United Nations, Divided Souls

She found him, as Sean expected, on the roof. The claustrophobia that had plagued him so since his release had driven him outside at every opportunity. They still would not allow him to leave the building unescorted so when he needed time to himself he went up.

"Revas told us everything," she said softly, announcing her presence although she knew Methos was aware of her.

"Good," he responded not turning, just staring over the city.

"I could have done that," she said. It was not what she meant to say and it came out like an apology.

"Yes. You could have. You and Mac both have the skill just not the will," Methos said. "You can't use darkness against another until you face it in yourself."

"For fear of scarring our souls?" she asked and moved next to him to sit on the wide ledge facing him.

"Or losing them," Methos said.

Kir studied him. The blankness was gone leaving behind only a weariness. He was not unfeeling, only past the point of being able to do anything about them for the moment.

"What about your soul, grandfather?" she asked, covering the hands that rested against his knees with her own.

"I really wish you wouldn't call me that..." he said with the faintest wry smile, which faded a moment later. "My soul, Ghost, is somewhere north of here being held by a man who hates me almost as much as he fears me."

His words sank deep inside Kir, waking something long dormant. What had she seen when she met him so many years ago -- what had she done that had made him instantly wary of her? She had sensed it then, that frightened, wounded spirit, but as time had passed as they came to know one another she had been overcome, persuaded into seeing the same strength that Duncan saw, the same resilience and fathomless power this slight, slender man commanded with every breath.

Only there was none left for himself...he had surrendered it for whatever reason, given it over and never thought it would be abused. Yet it had been, innocently, without malice. His anger at Mac's apparent betrayal had given way to that wounded creature again, but like the injured mother wolf protecting her cubs, he was still fighting. Methos gave himself to few people...Sean was quite correct in saying Methos could walk by a dying man and never once look at him or offer to help. But let that man be someone Methos cared about and there was nothing he would not do or suffer to make it right again. He had lost that for awhile in his anger and his feelings of betrayal. There was nothing healthy or normal about his relationship with Duncan -- for either of them. There was no balance or sense of fairness. These two men had ripped each other apart and healed each other back up again for almost two centuries.

She had no trouble at all believing that Duncan held Methos' soul. What she wasn't sure about was whether Methos might very well be holding Mac's as well.

How could I have been so blind? Kir asked herself in wonder, turning to watch dusk slowly consume the city, the lights begin to twinkle on. It has always been there. Methos' consuming need for Duncan's love and unqualified acceptance, and the Highlander's blindness to how deep and strong that need ran. She relaxed into memory, into a need to feel her lover close, so close she could almost feel his big arms around her, but then realized it was Methos, holding her against the chill of the gathering evening. She leaned back against him, feeling a little more flesh, a little more muscle against the naturally broad chest, and knew he, too, was remembering.

Nevada Desert, 2120 A.D.

Kir drove through the Nevada desert toward California, periodically taking deep breaths to settle her stomach and nerves. The Elders had urged her to come, had almost insisted that she offer herself up to be a member of what was now known as the Community. The idea was frightening and fascinating. She had resisted because she was already a part of her own community, the Cherokee Nation, and had dedicated life and soul to their preservation, their nurturing, their very survival, for the past 300 years. She had watched them die by the scores, by the hundreds. Had died herself during the great exodus along what had come to be known as the Trail of Tears. Now they wanted her to become a part of a different Community.

Would it divide her loyalties? Would it change her? She had heard that it involved some sort of psychic connection that would link her to other Immortals. That it would stop the blood lust, the unconscious urge to strike out, to kill members of her own race. Kirin had known relatively few other Immortals but had felt that urge, that instinctive fear and animosity. It had frightened her. Such anger was foreign to her nature, to her beliefs, to the essence of her spirit - the embodiment of the spirit of her people.

She got to the edge of town, driving through suburban neighborhoods that were srprisingly normal looking in an age when half the world was at war. Territories north of here had come more and more under the domination of the Eastern Dawn, and this area was frequently in dispute. As she turned north, signs of firefights were more obvious in periodic areas of burned out buildings and deserted subdivisions. The Northern States were slowly being taken by the Eastern Dawn, pushing the Nation further and further south. If they were to hold the line and not lose further territory, they would need the strength of the Community Immortals, people like Marcus Constantine. And the elders wanted Duncan MacLeod. They wanted him part of the Cherokee Nation for their own purposes, and they knew that with MacLeod usually came Methos, the ancient one. All good reasons, but they were political, religious and strategic.

This, on the other hand, was going to be very, very personal. She took another deep breath soothing her troubled mind by concentrating on the breathtaking periodic views of the great Pacific Ocean, its blue-gray waves crashing against the rocks in a rhythm that had existed longer than her Race. In a small town north of the city she pulled up into a circular gravel driveway in front of a huge old three-story house that looked like it had been built in the late 1800's. A small sign in front identified it as the headquarters of the Dawson Historical Society. The lawns and gardens were tidy and well-kept and when she entered the unlocked front door the antiques and fine, elaborately carved wood panels that decorated the parlor looked like they came from the same period. Kir smiled. From all appearances Duncan MacLeod was old fashioned, pretentious and liked his luxuries.

"May I help you?" a soft voice asked. Kir turned to find a kindly looking white haired woman looking up at her curiously.

"Hello, I'm looking for Duncan MacLeod. I understand he lives here?"

The woman's expression lost a little of its warmth. "MacLeod, did you say?"

Kir's mouth twisted a little. "Yes, most people have heard the name. I understand I can find him here."

"Who told you that?" the old woman inquired. Her voice was no longer sweet and soft and Kir suspected this 'gentle little old lady' bit was just an act.

But there was no need for her to try to deny it anymore as Kir suddenly stiffened. Her heart rate surged involuntarily and her eyes quickly roamed the room in search for the owner of the powerful sense of another Immortal's proximity that crashed over her. She put her hand inside her coat, grasping the comforting hilt of the saber stowed there. This was unlike any presence she had ever felt - a dizzying roar that could be heard/felt in her head and her gut.

"It's okay, Stella" a gentle baritone voice said from the stairs.

Kir turned, surprised she had heard no footsteps, and swallowed to ease the dryness in her throat. She hadn't expected this. He was beautiful. Tall, broad shouldered, high cheekbones, sensuous mouth. He looked almost . . . Indian, his long black hair pulled back in a neat clip at his neck. Kir shook herself with a stern reminder that he was an Immortal. One of, if not the most powerful of his kind, and if the stories were true, had taken more heads than any member of the ever-diminishing number of his Race. That fact alone made him an anathema to her and one of the major reasons she was not at all sure trusting such a man was a good idea.

He descended the stairs slowly. He moved as beautifully as he looked. "I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he said formally, holding out his hand as he came close. "And you are?"

"Kirin," she replied, taking his hand after a moment's hesitation. It was big, square and callused, clasping her own large hand in a firm, warm grip. "Kirin Storm of the Cherokee Nation."

