if not end for all time, didn't think he was worthy of Methos' love.  It would be funny if it weren't so incomprehensible.

"Duncan, I don't know how to convince you, after 200 years of sharing our lives, that I need you, need your strength to make my life worth living, and that I always will."  Methos shook his head at his troubled friend.  "You judge yourself so bloody harshly that it borders on the irrational.  It can be really irritating, you know," he half-smiled, not wanting to add to Duncan's list of self-perceived faults.  He'd done enough of that over the years.  Probably too much.

He climbed to his feet, moving slowly, feeling old and tired.  Then he reached down and offered his hand to the other man.  Duncan took it and let himself be pulled upward.  The two men stood eye to eye.  Neither knew who reached out first, but arms entwined and enfolded and they stood, each leaning lightly against the other.

"I do love you, Adam," Duncan whispered at last.  "I always have."

"I know," Methos deep voice vibrated between them.  He pushed away, holding Mac by his shoulders.  "It seems we both still have some old wounds to deal with, my friend."

"Aye, that we do."

Methos turned to leave, but was stopped by a question.

"You're going after Abbas, aren't you?"

Methos had his hand on the door latch and didn't turn around.  "Yes."

"Wait, Methos.  Wait until I'm stronger.  Then I can . . ."

"No!" the eldest's voice was harsh.  "This is between Barabbas and me alone, Duncan.  I don't want any interference!"

"I won't interfere, I promise.  I just . . ."

"No, Mac," Methos turned his head, his eyes glittering dark and hard.  "This is for me to do alone."

"But . . ."

The door opened and Methos was gone.

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