It was a couple of hours before dawn when they reached the coordinates. They had come in silently, landing away from the main house, not sure of their reception. Kir was glad for the steady downpour that covered the sights and sounds of their arrival.

It took the team a good half hour to maneuver the Trans under the camouflage cover, by which time they were all soaked to the skin, every one of them exhausted to the point of near-incoherence, strained until even the briefest of conversations became bitter arguments. Methos retreated unsteadily to a relatively dry spot underneath a tree and watched, and Mac said hardly a word, his face a grim, haggard mask.

Barring immediate proof that they were on safe territory, the team planned to move into the interior of Constantine's ancient stone estate building cautiously, two at a time, spreading out, weapons drawn. Mac and Kir stepped in first, doing a quick sweep of the large entranceway, with double stairways leading up each side and long hallways to the right and left. The foyer was almost devoid of furniture, with only a few medieval tapestries, dusty with age, relieving the stark stone interior. Mac wasn't five feet in the door when he froze.

"What is it?" Kir asked anxiously, waving the team behind her to stay put.

"Stay here," he whispered, his eyes warming with expression for the first time in days. He moved silently down the long hall toward a large carved oak door. He took a deep breath and kicked it open, slamming it back with a crash that reverberated through the old stone halls, echoing away into the distance as the Highlander stood motionless, staring.

Mac had to consciously remember to breathe. Sean was standing, waiting, watching the door, a glass of brandy in his hand, a fire crackling gently in the large hearth behind him. Connor MacLeod leaned against the mantle, a bemused smile painted on his face, and Marcus Constantine lounged elegantly on the large Victorian couch in front of the fireplace.

Mac moved slowly into the room, his lips pressed together in an effort to manage the emotions that threatened to break through his control. Sean moved forward to embrace him but Mac slipped past him to Connor. His fist shot out and connected with his kinsman's jaw in a blow that snapped his old teacher's head back, sending him to the floor like a fallen tree.

"Da!" Sean shouted, grabbing his father, pulling him away from inflicting further damage. "What the hell are you doing?"

"You son-of-a-bitch, Connor MacLeod," Mac rasped, his body vibrating with anger as Connor slowly raised himself to a sitting position, a dazed look on his face. "Why the hell did you let him do that?"

"Stop it!" Sean yelled, shaking the bigger man by the shoulders, stepping between them. "He didn't let me do anything, damn it! You've been the one whose been doing something, Da! You've been interfering in my life. Preventing me from taking responsibility for who I am, what I am. It had to stop sometime," he whispered gently, looking into his father's dark eyes, shining with unshed tears.

He watched the throat convulse in a swallow, then those big arms grabbed him, folded around him, squeezing, almost taking his breath away. "I'm so sorry," Duncan whispered in his ear. "I just wanted to spare you that horror. I thought . . . I hoped . . ." but he couldn't finish. He pushed back, holding his son's face briefly in one hand, brushing at his eyes with the other. "It's, uh," he took a deep breath before he could go on, "It's been . . . I've been hard on you, I know, son. But . . . I always meant well. All I wanted . . .," then he gave a bitter laugh, pulled away and shook his head. "I don't know what I wanted anymore," he said softly, and walked away, disappearing out the door past Kir who stood watching. She looked utterly spent, her long hair and clothes dripping water steadily on the wood floor, her fingers wrapped tightly around the automatic weapon in her hands.

"Well," Connor commented wryly, climbing to his feet and massaging his jaw. "Duncan always did manage to make an impression."

Constantine rose as Kir moved into the room. She nodded to him. "Marcus," she acknowledged coolly.

Sean was momentarily stunned and utterly confounded by his father's reaction, but when he finally took in the fact that Kir was also there he came to her in a few strides, an urgent question on his face. Kir cocked her head towards the door. "Methos is outside with the others. They're all exhausted, cold and wet." She stopped his hurried step with her hand on his chest. "Is it safe?" she asked quietly.

"For the moment this is the only refuge we have, Commander," Sean replied, turning and almost running towards the door.

In minutes, Constantine had organized blankets and hot drinks for the team as they entered. Sean ran out into the rain, looking frantically, quickly finding Revas leading Methos slowly across the broad expanse of lawn into the old manor house.. The pilot surrendered the arm of the elder Immortal as Sean threw a blanket around his brother's shoulders, but Methos barely seemed to acknowledge his presence.

He got Methos into a chair near the fire, pressing a cup of hot tea into the thin hands and glanced around for his father. Duncan had not reappeared although Sean could feel his strong presence in the general vicinity. "Adam?" he said softly, falling back on the name he had called his brother for the first twenty years of his life. Methos, the Oldest Immortal, had meant nothing to the young Sean. It was Adam who had cared for him, walked him to school, made his lunches, cut the crusts off his sandwiches, and read to him for hours with the richly timbered voice. Parent and brother, companion, teacher. --too many roles for Sean to count.

"Adam?" he asked again a little desperately and finally was able to get Methos to look at him.

Sean was chilled by the vacant look in his brother's eyes, as if by shutting down everything was the only way he could keep going, but there was a flicker of recognition washed by pain as Sean recalled exactly how much of the Quickening this frail creature had borne. Not the protective, coaxing force of his childhood, but this revenant.

Given his father's reaction Sean could only guess at what damage his taking of a head had done to his brother.

"I didn't know you would feel..." he began to apologize only to have the thin fingers press against his lips.

"I know," Methos said hoarsely. "You cut clean. You fought well. You did what you had to, Sean. You are alive."

The approval hurt almost as much as Duncan's doubts but the bony fingers closed over his shoulders reassuringly as they had when he was a child and Sean ventured a tentative hug. It was returned with little strength, Methos' cheek against his shoulder.

"I am tired," Methos murmured, voice holding no inflection and Sean nodded, rising and helping to draw the thin body upward. But Methos had been understating the case and was slipping before Sean realized there was no more consciousness in the wasted body than there was strength. Constantine saw the fall and catch, swearing as Sean lifted the wasted frame, gesturing for Sean to follow him.

"That is not good," Connor remarked, casting a questioning glance at Kir. But the Ghost's face was, at present, as closed, as hard, as grim and as exhausted as he had ever seen it. Now was not the time for explanations.

Mac headed blindly out past the team now straggling in from the rain, seeing only Connor's smug face and Sean's anxious one. The sudden, dramatic knowledge that his son was safe, out of harm's way had knocked out the careful barriers he had put in place against all the doubts, the fears that had battered at his mind since the moment he had picked up Methos' emaciated body. No, that was not really true. Those doubts had been there for much longer than that, he admitted to himself.

He shivered with cold, soaked to the skin, rainwater dripping off his long hair and running down his back. There was a building looming up along the path his feet had found and he headed for it, stepping inside the large wooden door, into smells and sounds that immediately transported him back two hundred years. It was the stable. He found a lantern, and when its light revealed a long row of stalls, hay scattered on the dirt floor, and he breathed in the familiar scent of horse, of sweat, of dirt and hay, he felt like he had found a refuge.

He wandered slowly down, looking into the stalls. They were empty, looking dusty and long-unused, but the sense of their purpose lingered in the air. For a moment he thought his imagination was tricking him when he heard a snuff of an out-blown breath and felt the small vibration of movement. But it came again. And at the end of the long row was a wonderful payoff. A beautiful bay stallion, at least eighteen hands high, his magnificent, velvet nose jerked up at the sight of a stranger, neck arching, eyes wide.

Mac approached the half-door slowly, murmuring reassuring phrases. The beautiful animal curiously stretched his neck out to sniff the man's knuckles. Mac stood for a long time, letting the nervous horse get used to his presence, finally gently stroking the velvet nose. He had always been good with horses and it had been a long time since he's seen one as fine as this animal.

The stall needed mucking out and Mac felt the need to occupy himself, so he found the tack room, gently put a loose halter on the stallion and led him out the next stall. The bay was skittish, but recognized that the large, firm hands that touched him did so with reassuring authority and gentleness.

He cleaned the stall, spread fresh hay he found stacked in bundles at the other end of the barn, and brought the big bay back in.

"Easy, boy," he murmured when the stallion skittered and almost reared. He stroked the smooth muscles, his hand coming away with loose hair. Here was another chore he could do, a familiar, mindless comfort. The currycomb was in the tack room, and he worked the beautiful coat with steady, smooth strokes until it gleamed in the soft light. The effort warmed his cold, stiff body and soothed his mind. The broad back was warm and comforting and he leaned into it, relaxing for the first time in recent memory.

His mind wandered. The questions he had been afraid to ask himself bubbled up, unbidden. Had he chosen to ignore the possibility, even the probability, that it was the link he had created that kept Methos in a living hell? Why hadn't he seen it? Why hadn't he done anything about it? Was Methos right? Had he been so desperate to keep that tenuous connection that he was willing to put his best friend through that agony? He leaned his head on his arms, letting the stallion take some of his weight.

And why had he never, ever been willing to let Methos get close, really close? It wasn't as if he had no feelings for him, didn't admire him, find him physically appealing. The man was magnificent, loose limbed, totally in control. A mind and a physique that embodied so many qualities he envied. Hidden strength, emotional and physical. Balance. Grace. He had thought of it many times, even dreamed about it, but each time he found a way to avoid the issue, to change the subject, even in his own mind.

And he knew Methos wanted it, knew it almost from the beginning. Why was it so hard for him to acknowledge the attraction as well as the friendship, the brotherhood?

. . . It felt like heat was being generated from inside out. Colors swirled behind his eyes and the room began to bend and dip, but initially it was not an entirely unpleasant sensation. He felt Marta sit beside him on the bed and opened his eyes. She was surrounded by a warm, suffused light and her naked body seemed to glow with energy in the flickering candlelight. The warmth within him grew and he realized he wanted her. She ran her hands along his chest and down to the origin of the heat that was beginning to burn almost painfully. Her touch felt like acid, and the heat within built until he was gasping with it, straining again against the manacles. Marta laughed, but he couldn't understand why. He needed her! He had to have her, and all she could do was laugh! The knife appeared in her hand and she slowly, carefully straddled him, mounted him like an animal. Used him until she climaxed again and again, but the drug wouldn't give him release, even when she used the knife again, slicing his face open until the blood made him choke. The face loomed close, blurred as she finally drove its point home so close to where they were joined that she almost cut herself, re-focused, no longer the soft dusky skin of a Mexican aristocrat, but all hard, angry alabaster planes and hazel eyes filled with hate and betrayal . . .He died again, slowly, oh so very slowly. . .