"I know of you, Kirin Storm," he replied. "And I admire your people and your cause." He smiled, and Kirin stiffened her resolve not to fall quite so easily to the man's almost overwhelming charm. "Come," he invited, gesturing up the stairs.

MacLeod smiled to himself as he watched the smooth strength and grace of the Indian woman as she ascended the stairs in front of him. She's not Little Deer, so don't let your heart hang out on your sleeve on this one, MacLeod. he forcefully reminded himself. She exuded that same incredible sense of self, a 'knowing' of who she was and where she fit into the scheme of things that drew him like a magnet. He, who had never 'belonged' anywhere once he had been violently and painfully rejected as an obscenity by the very Clan that had raised him.

He took her upstairs and through his exercise room and office, a large space that had been stripped bare but for a desk in the corner with a datavoice terminal. Kir noted the staffs and blades mounted on the walls, realizing for the first time that MacLeod had not been carrying a blade when they first met. Unusual to say the least.

At the other end of the big room was a small door leading to another large space. Obviously the area had been reconstructed for his purposes, but as she stepped inside Kir was taken aback. It was positively spartan. A big platform bed at one end, a small sitting area near a fireplace, plus a tiny kitchen, almost a galley, in one corner. No entertainment equipment was in sight but a lot of books were lined up in neat rows were housed on utilitarian shelves along the wall.

In the center of the room was a straw mat with pillows neatly placed around a low wooden platform with a few burned-down candles in it. The subtle smell of incense lingered in the room.

"Buddhist?" Kir asked, gesturing toward the mat.

"Not exactly," MacLeod said, inviting her to sit on one of the two chairs in the corner, while he sank onto the couch. "I learned a long time ago that I have a tendency to overindulge in, how shall I say this . . . angst, I guess is the best word. We all have demons we struggle with. Mine seem to be more stubborn and determined than most. I guess it's my Scottish upbringing." He nodded toward the meditation area. "That helps me keep perspective."

"Tell me why you're here, Kirin Storm. I hope it's not to challenge me," he said with a smile.

"I'm here to join the Community, Duncan MacLeod." There, she'd said it. Her heart was pounding loudly in her ears. She hadn't intended to blurt it out like that, but he had put her off her stride with his intense magnetism and engaging, open smile.

MacLeod studied her in silence for a long moment. Pride and resistance was written into every line of her body, from the sharp, high cheekbones, the dusky brown skin slightly damp with nervous sweat, the broad, well-muscled, tense shoulders and the long, long legs tightly clamped together at the knees. She did not want to be here. A storm, indeed.

"Why?" was all he asked.

"Why?" The question unnerved her. "Because of the Community, of course. I understand they are more protected, that they look out for each other, that you always know where they are and when they've either taken a head or if they've been taken. I understand that to join means no more sense of any need to kill, and end to the Gathering, to the Game itself. I'm surprised you, of all people, would even ask the question," she challenged.

He leaned forward on the couch, elbows holding his weight on his thighs. "No, Kirin Storm, why do you want to join? You are, what? 200, 300 years old? The Community has been in existence for almost 150 years. Why now? You have your own Nation, your own protection."

Kir was stunned into silence for several minutes. She hadn't expected her motives to be challenged so directly, so immediately. MacLeod was no one's fool, it seemed.

She nervously cleared her throat, flushing under his curious scrutiny. She forced herself to relax, to think carefully. She had more than her own needs, desires and fears to consider.

"I am intended to be . . . sort of . . . an envoy to the Community from the Cherokee Nation. And you are right, Duncan MacLeod. I am here to do more than join the Community. I am here to offer haven, a place where Immortals of the Community can be safe, free from exploitation, from hunters, from the Eastern Dawn. It was thought . . . I believed it would be better understood, more believable, coming from a member of the Community itself."

"And what do you ask in return?" MacLeod asked.

"Knowledge, MacLeod. History. Our people were stripped of theirs. We are determined not only to rebuild what we lost, but to ensure that it happens to no other people ever again. What the Immortals represent is a repository of knowledge like no other." She leaned forward, speaking intently. "We can help preserve the Community, MacLeod."

"The Community is not about political alliances, Kirin," MacLeod said. "It is a highly personal act of trust. It is about being an Immortal, about the preservation of our Race, about stopping the Game . . . and has nothing to do with the Cherokee Nation." He sighed and passed his hand over his face and for the first time Kir realized the tense lines around his eyes and the set of the shoulders radiated fatigue and preoccupation with other matters. "Look, Ms. Storm, if the Cherokee Nation wants to talk to me about their struggle and whether I, personally, want to help them, then fine, let's have that conversation. But I do not speak for the Community. I am merely a conduit, a guardian of its members when I can, and a participant. I don't know what you've heard," he stood and held his hand out to her, indicating she should stand as well. "But you can ignore any of the rumors, the myths, the silly stories that have been told." He turned and headed back into the exercise area. "I'll see you out."

She followed him as far as the door. He was in the center of the big space when she called out, "What silly stories?"

He turned, then chuckled and shook his head. "Nothing. People just seem to think I have more influence over the Community than I do. Immortals are a quirky, stubborn, independent lot. No one can be said to 'lead' them, certainly not me. Anyway, I'm sorry you wasted your time coming all the way here for nothing."

Kir was confused, intrigued, fascinated. The mission she had been sent to accomplish had suddenly changed complexion considerably. Killing time to gather her thoughts, she wandered to one of the weapon racks on the wall. Her own sword was tucked carefully in her duster now draped over her arm. She didn't trust this man enough to spar with blades but she would love to see him in action, to test him. To test herself against a worthy adversary for a change. She touched one of the poles. Its surface was worn to a fine sheen from long use.

He stood, hands on hips in the middle of the big room, watching as she lay down her coat and took the staff off the wall, swinging it experimentally over her head, across her back, around her waist to be held parallel to the floor once more. She looked at MacLeod with a slightly raised eyebrow, pleased when a mischievous grin crossed his face. So he wasn't so dour and serious all the time, after all.

He pointed to her boots. "Shoes off," he instructed, moving to the wall and toeing off his own shoes and pulling off his socks. MacLeod took a staff and moved to the center of the room, taking an easy stance. Kir enjoyed watching the easy ripple of muscles under his tee-shirt. This might be fun.

They sparred carefully for several minutes during a process of both warm up and mutual assessment. MacLeod was older, stronger, slightly taller, but Kir was lightening fast. In ten minutes both were sweating, each smiling with the effort, the challenge of a worthy opponent. Then he swirled and went low, sweeping with his leg instead of the staff and her feet flew out from under her, landing with a breath-stealing thud on her back. He courteously helped her to her feet, only to have her pull him down as she caught him behind the knee with the long pole, rolling to her feet and bringing the staff down in a hard blow straight to his neck, where he caught the end with his hand. They froze in a momentary tableau.

"I'm prepared to call it a draw," he said breathlessly. "Are you?"

"Don't patronize me, MacLeod," Kir said with a frown as she gave him a hand up. "I know when someone is pulling their punches.

"Just because I choose not to close in for the kill doesn't mean I'm pulling punches, Kirin Storm." His face was suddenly closed and hard. "I don't kill unless there's no other way." He carefully wiped off the staff and returned it to its mount.

