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.

Sean MacLeod was furious. At himself for allowing things to deteriorate so far, at his father for being stubborn as a whole herd of donkeys, and most especially with his brother, who seemed to have regained some of his fabled manipulative abilities and used them with malicious intent.

He had stormed past Kirin and the others, waiting in a tense cluster in the kitchen, oblivious to Kir's shout to wait. Fortunately, the elevator was already at the floor, and he pushed the 'close door' button quickly enough that no one could follow him down to the lobby and out the building.

The night was cool and slightly damp. The chill of the winter to come crystallized the air and fogged his breath. He hadn't even brought a coat and was quickly shivering, his hands deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched high up against his neck.

Why can't I have a normal life, Sean fumed. Is that so much to ask? A father, a mother, a wife, some kids, aunts and uncles who work hard at their jobs then come home to sit in front of the vid and complain about shortages and how expensive power was any more. Instead, he had a father who couldn't stand to be less than perfect, but who never saw anything but his own flaws. A bizarre other parent who was really a half-brother, older than time, who was sometimes more of a child and less responsible or reasonable than any infant on the planet. A mother who…well, he tried not to think about what she was. All of them electrified with a power that sent its sparks over the whole wide world, shocking and colliding and careening over and around and through anyone in their proximity. Especially their only son. It wasn't fair.

Now you are the one who is acting like a child, his own inner voice scolded. He knew it, he acknowledged it. For a moment he even reveled in it, allowing himself all the frustration, the righteous indignation, the resentment to which he knew he was entitled. His strides grew long and hard, then he broke into a trot, then a run. His strong legs carried him out of the compound and into the surrounding neighborhoods. His cheeks chilled even more as the damp trails down his face dried in the wind of his speed. He ran hard, until his lungs burned and his legs ached. Until his sight began to close in, and he stumbled, staggered and slowed at last to an unsteady trot, not yet willing to relinquish his anger. It felt too good. But his legs were getting rubbery, and he finally had to stop, gasping, leaning his arms up against an ancient oak in an older neighborhood miles from the compound. Only a smattering of lights in the houses could be seen, leaving the concrete sidewalks gleaming in the moonlight like a confusing maze of roads to Oz.

The thought made the youngest Immortal smile. Oz. The Emerald City. A land of magic and contradiction. That's how most would perceive his life, living among the likes of Duncan and Connor MacLeod, of Methos, and Kirin Storm, of daring rescues and hair-raising adventures. His own words came back to haunt him. It's not about fair, he had said. It just is. Would he really exchange his life for something more 'normal'? He considered the question carefully, but froze as the sudden intrusion of Immortal presence washed over him just as the sound of an approaching vehicle reached his ears. An old van's twin headlights swung around the corner and slowed to a stop beside him.

"You planning to walk the six miles back, or just sleep under that tree?" Connor rasped.

The anger still burned in his veins, and his first instinct was to tell his clansman to go to hell. But Sean MacLeod had always prided himself on being the cooler, more mature head among all the passionate firebrands in his life, and he forced himself to take a deep breath and hold his tongue, suddenly realizing with a shiver that his damp clothes and the chill air were distinctly uncomfortable.

"I think I've slept under enough trees for awhile," Sean acknowledged, briskly rubbing his arms and forcing his rubbery legs to stumble to the other side of the van. Inside was warm, and Connor's gray eyes were sympathetic. The younger MacLeod started to explain his abrupt departure, but Connor accelerated away from the curb with a smile.

"Nay, lad," he interrupted. "I know."

Sean sat back, grateful for the silence. Sometimes Connor, as strange and alien as he was, was the one Immortal who required no explanations.

Outside Duncan's room, Methos did not give into the weakness that would cause him to lean against it. After fighting so hard to bring Duncan back to himself, it could only be viewed as cruel to leave him to find the rest of his way by himself.

But he had managed to find his way just fine in the four hundred years before Methos came into the Highland warrior's life. And since then, Methos could only see how he had undermined Duncan's faith in himself. Bit by bit, careless word by careless word.

Who knew Duncan had been paying attention to him?

He tried to think of what he needed to take, where he would begin, and found Kir watching him.

Kir had kept a close eye on the bedroom door, visible from the kitchen table if you sat facing that direction. She had sent everyone home after Sean had stormed out, figuring neither Methos nor Duncan would want their family squabbles played out in front of everyone. Oella had huffed and slammed things around in the kitchen in protest, but eventually left, and Hawk and Connor slipped silently away, each pausing for a sympathetic squeeze of a shoulder or hand.

Then Methos was in the door, looking at her, his eyes shadowed with weariness that went beyond the physical. Kir rose and retrieved a beer from the refrigerator, handing it to him in silence and waiting until he had taken a long pull at the bottle.