. . . ."You don't want to live with this? You want to be punished for not being perfect?" Methos' rage at the blind stubbornness of the Highlander distorted his aristocratic features as he paced furiously back and forth. "What about the rest of us, Duncan? Do we all deserve to die, or just you? I can't believe you! After all you've been through, you have passed judgment on yourself and want someone else to do the dirty deed." Methos snatched the knife from MacLeod's hand. "Okay, Highlander, you want to die?" Methos lunged towards him, but the hand that plunged the blade deep into MacLeod's chest was that of the girl, tall, lean and beautiful, face full of sadness and regret as she pushed the familiar blade upward through hard cartilage and muscle. . . .

Sean stood at the entrance to the stall, astonished to see his father, his head on his arms against a huge horse that seemed to tolerate him as though he had known him all his life, murmuring, twitching, obviously sound asleep. He hadn't felt him come, hadn't responded to his Immortal presence. Dead asleep on his feet.

"Da?" he whispered.

His father's breathing was coming in rapid gasps, the incoherent murmurs sounding more like groans. Sean touched the broad shoulder, clothing still damp from the rain. "Dad!" he said more loudly.

The head snapped up, the eyes turned to him, unfocused, confused. "Methos, don't!" he gasped, throwing his arms up in a self-protective gesture. Sean caught him as knees gave way, almost sending them both underneath the sharp, heavy hooves of the startled horse.

Sean half dragged him out of the stall and to a pile of hay bales it looked like his dad had brought into the next stall.

"It's Sean," he said several times. His father seemed utterly disoriented, kept looking at him oddly, rubbing his chest as though nursing a recent injury. Gradually his breathing slowed and Duncan drew his knees up, resting his elbows on them and rubbing his eyes heavily with the palms of his hands.

"I've been looking for you for over an hour. Everybody else hit the sack five minutes after they got in the door." Sean waited for some kind of explanation, but none seemed to be forthcoming. The Highlander's dark eyes were focused inward.

"What the hell's going on, Dad? Something's obviously happened between you and Adam that seems to have sent you both over the edge. Methos is out of it and you're . . . well I don't know what you are except nearly incoherent."

"I'm okay," Mac finally said softly. "Just a little tired."

Sean went from a squatting position to sitting on the dirt floor, holding his knees with his clasped hands. "Well, there's an understatement." He sat in silence for a minute to let his father regain some composure.

He was an expert at reading voice tone and body language, even of Immortals. His dad needed to gather the frayed edges of his emotions together. The man always tended to run to extremes. Extreme passion. Extreme anger. Extreme distance. Extreme joy. He was in a perpetual state of fighting for balance and Methos had, for a long time, given him an anchor against his own tendencies to act rashly, judgmentally. For three years now, Sean had attempted to act as a substitute, but knew his efforts fell far short.

"What was the dream about?" he finally asked.

Mac actually chuckled. "Methos. He killed me a long time ago. With my own knife. I managed to really piss him off."

"What was he angry about?" The question was asked carefully. Whatever the vivid dream had been about was connected somehow to the current tension between the two people he considered his parents. And this was an incident neither of them had ever mentioned. And in over 150 years he had had ample opportunity to hear all their stories many, many times.

Mac shrugged. "It was a long time ago."

"Don't do that, Da," Sean instructed softly. "You have to tell me what's happened."

Mac sat for a minute, thinking. He couldn't keep this from his son, but neither could he tell him the whole ugly story. Sean had been part of that connection, had felt Methos each time he stirred in his hell-hole, and he would start blaming himself. Talk about the worst of all possible outcomes. Methos blaming Mac, Sean blaming himself, all of them full of hate and recrimination. Even Methos wouldn't want that no matter how much he wanted to punish Mac. So only a partial truth, then, he decided.

"Methos blames me for what happened, and he's absolutely justified," Duncan said over Sean's protest. "If I hadn't taken unnecessary risks in the first place, he wouldn't have been there. If I had been able to get to him quickly, he wouldn't have had to stay there." Duncan waved off Sean's arguments. "No, Sean. There are reasons. There are always reasons, but there are no excuses. Don't be upset with him. He's been through hell because of me. If he hates me for it, well, it's something we'll all just have to deal with."

"Methos cannot possibly hate you, Da," Sean said firmly. "Methos loves you. He needs you as much as you need him."

"Love is a bizarre and unpredictable thing, Sean. Untended, it can turn to hate. I have neglected Methos' love," Duncan whispered. "In many ways I have abused that relationship, and now I'm paying the price. I just don't want you to have to pay it as well."

He lay back against the straw and closed his eyes. "I'm too tired to think about it anymore. Stay with him, Sean. You have such a gift for comfort. He needs a lot of comfort right now."

Sean sat, ready to protest, ready to yank the man up to his feet and drag him back to the house and put him to bed, but his words would have been useless. He rose easily to his feet, selected the cleanest horse blanket he could find in the tack room and spread it over the sleeping form, returning to the main house through the soft rain, deep in thought.

The intrusion and suspicion of his 'guests' bothered Constantine not at all. It was to be expected, given the circumstances, and it would not be the first time nor the last that he had been suspected or even accused of playing both sides against the middle.

Not a reputation to be proud of but deserved in some cases. That it was not so deserved now made little difference. Forced to a choice, Constantine had no qualms about putting his own race first over the mortals. What had Abraham Lincoln said? "If there must be slaves and masters, I would prefer to be a master." Not a particularly flattering quote as attributed to a well-loved American historical figure, but more in keeping with the man's other admirable trait -- that of honesty.

Of course, given that choice, other choices would always tumble afterward. Master in the Eastern Dawn or Master in the freedom loving, liberal-minded, hard fighting but likely-to-lose, affiliations of the Cherokee? Thus far he had not been forced to make that choice and he was quite willing to continue to defend his chosen home in England until it became a lost cause. But then the English and their subset of Scots and Irish and, yes, even Americans, had always been a feisty lot.

So far the battles Constantine fought had been small ones, opportunistic and mostly successful. He had managed to fend off the appropriation of his estates and the bulk of his wealth by providing for the military needs of Merry Olde England...mercenaries always had their place when the defenders were feeling cornered. But it was the little battles that made the difference, he had long ago learned. Rome, in all her power and glory, had ignored that fact. When the last of her myriad supports had been broken she had tumbled and shattered like a house of glass cards.

By observation he knew that his little group of refugees were showing a bit of glassiness themselves. Amanda had been the only one willing to talk to him directly with more than reserved politeness. The facts she knew were few but enough to get some overview of the situation. He had known the purpose of the mission and had to smile at the temerity of Connor and young Sean -- the boy was definitely a chip off his father's shoulder: noble, honest, resourceful and...slightly foolhardy. Yes, had the physical resemblance not been so strong, Marcus still would have no doubts as to whose son young Sean was.

But there were overtones of another as well. Marcus had noted them over the years, more so when Sean was younger; Marcus perhaps too caught up in memories of another young man he had known once upon a time. Sean had aged past both the physical and emotional resemblance he shared with his brother with far more grace and much less pain than the model of his youth.

Constantine had assigned to Methos a room containing a working fireplace and enough fuel to keep his cold-blooded friend comfortable. Watching Methos collapse had been a shock and stirred memories in Marcus best left forgotten but as with anytime he came face to face with his own history, his memory became annoyingly sharp. How ironic that this second near-destruction of his very old friend should come nearly at the exact location of his first.

His own people watched the door, more to be a last defense to anyone foolish enough to want to wish the ancient harm and to settle Constantine's mind. As expected, Sean and Kir had both made brief forays into the room to sit with the elder. Constantine saw no reason to inform his guests of either the presence or extensiveness of his surveillance systems.

The fact that the middle MacLeod, the one he had expected to be most concerned, had made no appearance to check on the frail eldest Immortal was deeply troubling. Queries to his guards informed him that Duncan had found the barn and nested there for the night -- apparently more comfortable in its rustic confines than in the elegance of Constantine's home. So it might be, Marcus thought with some amusement. Neither Duncan nor Connor MacLeod had ever really left the rugged comfort of their Highland roots behind.

Whatever the breech between the Duncan and Methos, Marcus was not of a mind to let it stand for too long. There was too much wrapped up in the continued stability of the Community for its chief protectors to unravel under an internal strain. His concerns were purely selfish from an Immortal point of view, but he still did consider both men to be friends if not allies. He had worked too hard at the beginning to keep the Community together and strong to willingly surrender that protection and strength to the vagaries of the personal demons of MacLeod and Methos.

He would dearly love to have Adelle's insights into the situation. He missed the quiet, strong woman; missed her brand of compassionate ruthlessness. They had become friends early on, both wanting very much for Darius' plan to succeed, to end the killing and the dying....the solitude. He had only a vague idea where she was at the moment but it was not in England or in Europe. He might well need or want to ask MacLeod about that before the group departed for the states. He would like to know that Adelle was...safe.

First, however, he needed to fight a tiny battle and see if he could not shore up one of those supports holding his ideal together. He entered the room ostensibly to bring Methos some food and visit for a bit with an old friend, but even he had to steel himself at the sight of his friend.

You were never so thin, Miklos, he thought, setting the tray with its soup and mild bread on a table next to Methos. Carbohydrates and substance...the refugee camps of World War II had taught Marcus lessons in nutrition he had never thought to use again. They would work as well for Immortals as mortals. Methos was awake as Marcus had known. He would not have disturbed the ancient's sleep for his interview.

"You look like a sleepy cat, Methos," Marcus said lightly. Methos had managed to fold his long frame into a large chair like a human medicine ball. The hazel eyes actually showed more exhaustion than mere sleepiness and Methos looked more like something the cat had dragged in than a feline hunter in his prime. "My cook has sent up something to ease your hunger and put some flesh on those startlingly thin bones you seem determined to exhibit." Constantine gave in to neither pity nor overly solicitous compassion. Methos had enough loved ones to offer both. "Can you manage or shall I feed you?"

"I can manage," came the reply, defiant and chill, and one thin hand did emerge to take up bowl and spoon.

"Good. I am a lousy nurse as you may recall."

"Don't look too close at the specters, Marcus. They may haunt you yet," Methos had spoken in their old tongue, bringing their shared past into sharp focus with the rich, formal cadence of the flowing Latin phrases that linguist-historians would barely recognize as early Italian.

Marcus nodded, turning to look out the window. There was actually a sliver of sunshine showing across the mist-laden ground. He let the silence stretch out for long moments, waiting for Methos to say something...anything...but there were no words or wit or even sarcasm forthcoming. As Connor had so succinctly put it, not good. "We all have our ghosts, my friend. Yours are just more newly dead than most," he said it softly and waited again. Extracting information from Methos could be as easy as breathing most times but not when he was thus wounded. Not when he, like MacLeod, would pull in on himself like a turtle withdrawing into his shell. "Is it still there?"

Methos did not even have to question what he meant. "Yes, Marcus, your precious link is still in force. Now that you have assured yourself of that please pass my compliments on to your cook and leave me alone."