He turned to see her dark eyes regarding him speculatively. She was magnificent, he thought. A few strands of her long, black hair had escaped the twin thick braids she wore, and hung in fine tendrils around her flushed face. But it was her flashing eyes that made his heart stir.

"Why haven't I met you before?" he asked.

"Perhaps our spirits were not yet ready for such a meeting," she answered.

"You may be right," he said with a soft musical laugh, moving to the opposite wall and picking up his shoes. "Let me be very clear. I cannot and do not speak for the Community." He stood up and turned, meeting her eye. His expression had that slightly mischievous hint to it again. "There are times when I'm lucky to speak coherently for myself."

But Kir was not satisfied with that easy answer and moved in close until she could see the sweat pooled in the cleft at the bottom of his neck, the dark brown eyes burning into hers. "I want to joint the Community, MacLeod," she stated firmly.

After a moment of silence he shook his head. "No, Kirin. Not yet. The Community is about trust. It requires that you both give and take something terribly personal and once done it cannot be undone. Political reasons aren't enough."

"I trust you, MacLeod."

"Then you are a fool," he said harshly. "You don't even know me." He reached out and pushed a stray hair off of her face. "But if you're interested in getting to know me, we could continue this conversation over dinner." His voice had lowered and was tinged with interesting overtones that made a slight chill run over her back.

"You are wrong, MacLeod," she said calmly. "I have a gift for reading people, for seeing into their souls." She put her long, tapered fingers on his chest where his shirt was damp from exertion. "You are a complicated man, but . . .you have a good heart." She could have said more because the man radiated a strength of spirit like none she'd ever seen. He muted it, hid it, possibly even from himself, but for her it was like a warm fire on a cold night.

"But dinner would still be nice," she said with a smile.

Now what? Mac thought. It's been so long since I've asked a woman out I've forgotten what to do next.

"Well, there are no restaurants or hotels around, so if you don't mind, I can fix something here," he improvised.

"You? Cook?" she sounded a little incredulous.

"I've been around for awhile, Ms. Storm," he replied with a rueful smile. "I have learned a few survival skills."

"I just supposed the lady downstairs did all that kind of thing for you . . ." she replied, her embarrassed hesitation echoing his sudden discomfort at the sudden shift in the relationship to distinctly male/female.

"No. Actually she's my Watcher. They step in sometimes to keep me properly fed and clothed when my life gets a little out of hand, but otherwise I prefer to take care of myself. Although I must admit Stella does attempt to mother me from time to time." He spoke as he led her downstairs. "This is the headquarters of the Western Watcher Region and she actually runs the entire area." He led her into the rooms to the rear of the building. They had been converted to offices and storage areas lined with shelves and shelves of books and data storage disks. There were three men and two women working at terminals, speaking softly into voice transcribers over headsets, watching screens as their words were recorded into a permanent record. Stella looked up from her own terminal as they entered.

"Stella, I'd like you to meet Kirin Storm. Ms. Storm, this is Stella Mikulsky, Regional Chief of the Dawson Historical Society." The woman was tiny and round and was wearing an apron with a floral pattern that made her look even rounder. She stood and reached across, taking Kirin's hand in her own small one, studying her with bright blue eyes.

"I was just looking up your Chronicle, Ms. Storm. It's a pleasure to meet you. Are you here to join the Community?"

"Stella, don't," Mac said in a warning tone. "Please excuse Stella. She's nothing if not enthusiastic about the Community." He addressed his Watcher. "Ms. Storm will be staying with us overnight. Could you show her to an unoccupied bedroom?"

"But Sean and Adam . . ."

"Aren't due back until tomorrow at the earliest," he finished her sentence. "Give her Sean's room. If they come back before she leaves, he fits better on the couch than Adam or me."

"Look, I don't want to put anybody out . . ."

"You aren't. My . . . friends aren't scheduled to be back from Los Angeles for a few days."

Stella sighed the sigh of a martyr. "Well, okay. I'll see what we've got in the kitchen since you'll be having a guest for dinner."

"I'll fix dinner, Stella."

"You can't feed this poor woman out of that hot plate you call a kitchen upstairs!" Stella sounded horrified.

"No, I'm going to cook, Stella. In the main kitchen. I can cook, you know." MacLeod was beginning to get irritated.

"But . . ."

"Stella." MacLeod voice sounded a warning. The woman sighed, looking at Kirin with narrow eyes.

"Well," she huffed, "Do you mind if I at least check to make sure we've got groceries?"

"Since when do we not have enough groceries to feed an army?" MacLeod asked with a twisted smile. "Whenever Sean and Adam are around we don't eat meals around here," he told Kirin. "They just graze all day."

"And whenever they're not around I have to constantly put real food in front of you or you would just eat that high protein tofu crap. Can't be good for you," Stella huffed. "I don't know how they do it," she said ruefully to Kirin. "Those other two are whip thin and eat like there's no tomorrow. This guy has more muscles than Michaelangelo's "David" and all he eats is rabbit food and bean curd. Bleah!"

On that disgusted note, she bustled off, motioning for Kirin to follow.

Kirin took a shower in a bathroom dominated by masculine accouterments of shave gel and deodorant. The warm water eased some of the tension that had been building ever since the Elders had started to pressure her into joining the Community. She had surprised herself when she reiterated her wish to join to MacLeod. She was not normally an impulsive person. But no one had ever generated the almost instantaneous sense of trust that MacLeod had. Was it simple physical attraction? She would have to figure that part out. Surely she wasn't so susceptible to her own raging hormones that her judgment would be so impaired. She dried her long black hair, brushing it until it shown and her arm ached. She reached back to divide it and braid it, but stopped herself, deciding to leave it loose. She also decided not to think about why as she dressed in a soft red sweater and form-fitting black pants.

The mouth-watering smell of cooking onions finally drew her into the kitchen, where she found Duncan MacLeod carefully pouring spices into the palm of his hand, crushing them and adding them to the pot bubbling on the stove. He turned and his mouth twisted at her unabashed giggle. He was wearing Stella's flowery apron over a blue cashmere sweater and light brown chinos. "You don't like my attire?" he asked with a broad smile.

"I like your attire just fine," she said, still giggling. "It's your dignity that's in jeopardy. Anything I can do to help?"

"My dignity was lost somewhere in the 17th Century, Ms. Storm," he replied. "And yes, why don't you chose a wine for us." He pointed to a floor-to-ceiling rack at the back of the big kitchen decorated in red tile and warm oak furnishings.

"By the way," Kir said, looking over an enviable collection of wines, especially in this day and age, "Call me Kir or Kirin, please. Should I choose white or red?"

"Red. We're having homemade pasta in marinara sauce, so a dry red would be nice. And you can call me Duncan, or Mac. Well, actually most people call me Mac or MacLeod. I don't know why."

Kir watched MacLeod out of the corner of her eye as she inspected the wines. He had showered and his hair was still slightly damp, hanging in soft waves to his shoulders. He was, without doubt, the most magnificent male specimen she had ever seen. It was hard not to stare. She finally tore her eyes away, grabbing a red Bordeaux.