"Well?" she finally whispered, unable to stand the silence any longer.

Methos wiped his lips with the back of his hand, studiously examining the label of his beer bottle. "He'll be okay," he stated flatly. "I've had about all the schturm und drang I care to deal with tonight, Kir. Can we talk about this some other time?" He turned, headed towards the elevator, but her voice stopped him.

"No," she stated unequivocally.

Methos took a deep breath and paused before he turned around, his eyes still not meeting hers. "Look, there's a lot going on, a lot of history he's dealing with and…he hadn't realized we all knew what happened with Sun. He's feeling…I don't know the right word. Embarrassed? Humiliated? Ashamed? He thought you had stayed away from him because of it."

"He thinks I stayed away!" Kir's voice rose. "He has hardly looked at me since he came back. What am I supposed to do? Parade around the apartment naked? Force myself on him like Sun did?" She pushed away from the table, pacing angrily in the small space, her arms folded tightly across her chest. "And you said he was leaving?" she finally asked as his words hit their mark. "Going where? To do what? His family is here! His obligations are here! If he leaves, we can't protect him or make sure he gets strong again. What if the E.D. goes after him again? What if some non-Community Immortal tries to take him? Right now, I don't think he could win against any decent opponent. What was tonight all about if it wasn't to reassure the Council that he was okay, that they could depend on him for help and advice?"

Methos threw up his hands against her tirade. "Kir! Stop! I'm not the one to yell at, here. But you need to calm down before you try to talk to him. Frankly, I think some time away from all the expectations of the Council, and even you and Sean, and especially me, would be good for him. Good for us all. But I agree, it needs to be done with a little more thought than running away out of embarrassment or fear or simply avoidance." He sat wearily and leaned forward onto his elbows, choosing his words carefully. "He has to find his way back, Kir. All the way back, and he has to forgive himself. Whether we think there's anything to forgive is irrelevant, and our reassurances are not going to help very much. If I know Duncan, he's going to have to perform some penance before he can respect himself again." He shrugged eloquently. "Self-flagellation has never been my bag, but he has this…need to prove his worth, over and over and over again." His voice became soft and sad. "And right now he's not feeling very worthy."

He rose, pushing his chair back. "And while I certainly share a large portion of the burden for that, there's little I can do about it at the moment. I don't have any great words of wisdom, Kir. I am hardly the last word on sanity around here. You are a better judge than I of what you can or should do, for him, for yourself, for the Nation." He shook his head, then turned towards the elevator.

"What about for you, Methos?" she called.

But he entered the elevator, turned, and let the doors closed without an answer.

Sean stepped into his apartment, peeling off his sweat-soaked sweater, hiding his face from his brother seated casually in the living room, the Old Man's usual horde of books in small piles around his chair. Sean headed for the kitchen and filled a glass with water, taking his time about drinking it, trying to calm himself before one more confrontation in what seemed like an endless series.

He strolled back into the living room with his second glass of water. Methos was apparently deeply engrossed in a recent text on econometric modeling.

"Well?" he finally had to ask.

The thin, pale man looked up as though he had just become aware of Sean's presence. Sometimes, Sean thought, my brother is such a pain in the ass.

"Well, what?" Methos asked innocently.

Truly, a pain in the ass.

"You talked. I assume that he said things, and you said things. Tell me. What's he going to do?"

Methos cocked his head. "I assume he's going to finish packing."

"Dahm!" Sean had lost all patience. From savior to tyrant, that fast, Sean thought as Methos briefly related to him the results of his latest attempt at reasoning with Duncan.

"What the hell did you say to him?" Sean demanded. "Did you talk him out of leaving? He needs time to heal...to get his strength back, to process what's happened."

"He talked, I listened. The rest of our conversation was relatively mild as our discussions go," Methos replied, with no indication that Sean's words affected him in any way. "And I take it that your professional opinion is that he should continue his recovery here?"

"Of course it should be here!" Sean said, and Methos watched his brother. So much for professional detachment. He wasn't sure if Sean would ever be able to attain that level of distance needed to counsel and work with his father's mind and emotions. Probably not. No surprise, really -- Gods above and below knew Methos wasn't able to do it.

"You can't help him, Sean," he said when they had stared at each other for several long moments. It came out both comforting and as a command from one who had grown comfortable with the proclamation of commands. But Sean was not used to following such orders, and Methos' tone gentled some. "You are too close to him...to all of this. He needs distance, not ..." His gaze dropped. Not even he could be that cruel to this child of their race.