There was the rattle of metal against porcelain and Marcus turned to see the empty bowl set most carefully back onto the tray before the arm disappeared once more into the blanket that obscured most of Methos' body.

"I will so pass on your approval. Your family is quite worried about you, Methos," Marcus went on, blithely changing subjects.

"Immortals don't have families," Methos murmured. "Or they shouldn't. But I suppose we are all 'family' now, are we not, Marcus? Thanks to this bloody link."

"So I had hoped, once," Marcus said and took a seat next to his friend. Methos did not look at him, staring blindly into the fire, the flames lending false color to his cheeks from heat and reflected light. "But it is not an absolute, is it? You know who they met on their little foray into your hiding place?"

"I know," The answer was a growl and a curse in two syllables.

"Perhaps you would have preferred it be your old compatriot who pulled you from hell? Just reparation for having sent you there in the first place."

"Twice. Luck alone let him keep his head this time." Methos said.

"Yes, well, Bar Abbas has always been lucky. But then, so have you."

A bitter laugh was his response. Marcus smiled faintly and continued. "I am currently the chief suspect in having brought Bar Abbas to your door," he offered. "They doubt my beneficence."

The second laugh was less bitter. "I am sure you will survive their disdain, Marcus. You have survived far worse."

"As have you, Miklos," Marcus said quietly and waited again, wondering if his friend might indeed recall the time when his despair was equal to what he felt now, when the hate had raged within him in hopeless and helpless fury. "And none then to turn to, my friend."

Methos was silent but a glance told Marcus that Methos did remember. "This is not the same," Methos said finally. "There was no one person I could blame, that I could find cause or deliberateness for my...condition...then."

"Ah, yes, undirected hatred is an unwieldy weapon, rarely scoring a hit," Marcus murmured. "But I seem to recall you were of a mind to be more gracious then than now on your rescue. You were there for how long, Miklos...ten years?"

"But I could think my own thoughts, still feel my own..." Methos stopped, his breath quickening.

"A matter of degrees then, Miklos. For your body was no less captive then than it has been the last few years, and you died then as well with alarming regularity," Marcus said dispassionately.

"It...it's not the same," Methos repeated.

"No. I suppose not," Marcus agreed and rose, preparatory to gathering up the tray. He hesitated and braced his arm on either side of the chair. "No one then cared if you lived or died. But they do now, Miklos. You would do well to recall that as well," he said and took up the tray, his own back tightening as he heard a sob escape the huddled figure. Marcus neither acknowledged it nor paused, leaving his friend alone as he asked.

Amanda regarded the bleary-eyed Scot with bemusement. He was half-crouched, sensing her approach, straw decorating his long, loose hair and stuck to his clothes, a piece even stuck to the three-day stubble of coarse hair along his jaw.

"Well, you look like shit," Amanda observed. Thinking at the same time that Duncan MacLeod on his worst day looked better than any other man she had known on his best. He stood with a sigh, brushing himself off.

"Nice to see you, too, Amanda," he greeted her, bending down to brush away the traces of his night's bedding.

As Sean had reported, the Scot was grim-faced, exhaustion and tension etched into his mouth and forehead. She moved in, picking the straw out of his hair, finally brushing away the piece caught in his beard. Her fingers felt along that hard jaw, scraping against the harsh sandpaper of stubble before she moved in to fold her mouth over his. They had been lovers for centuries, each knowing the other's body as well as their own. And as much of a weakness as Amanda had for all the MacLeod men, this was the one whose arms always felt like home. They moved around her, pulling her in, but the kiss was not one of passion as he pulled away, burying his face in her neck. For a minute she thought he was going to collapse in her arms as the tremors in those shoulders almost turned into sobs, but he pulled away with a long, slow breath, his eyes carefully neutral.

In a familiar gesture he cupped her jaw in his big hand. "It's good to see you, Amanda. I've been worried about you."

"Worried? About lil' ole me?" Amanda batted her enormous brown eyes. "Now why would you worry about me? You know I can look out for myself. I've had a little practice you know - some thousand years or so."

"Yeah, I know," he smiled and a little of the tension eased out of his face. "Silly of me."

"Always has been, Duncan MacLeod. What on earth are you doing sleeping out here in the barn when there are perfectly good, soft beds up at the house?" she said, wandering down the row of stalls, curiously peeking in.

He didn't answer, waiting for her to reach the last stall. "Oh," she said softly, leaning in, looking touching. "He's beautiful. A new friend?"

"Something like that," Duncan replied. Amanda was a balm to his eyes and heart. A reminder of better times, of laughter, of a time when the world didn't weigh on his shoulders. He couldn't resist as he came up behind her. He stroked her shoulders, just wanting, needing to touch. She leaned back against him.

"Have you ridden him?" she asked, making conversation although her mind was on the hard body at her back.

"No, I just found him last night. Coming in here felt like stepping back in time to when the worst problem I had was whether I had a horse and enough money to buy my next meal. I slept better in here than I ever would have up at the house." As he spoke, his head dropped to her shoulder, and in the following silence his lips found her neck.

"Mmm," she murmured. "You need a shave, MacLeod. And you smell like sweat and horse and hay."

"Is that a problem?" he whispered.

She turned, a pleased smile pulling her lips upward. "No, Highlander. I should be used to it by now."

They found the straw bed, stretching out on the blanket, each undressing the other. After almost two decades apart, they each rediscovered the wonder of pure pleasure in the beauty of physical form, the familiarity of it, the uneasy knowledge that this was as close to a permanent emotional home as each was likely to get. The lovemaking was sweet and sensual, the climax intense for Amanda, almost desperate for MacLeod, who held her tightly afterward, then fell soundly asleep once again.

When he woke it was almost noon, the sunlight shining through the cracks in the big wooden doors, lighting the dust motes floating in the air. Amanda had managed to slip from his arms without him waking. He stretched, the aching exhaustion moving into the tolerable range. He itched, though. The creases of his skin were crusty with sweat and dirt . . . and straw. He rose, picking the stuff off his body and out of his hair.

"Jesus, you are a sight for sore eyes, MacLeod," Amanda's voice floated from behind him where she had watched his naked golden body rise up into a shaft of light.

"Ah, there you are. How'd you manage to sneak away like that?" he asked, flushing slightly as he pulled on his briefs and fatigue pants.

She moved in, brushing her hand across the soft curls on his chest. "Oh, I'm a very sneaky person, didn't you know that? Besides, you were dead to the world. I hung around mostly because I figured you were so far gone, any bozo could come along and take your head."

He captured her hand, kissing it lightly, his smile warm and genuine. "Well, you did a fine job of wearing me out."

"Well, you MacLeod's are a lively bunch, I must say," she replied deliberately, kissing him gently on the cheek before she bent to retrieve his shirt.

Duncan's face stilled as he thought about her remark, slowly buttoning his shirt and tucking it in. "You didn't," he finally whispered.

She crossed her arms and gave him a long look. "You got a problem with that?"

"He's my son, Amanda!"

"He's a man, Duncan, and he needed what I had to offer."

For a brief moment, the frustratingly familiar bulldog look of the famous MacLeod jaw manifested itself, but then he stopped, shook his head and a small, sad smile relieved the austere expression. "Will I never learn?" he whispered, more to himself than her.

"Sometimes I wonder, MacLeod. You are rather dense at times."

He moved to her, taking her shoulders, his face full of concern. "Was it bad? How did he take it?"

"What, the Quickening or the sex?"

He shook her slightly, frustrated. "It's not funny, Amanda!"

"Only because you have no sense of humor, Duncan," she replied. "It was going to happen eventually. He was very, very fortunate that Connor and I were there when it did. Do you remember your first Quickening?"

Indeed he did, coming before he even knew what he was. Coming alone, without explanation at a time when he had been cast out of his clan, rejected by the only people he knew or loved as a horror, a demon, and not even knowing why. Amanda watched that remembrance play over Duncan's expressive features, reaching out to touch him in comfort.

"He knew what it was, what to expect. Even so it was hard. I think your son has a special gift, MacLeod. He feels more, senses more, sees more than we did at his age. He needed me and I was glad to have been there," she said.

He gave her a hug. "I'm glad you were there, too."

She pulled back with a smile. "Besides, he has inherited the best of attributes from both sides of his family, you know. It wasn't exactly a chore for me, either."

Duncan managed to look amused, embarrassed and just a little scandalized all at once, but didn't have an opportunity to comment as Amanda dragged on his arm.

"Come on, MacLeod. Time for a shower and some food. You can commune with your new four-legged friend later."

And he allowed himself to be led back to the house.

Amanda and Duncan entered the foyer of the big stone house, encountering the trio of Kir, Revas and Connor conferring quietly. There was an awkward moment as Amanda refused to relinquish the hand Duncan had been holding, eyeing the tall Indian woman with something a little less than fear, a little more than defiance.

"Amanda," Kir acknowledged, nodding her head at the renowned thief and seductress. Then her eyes moved to meet Duncan's. His face was carefully neutral. He had attempted to let go of Amanda's hand as they entered, but it was kept in a fierce grip.

Then Kir smiled. It was a careful smile, somewhere between resigned and understanding. They would have to talk, he knew. But not now.

"Good to see you, Commander," Amanda said, deliberately using the military title.

"Duncan, can we speak to you for a moment?" Kir's tone was pleasant on the surface, but there was a definite undertone of imperative to it.

"We were hoping for a bath and some food," Amanda interjected, emphasizing the 'we'.

"Let it go, Amanda," Duncan cautioned, now deliberately removing his hand and gently propelling her towards the stairs. Amanda gave them all a long look, then walked slowly up the long staircase, moving like the magnificent athlete she was, drawing the eyes of the three men like magnets until she was out of sight.

Kir let her own innate sense of humor settle in rather than the annoyance which would have served no one. Amanda was...Amanda. From their first meeting, the older Immortal woman had seemed to think she and Kir were in some sort of competition even though at the time, Kir had no idea how tightly her life would have become entangled into that of the MacLeod's. They had met upon Kir's admittance into the Community, sent by the Tribal Council to begin securing those lines of alliance the Elders sensed would be needed. Their timing had been near prophetic. Within a decade the world started to fall apart and as the Indian Nations began their resistance and re-consolidation of all points south by the time actual warfare broke out, the Cherokee were ready and the haven offered to all Immortals secure.

It was during that time, as the Rescue teams started their forays into occupied territory that Kir had come to know MacLeod as more than the anchor for the Immortal Community. He had sought no position although it had been offered, and to Connor as well, feeling his offerings were better left out of the bureaucracy. As a free agent, he had been better able to provide both information and assistance without being tied to the overall directives of the Cherokee.