She showed him the bottle, but couldn't help giggling again at the site of the frilly, flowered apron.

"All right, all right," he laughed, taking it off over her protests. "Stella made me wear it because this is her favorite sweater and she didn't want me to get it dirty."

Kir took it from his hand and, slapping his hand away, put the apron back over his head. "No, Duncan," she said softly, her eyes full of laughter. "Stella's right. It's a lovely sweater, it looks wonderful on you and we wouldn't want anything to spoil it." She moved around behind him, taking her time to tie the strings in back into a careful bow, then turning him around again. "There, that's much better. I promise not to laugh again." But her eyes betrayed her.

"Yeah, right," he said. "Oh, well. At least I can provide a little entertainment as well as culinary expertise."

The banter continued as the dinner was prepared and served on the oak table where they could sit in front of a window with a view of woods along an old creek bed in the back. Dusk had settled and Duncan had lit a couple of candles as the meal was laid in all its sumptuous splendor. He lowered the lights in the room, gesturing grandly for her to sit. "Your dinner is served, mademoiselle," he said formally, folding a napkin over his sleeve.

She curtseyed carefully, then started as a sudden frown crossed Mac's face. "What's . . ." then she felt it. Another Immortal. No more than one. And she had left her sword upstairs. Dumb, dumb, dumb, she thought to herself, going into a defensive crouch as the door slammed open and two tall men practically blew into the room and stopped cold.

The older of the two looked at Mac, looked at Kir and a slow smile spread across his face. The other, tall, thin, pale and looking quite young -- but probably isn't, Kir reminded herself -- remained expressionless, his body incredibly still.

"Well, well, well," the first one said, "what have we here?"

"Sean! Adam!" Mac stammered uncomfortably. "You weren't supposed to be back until tomorrow at the earliest."

The one who had spoken didn't take his eyes off Kir. "The conference was boring. Adam wanted to leave after I gave my speech, so we came back." He stepped forward, offering his hand to Kir. "I'm Sean, and you are?" he inquired.

"This is Kirin Storm of the Cherokee Nation," MacLeod said before she could open her mouth. He sounded distinctly irritated.

"Cherokee Nation?" the tall, thin man finally spoke. The question, the voice, the intonation carried a multitude of meanings and Kir had a stomach lurching attack of vertigo as instinctive realization invaded her psyche. She felt someone grab her arm.

"Kir, are you all right?" Mac asked, shocked by the sudden lack of color in the Indian woman's otherwise lovely mocha-colored complexion. She shook off his hand and slowly walked up to the second man, reaching out to touch his face almost reverently, murmuring something.

He looked over at Mac, eyebrow raised in question.

"My Cherokee is a little rusty," MacLeod responded wryly, "but I think she said, "It is an honor to greet you, grandfather.""

Methos took her hand and held it, smiling crookedly. "Well, I guess any attempt to conceal my identity just hit the dust."

Sean had found his way to the stove, lifting the lid off the pot and sniffing. "Mmmm. MacLeod's famous marinara sauce. But you didn't make enough pasta! Never mind, I'll fix some more." He bustled around the kitchen, rummaging in the pantry.

"Hell of a fashion statement, Mac," the oldest Immortal said with a smirk.

Mac looked down, having forgotten he still had on Stella's apron. He whipped it off, tossing it on a countertop with a bit more force than necessary.

Kir was awestruck at the notion of meeting the Oldest Immortal. A man who had lived since before recorded history began, had been nurtured in the cradle of civilization during the time of the Pharaohs, during the rise and fall of Rome, had seen tribes and peoples and history pass before him, recording them in his mind and heart like a living Rossetta Stone.

Methos released Kir's hand with a small pat. "I'm not sure grandfather is a particularly good term, Ms. Storm. Mac is fond of calling me 'old man'. Less dignified but more accurate." He removed his coat, and Kir watched him hang it on a hook against the wall. He moved with a studied, languid ease that fascinated her. Everything about him fascinated her. But his green-gold eyes were hooded, emotional barriers high and hard as though painfully fearful of intrusion, of hurt. Something about her, something she had done or said had already alienated him. She realized she had been holding her breath when some synapse fired, insisting that she needed more air.

Mac had watched Kir watch Methos, and Sean had watched all three, finally shaking his head at the complex thoughts and emotions swirling thickly around the room. Living around Duncan MacLeod and Methos may be a lot of things, he decided. But boring was not one of them.

After a few awkward moments, the four of them finally sat down to dinner. Kir was initially stunned into silence in the presence of the three men, who comfortably joked and sniped at each other. Mac, however, was answering in monosyllables to Sean's stories about a psychiatrists' conference he had just attended. Methos picked up on the stories, describing the attendees with quiet satirical word pictures that made her almost choke on her food several times. Soon Sean, Methos and Kir were tossing comparative descriptions of stereotypes of psychiatrists, then lawyers, then doctors, and on to other maligned professions. Mac watched with a gentle smile, joining in infrequently.

Finally Mac poured the last of the wine and started clearing their plates.

"Don't you need your apron for that?" Methos asked, the jibe seemed a little more cruel than amusing.

"I'll manage," Mac responded with a grim smile. "Why don't you guys take Kir into the den, start a nice fire and I'll join you when I'm done?"

Sean opened his mouth to say something, but was stopped by a look from Methos, who rose, taking the plates out of Mac's hands. "No, my friend. Why don't you take your guest into the den while Sean and I clean up? We've intruded on your evening enough as it is, I think."

He retrieved the apron from the countertop, carefully pulled it over his head and tied it at his waist. If anything, it looked sillier on him than it had on MacLeod.

Kir just couldn't get over the intense sense of wonder that had struck her almost dumb when the other two Immortals had first entered. Her focus shifted from one to the next, to the next and back again. Her unerring instincts were screaming at her, but she couldn't figure out what they were saying. Sean was obviously a youngster, the youngest Immortal she had met in 100 years. But he had a strength, an innocence and inner peace about him that was deeply moving. MacLeod was like a powerful, deep river of spirit and emotion that carried them all wherever he moved. And Methos was an ageless wonder, like a tree with so many rings it was impossible to fathom them all. They were each utterly unique and yet . . . connected.

That was it, she thought, looking from face to face. Especially Sean, as though he were at the pinnacle of some emotional isosceles triangle.

"My God," she whispered. "You're related, aren't you?" She flushed even as she said it. It was impossible. Immortals weren't related - to anybody.

The three men were silent and still, staring at her. Mac's eyes had gone wide and dark. Then he shared looks with the other two.

"Well," Sean said quietly. "Da always does attract the most interesting people, doesn't he, brother Adam?"

It took two brandies by the promised fire in the den before Kir stopped trembling and began to absorb half of what Duncan told her. The very notion that Immortals were the offspring of an entire tribe of people, now slowly becoming extinct despite MacLeod's best efforts to stop the Game, spoke to her heart and her history in a way that touched her soul. As she sat and listened, watching Duncan's soft brown eyes fill with emotion as he talked about his son, about his friend who was also his son's half-brother, about the history and survival of his people, she was overcome.