But Sean was more perceptive than Methos had thought -- or perhaps Methos just refused to see the cynicism of his own nature show up so blatantly in Sean's demeanor.

"Not love," Sean said flatly. "Mine...or Kir's...or God forbid, yours. Are you sure it's Da we're talking about and not yourself?"

"Perhaps we are," Methos said and closed the book he had been unsuccessfully trying to read for the past hour. On that count, Sean's appearance in their once shared apartment had been a relief. His mind would not stay focused on the tome for more than five minutes at a time. "Do as you will," he said, rising to get himself the local version of a whiskey.

"That simple? We have him back. He speaks, he thinks, and you can wash your hands of him?" Sean demanded and knew as he said it, it was untrue and unfair. But his frustration and sense of failure had reached levels he never expected. Being confused in the face of all the terrors of their rescue mission was different than this. Here there was no threat, no sense of time running out...only of loss.

But there was the chilling feeling that parts of his life were slipping away, and like the little boy and the dike...Sean was finding he did not have enough fingers to keep the waters of his existence from escaping.

"If you think that's true, it's a wonder you're even bothering to talk to me," Methos snapped back. "Did you come for my help, or just to have someone to blame? Please let me know and I'll formulate my replies appropriately."

Sean watched his brother. He could see the tension creep back into the lean body. What was he doing? Lashing out at one wounded parent for the wounding of another? And Methos was letting him do it. He knew if he went to his father the same would be true there. Each willingly taking blows for the other. It was sick and destructive, and he was feeding into the cycle without even seeing it.

Maybe Da is right, Sean mused. Maybe a little distance is not a bad idea, so long as it's not some self-destructive crusade to right all the wrongs he had convinced himself he had wrought. But the thought of his dad leaving again, of being out of his immediate proximity, made him physically ill. He sat across from his brother, feeling Adam's eyes study him. The similar thought of his other parent going after Abbas, intent on killing a man with no conscience and nothing to lose…

"Sean, are you alright?" Adam's voice seemed to come from far away.

Then long arms folded around him, and he found his head drawn into his brother's chest. "Shhh," Adam's low voice was soothing, but it was a moment before Sean realized sobs were desperately trying to escape his throat. No sound would come out, just tears pouring down his face while his body shuddered again and again, shaking his whole frame, held tight in his brother's arms. "It must feel like everything is falling apart, everyone you love drifting away, and all you want to do is help," Adam spoke softly in his ear. "To make things like they used to be. But nothing is like it used to be, Sean. It never is. Things happen, people change. Even Immortals. Your Da has to forgive himself before any real healing can take place. And that will take time."

"But…he'll be weak…defenseless. And you…you're going to leave, too. And what if Abbas…? Dahm, I can't just stand by and watch!" The words were punctuated by gasps as Sean's body was utterly overwhelmed with tension.

"It seems to me," Methos continued gently, as the knots in his brother's body began to unwind under the soothing strokes of long, strong fingers, "that you have a few issues of your own to work through. You've killed. That's never easy. You've felt the Gathering madness. You've touched an old and twisted soul and felt it occupy your every pore." He turned the youngest of their Race, holding the face so much like his own so their eyes met. "Physician," he whispered, "heal thyself. That's the best way to help Mac and me."

"I feel so…helpless. I can't help anyone I care about," Sean said, yanking his head away and rising to put some distance between himself and words he didn't want to hear. "And helping is the only thing that will make it better for me, don't you understand? I know it sounds utterly self-centered, but it’s the ugly truth!"

"It's not ugly, Sean. Giving and helping is in your nature," Methos replied calmly. "But it sure as hell isn't easy, either. But you MacLeods have never done 'easy' very well." Methos smiled affectionately at his little brother, his son. "Let him go. Let me go. I assure you, neither of us has any intention of dying, or not coming back, especially if you're here waiting for us."

"So!" Sean tossed his head, stood and found a nearby window to stare out of, arms crossed, shoulders bunched. "I'm supposed to keep the home fires burning, study my navel, and wait for my two irresponsible, irrational, wayward parents to figure out what they want to be when they grow up?"

Methos sat back, crossing his legs at the ankle and smiled. "Yup. That's pretty much it."

The two men waited in silence, each lost in his own thoughts and speculations.

"Sometimes," Sean whispered at last, "sometimes I hate both of you."

"Join the club, Sean MacLeod."

Kir stood outside Duncan's room for several minutes, her palm flat against the door, debating what to do. She heard small noises inside, could feel the unmistakable thrum of his Quickening, of the Community Quickening that resided in him. Then the light went out below the door. She closed her eyes, reaching out, trying to find a way to reach him, trying to reconcile her own heart to the fact that she might never reach him again. She swayed in exhaustion and finally turned, resigning herself to another solitary night in a lonely bed.