Not that Duncan had operated alone, but he knew people, had friends and contacts and friends of friends, people like Constantine and the Watchers, who were of a similar mind. But as he involved himself deeper into the machinations of the resistance there were other friends who had dropped away -- like Amanda, the Vallincourts who were even now still in hiding somewhere near Budapest, unable or unwilling to try for the relative safety of the newly made nation. When Methos and Sean had finally quit Paris for good some fifteen years before, Amanda had refused to accompany them, preferring the familiar environs of her homeland -- and the opportunities a war torn country might offer her.

In the back of her mind, though, Kir was convinced that part of Amanda's reasoning for staying in Paris had to do with the fact that Duncan was sharing Kir's bed by then. A petty thing, womanish and understandable although had Amanda asked she might have found Kir much less possessive than she herself was.

That thought brought yet another smile to her face, easing the lines of weariness there as the three men finally turned their attention back to her, Amanda having slipped out of sight.

"What's up, Ghost?" Revas was the first to recover, gray eyes holding steady in his tired, craggy face. "Parts are on the way, grounds are secure...."

"Weapons aren't and Constantine has offered to make the arrangements to send them back but...."

"We don't know and only have the vaguest suspicions," Duncan said softly. "If he wants us, Kir, he has us."

"So he does but since he already knows we have suspicions it rather follows that he would be a fool to try and take you or Methos or any of us at this time. I think Constantine would rather keep his head than attempt some other betrayal."

"And you would be correct," Constantine said from the stairs.

He paused, still bearing the tray, meeting the not quite hostile looks directed at him with a faint smile. "I did not betray you to Bar Abbas or the Eastern Dawn. I will not deny that I have contact with them -- even our mutual enemies have traitors in their midst, or did you think Amanda's little group of opportunists tripped over their information by accident? But, whatever you may think...I hope you believe that I would not, in this instance, have turned to Bar Abbas on any count. Except perhaps to challenge him and take his head myself. All of us have old scores to settle," Constantine said and his expression had hardened and darkened. "But, only time will tell you if I am either a traitor or a liar or both. On the off chance that I am telling the truth, you might well turn your minds to who else might have something to gain from the capture of either Duncan or Methos, since I think that was the intent of Bar Abbas' appearance, was it not?"

"So he said. For me, but he came for Methos."

"That would be expected," Constantine said and continued down the stairs. "Let Methos fall into his hands alive, MacLeod, and you and I will have a score to settle as well."

"Are you going to explain that?" Duncan asked face twisting as his own anger and defiance rose.

"It is as much Methos' tale as mine. So, no. Methos and I are not the friends you and he are...or were, Duncan. But I have my own reasons for caring for him. You may even find him somewhat willing to talk at this moment. But that may best left to gentler spirits who have done less harm," Marcus said glancing at Kir. "Not to usurp your position, Commander, but I think I can present a plan for getting your portion of the weapons to you, that may even allay your suspicions about me."

"Our portion?" Kir asked, raising an eyebrow.

"There is as much need for that weaponry here as in the Americas, Commander. I think half is fair and I will arrange for delivery. Of course, if you think that unacceptable I can send you back to your homeland with nothing to show for it at all except your lives." Kir met his gaze appraisingly. There was no give in the austere face but there was a glimmer of humor in the man's eyes. He was looking to haggle.

"Well, enough Marcus. Shall we reconvene in say, an hour, and you can present your plan? Enough time for Mac to get a shower and see if my 'gentle spirit' can coax some answers out of the Grandfather. But do remember, Marcus, there are warriors among my people who think scalping is still an acceptable way to make a point," she added with a smile of her own that did not reach her dark eyes. Without another word, she moved past the men and up the stairs.

Amanda might have been jealous had she seen the four sets of eyes that followed Kir's stately ascent.

"Please, Duncan," Marcus said when she passed out of sight. "You must take her home soon, or I shall be forced to marry her," he said and then left them to take the tray away.

"Do you ever get the impression that if we would just let the women take over, our lives would be much more interesting?" Connor said with a chuckle.

"It gets anymore interesting and I may turn myself over to the Eastern Dawn without protest," Duncan said with a bemused grin. "Kir may take Marcus' scalp just on principle."

"You know him better than I do, Duncan," Connor said. "What do you think?"

Duncan bit his lip and wiped a hand wearily over his face. "I think Constantine had the right of it. If it's not him, then someone on our side tipped of the Eastern Dawn. But I don't know if the traitor is among us or waiting for us in Atlanta."

"But the only one in Atlanta who knew where we were going is Hawk of Moons and his aide," Revas said anxiously. "He is Chief! If he betrayed us then the whole nation could be threatened."

"Whoa, Revas! Let's not jump to any more wild conclusions," Duncan said calmly, laying a hand on the man's shoulder reassuringly. "There are other methods. Communications could have been breached, a wild guess. Methos' location wasn't the biggest secret. No, let's think on this a bit more. I am for a shower. Where is Sean?" he asked his cousin.

"Dead to the world last time I looked. Upstairs, fourth room -- yours is next to his," Connor said.

Duncan nodded, "About my arrival..."

"If you apologize for anything else today, I'll deck you myself," Connor said with a grin. "Get your shower, Duncan. We can talk later. Come on, Revas. Let's see how much damage we can do to Marcus' bar before our meeting."

Brushed off and abandoned, Mac could only stare after his cousin before following his own advice and heading to the showers.

He was curled up in the chair, head drooping as he slept. Not a comfortable position from the looks
of it and then Kir swallowed as she recognized his body was more or less folded into the same
position it had been while he was trapped.

The fire was burning low and although Kir found the room overly warm, she re-built the blaze again
and turned to find his eyes upon her. "Would you not be more comfortable in the bed, Grandfather?"
she said, moving closer in, hands automatically reaching out to touch his forehead as if he were a
sick child. The skin was still cool, smoother as he continued to recover. Closeness revealed moisture
on his cheeks and she wiped at the drying tears.

"Come to play mother, granddaughter?" he asked.

"No. Just friend. Marcus said you might want company."

"Marcus is an idiot."

"Is he a traitor as well?" she asked pulling a stool close and sitting in front of him.

"Well, that would depend on the definition, wouldn't it? He is not a member of the Nation or any
affiliate tribe, so his actions can't really be said to betray the Cherokee, now can they?" Methos said.
"On the other hand, he is a member of the Community so surrendering information about their
whereabouts might be considered a betrayal. My answer to the last is, no. Constantine did not betray
me to Bar Abbas."

It was said with such certainty, Kir was of a mind to believe him, except that he had not really
answered her question.

"He threatened Duncan should he allow you to fall into Bar Abbas' hands alive," she offered. "That
one wants you for more than your age, does he not?"

"Don't be so sure. Bar Abbas and I are old acquaintances. I think he would be perfectly happy to take
my head," Methos said and would not meet her eyes.

At least, she thought, he is talking some. Without hesitating Kir slipped her hand over the bony one
that clutched at the blanket. There had been a time when she had envied him those graceful hands,
the expressiveness of them when he chose to exercise that grace. No longer, for as rapidly as his
healing was progressing those hands were still like claws, clinging to the blanket as tenaciously as
he had ever clung to his life. He did not draw his hand away but she could feel him tense, the hazel
eyes averted still.

"Which do you fear more, Methos? Our pity or our love?" she asked. "You know you are still in
shock?"

"Am I?" he murmured. " And slightly insane as well. And dangerous?" he shot at her and did look at
her. "I am that as well, Kir. Don't doubt it. To you. To Duncan. To your precious Nation. To the
community."

"To yourself?" she asked. "For that is where our fear lies, Methos. But there is healing for your mind
and spirit as well as your body with time. Can you at least give us that time?"

He said nothing, pulling back, the eyes growing distant again. "Why does Bar Abbas want you so
badly?" she asked, trying a different tact.

"Why don't you take my head and find out," he said bitterly. "Better yet have MacLeod do it...then he
can know everything as well as be everything. It is what Abbas thinks. But he doesn't want me dead.
Not this time," Methos murmured.

"So Marcus seems to think."

"There was a time, Ghost, when I would do anything to survive," Methos said. "Abbas knows that. So
if you want reassurances for your people there it is. What Abbas thinks he will gain is no longer a
threat. Survival has lost its luster in the last three years."

"Methos..." Kir started but he was not looking at her any longer and what he did see if he saw
anything was too deep inside him for him to speak of it. Or too dark to find his way out of it. No matter
her queries or words, he said nothing more and when he finally slipped into the semi-conscious
sleep his body demanded, she left him.
 
 

The four members of Kir's team met at the appointed hour in Constantine's drawing room. Revas
found himself feeling distinctly out of place among the artwork, books and fine furniture. He was
painfully aware of his less-than-clean fatigues, his dirty worn-at-the-heels boots, his unkempt hair. He
looked around at the Immortals, each of whom seemed completely at ease whatever their
surroundings. Of course they would, he thought. They've been in places like this before. They'd been
everywhere before, done everything. Kir sat in a big wingback chair as though it were a throne.
Connor lounged against the fireplace mantle, looking for all the world like a big cat staking out his
territory. And MacLeod sat on the silk damask sofa like a lord born to the manor, in control of all he
surveyed. Revas shifted uncomfortably, perched on a chair that felt too delicate to hold his bulk. He
would never be completely comfortable around people whose lifetimes were many multiples of his
own.

Then Marcus Constantine entered. If the others looked comfortable, he looked like an emperor
surveying his realm. He was dressed in a tweed coat with leather patches at the elbows, high boots
and riding pants, his hands carefully folded behind his back. "Well, isn't this a distinguished
gathering," he said. "If I were inclined to traitorous acts, this is a hell of an opportunity, isn't it?" He
wandered casually in the room and took a seat in the big leather chair near the fireplace. "All the
MacLeods under one roof, the Oldest Immortal, one of the prime leaders of the Cherokee Nation . . .
Bar Abbas and Kiem Sun would be positively orgasmic."

"Very amusing," Duncan said grimly. "But if you had intended to turn us over you would have
already done so, so the posturing is wasted on us. We need to talk about the weapons, Marcus, and
about getting the team back to the States."

"Ah, yes. The weapons. I believe I said half of them could be transported to the States. I can get them
as far as D.C. The rest is up to you."

"D.C.!" Revas growled. "That's disputed territory, Constantine. "Getting them out of there will be
almost impossible."

But Kir raised her hand to intervene. "Enough, Revas. We will manage. But I want 80 percent of the
haul. That's only fair, Marcus, since Sean and Connor and Amanda took all the real risk. The rest will
be plenty to help pay your expenses, plus a little left over for your troops."

Constantine gave her a long look, his body absolutely still, his expression serene. "Sixty percent,
Commander, my final offer." He smiled coldly. "Of course, I can always keep the entire load."