"Kir," he whispered, touching the tear that made a slow path down her cheek. His voice was accompanied by the gentle crackle and pop of the wood in the fireplace. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you sad."

"I'm not sad, Duncan." She looked into his face, unable to resist touching. "You. The three of you, are . . . like a miracle. A family of Immortals. I didn't think it was possible."

"Sean was a miracle," Duncan whispered. "The rest," he shrugged. "Stopping the Game created its own set of problems. To this day I don't know whether it was the right thing to do. But I just know that life is precious. Each life. Mortal or Immortal. There are things worth dying for, but the older I get the shorter the list gets. I guess Methos learned that a long time ago."

"He seems oddly vulnerable for a 5,000 year old man," Kir observed.

Mac rumbled a laugh low in his throat. "A combination of exquisitely open to hurt and yet capable of absorbing and inflicting infinite pain is our Methos," he said. "I've known him for almost two centuries and yet feel I hardly know him at all."

"I know one thing," Kir said. "You and Sean are his universe. I can see it in his eyes, the way he watches you and his brother. To care so much after living so long . . . I don't really understand it."

Mac watched the shadows of flame flicker against Kir's golden skin. He was intensely moved and aroused by her presence. It had been a long, long time since he had allowed himself that feeling. He refused to let his other failures intrude, to allow the long list of those he had loved and lost to defeat him before he even allowed the possibility to arise. He reached out and ran his forefinger along the well-defined tendons of her neck, watching chill bumps rise on her skin as he did. Then his hand moved to touch her long silken fall of hair, moving the black curtain aside so he could place his mouth near her ear, moving slowly down to her neck, then cautiously to her lips.

She had a wonderful mouth, wide and pliant. A warm, wet tongue that tasted and felt like autumn. He felt her hands stroke through his hair, pulling them closer, their breaths mingling like shared incense. The moment lasted, sweet and lingering, before he pulled away.

"You move me, Kirin Storm," he whispered breathlessly.

She smiled. "You surprise me, Duncan MacLeod," she murmured in return. "You are none of the things I thought you might be, and so many other things I had only hoped."

Mac let go, moving back, increasing the distance between them as he took a deep breath. "I think we stop now," he said.

Kir cocked her head at him curiously. "Why? Is there some house rule that I don't know about? What about what I want?"

"That's why we must stop," he said, standing and walking a little stiffly to the fireplace, leaning against the mantle. "You have an extremely important decision yet to make. I told you that joining the Community was an intensely personal act. It shouldn't be done based on momentary passion."

"Momentary passion? Is that what you think I feel?" her voice rose as she did, standing to face him.

"You have no idea what I feel, MacLeod! To know that Immortals are truly a family, a tribe whose ancestry and history has been lost, just as my mortal tribe's history was lost! It is no longer an option, Duncan. There is no decision left to be made. Whatever there is or might be between you and me, I will become part of the Community!" Her eyes were fierce, the power behind her words pushing him back.

Her long hair fell in a curtain that cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. Her eyes were black, but full of a golden fire that filled the room.

"Do it, MacLeod. Do it now!" she insisted.

He paused, then hesitantly reached for the knife he carried in a leather sheath at his belt, drawing it out. He handed it to her.

"You must cut me," he whispered, showing her his left palm, already marked with a deep red scar. "Then I will cut your neck, releasing your Quickening and mine at the same time. Listen to me, Kir. I will open my mind to you. It's up to you to accept this, to give to me a part of what you are, and to take back a small portion of all that we are. If you do not trust, if you cannot do this, please say so now."

She took the knife from his hand and held his palm. Her hand was steady, but she paused, looking into MacLeod's warm brown eyes. Her sense of her place in the world shifted as though someone had turned a kaleidoscope, refocusing the future in a whole new direction. She took a deep breath, and cut.

Duncan fought the nausea that washed over him again and again, making him swallow repeatedly, kept him breathing shallowly. The drug made the room tilt and spin and interfered with his ability to focus his vision or his mind. Every second of resistance to its inexorable pressure had increased the sharp electric pain along his limbs. His sweat-soaked clothes clung to him, alternately making him shiver with cold and shock when the drug didn't make him feel like he was burning up with heat.

Sun had let him sit for awhile, letting the drug take hold again. They had to administer it ever more frequently as his system learned to adjust. Sun's face startled him as it seemed to simply appear in front of his face. He must have drifted off. He had long since lost track of how long he had been in this grim little room, listening to the same voice over and over again. Days at least. Maybe weeks.

"Duncan, Duncan, Duncan," he intoned in his soft, sibilant voice. "You are sooo disappointing. I've worked on this formula for a decade now. I've tried it on others of our kind and it worked almost perfectly. I think you're just not being cooperative, and that really irritates me. You don't want to irritate me, do you Duncan?"

The face wavered out of view and came back at a different angle off to the side. "You know that what I want is for the best, don't you? These mortals, they all want to kill us. They hate us, MacLeod." The voice grew harsh. "Even the ones who say they don't. They envy us. They don't trust us, even though we are their natural leaders. A thousand years ago we were their gods, and now they only want to kill us."

"Not . . . all," Duncan muttered. His tongue felt thick and unresponsive. They gave him food and water only intermittently, but even what they gave him didn't stay down long since the multitude of drugs he was being given ate away at his insides, only to ultimately heal, then be damaged again.

"It's up to you to protect us, Duncan. You have to tell me where they all are so I can save them, bring them into the fold." The voice went on and on, murmuring, insinuating. But over the interminable hours and days Duncan had developed a technique for resistance that didn't prevent the pain, just made him less susceptible to it and to the drug-induced need to reveal whatever his tormentors asked. He had simply retreated behind the power that was always a quiet, usually ignored gentle noise in his head. Not listening. It was the first time that connection had actually helped him, providing a means to subvert the drug that made him want to speak, to tell everything he knew.

The weeks passed in a haze of drug-induced pain punctuated by short periods of respite where he was chained to the wall in his cell. Those were almost as bad as the questioning once the drug wore off, leaving him sick and exhausted but with his mind briefly clear and able to speculate on the next session of interrogation. The only access to bathing facilities was the small, foul toilet he could barely reach with his shackles on, and the periodic soaking he would get when they simply took a water hose to him.

Ultimately, though, they would escort him back to the same small horrid room, lifting him onto the table again, each day the same pattern, each day Sun would ask the same questions. Each day Mac would struggle all over again to push deeper and deeper away from external awareness until he was hardly cognizant of his surroundings. Over time, Sun's patience began to wear, the questions more shrill, the dosages higher, frequently sending him over the edge into unconsciousness.

"This is getting ridiculous!" Abbas spat. "Maybe your heart just isn't in it, Sun. Or maybe your precious research isn't as good as you thought it was!"

"The formula works!" Sun said, pacing the glass walled office off the observation room where MacLeod lay, momentarily pushed into unconsciousness by a near-fatal dose of Sun's potion-du-jour. "It's just that he's . . . he's . . . got some kind of resistance, some trick that he does. It's like he mentally escapes from its effects. I need time! I need to study this!"