After Methos vanished, Duncan sat numb and still on the bed for awhile, staring at the closed door, then pushed the suitcase he had packed into a corner. He felt…empty. Like all the potential for emotion had just leeched away, leaving nothing behind. He automatically turned out the light, lay down on the bed, and stared into the darkness. He had been asking himself daily, hourly, by the minute every minute since they had dragged him back from that dark, silent place…why? He had made so many terrible mistakes, hurt so many he cared about. Why had they gone to such lengths to bring him back? And what could he possibly have done to deserve that kind of sacrifice? But now it didn't seem to matter anymore.

They just had. And he could either go on…or just stop. And acknowledging that sacrifice, how could he even think of stopping, no matter the siren call of that dark, safe place? The fact that they knew what had transpired with Sun…he shuddered involuntarily as though the room were suddenly cold…yet they had treated him with kindness and care, not pity. No, that was unworthy of them. It was something he might do, but not them.

At last his eyes began to drift close, but in the room's silence, and the emptiness of his own mind and heart, he thought he heard a soft, steady rhythm and listened more closely. It sounded like a heartbeat. He sat up on his elbows at the curious sound and saw a shadow just outside his door. Kir. As he watched, the shadow moved away, and the heartbeat faded.

It was a warm day, filled with soft sunshine. The People were preparing for a feast day, and the women were decked out in their finest deerskin and beads. She could see the smoke from the sweat lodge where the men stayed while the women cooked the meat the hunters had brought back to the village. Kir wondered why there were no children. Usually there were children constantly underfoot, fighting, laughing, playing, but there was a pervasive, ominous silence in the air. No birds. No wind. She looked down at her ceremonial dress and found a bead had come loose. When she touched it, it fell away, and suddenly, all the intricate decorations that adorned her gown began to unravel. She tried to catch the multi-colored bits of stone and bones, but they slipped through her fingers like water and disappeared. She clutched frantically, but the beads bounced and fell and….

Kir started awake, her throat catching in a sob of desperation, her hands grabbing at the covers. Then she stilled as warm arms folded around her.

"Shhh," a familiar voice whispered in her ear. "It's okay, my love. It's just a dream."

Just a dream. For a moment she was suspended between sleeping and waking, and believed Duncan was holding her once more, a warm and comforting presence.

Then a hand stroked her forehead, and she stiffened in surprise.

"It's all right, Kir. I'm here," he said.

Kir forced herself to relax, to feel the familiar length of his body behind her. "Are you?" she asked. "Are you really?" She turned in his arms. Yes, he was there. His dark brown eyes caught the moonlight from the window. Her throat tightened, and she had to swallow before she could speak again, but she forced herself not to cling, not to grab on as though her very life depended on it.

"I want to be," he answered. It wasn't exactly what she was hoping to hear.

"Oh, Duncan," she sighed, burrowing her head into his shoulder. "I've missed you so. Methos said…" she hesitated when she felt the tiniest hesitation in his breathing. She pulled away a little, looking into his haunted, sad eyes. "Methos said you thought I had stayed away because of what Sun did. That's not true. And you should have known that."

He nodded his head slightly. "Yes. I should have known. I've been so caught up in my own little miseries that I have neglected you and everyone else. I can't go back and fix it, Kir. There's so much I can't fix," he sighed. "All I can do is tell you I love you. You are the hearth of my heart." His arms tightened around her.

His lips moved over her forehead, and Kir snuggled close, wrapping her arms around him, pressing her body close. She closed her eyes, letting herself get accustomed to the near-alien feel of his body, now more angles and bone than the hard, substantial muscle she was used to. But he smelled the same, his lips felt the same brushing across her eyelids. His thumb tenderly traced across her temple in a meltingly familiar gesture.

She let her hands stray across his back and down, pushing under his sweatpants until she could feel his buttocks. She pressed against him and felt his cock stir tentatively. He moved over her, letting her strip the clothing down to his knees before he kicked them away. They had been like this so many times, a familiar ritual ingrained in their bodies, their hearts. He kissed her deeply, letting his tongue explore her mouth. She sucked gently, knowing well what aroused him. Then he withdrew a little and took a long, shaky breath, tenderly brushing her loose hair away from her face.

"Oh, Kir, don't ever think I don't love you," he whispered, letting his head rest on the pillow beside her, his rough cheek against her smooth one.

She stroked his head gently, just holding him close, realizing what he was trying to say. His body just wasn't responding. Perhaps it was exhaustion, perhaps it was residual emotional shock, perhaps he just wasn’t ready after all that had happened.