"And you would get no more cooperation or intelligence from the Nation, Marcus, and then you
would shortly be out of business, wouldn't you? Or maybe you would rather go into business with
your dear friend Bar Abbas?" Kir's smile was equally cold.

Constantine barely nodded, acknowledging the transaction.

"The skimmer needs a new stabilizer to get us back," Duncan interjected. "Can you get one?"

Marcus pursed his lips for a moment. "Well, I . . ."

All the Immortals turned as they felt another presence nearby, and Amanda's silhouette was outlined
against the door. "Of course he can, can't you Marcus?" she said, sliding into the room and sitting
seductively on the arm of Constantine's chair. "Marcus and I have been doing business on and off
for years. As I recall I saw an invoice cross Nardo's desk for a whole slew of advanced technology
shuttle parts headed this direction only a couple of months ago." She leaned in close, her arm lying
across the back of the old Roman's chair. "And you wouldn't want to extort us for anything since the
longer we stick around here, the more danger to your little spy network, n'est ce pas, mon cher?"
she whispered.

Marcus patted Amanda on the knee. "Of course you are right, my dear." His smile was tense and
without humor. "But it will take a few days." He rose and traced Amanda's jaw with his finger. "It's
always . . . interesting dealing with you, Amanda. If only I didn't have to check my pockets each time."
He turned with a smile to the group. "It seems you will be my guests for a few days, ladies and
gentlemen. Try not to ruin the furniture, eh?"

Revas stood, glowering at the insult, but Connor put his hand on his shoulder with a chuckle. "Easy,
Revas. He's referring to us barbaric Scots, I believe. It's a small dialogue that's been going on now
for, oh, what would you say, Duncan, a few hundred years or so?"

"More like a couple of millennia," Duncan said with a small smile. He exited quickly, heading for the
barn, not wanting to get caught again in the same room with both Kir and Amanda.
 
 

After their confrontation with Constantine, Duncan disappeared, but it took little effort for Kir to figure
out where he had gone. She found him, as expected, in the barn, saddling up the big bay. She
watched for a few minutes, understanding and sharing the familiar comfort of the mundane task so
much a part of their history. Duncan finished lengthening the stirrups and tightening the girth. He
pulled a sugar cube out of his pocket, letting the soft lips take them from his hand.

He finally broke the silence. "Kir, I'm sorry about last night." When Kir started to say something, he
held up his hand. "No, let me finish. I am usually what I think Amanda once called a serial
monogamist. I have no excuses for what I did." He reached out, touching the long braid folded over
her shoulder. "I do love you." He turned and led the horse out of the barn into the early afternoon
sunlight. Kir followed him, stroking the big horses' neck, holding the halter as MacLeod mounted.

"But you love Amanda, too, do you not, Duncan MacLeod?"

He looked away, off at the trees lining the edge of the estate, unable, unwilling to meet her eyes. "Yes,
but in a different way. I . . . I keep hurting people when I don't intend to. I don't know," he chuckled
humorlessly. "It's a gift, I guess."

She reached up, placing her long brown fingers over the hand resting on his thigh. "You do have a
gift, Duncan. People are drawn to you, whether you want them to be or not. I do not own you and I
have no intention of competing for you. You have to decide what you need. I can't make the choice
for you, nor can Amanda."

"I just don't want to hurt you or her," he said softly.

Kir chuckled. "Don't worry about me, MacLeod. As for Amanda, she's your problem. Now, go. Ride
like the wind, my chieftain," she whispered, then slapped the horses' rump with a loud thwack,
laughing as the horse started and skittered, then gathered his powerful muscles for a leap forward
out of the yard.

She watched enviously as horse and man disappeared into the trees. But perhaps it was better to
have the source of Methos' anger out of sensing range, at least for the time being.

The sudden inaction proved almost as stressful as the tension of the raid itself as the mortals on the
team first slept for long hours, then usually congregated in the kitchen and in the yard since they
were vaguely uncomfortable among the elaborate and rich furnishings of Constantine's home. They
also talked and speculated quietly among themselves about the obvious tension among the
Immortals. Connor was friendly and down-to-earth, as usual, but spent his time prowling
Constantine's extensive library. Sean was distant and pre-occupied, going for long walks when he
was not keeping a close eye on Methos. As for the Oldest Immortal, they never even caught a
glimpse of that skeletal, almost frightening figure.

The legendary Amanda would breeze in and out of sight, leaving a trail of stares in her wake, and Kir
was friendly, but distant, also hovering around the ancient Methos' rooms.

As for Duncan MacLeod, well he seemed to have disappeared entirely, except that he was spotted
from time to time coming or going, riding on the back of a huge stallion.

"Just like some Scottish Laird," Claire observed as dusk fell at the end of the third day. MacLeod
could be seen from the back steps of the mansion where they all sat, unsaddling and rubbing down
the animal, walking him around the paddock. The horse nuzzled his handler and they could hear
MacLeod's soft laugh across the lawn as he pulled something out of his pockets, feeding the animal
from his hand. It started to rain again, and the group moved inside where it was warm and dry.

"Constantine didn't invite any of us to ride his horses," Revas noted with a grim smile, casting a last
look back at the tall man leading the horse into the barn.

Modo chuckled. "I don't think Duncan asked his permission. Besides, would you really want to try to
ride that animal? I know you're a daring, hot shot pilot and all that, but even the Indians among us
didn't exactly grow up with horses as the main mode of transportation."

"It's not that," Revas replied quietly. "They just don't think of us the same way. Sometimes I wonder if
they think of us at all."

Mac waited until everyone had gone to bed and the halls were clear before he slipped in to take a shower. Sleep seemed to come rarely or not at all, and when it did come it was plagued with half-remembered, disturbing images that seemed to elude his memory as soon as he woke. He stood under the hot water for a long time, letting the warmth ease what tension it could. These days he was fighting hour by hour, reminding himself over and over that Methos was disturbed, in shock, but nothing seemed to dispel that remembered look of hatred, the sting of the accusation, the truth of Methos' words describing him as selfish, controlling, egocentric. And Methos should know, better than anyone. He was intimately acquainted with the worst of what Mac could be, of what he had once been. Mac shook himself once again. He'd been striving to control that inner darkness all of his life. All he could do was keep trying.

Finally the water began to cool and he stepped out, drying off and wrapping a towel around his waist, padding back down the hall to his room. Leaving the light off, he draped the towel across the back of a chair and bent to his pack to find a pair of sweatpants. Then his heart leapt and he froze as he felt a touch on his back, trailing across his buttocks.

"You truly have a gift, Silent Storm. I don't remember the last time anyone sneaked up behind me like that."

"What a shame," she whispered, leaning into his back as he stood. "It's such a beautiful behind."

He turned and had his breath stolen away at the sight of Kir's body shining in the moonlight. Every limb, every smooth line of muscle and sinew was outlined in light and shadow. Her high cheekbones caught the soft light and her long, straight hair was a sheet of pure midnight cascading down her back. He could lose himself in the absolute blackness of her large eyes. The sight lifted him out of himself, and he reached out, but paused, almost afraid to touch. Afraid to break the spell of such aching, breathless beauty.

But she had no such fears, putting her hand on his chest and moving close, her breasts brushing softly against him. Without a word her other hand went behind his neck, pulling his face down slightly to meet hers. The kiss was sweet, tender, almost chaste, until Mac reached for her and pulled her close, one hand at the small of her back the other reaching down, moving over the firm, smooth mound of flesh below, moving her close until their bodies pressed together like perfect puzzle pieces, each curve and bone from pelvis to breast meeting a match in the other. Then his mouth opened and his tongue sought for more, wanting more. The kiss went deep, deeper, teeth, tongues and breath entangling.

Kir reached down between them, her hand finding those dark, warm curls, still damp from the shower, the soft, but quickly tightening sacks beneath, and the rising, hardening cock. She moved it up between their bodies, capturing it, holding it so that as they moved together, they could each feel it grow and throb.

Breathless, Mac finally stepped away, his senses over stimulated - and he didn't want this to end too soon. He reached out hand and cupped her breast gently, running his thumb lightly over the nipple, smiling as it tightened and the area around it deepened in color. In answer she put her own hand up, moving it across the soft fur that covered his chest, finding the nipples there, then moving in, closing her mouth over one, then the other, sucking first, then nipping until he gasped. The bed was too far away as he pressed her shoulders down and then knelt in front of her, his mouth moving over her neck and shoulders, wanting to consume her flesh, to be over her, in her. She lay back and he sat beside her, leaning across, holding his weight on one arm as the other trailed gently over the soft contours of breast and hip, of collar bone and neck. He wanted to continue the pleasure of just looking, of touching. The hand moved down into the only curly hair on her body, into warmth and moistness, finding that small cleft with his thumb while his fingers simultaneously moved lower, moving just inside her, his thumb setting a gentle rhythm of light pressure as he watched her face.

Her eyes closed and her breath quickened as she let herself fall into a well of pure sensation, feeling the warmth gather under his gentle hand, her hips starting to move of their own accord, wanting more. Unable to resist, Mac leaned down, invading that wide mouth, moving inside, feeling his hand grow wet as she pressed into him. He rose above her putting his knee against her inner thigh to part her legs, but she pulled away, placing her hand on his chest to stop him. His look was questioning, but not for long. He'd seen that mischievous look before and with a quick move she had flipped him on his back, both of them now panting and sweating with barely restrained, near-violent need.

With an almost evil smile, she first straddled him, then moved down, her mouth leaving a trail of kisses and bites across his hard abdomen, every movement against his trapped erection making him swallow or gasp. Then she found that hard flesh, grasping it, her mouth first moving along it, grating tongue and teeth until Mac was clawing the carpet. A cry escaped his lips when she finally closed her mouth over that hard flesh, her hand and lips sliding smoothly over velvet skin, setting a rhythm that his hips began to match.

Then he was pressing into her, and he finally broke their silence by calling out her name. She tasted the slightly bitter warmth of escaping pre-cum, recognizing the cry as one of desperation, and she gently moved away. He was shaking with effort and need, and this time she as straddled him again, she took him slowly, deeply inside. He filled her to her limit, pressing to her very core. Her breath stopped as they paused, each wanting to stretch the moment out as long as possible. As the hot velvet folded around his flesh, the need to move became painfully intense, but he held himself still, watching her.

She leaned her weight on his broad chest, rocking just slightly away and back again. As she did her hair fell in a black curtain to either side, blocking out much of the light. At that moment they were the only two beings in the universe as sight and sound and sense encompassed only their two bodies, their two minds. But now he was too close to the edge for restraint. His broad hands clasped her waist as he moved up into her, and again, and again, the aching heat in his groin at last pushing him over the edge to the other side, finally convulsing into her until she cried out. Because the warmth spilling into her in its ancient rhythm was all she needed to lift her across that threshold and for one timeless moment all she knew or cared about was the song of her own body's release.