"That's crap. Your job is to get him to tell us where the members of the Community are. Either you get the job done, or the Council will have to hear about how useless your research really turned out to be. I'll give you one more week, Kiem Sun. If he won't talk, I certainly have another use for him."

The next day the guards held him while they cut away the tattered pants he had worn since the day of his capture before strapping him down again. Fearing some new level of torment he quickly retreated deep into his mental hiding place even before Sun injected his poison. These days that dark place had become a haven, the only time he escaped from either physical or emotional agony. But this time he was dragged out by a long, raw scream, only later realizing the voice was his own as a jolt of electricity burned through every sensitive spot in his body, his chest, his groin, his legs and arms. His back arched up off the long table to which he had been strapped and he yanked convulsively against the restraints until he felt blood slick his arms and ankles. Then it stopped so suddenly that the absence of pain was almost as intense as the pain itself.

His ragged breathing filled the small bare room, then the voice that had taken over his nightmares came again.

"Well, my old friend, it seems we must resort to the old ways. Please don't make me do this." The voice was full of kindness, of friendship, of sympathy. "All I want is to help. All I want is to save your friends, to keep them from harm. Isn't that what we all want? You have the power to save them, Duncan. All you have to do is tell me where they are, lead me to them. We are the same, all of us. Our Race is destined to lead these poor mortals, to take care of them. But we must be united. We must pool our power. We must protect ourselves from their greed, their fear, their envy. Now, Duncan, help me help them. Where are they?"

"Go fuck yourself," were the only words that the raw throat managed to utter.

The pain came again . . . and again . . . until he could smell his flesh burn and no sound would come from a throat screamed raw and bleeding.

Bar Abbas watched impassively as the naked man screamed soundlessly, thrashed and convulsed, ripping open once again the self-inflicted gashes along the restraints on his arms and legs. This had been going on for three days.

"This is getting really tiresome, Sun," he sighed "Why don't you just let me kill him and get it over with?"

The small oriental man with the smooth features and bland smile looked at Abbas with disdain. "You are a fool, Abbas. He is of no use to us dead. At worst, he is a magnet for a rescue attempt, bait for a trap. At best he is a fount of knowledge and power, a means to control the entire Immortal population."

Abbas' lips pressed together. He had survived over 2,000 years by knowing how to be useful, by knowing when to keep his mouth shut. Master thief, assassin, jack-of-all-trades, he served whoever was in power. So far, it had always been mortals who used his considerable talents. Somehow he found working for another Immortal, especially this arrogant little upstart, particularly grating.

Kiem Sun watched his subject writhe, his eyes gleaming with fascinated interest. Leaning forward to speak into the microphone, his voice droned on and on with endless patience until even Abbas squirmed in discomfort. He had seen torture before, but this seemed utterly pointless. He had realized over the past weeks that the man was insane with hatred for the Scot, had lost all sense of perspective and reason.

"Well," he finally said in disgust, rising. "Enjoy yourself, Sun. As far as I'm concerned this is going nowhere fast. You have no gift for or understanding of the uses of torture at all. You need to use what he fears most, and I don't think it's pain. I've heard there's only one thing that really bothers the Highlander, and that's a Quickening. They say he can hardly stand it anymore."

Sun looked up at him, his lips thinned in frustration. He looked again at the figure on the other side of the glass. Whether he was conscious was questionable, but it usually didn't take long for him to come around. It made it all too tempting to just keep going, to see how much the man could stand before he went completely insane. He remembered MacLeod's superior, smug attitude towards his attempt to find a formula to make mortals into fearless warriors. He had actually had the arrogance to pour out the last of his precious fluid, destroying centuries of painstaking research.

Sun closed his eyes, meditating for a moment to control his anger. MacLeod's insanity wouldn't get them what they needed. He couldn't allow his hate for this man to get in the way of his purpose.

"All right," he sighed. "We'll pick this up again tomorrow morning, and we'll try it your way."

He clicked on the microphone. "Hose him off and give him some water," he instructed the guard standing just inside the door of the room behind the glass, then he went to dinner.

At some point Duncan slept, his body demanding rest even as his mind raged and wandered, seeking a way out. He was not above fear. Dread filled every pore as each heartbeat brought him closer to when they would start again. Kiem Sun hated him with a slow, acid hate that made him want to draw this out. And draw it out he had and, Mac had no doubt, would continue to do. He was aware of his own fear, accepted it. His meditations didn't try to eliminate it, only manage it. Torture and pain seemed to be an inevitable consequence of Immortality. It was too tempting to test the limits of the mind when the body, in essence, had no limitations. For now he had managed to let the pain become a separate entity apart from some fundamental essence he required to maintain his sanity. Or at least what he thought of as his sanity. Sean was always saying sanity in an Immortal was a relative concept. It was during those thoughts of his son that he finally drifted off.

Only to jerk awake at the surge of Immortal presence. Several of them. This time Sun was followed into the room by Bar Abbas.

"Good morning, Duncan," Sun smiled benignly. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Just dandy," Mac tried to reply, but his voice was a horse croak, his throat and mouth dry as dehydration and anticipation of pain sapped the moisture away.

"Oh, good. I want you to feel good, Duncan. I have absolutely no desire to cause you any pain at all." Sun gently stroked Mac's forehead, pushing the long black hair away from the pale face. "This could all end right now, my friend. It would be so much easier on everyone."

"I think," Mac carefully pulled enough saliva into his mouth to form a sentence. "I think I've told you my views about that."

"Ah, yes. Go fuck yourself was your last instruction, I believe. Well, we'll see how you feel about that shortly." Kiem Sun's dark eyes were hard and brittle as he nodded at the guards, who unstrapped their captive, yanking him off the table. Mac's knees gave out beneath him, removing any thought that he might have an opportunity to even make a small struggle of it. As Mac knelt naked on the floor, his head swimming with the sudden change in position, Kiem bent over him, lifting his head so their eyes met.

"You see Bar Abbas has a different idea about how best to gain your cooperation. About what your worst fears might be, and I've decided to let him have his way. Remember, Duncan, you can end this any time, and it would be better for you, better for all your friends and better for us." He nodded at the big, bald man in the khaki uniform standing at the door. Two guards brought in a chair then unceremoniously pulled MacLeod from the floor and tied him into it at his legs, arms and waist.

Abbas watched impassively then tested the bonds himself, but even that small amount of movement had obviously exhausted the Highlander after weeks of little food or water and unrelenting pain. There appeared to be no physical strength left to restrain. But the brown eyes were still glittering and there was evidently no diminished capacity in the spirit that resided there. That was what had to be broken, Abbas was convinced.

"Well, Highlander, it's just you and me and all those little energies whizzing around inside that crowded brain of yours, isn't it?" Abbas was friendly, matter-of-fact, but there was a private glee hidden in that smile.

Mac had no energy for bravado. They both knew what the object of the exercise was. "I doubt that you're interested in idle chitchat, Abbas," Mac said.