"Shh. It's okay, Duncan. Just hold me. That's all I want," she whispered. "Just hold me."

They lay, side by side in the dark, spooned together. Kir finally felt Duncan fall asleep, his breath soft against the back of her neck. Kir turned her face into the pillow so that her tears had someplace to fall.

Two days of all of them walking around like cats on hot pavement. Methos watched it stoically, knowing from the reactions of their little dysfunctional family that his decision had been the right one. If not for them, at least for himself. Sean had tried to dissuade him yet again -- and Kir, with her gently spoken reminders of his responsibilities. It was a wonder he hadn't decked her.

But the one voice of protest he might have heeded remained silent until only hours before he had secretly made arrangements for a ground vehicle to pick him up outside the Compound and at least take him to the edges of the protected areas. The idea of walking the six hundred or so miles to Louisiana held little appeal. It would take him weeks to get in shape for the journey he was undertaking, but the territories beyond Hattiesburg, while under Eastern Dawn jurisdiction, were peaceful and largely unchanged. If he could make it to the Mississippi, he could work his way upriver, then toward the northeast.

It was as good a plan as any. Bar Abbas was his ultimate goal, but not his first. His first was to once more ground himself in this time and these people. As an observer...as a watcher. Five thousand years was too close, and he need to put it back in its place.

But he couldn't be surprised that there would be one more plea for him to stay. No, not a plea, a request. The idea of his Highlander begging for anything, ever again, made his stomach clench and his head ache.

"Pity we can't sneak up on each other. Nothing should ever be that predictable," Methos commented as he saw //heard...smelled...tasted...felt...*knew*// Mac enter the apartment.

"Predictable as an old married couple," MacLeod said, watching Methos, not warily, but cautiously. A bird in flight, a nervous animal...no, not nervous. Methos was not nervous. He was almost, but not quite, remote. Duncan felt emotion welling up unchecked inside him, but Methos was cooler, calmer, a distance that only made his own words more urgent. "I came to ask you..."

Methos turned on him before the words could be spoken, startling them both. "Don't ask me to stay," he said flatly, for the first time looking at Duncan directly. Really looking at him. It It was so very, very difficult. Still too thin, too unsure, too careful. And so very, very beautiful. Even now. And it had absolutely nothing to do with Duncan's physical appearance. Slowly, Methos turned back to his pack.

"There isn't anything you can say," Methos said, tightening the straps. "Or do, except listen to me." He turned to face Duncan once more, eyes locking with his friend's.

Duncan hesitated. He wanted to argue, plead, beg, but he wasn't sure what for.

He sat, gingerly, carefully, on the edge of the dresser, unable to pull his eyes from the intense green-gold gaze holding his own.

"I am not leaving you. Nor am I running from you, or because of you. I am...putting some distance between us, some time and space, for myself as well. And I am finishing something I should have done a long time ago -- but that is a purely selfish motive. This is not to punish you or myself." He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall. "For over two hundred years you have been my best friend..." he added quietly, and the tense lines of his face eased some, the hard gaze of his eyes softening. "You have been closer to me than any man or woman in my entire long life and gave me the rare pleasure of helping to raise your son. I have and still do love you more than anyone I have ever met. But I am selfish in my love where you are generous. I wanted you all for myself, thinking I would never get my fair share. I was wrong. You have given me more than my share, I just never saw it for what it was." He moved, coming close to Mac, and one long-fingered hand came up to brush across Mac's cheek before resting on his shoulder. "All the theories and poetry and sonnets and books ever written about love can never describe the kind you offer. It is near perfect. Except in one aspect. You have never learned to love yourself as others do. Neither have I, and it is something we both need to learn."

Mac started to speak, only to find Methos' fingers pressed to his lips. "As your son would tell us both. Time we have, and a chance...a second chance...possibly even a third. But I need time, and so do you. I won't be argued out of this, Mac. And I would rather us not part in anger again. Close your eyes." There was just enough persuasion in the voice for Mac's lids to flutter, and before he could think to resist, the fingers on his lips were replaced by the warm, moist pressure of Methos' mouth.

Methos' lips rested there for a moment before Mac opened his mouth, inviting, eyes still closed. No other part of them touched until the tip of a tongue brushed over Mac's lip, and he encouraged it, wanting to reach up and angle Methos' head, or touch him, but afraid that any movement would upset the delicate balance. Instead he welcomed the touch and taste, meeting it, returning it until he was trembling, and then slowly, Methos pulled away. But he was still close; Mac could feel his breath brush warmly on his face. "You have always been worthy of my love...and you will always have it, Highlander. And I am, finally, certain that I have yours as well. We will meet again. Never doubt it."