She finally leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder, catching her breath and listening to his heart gradually slow. She felt his hand reach up to softly stroke her hair, running his fingers through its long folds.

"You can sneak up behind me anytime," Duncan finally whispered into her hair.

"You walk around naked like that and I'm likely to," Kir said with a smile. She rose to her feet, once again drawing Mac's admiring eyes to her magnificent body. She held out her hand and helped him rise, and they settled into the cool sheets of the big bed, his chest pressed lightly against her back for warmth, his arm draped along her shoulder as he fell into his first sound sleep in a long time.

It was a small place, closed in and tight, a small room. The furniture, the decorative influences of the apartment danced out of his vision, never quite focusing and he could not quite remember how he had gotten there or where he was exactly.

He stepped into the room turning and saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. There was the hint of laughter in the air but he heard nothing, nor saw anything. There were books stacked and piled and shelved along one wall and he reached for one, opening it but the language, the writing was unfamiliar. Quite suddenly a slender hand appeared over his shoulder and turned the book so that it was right side up -- and still the words made no sense. He turned and found himself smiling into the face of a tall slender, sylph-like creature with short dark brown hair and dancing eyes. There was a huge grin plastered on her sensitive mouth and an almost wry twist to her lips.

"I should know you," he said and she shook her head, refusing to speak, stepping back and shoving the sleeves of her sweater, too large and too dark for her fair skin, up on slender arms. She was leaving he realized, leaving him in her place, unafraid. He was welcome here -- for as long as he needed.

He reached out to stop her and the room shook as from an earthquake, the stacks of books tumbling over, the walls fracturing as if made of glass. Without a word she grabbed at his hand and pulled him, the world tumbling down around them. There was an opening, a doorway, stone and steel and she shoved him inside then turned away. He made a grab for her and missed and suddenly the earth opened up and she fell, tumbling into a bottomless hole. He grabbed at her wrist and caught her and she stared up at him, still smiling, and let go...he screamed, reached into catch her, to follow her only to find he was being held back, strong hands caught his shoulders, pulled him back, smoothed his hair and comforted him until he could look up. Methos watched him, shaking his head, a bittersweet smile twisting his lips, the gold-green eyes moist as he shook his head. Then he stepped back, cocked his head with another resigned smile and the ground swallowed him as well....

"Nooo!" It was less a cry than a whisper as MacLeod woke, his body tight and hard enough to wake Kir from her sleep. She reached for the lamp, blinking owlishly in the sudden light, leaning over Mac to stare into his face worriedly.

"What is it, Duncan? A dream..."

Mac took a deep breath, wakefulness and light and Kir's voice banishing the helpless feeling. "A dream...a nightmare...there was a girl and Methos..." He stopped, the details blurring in his mind but Kir coaxed them from him before they slipped away entirely. The girl was what he remembered most clearly, and Methos' face as he fell.

"You don't know her? Not a student of yours at some time?" Kir pressed and he shook his head.

"No. Chauvinistic as it may sound, Kir, I would remember her if I'd ever met her," he said with a sour smile. "But I felt like I should have known her. One of your spirit guides, maybe?"

She grinned at him, sweeping the dark hair off his shoulder. "Generally come in the form of animals -- not Victorian fairies," she said, then chuckled. "Maybe it's this house."

"Maybe," he said and seemed to relax finally. "I'm awake now...I think I'll go find something to read," he said and Kir nodded, kissing him softly before lying back down.

The sweats he had abandoned earlier were put on and a robe Marcus had supplied before he left the room, heading for the library below stairs. The fire there had been banked and he built it up again, turning on a single light, his eyes scanning the shelves until he selected a likely read. He had a twinge or memory...of his dream...as his hands slid over the old leather. He shook it off and sat down but despite the open pages he could not concentrate on the words. Turning the light off he stared at the fire, trying to sort out his thoughts.

Mac sat in the near dark amid Constantine's studied elegance. The library was a large room furnished with wonderful furniture from the Victorian era. Such items were difficult to sell in the midst of a worldwide war, but if they had, and if Mac's expert eye was any judge, they would have been worth a king's ransom. But the opulence, the comfort, the luxury was wasted on him.

He recognized the old, familiar feeling. Over the centuries, he periodically got caught in a downward slide of emotional exhaustion, a weariness of spirit that weighed him down until every day was a struggle. Sometimes it was triggered by the death of someone he loved - Little Deer and Tessa came to mind like old ghosts. At the end of the Twentieth Century it had been triggered by the Gathering when he had been forced into a long agonizing period of death after death, killing after killing. But since Sean's birth, since he and Methos and his son had become a permanent family he had thought he had overcome his tendency to sink into an extended period of "dour Scots gloom" as Methos like to call it.

The past three years he had staved it off while he obsessively sought to free Methos from his terrible prison. But now - if one of the two people he most cared about in the world believed him capable of such cruelty, even if it was only subconscious, all his doubts and fears about the evil in his own nature surfaced once again. His realization that he had mistreated his own son, as well, that he had not been there to help him during his first Quickening, deepened his sense of failure.

Unable to sit still any longer, Mac silently rose. He padded barefoot back up the stairs and down the hall, quietly pushing on Methos' door and slipping inside. The room was almost too warm in deference to the peculiar needs of its occupant. The pale figure was luminous in the dim starlight from the window, the blanket twisted underneath him from restless, uneasy slumber. The wraith lay on his side, arms and legs drawn up protectively. Mac carefully draped his robe over the sleeping figure and sank to the floor, arms around his knees, oddly comforted by Methos' physical presence after years of desperate searching.

I don't know how Methos does it, he mused. He lets events, no matter how terrible, role over him, surviving whatever horror life throws at him, and moves on. At least until now. After 5,000 years, Mac thought sadly, I have finally managed to push him over the edge into utter despair.

He jerked awake, suddenly realizing he must have dozed off. Methos was murmuring in his sleep, arms clutching convulsively. His pale skin was covered in a sheen of sweat and the angular face was contorted in a mask of pain and heartbreaking sorrow. Mac hesitated. Should he get Sean? But Sean was emotionally strung out and needed his rest, too. Then Methos cried out and Mac moved instinctively, taking the flailing hand, holding it gently, stroking the damp, dark hair, whispering quietly that it was just a dream, just a dream.

His voice soothed, the body quieted, but Methos clutched at his hand, drawing it into himself until Mac could feel his friend's heartbeat throb erratically in his chest. Gradually the Oldest Immortal settled back to deeper sleep, cradling the Highlander's hand like a precious talisman. Mac's throat was tight. He couldn't bring himself to take his hand away so he sat carefully on the floor, leaned his head on his arm against the mattress and quietly watched his friend's restless slumber.

"Get away from me," the voice hissed in a harsh whisper. Mac started awake again as his hand was shoved back at him. Mac immediately scooted back away from the bed, then backed away further, standing, trying to say something, anything to take the horror and hate off that face. "Methos, I was only . . . "

"You are only too late..." Methos said, face pale and luminous in the dim light, the hazel eyes glittering and huge in the too thin face. "I don't want your pity or your compassion, MacLeod. Just leave me alone. Better yet, just leave me. I am sure Marcus will find me a place here."

"You don't mean that," Mac said. "Methos, you are angry and I've hurt you...but your home is with us, with Sean."

"After 5000 years, MacLeod, my home is where I choose to make it," Methos hissed, and rose from the bed, the oversized sweat clothes almost falling off him. There was water on a table by the bed and he reached for it. Mac lunged for him as his feet got tangled, as the wasted body failed him again. The table went crashing with the crystal, shattering on impact.

The noise alone made Methos cringe and he found himself holding onto Mac's forearms, seeking his protection without wanting too. Everything was on overload, his senses, his emotions. Once more he was caught by the terrible division of wanting Mac to hold him, to feel safe and protected, and the hatred and rage he felt rising at the Highlander's mere presence.

The door opened, Kir appearing, summoned by the noise and voices spoke of others coming. With a fit of anger at his own weakness, Methos shoved Mac back and tried to get to his feet, twisting away when Mac would have helped him.

Kir moved in between them, touching Mac's cheek briefly in acquiescence. She took Methos' shoulders gently. "It's okay, Grandfather," she whispered. The old man's eyes were wild, gleaming with an angry, irrational light as she helped him up and back onto the bed as Mac stooped to pick up the shards of broken glass.

"It's not 'okay'," he growled, shoving her away too, as Amanda, roused by the noise, appeared just outside the door.

Methos froze, looking at the tableau of the half-naked Highland warrior, the magnificent Indian princess and the beautiful seductress, and laughed.

"Well, isn't this a dilemma?" he smirked. "How do you decide, MacLeod? Do they draw straws or do you just take turns?" He moved, sitting and leaning back on his arms, consciously displaying his wasted frame. "Or maybe a little menage a trois with the bra' Highland lad? Do you sell tickets? Can I watch? It's the only way I'm likely to get my rocks off anytime soon." The voice was malicious, grating.

Amanda stepped up to the doorway. Her expression was icy. "It's unnecessary for you to go out of your way to be pathetic, Methos. You're already there." With a small cold curl of her lip she turned and glided away.

Mac took a deep breath to control an angry retort to both of them, and stalked away, not meeting anyone's eyes. He caught up to Amanda in the hallway, grabbing her elbow and spinning her around.

"What was that about, Amanda!" he whispered angrily.

"Our old friend is being a real asshole, MacLeod. I was just giving him back some of his own bile. Everyone's treating him like some kind of terminally ill patient. Well, he's not, he's just so full of hate he wants to be dead." Amanda reached out and touched his face. "Don't let him pull you into that dark place, Duncan. He won't thank you for it. He is lashing out -- damn it! You've seen it before. I've seen it before!" she snapped, and the expression of anger faded quickly. "Don't do him the disservice of treating him like he is an object of pity -- he knows that. Fight for him. Fight with him, if necessary!"

Mac caught her hand. "I don't want to lose him again, Amanda. It's better to have him in the world and hating me than not around at all. My greatest fear is that I will only cause him more hurt. It seems I can do that just by being around." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze and turned to find Sean standing, watching. Their eyes met briefly before Mac turned away and disappeared down the hall.

"Your father can be a great fool," Amanda said evenly. "A great soft-hearted fool."

"He thinks...believes he is the cause of this," Sean said.

"And so he is," Amanda said and Sean looked at her in surprise. "I'm not a psychologist, Sean, but I have watched these two go at each other since before you were born...there is no one in the world who can hurt Methos more than your father, but the reverse is also true...you already know that, though, don't you? That..." she pointed at the room where they could still hear Kir speaking softly, "is not Methos. That is a wounded, cornered vicious animal. You don't coax that kitty to you with soft foods and softer words. You rope it, pad the claws, tranquilize it, tend its wounds and drag it out into the open so that when it comes to it knows its not trapped anymore. You keep it fighting or it will never hunt again."