"No, you're right about that. I'm interested in . . . Quickenings." Abbas was rewarded when MacLeod went suddenly supernaturally still. "I've heard it's possible to take too many. That after awhile it becomes quite painful." Abbas leaned over, putting his weight on the arms of MacLeod's chair, his face inches from the Scot. "And I thought in the interest of scientific inquiry we might just try to find out." And Abbas smiled as he saw MacLeod's earth-brown eyes dilate and a fine sheen of sweat break out on that smooth forehead.

"You wouldn't do that, Abbas. Kill your own kind for no reason? That's insane," Mac could hardly get the words out. "There are only a few hundred of us left," MacLeod felt the words pour out of him in a desperate babble. "You'd be driving your own people into extinction," he shouted as Abbas retreated to the door and opened it. Mac realized he had known it all along, but in his exhaustion hadn't admitted it to himself. It was Adelle Jackson, tall, magnificent, her long hair in beaded cornrows hanging halfway down her back. She was much thinner than the last time he had seen her. Their eyes met, hers traveling over his naked, bound body.

"Hello, Duncan," she said calmly. Her arms were bound behind her, and the two guards pushed her into a chair placed directly in front of him, tying her down. Their eyes never left each other. The two had never been friends. He had found her arrogant and overbearing even though she had worked diligently to support the Community. And she had a significant gift with the Voice that she had used over the centuries in service, first to her tribe as a healer of the body and mind, then to the world as a highly trained and talented psychologist. She, in turn, found him controlling and judgmental, a little too full of himself, a little too handsome, for her comfort. But they both had the same core of values, recognized in each other a kinship, if not a friendship.

"Adelle, I'm sorry," Duncan whispered.

"Don't let them break you, MacLeod," she insisted, her eyes hard and demanding. All Mac could do was nod carefully, his throat too tight to speak as Abbas stepped out of the room, nodding to the guard who carried a heavy broadsword.

Adelle's black eyes met his with a fierceness born of a thousand generations of a warrior people. There was fear, but there was also defiance and courage.

"Be well, Highlander," she whispered, using the talent in her Voice to convey the full strength of her benediction.

But MacLeod couldn't prevent the anguished "NOOO!" that tore through him as the sword swung. It had happened far, far too many times. But this one was even worse. First came a terrible ripping away, the slashing psychic wound when Adelle was severed from the connection he carried. He felt like he was bleeding away inside from something precious violently, irrevocably lost.

Then came the terrible noise, the rising of energy, the sweep of centuries of power, of experience, of lifetimes weighing down his soul until he though he would be crushed into nothingness. Then the pain. The awful, wrenching burning of the body, of the mind and heart. Energy filled him until it overflowed, leeched off his skin, slamming into the furniture, the lights, throwing the poor, hapless guard onto his back, knocking him senseless. Every nerve screamed in agony, every memory, every life he had ever taken awakened and fought for attention, for recognition, every soul he had stolen cried out its loss. He wanted to die, wanted it to end, never to have to do this again, but all he could do was sob as his body wrenched against its constraints as it instinctively sought escape.

He thought it couldn't possibly get worse but it did as he felt it reach across the distance. The energy and pain escaping no matter how hard he tried to stop it, skittering over that invisible link to that other anguished soul, the one he had sworn never to hurt again. He felt Methos curl into himself, accepting the overflow, unable or unwilling to stop the shared agony. Then finally, for a tiny moment, he felt Sean, and if nothing else could break him, that poignant touch of fear and loneliness could.

The tidal wave washed over and through him, leaving him shuddering, gasping, with every touch of air, every breath, every sound magnified until there was no room for thought. But now Bar Abbas was there. His voice whispering in his ear, filling his mind, telling him that more would die if he did not relent, if he did not cooperate. All he had to do was tell him where they all were. Lead them to safety. Otherwise they would all die anyway, and he would have failed. It would be so easy, so right. Everyone would be so grateful to him. The sounds hurt his ears, his head. The other voices were still clamoring, shouting for attention.

His forced his eyes to focus on the ceiling where every gray paint flake stood out in three dimensional relief. He didn't want to look at Abbas but he could smell him, could feel the air currents move around him. The man leaned over him, inserting himself into his line of sight. He put his hand on Duncan's chest, watching his reaction as he hissed and flinched at the contact. The hand felt like a hot brand that sank deep into his flesh. Abbas expression was bemused, and he let his hand trail down, finally clamping it hard over his groin, where a hot, throbbing post-Quickening erection gave him something to grab.

Mac couldn't help himself as he jerked against the touch, crying out with the agony of too much stimulation, too many senses overloaded into a cacophony of sight and sound and touch and emotion.

"So it's true, Highlander," Abbas whispered. "It is possible to take too many. How very, very interesting. How does it feel? Does it burn? Do you feel like you're going to go insane? What will happen to your precious Community when you do? Will they all go insane as well?"

Mac desperate dredged up some vestige of the Voice out of all the energy that still traced heatedly in his veins. "The Community will survive without me, Abbas. You want my power? Take it! It's what all of you want, isn't it? You can hardly stand it, can you?" MacLeod reached down for the last weapon he had available, pushing past the clamoring energy screaming in his brain. "You Want it, Abbas. You can taste it. All it takes is a quick cut and it will all be yours," Mac whispered, exhaustion quickly depleting his strength too far to continue.

For a long moment Abbas just looked into the ashen, sweat-slicked face. "You have no idea who I am, do you Highlander?" He didn't expect a response. Then he chuckled. "Ask your friend Methos someday, if either of you live that long. You have many talents, young man. But that one will not work on me." He shook his head. "No, for once Kiem Sun was right. I think your head is one best left right where it is."

"Because, my friend, you have something we want. Something you will soon desperately want to give us, I think." He gestured to the observation window, where Sun watched and after a moment a new presence surged against his mind, grating on his nerves like coarse sandpaper. The door opened and the guard brought in another Immortal whose hands were bound and mouth was gagged. They made the man watch while they dragged off Adelle's body and tied him in her place. Not a member of the Community, but a face he had seen before. He had seen almost all their faces at one time or another.

Franco. One of the small gang who had gone after Richie Ryan almost two hundred years before. He hadn't killed Mac's beloved student, but he had participated in that death. The kid wasn't that much older than Sean. The last time he'd seen him, the boy had been an insecure punk frightened half to death of the tall, dark executioner stalking Ryan's killer.

Now he was scared again, but not of the naked, bleeding, shivering man bound to the chair in front of him. It was Abbas who was the source of the man's fear. But Abbas ignored the boy, treating him as what he was, just a tool. Abbas was only interested in MacLeod, circling him like a hyena around prey that was just barely alive.

"Franco here says he knows you, MacLeod. Says you tried to kill him once. You know, you're Not one of his favorite people," the man said with a smile. "But the child is a liar and a thief." Abbas laughed. "Actually that's okay. So am I." Now he turned to Franco, his expression malevolent. "But he lied to me and thought he could get away with it." He looked into Franco's eyes, but the boy couldn't hold his gaze. Small whimpering sounds escaped from beneath the gag as tears gathered and dribbled down his face.