"Let me come with you as far as Hattiesburg," Mac said, hating the need in his own voice.

"You will and beyond. Just not in body. Not this time," Methos said and picked up his pack.

Mac watched from Methos' bedroom window as the older man walked out of the compound, unnoticed by the guards, burdened only with a duffel bag and his pack slung over his back. He felt so helpless. Weak and useless and helpless. It seemed… intolerable. In all his long, long life he had never been helpless for more than a few minutes, a few hours at most. But this was more than just physical weakness -- it was a lack of purpose. He felt misplaced, as though the loss of the face and frame he had viewed in the mirror for 600 years was like a set of misplaced keys or a familiar favorite sweater that had been left elsewhere.

He needed to find himself again. As Methos passed through the compound gates, Mac turned, not wanting to see the man truly leave. There were already too many open wounds in his psyche.

He knew he couldn't stay any longer, not without Methos there. He took a deep breath and let it out, suddenly feeling more centered than he had since they had brought him back, now that the decision was made, and he headed back upstairs to finish the packing he had started days before.

The smaller pack was on his back, the duffel over his shoulder. Not much to start a journey with no discernible end, but he would have to find the rest of what he needed on the way. He had managed to slip out without being stopped yet again. Left the short, wholly unsatisfying letters on the kitchen counter.

A few miles down the road, an old truck pulled up in response to the ancient, universal thumb request, and Methos threw his larger bag in the back then came to the door and stopped. The thrum of presence was vaguely familiar, and he approached, expecting Connor or Kir.

"Wasting daylight, Dahm," Sean said evenly.

"Oh, no..." Methos protested backing away.

"You wanted it a secret. Better someone who knows. You are going to be gone for God knows how long -- I think you owe me six hours." Sean said flatly, but there was no anger, just determination. Stubborn, bloody-minded Scot determination.

"Your father...."

"Isn't well enough to drive, or it would be him instead of me. Don't whine, Adam. It really doesn't suit you." Sean said, staring straight ahead, the engine still idling.

After another three seconds of fuming, Methos gave in and climbed into the cab. "Head west," he said, and Sean did.

It was a quieter drive than Methos expected. Sean seemed not to have anything to say, and Methos was almost afraid to start a conversation, not knowing where it would lead. But after a couple of hours, it became less uncomfortable, almost lulling. Until Sean pulled off to a roadside rest stop, much neglected. Another vehicle waited there, a driver wearing tribal covers.

"What's this?" Methos demanded.

"Relax, brother. Hawk wanted you to have transportation. So did Da. Keeping it fueled is up to you. He's my ride back. Walk with me?"

Slowly, Methos got out of the truck and followed Sean to the wooded area surrounding the rest stop. Away from the driver's eyes, Sean finally stopped, his back to Methos. A moment later, Methos could see the younger man's chest heave.

"Don't, Sean," Methos murmured, coming forward to pull his brother into his arms. "You know it has to be this way."

"I don't know that at all," Sean said into his neck, gripping the slim body fiercely. "There's time to undo this...you know he'll forgive you. If you forgive yourself -- that's what you said about him, isn't it?"

"I don't need his forgiveness, or want it, Sean," Methos said pulling back. "But yes, I know he would and has. Every damn time, until he can't any longer."

"He loves you..."

"And I love him," Methos said steadily. "Too much. We will destroy each other, Sean. We nearly have already. I don't care what the epic poets say -- two people cannot share a soul and both survive."

"So you gave up yours for Da?"

"I gave up mine a long time ago," Methos said softly. "Your father bought it back for me." He said gripping his brother's arms, their eyes locking for a long moment. "I want Bar Abbas. And I don't want him just dead -- not after what he did to Duncan. I want him to pay for it...and your father can forgive that, but he shouldn't have to."

"This isn't about revenge!" Sean snapped, jerking away. "And if you lose? He'll think you died for him!"

"I did," Methos said quietly. "And I will do it a hundred times over -- or just once. So would he. And it will happen, Sean. Again and again and again until it becomes the truth. Is that what you want? Duncan MacLeod can find a million things worth dying for. I needed to give him something to live for."

"To wait for his best friend to return -- for the person he loves most in the world?"

"Yes."

Sean glared at him. "You are a selfish son of a bitch. And a coward," he snarled.

"Yes."

"And you want me to be party to this. I should tell him...tell them all," Sean murmured. "You are manipulating all of us. Again."

Methos observed him, his face impassive.

"And you know I won't," Sean whispered.

"Yes."

Sean looked away, all too aware that his brother was still watching him, waiting for him to work through his grief and his anger. "Will you ever tell him?"