Sean chuckled. "Interesting analogy. Bear baiting as a therapeutic tool. You may be right, Amanda, but Da isn't the one to do it."

Amanda sighed. "No, probably not." A grin quirked her mouth and she jerked her head toward the room again. "Come on, boyo. Let's see if we can make the bear dance a bit," She said and Sean almost protested her eagerness except there was certain tension to her face and the dark brown eyes were masked by a carefully hidden concern. The last few years he and Methos had spent in Paris, Amanda had been a friend, a companion and she and Methos had spent a great deal of time bickering and sniping at each other as only friends could. Her approach might be a little unorthodox but her concern about Methos was as deep as anyone's. There had been a term for what she proposed...coined in the last couple of decades of the 20th century...tough love.

It might work, might be worth a try to give Methos' anger another target since Duncan was being such an easy one.

Kir was mopping up the last of the water from the floor, glancing up at Amanda's re-entry. She rose, standing almost like a guardian between the other woman and Methos.

"Down, Commander. I am not going to hurt him," Amanda said evenly.

"It never crossed my mind," Kir said smoothly but glanced at Sean who gave her a slight nod. "I'll just get some more water," she said, confused but not really worried. She left them and Sean closed the door, fading into the back ground as Amanda came forward to sit on the edge of the bed.

"You really are being a shit," she said smoothing the blankets over him.

"Come to plea for clemency for your lover, Amanda?" Methos said harshly. "Go comfort him, then. I don't need or want it."

"So what do you want?" Amanda said sharply, and leaned in until her face hovered over his. "Jealous, Methos? Of course, you always were. And for no reason. Kept yourself apart, hiding, walking in his shadow. Why is that do you suppose?" she said and traced the sharp line of his cheek with her fingers.

Methos gave a harsh bark or laughter. "Oh, please! What is this going to be, Amanda? A pity fuck? Work your wiles on the corpse and see if you really can get any man to respond? Confident slut, aren't you?"

She grinned. "You are hardly a corpse. A little skinny for my tastes, so yes, I suppose we should wait until you put on some weight. I bruise so easily," she said with her best delicate flower voice.

"Take notes, Sean," Methos said sharply. "This could be history making -- 'Manda is about to be turned down."

Sean said nothing but he did not miss the endearment, the nickname Methos used when addressing the woman perched over him.

"Besides, if you don't get your strength back, you can't very well challenge Duncan can you," she hissed and Methos stared at her, caught off guard by the change in tone. "Of course, if you kill him, who will put up with your bullshit, then?" she added more conversationally. "Got him all twisted around you like a puppy that doesn't know if you are going to kick him or pet him."

"He's not my puppy any more," Methos grated out. "He turned out to be quite the rabid wolf."

"Oh, that's right. He wouldn't put you out of your misery so now you plan on putting him out of his? You know, mon cher, revenge is a dish best served cold. Why don't you go after Sean's head? That would certainly drive Duncan over the edge...or Kir? Heavens, Methos there are dozens of ways to make him suffer if that's what you want. You have a long history -- there are lots of ways you can hurt him."

He shoved at her, rolling away, his breath coming harshly. Sean stepped forward, not liking the look of panic in his brother's eyes. Amanda was pushing too hard, but she waved him back. "You are doing pretty well, right now, though. You have everyone dancing at your whim. Sean is over there ready to pounce on me because he's afraid I am pushing too hard, being too cruel -- but you know all about cruelty. Maybe we should just tie Duncan up in some dark room somewhere, for about three years...that would be fair, don't you think? Then you can go rescue him. How do you think he'll feel then, Methos? How will you feel then? Who will you turn to then?"

He made a sound, half snarl and half whimper and Sean did intervene, pulling Amanda back with a curse. "That's enough."

She shrugged his hands off her shoulders and Sean was startled to see tears there. Without a word she walked away, closing the door behind her.

"Adam?" Sean said his name softly.

"Just leave me alone," Methos whispered.

"No," Sean said and did as Adam had when he was small, when he had bad dreams. He pulled the blankets up over the thin shoulders and sat beside him, one hand idly stroking the ragged silk of his brother's hair but saying nothing -- just keeping the demons away with his presence.

There were no more disturbances during the night. Kir returned from her errand to find Sean asleep sitting up, his hand still resting on Methos' shoulder, neither of them stirring when she entered. She did not give in to the urge to touch Sean. He looked frighteningly like Duncan at the moment only far more vulnerable, the masks the Highlander erected periodically missing from his face. Methos seemed to tolerate his brother's presence better than anyone else's though and she left them, returning to the room she had been sharing with Duncan only to find him gone. She had a vague idea where, seeking and finding his presence and shaking her head. There were too many broken threads around her to gather them all up tonight. She slipped into the bed again but found sleep no more willing to come to her than it had to her lover.

She finally rose at dawn, showering quickly and re-braiding her hair, slipping into fatigues rather than the casual clothes. she needed the aura of authority, of control and she needed to check on her Team; spend a little time with them.
 
 

The summons came so commandingly and so suddenly, Kir barely acknowledged it. Constantine's guard led her into the bowels of the manor, into the basement, behind ancient wine racks and piles of crates and boxes that could only be weapons and then deeper into a dug out hole of a place that held some of the most sophisticated electronics Kir had ever seen. It made her own ops center look like the work of a weekend radio hacker.

Marcus was there already, glancing up at her and gesturing to a metal chair at odds with the sleek equipment.

"You have no more than two minutes," he cautioned, handing her the small headset. She slipped it on as Marcus and his men moved a discrete distance away.

"Ghost," She said and almost lost precious seconds when her brother's voice filtered into her ear.

"You should write home more often, little sister," Hawk of Moons said sternly, but her lips curved briefly at the diminutive.

"Are we secure?" she asked without returning his greeting.

"As secure as we can be. I am bouncing off two satellites and an observatory in Australia. We picked up one Pell signal 72 hours ago. Testing the range?"

"Checking the range plus two," she replied. Secure or not Hawk was taking no chances. The Pell tracker's had no range. "We had a couple of bumpy moments."

"So I hear. I got a Christmas card from Beijing yesterday wondering what interest we could possible have in occupied Italy. Seems someone took on a foreguard. Permanent damage?"

"No. More's the pity, we were a little pressed for time," she said. "Tell Beijing I will make sure not to stress their generosity any more than I have to. Oh, and I picked up some toys for you, brother," she said. "You'll have to pay a capitol gains tax on them, though."

"What's the good of being Chief if you can't have a few luxuries?" Hawk chuckle d with real amusement. ""Don't pick up any more hitchhikers though, please Storm? I would hate to have to hunt down your pets."

"Soft heart, hard head, brother. Put a pot on and I will be home for breakfast. I have some old tales to tell."

There was a moment of silence long enough for her to think she might have lost the link only to hear her brother again, his voice less steady. "I should like to hear those tales, very much," he said, voice low with emotion.

"You will but some of the translations are...damaged," she added, needing him to know that their journey had not been without some loss. If only she could tell him how much. Or how much she loved him.

"Understood. I have been called to council by all the elders, sister. I will see you soon, wind to your back."

"And to yours," she said and the transmission went dead. She sat there for a moment, filtering the words through her mind, probing them for anything she might have missed. The Home Office of the Eastern Dawn knew where they were. Whether they would try and breach England's shores she had no idea, nor did Hawk of Moons. He would have ears and eyes in D.C. waiting for the weapons. There was not much else that he could tell her except the council had given him...and her...their full support. That made their re-entry into home airspace a little easier...no unwanted visitors waiting for them as there had been in Knoxville.

She pulled the headset off and sat back, glancing at Marcus. "Thank you," she murmured.

"I help as I can, Commander," he said with a faint smile.

"We are being tracked...hunted. I don't know how hard they will press."

"Not too hard I don't think..." Marcus said. "And should they we will handle it. The Eastern Dawn has reasons of their own for not pressing us too hard. It will happen eventually but it has nothing to do with your presence here, Commander. Do not think it," he reassured her and offered her a hand up. She took it and Marcus lead her back through the confusing labyrinth of subterranean tunnels.

"You need tell me no more than I need to know, Commander. But I need something from you -- or rather there is something I need to tell you. A favor of sorts."

"I think I may owe you one," she said with a faint smile as they emerged from the cellars.

"I understand that Methos is ...being stubborn," he said with a smile as he guided her toward the back of the house and outside.

"He is not recovering as fast as I would like...physically or mentally, no," she admitted. "I have spoken to him, Sean has. I believe even Amanda made a rather...unsuccessful foray in trying to draw him out. It will take time..." she said with a sigh. "I hope he will do better once he back among familiar surroundings, when there is less tension. All of us want to go home, Marcus."

Constantine nodded and dug his hands deep into the pocket of his jacket. "I hope you are right, Commander. I had also hoped he would be more willing to speak his...fear but I am not sure he understands it himself. I am not a psychiatrist as Sean is. I cannot speak to either his mental state or his current condition. I think he will not tell you this or has not , although I would have thought Duncan might know...but perhaps not."

"You are speaking in riddles, Marcus," Kir said as they drew away from the house. Marcus stopped and Kir with him, waiting while the man struggled for either words or wisdom.

"This...madness that has settled on him...I have seen it happen to him before," Marcus said softly.

Kir's breath caught, her eyes narrowing at the news. If Marcus had known this, why had he not spoken? He took a step forward and she followed, listening intently.

"What do you know of Methos' past...his distant past?" Marcus asked Kir as he led her in a slow walk across what was left of a once lovely formal garden. It was dying, tangled and overgrown now, the signs of neglect indicating that Constantine's hold on his tiny empire was not as secure as he might wish them to think.

"Some. Bits here and there. I know most of what has occurred since he and Duncan first met...some stories from other times, mostly amusing," she said with a faint smile.

"He has always had a gift for putting his own adventures into a certain less overwhelming context. When I first met him, I was ....maybe twenty years into my own Immortality. He was a centurion...I was a general. Not being born to a noble house or having much wealth of his own, his intellect was not of import enough to gain him a better position. Rome's loss, not necessarily his. But he was ambitious or at least of a mind to gain certain privileges and comforts as he could. He showed all the signs of a man used to having power and of using it, but I did not know then about the Horsemen. I only saw another as I was. Sensed him and another. An Immortal even newer to his inheritance than I. A student of Methos' I came to realize later. A man named Bar Abbas."

Kir was startled but offered no comment, crossing her arms behind her as she matched Marcus' slow pace.