"Maybe. I don't know. Call it a compromise, Sean. Unknown, but there. I'm not eager for my own death -- and Duncan won't seek his own while I live. He thinks he owes me too much." It was a calculated risk, but knowing Duncan as he did, Methos had no doubt it would hold the self-sacrificing Scot for a century or two. That oh-so-annoying Scottish guilt could also be a useful tool in the hands of an expert.

"You'll be alone."

The small crooked smile appeared on the pale face. "No, I won't. I can't ever be alone, Sean. Not if your father lost his head tomorrow. Or you..."

Sean stared at him, and Methos smiled more broadly, until Sean felt it...like an echo, or a distant wash of waves on the shore...so subtle and silent. His father's presence and his own, wrapped around his brother's in a perfect blend of the two, and overlaid on that was the thrum and hum of the Community that bound them all.

"How did you do that?" Sean whispered. "You changed it!"

"No. You changed it, little brother," Methos said. "What I gave up, you gave back. Without even trying. You'll know -- Sean...you can find me if you need to...really need to. You just have to follow yourself. So can Duncan. When he is ready, he'll know."

"Adam..."

Methos closed the distance between them. "I am very stubborn, Sean. Maybe in a century or two, Mac and I can meet again without tearing each other apart. Maybe it will happen in a year. We both have some growing to do." He held his brother for a long moment, then caught the beloved face in his hands and kissed Sean's forehead as he had when Sean was a child. "Live. Grow stronger, brother. We'll meet another day," he said against the dark hair, then stepped away, turning back to the parking lot. He did not look back as he got into the truck and pulled away.

He found his father, as he usually did, on the roof, staring outward. Duncan had gained back some weight, but Sean had come to expect a haunted, lost look around his eyes, the permanent set of his mouth no longer a smile.

"Enjoy your drive?" he asked Sean as his son came to stand beside him.

Sean nodded. "I think…I think he'll be okay, Da."

Mac nodded and slipped his arm around his son's waist, then gently kissed his son's temple, the gesture so reminiscent of Methos' last touch Sean had to fight back a sob. Without a word, Mac turned to him, wrapping his thin arms around his son's much more solid and muscular frame. "I know," Mac whispered. "I know. God...You even smell like him," he said with a mixed chuckle and sob of his own. Sean bit back the words and hugged his father tighter, letting Mac comfort him.

"Don't ever wait too long to tell someone that you care, Sean," Mac whispered. "Don't ever think you have enough time."

"I won't," Sean murmured lifting his head. "I love you, Da."

Mac nodded, fighting tears. "And I love you, son. Never doubt it."

The words were stated so firmly, so finally, that Sean made himself pause, take a deep breath, and look closely at his father. He had been expecting grief, anger, depression, but saw something quite different. A sense of determined purpose. That familiar stubborn set to his jaw was back. The look that said he was going to do something of which he knew others would not approve, regardless of any arguments against it. Sean wasn't certain whether this was a good or a bad thing under the circumstances.

"You're leaving, too?" Sean thought his heart would stop when the hard jaw dipped in a jerky nod. He should have known it, expected it, but it still felt like a blow straight to his chest. "Have you told Kir?" It was a mundane question, but it kept him from spouting all the useless protests and arguments he knew would only result in harsh words and bad feelings. He'd had enough of those to last even his lifetime.

Mac nodded, turning once again to watch the skyline, not wanting to see the pain on his son's face. He had caused so much pain, especially to this child of his heart and body. It was the hardest part of what he had to do. "Kir has a real purpose here. She is a true leader of her people and is needed, especially now. In a way, my…illness has helped us both realize how important she is, in so many ways." He paused and turned. "All of us have to move on, son. Take whatever lessons we can and use them. You've changed. I can see it in your eyes, in your body, in the way you deal with others. You don't wait anymore for anyone else to point the way. You choose your own path. If there is anything good that has come from all this, it is in you, Sean MacLeod."

Sean had to smile at that, knowing the inner turmoil with which he confronted the smallest decisions these days. "No, Da," he sighed, leaning his elbows on the railing, watching the sun setting gloriously in a yellow, peach, and vermilion sky. The best thing to come out of this is that you are alive, Dahm is alive, and we are still a family. A little battered around the edges, but family, nonetheless." He casually draped his arm across his father's shoulders. "And time and distance is not a barrier. Not for us."

The two men stayed, watching until the sun was gone from the sky, and hours to the north and west, another man stared at the fading light and knew that dawn was not far behind.

The wedding was just what they all needed. Connor and Donatha had finally stopped squabbling long enough to realize they loved each other. Hawk and Kir officiated, and everyone turned out for the celebration, complete with music and dancing and tables laden with food from every family in the Compound.