"Whatever else they may have been to each other, if anything, I do not know. For whatever reason -- or rather because Kronos was still hunting him -- Methos was doing his best to keep a low profile and still gain the position and rank he was due. And he was due that position. I was a fool not to do anything about it when he first came to my attention. But I did not. To my surprise, he offered me no challenge. I, of course, had no idea of his age then, he looked...I sometimes think that our Immortality does not actually halt the aging process, only slow it to the merest crawl. He looked younger for all that he acted as a man far past his years. He was known as Michaelus then. My attention was brought to he and his friend at the rumor of some minor thievery being enacted along the routes of conquest. That Bar Abbas had been a thief was rumored and it was he I sought, not Michaelus. Pilfering was allowed by the empire but only under orders. Nevertheless, I could find no evidence and shortly after I was assigned to another legion making its way to Egypt."

"What I tell you now, Commander, I only was party to at the end. I spent perhaps twenty minutes with Methos on that first meeting, although my investigation had been going on somewhat longer. I did not see him again for many years and then in as unlikely a place as I could have ever imagined and in a condition and circumstance I would not wish upon the worst of our race. This is as he told it to me and from what I observed. I hope you are not particularly squeamish, Commander."

"Were I so, I would still want to know if you think this will aid Methos or Duncan," she said and took a seat on a stone bench as he gestured. He settled next to her, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. It surprised Kir that this tale seemed to be as hard in the telling as Marcus promised its hearing.

"The next time I saw him was in Ostia, then a not so important city, although Tiberius had already begun building it into the important port city it would later become. Rome was still a force to be reckoned with then, but the decay had started as well as the excesses that would later bring her to her knees. He was in a brothel there, enslaved. Sold to a man named Polippus by his former student. I had heard of the events that traded the life of a thief named Bar Abbas for a Jew claiming to be a king. That news, however much import it has had on the world since then, made only a bare ripple among the Romans, and I was not there so if it were a miracle that occurred on that day, I did not observe it. But even Methos could appreciate the irony later of one being lifted up to glory and another being cast down. Bar Abbas was released on the whim of the people and an idiot prelate. But his partner, also a thief who had not made so popular or notable a name for himself, was not pardoned and was crucified. Bar Abbas came to claim his body some few days later, but either in guilt or fear that Methos might take his head for allowing such a death, or perhaps because he was pardoned for his crime but had no profit to show for it --- Bar Abbas sold his former teacher and friend and partner into slavery."

Kir was perfectly still, her eyes riveted to her fingers as they clenched around each other. She had known Methos had been a slave, several times over, suspected worse, but to hear it confirmed did give her a sick feeling in her stomach.

"He did not look, as I said, as he does now, or even has for some time. Since Methos cannot remember either, I would guess he was in his early twenties, perhaps younger."

Kir nodded although her own impression of Methos would a have put him older, not to Sean's physical age or even Duncan's but not a young man barely out of his teens.

"And he was considered exceedingly well featured for the times," Marcus said. "It explains much of his...popularity in the brothel. But Bar Abbas was not content to have the humiliation of prostitution shunted upon his friend. He informed and demonstrated to Polippus Methos' other...talent. And between them they managed a tidy profit off Methos' Immortality for nearly a decade. "

"How?" Kir asked, not sure she wanted to hear this but needing to.

"The gods of Rome were fickle creatures, Kir. New ones rose and fell with some regularity and their popularity was only maintained by the positive results their priests and priestesses could produce. Smaller cults rose to power quickly on the benefit of a few 'miracles' of their own. The grander the better...good crops, rains, influx of wealth, the fall of an enemy. People flocked to the god or goddess that could offer the most viable proof of their existence. The sacrifice of a living animal was considered an invocation of powerful magic. The offering of a living human, though not widespread was...quite the attraction for many a follower."

"When I met Methos again it was by accident. He was called Miklos by then and he was not the proud and ambitious centurion I had met some thirty years earlier but...more like he is now, not so wasted, but wounded, half-mad, and frightened. His duties at the brothel were performed while chained for he attempted escape at every opportunity. I came upon him as he was being punished for such an attempt. Had he been mortal he would never have survived the count of lashes Polippus laid upon him. Nor did he survive that particular beating. It was quite the lesson for the other slaves of the household. I recognized him and thinking Polippus had unwittingly given Methos the opportunity to escape he hoped for, waited by the pits where bodies were sent, with the intent of helping him away."

"Why?" Kir asked needing to interrupt the tale before she did lose her lunch and curious as well.

Marcus was silent. "I don't know. Mayhaps in thanks for not having challenged me so many years before. Perhaps because he did serve Rome well and I dearly loved my homeland. Compassion, pity, I have no idea. But I expected only to help him away. The rest he seemed to have managed on his own. Except he didn't. His body was not brought to the pits. I thought he may have escaped on his own and gave it no more thought."

"It was perhaps a day later that I went by one of the lesser temples and felt the presence of an Immortal. I entered and found myself witness to a sacrifice. The sacrifice of slaves was not prohibited in such sects, and my position in the Roman army allowed me access to any of the houses within the empire without question. I felt...much as I think you do now when I recognized the youth they offered to their god."

"He knew me. Recognized me, though he could neither move nor speak. Had I dared I would have taken his head then and he would have thanked me for it. But I did not dare and I watched some unknown and forgotten priest rip his heart out in the name of an equally forgotten god."

"I left and waited, hoping but not really believing that he could be so unlucky. I thought him caught trying to escape from his previous death, weakened and easy prey as an unmarked slave that could be claimed by anyone. So I truly believed. But my wait showed me the truth as Polippus met the priest after the ritual and turned over both the body and a part of the coin he had garnered in his sacrifice. He met Bar Abbas who took Methos to a house to await his healing. Within a day, Miklos was fettered in yet another brothel. They were trading his Immortality for coin. No wonder then he was near mad. Killing another man's slave or kidnapping him was against Roman law and gained the harshest of penalties, even for a man such as myself. Polippus knew me not so when I ventured into his business he treated me as any other customer and using his own manner as a guidance I requested a male slave who might well be able to withstand a certain violence," Marcus' voice had grown gravely and hoarse and without thinking about it Kir caught one of his hands in hers. He squeezed her hand lightly.

"Polippus did, after some persuasion, take me to Miklos. His first words were, 'free me or kill me.' I could do neither. Not then. I could and did do what was expected of me and I think he hated me then as well -- possibly even more than he hated either Polippus or Bar Abbas at that moment. And yes, Kir, I hurt him," he added pulling his hand free. "I then offered Polippus an outrageous amount of money for his sale to me. Polippus refused."

"I became quite the regular customer, pleasing Polippus no end for I would pay for Miklos' favors for the entire day. There came a time when Methos actually seemed to welcome my visits if only for the respite they offered and with such a steady income, the leasing of his talents to the temples eased."

"And did you continue to...enjoy...his other talents," Kir asked evenly although a cold rage had begun.

"To our mutual satisfaction, yes," Marcus said and sat up. "And we planned and ran through a dozens plans to free him. Polippus remained adamant and he was as powerful a man in his own station and city as I was, Commander. The governor of Ostia was one of his most appreciative clients albeit for the softer side of Polippus' stables."

"I received orders to return to Rome and Polippus, fearing one deep pocket was about to dry up, made arrangements with the same sect for Methos' services again. The temples had been willing to pay him more money than I could summon for exclusive rights to his prize. Polippus had managed to chain a god, and the temples wanted that god for themselves. What more indication of their power than to be able to sacrifice one who looked the flower of Roman youth and beauty and have their god yet raise him from the dead? So Polippus told Miklos, who told me. I planned to be there with my own men after the rite to lay claim to the body and willing to leave both Polippus and Bar Abbas for dead, but I dared not tell Methos nor had the opportunity. I think the idea that priests might forever kill and resurrect him was more than he could bear. A few words to Polippus and then to the priest, both of them unknowing, and he had the fate he thought the most likely in any case. When I arrived at the temple, he was bound again but rather than the removal of his heart, the Priest had his blade to his throat. I think he meant only to slit his throat as opposed to taking his head, but there was such a wildness and despair in Miklos' eyes, and enough strength in his body, I think he might have managed to complete the severance on will alone. Obviously his plan did not come to a head, so to speak. It was Bar Abbas who stopped it upon perceiving, as I did, both the intent of the priest and of Miklos. He interfered which caused a riot in the temple. I got to Miklos and freed him, trying to get him away, but as I said he was half-mad and killed the priest with the sacrificial knife then lay into Polippus and would have taken on Bar Abbas with the knife alone had I not killed him. Bar Abbas thought to challenge me but with a half-dozen centurions at my back, he decided otherwise. My centurions and I killed yet another dozen followers trying to get out. They fought both to protest the violation of their temple and to regain Methos, thinking his sacrifice might still appease their god for the murder of his priest."

"There would be no safety for Methos in Ostia and no way I could get him to my own estates. I gave him clothing and what moneys I had on me, secured him passage on the first ship out of the port I could find and prayed his madness might quell with his freedom. The only thanks I got was the warning that if I took Bar Abbas' head before he did, he would hunt me down as well. I laid the riot and the murder at Bar Abbas' feet at the inquiry and claimed no knowledge of the slave's whereabouts. I did not see him again for several centuries. As I said, we have never held the friendship he has with Duncan. Bar Abbas became a hunted man...there was no place in the Roman Empire he was not pursued. The last I heard of him he had had the misfortune of being caught as a thief and sold into slavery in Carthage."

He fell silent, eyes drifting up toward the windows of the manor, to one curtained and no different than the others but as much a magnet to his eyes had it been the only one. "What he can and has endured is a remarkable thing, Commander. But every man has his limits. If you think him dangerous to MacLeod's health or to anyone else's...I would suggest you include Methos himself in that estimate of damage. He suffered the bondage of his body and life for ten years. But as he told me, at least his thoughts and his will were his own. For the last three, he has not had even the solace of those minor comforts. And if he holds MacLeod accountable for that bondage, can you really blame him?"

Kir dropped her head and shook it. "Nor can I," Marcus said softly, patting her shoulder and rising. "Where I would gladly have seen Bar Abbas' head at my feet, I do not so wish to see Duncan MacLeod's. But neither have I forgotten his warning to me about Bar Abbas. If Methos is determined, I think he will go through anyone to claim his vengeance. Including you and your entire nation."

Kir said nothing, barely noticing when Marcus left her in the chill and dying garden.

Finally she rose, walking thoughtfully back towards the house, hands clasped behind her back. Too many layers, she thought. Too many centuries of hate and pain for one person to bear alone. And yet the one person he had trusted to share that burden he had violently hrust away.

Who was the greatest danger to whom, she wondered. Duncan, who had the power, all unknowing, to rend the old man's soul. Or Methos, who in his blind agony struck out hardest at those he cared most about.

And between them stood a child, a gifted, loving child, but still and all, just a boy in comparison to either man.

PART THREE - CONTINUED