It was a warm Indian summer day, appropriately enough, and children darted everywhere, playing the secret games that children have played since the beginning of time, kicking a ball around and through the crowd and being generally underfoot. The French orphans Duncan and Connor had brought back had picked up English in no time and shared their own vocabulary besides. Somehow, they all blended together in a Community.

Kir watched in amusement as Connor attempted to dance with Donatha. As graceful a warrior as the man was, putting those long limbs around a woman and expecting him to swing her around the floor in time to music appeared to be an overwhelming task, even after centuries of trying. Maybe it was because he loved her so much, he just didn't have time to think about where to put his feet. After the third time he trod on her toes and she scolded him playfully, she saw Connor whisper in her ear, and the two lovers slipped into a shadowed corner, away from curious eyes.

The ordeal of the last many months had made them all realize that time was still precious, after all, even if it appeared you had all the time in the world.

"You okay?" Sean asked at her elbow.

Kir looked up at him, squinting against the bright autumn sun. The MacLeod heir was looking a little less grim these days. "I'm fine," she answered.

"Really?" he persisted, as he always did.

Kir thought about it a minute, then nodded carefully. "It's hard, especially at night. Knowing he's out there, trying to right wrongs no one holds him responsible for but himself. But if he can bring Revas' children back, then some real good will have come out of all of this."

She slipped her arm around his waist, enjoying the familiarity of it. He felt a little like Duncan, a little like Adam, and completely like Sean. Family. "Have you heard from Adam?"

She felt him sigh and nod. "He sends me an e-mail every few weeks. Nothing informative, just cryptic observations on life and his travels. And he never mentions Abbas, so I have no idea where that stands. But he sounds…okay. More himself." Sean looked gratified when Kir nodded, understanding his meaning. "And," he added unexpectedly, a breathless hopefulness to his voice, "he said he had heard from Da."

Kir's heart skipped a beat. Duncan's silence since he had left had been an invisible weight. That he had reached out to Methos…the sun suddenly seemed a little brighter.

Then somehow the children had all gotten tangled up in a soccer ball melee, and both of them moved forward to sort it out, Kir making peace among the combatants while Sean soothed the scraped knees and damaged dignities among their small charges.

It didn't take long and minor hurts were forgotten for the most part as the game resumed, Kir and Sean watching them, shouting encouragement to both teams as the moment required. So focused on the game, they were both startled when an arm was laid across each of their shoulders.

"I say we take them all on," Connor said leaning between them, eyes dancing as he watched the game.

Sean chuckled. "You'll mess up your suit."

"It might matter if I were planning on wearing it again," Connor shot back. "The loss of haute couture can only be seen as an improvement to the human condition. Although your father would have had us all wearing kilts and playing bagpipes."

"He would have insisted," Sean agreed with a laugh. "He's sorry to have missed it, though," he said more softly, rather bemused that his father's absence did not cause him more than a twinge. Perhaps because his father did seem more content with a purpose to follow.

"Then we'll just give him hell next time we see him," Connor said, unperturbed by his kinsman's absence. He gave Kir a little hug and kissed her temple. "Your brother is dancing with my wife. Would you care to show them up?" he asked.

"Or at least give them some competition," Kir said with a sudden laugh and took his arm, letting him lead her back to the dance circle.

Sean watched them for a long time, waiting until Connor and Donatha made their good-byes before he headed for his own apartment. The newlyweds weren't going anywhere in particular, but Sean had little hope of seeing his kinsman for a couple of days at least.

Sean had no real desire to escape the clean up after the reception, but the Mothers would have it all picked up and swept clean in record time. Seeing Connor married didn't leave him feeling down, but he was contemplative.

Kir had surrendered the penthouse to a larger family, although she still kept her garden when she had time. Sean's own responsibilities had increased as well, what with taking a position with the R& R team as the medical officer. All done after his father and brother had left. He was getting on with his life. They all were.

He had to chuckle a little as it occurred to him that Methos would look at him smugly and say, "I told you so."

"So you did, Dahm," he said softly to himself. "Just don't wait too long to reclaim your own...or what belongs to you." He sent the words off with a wish and prayer, trusting that someday, two other hearts would heed their own advice.

Duncan hit the 'send' button with a smile. Something to look forward to.

Adam Pierson opened his e-mail. One from Sean about the recent, but completely predictable squabbles among the leadership of the Nation. Various responses to coded security inquiries, and he saved the important one for last. He read it and shook his head with a small smile. The man was relentless. And would now assume that Methos was honor-bound to keep his self-proclaimed "date." Well, he thought for a moment, it's a possibility -- just like the sun rising was a possibility.

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