"But at least in death he will be useful, won't he, Duncan? And there are more. I can always find more." He leaned again over MacLeod. Mac could smell his sweat, could see it beading on the smooth head in painful detail. "How many will it take, MacLeod?"

Mac couldn't answer, couldn't speak. Adrenaline surged and he again strained against his bonds, desperate to stop this. If he could have stopped his own heart he would have, and as Abbas nodded to the guard and stepped outside the room he drew in a massive breath and pulled as far back physically as the chair allowed, sobbing against what he knew was coming.

The sword swung, and it came. Poor Franco. Such a wasted, useless life full of resentment and anger. Mac was reduced to wordless sobs, helpless against the onslaught. He would have screamed but there was nothing left inside. No words, nothing but need. It had to stop. It had to end. For all of them. For once again, the Oldest Immortal was there, the intolerable agony spreading uncontrollably out from his mind like a cancer, eating away at the people he loved.

"Forgive me, Darius," he whispered. He didn't know if he'd said the words aloud or only in his mind, but as he did, he began to cut away. One by one. Letting the connections go. Constantine. Grace. Amanda. The list went on. His friends, his acquaintances. Immortals he barely knew, but who had trusted him and now he was violating that trust. Finally the river of connections became a trickle, then only the thinnest thread as he cut away Connor and Kir. The last were the hardest. I love you, Sean he thought as he severed a connection that went well beyond the bonds formed within the Community. Then with more sorrow than he thought he was capable of feeling, he let Methos go without any farewell, certain that all Methos would feel would be relief and freedom.

His mind felt empty. The physical pain was only an annoyance. But the sense of failure, of betrayal of everything and everyone who had ever believed in him was more than he could bear. Then he felt Abbas again, his presence pressing against him like a breath of foul air.

Abbas looked curiously at MacLeod. He had been certain for a few minutes that the man had passed out. Not unexpected. But the expression was different. On the face. In the body. Curious.

"Well, my friend. Are you ready to talk to us?" he asked quietly. "All you have to do is nod yes, and I can make this stop, Duncan. No one else needs to die."

"Too . . . late," the man said, an odd smile in the pale face.

"Too late for what, Highlander?"

"It's gone. The connections. I couldn't find them now even if I wanted to." The voice was a mere whisper.

Abbas cocked his head unbelievingly. "You expect me to believe you just cut off the Community, just like that? After almost two hundred years? Come now, MacLeod. I'm not a fool." He signaled again to the booth and once again Mac felt another presence push against his overwrought senses.

"No!" he cried. "No one else needs to die! I can't tell you anything. My God, Abbas. This is pointless! Can't you feel it? Can't you tell?"

Mac couldn't even see who they had brought in, couldn't bring himself to look. Abbas examined the man, closed his eyes, searching with other senses. There was a difference. The presence was sharper, more defined. The Scotsman's presence had always felt/sounded like the roar of a crowd. Now it was more like a loud, clear bell.

"Damn you, Highlander," he whispered. "You think it's gonna' be that easy?" He nodded curtly to the guard and slipped out the door.

Mac heard the sword whip through the air, heard it bite into flesh, felt the Quickening rise . . . and felt Methos. No was the only thought he could form. No> he whispered again as the power rolled over and through him, and because of him touching that familiar presence once more. No. All this and he was still there. Still part of him. So ingrained into who he was, what he was that severing the Community had not been enough. Despair choked him, suffocated him and in desperation he made himself smaller, pulling away, cutting away at his own identity, hiding, scrabbling to find a place where Methos wasn't, where no part of him could be found, where he could become nothing, be nothing that could bring hurt anymore. A blank, dark, empty place. But even there he could feel him. He was only trying to escape himself, and as the Quickening energy whipped through him again, he knew there was no "place" even in his own mind to hide where Methos was not there also. So he could only . . . stop being.

"Even a small reconnaissance team will have to have valid identification before they can get close!" Connor argued. They had been going around and around the difficulties of mounting a rescue party for almost a month and so far no one had come up with a workable plan. Nerves were frayed to the breaking point and everyone was desperate to take a break except Methos, who continued to pace back and forth in front of the map of the Northeast, its lines and colors dotted with pins indicated Eastern Dawn and Cherokee Nation strongholds.

"Then we'll just have to find a way to get the right ID's," Methos stated firmly.

Modo, their expert on such matters, sighed in frustration. "They are changing codes every week. By the time I get them made up and into the hands of those who need them they are out of date. I can get them into the city, but not into the government compound." The small man did not flinch at Methos hard glare. "We'll need weeks or months to find a way to replicate the ID's fast enough to use them inside the compound. And I can't guarantee that they won't change their methods again in the meantime. They're not stupid, Methos. Going in there is sheer suicide."

Sean had been silent for most of the morning's session. They had been coming at the problem from every angle anyone could think of and he was beginning to lose hope that a solution could be found. And this morning, especially, he had an ugly, sick feeling that whatever they did, it would be too late.

"Not good enough!" Methos growled. "Do you have any idea what they're probably doing to him, even as we speak? I don't care what it takes, we've got to pull him out of there!" He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. Kir, standing in the back of the room with her arms crossed, shifted her gaze to the floor then closed her eyes. Connor's jaw clenched and Sean's face, already pale, blanched even whiter. They had all been trying NOT to think about that very thing, and here he had thrown it in their faces.

Modo just looked at him. "I'm only mortal, old man. Only human. I can't do miracles like coming back from the dead."

Touché Sean thought, watching for his brother's reaction. Methos had been impossibly hard on all of them, himself especially, ever since Mac had been taken. He needed to recognize that there were limits on how hard he could push.

But Methos' face had gone slack, his focus turned inward. At the same moment Sean felt an electric tingle along his arms and back and he instinctively dove towards his brother, catching him as he slammed to his knees.

"Wha . . .?" Connor started, as the two men collapsed in a heap to the floor, Methos crying aloud in pain.

Kir was instantly kneeling in front of them, knowing better than to touch, but wanting to help. "It's a Quickening. Duncan's taken a Quickening!" she whispered, recognizing the signs.

"Then he's alive, he's fighting!" Connor pounced on the idea that his clansman was trying for an escape.

The wrenching convulsions of reflected energy seemed to go on and on until at last Methos lay limp and gasping in Sean's arms.

"Did you sense anything?" Kir asked quietly, gently touching Sean's shoulder.

Sean shook his head as he tried to comfort Methos and tried to calm his own racing heart. "Not much. A small room. Pain. A lot of pain. Desperation. Sadness."

"Was he fighting? Did he get away?" Connor pressed.

"I don't know!" Sean answered. "My connection isn't strong enough! Adam?" he prompted the limp man in his arms. Methos had clasped Sean's hand as he fell, hanging on with a crushing grip. Gradually the grip relaxed and Methos disengaged, sitting up on his own.

The Oldest Immortal passed a shaking hand over his eyes. "Not . . . fighting. Something's wrong. It was a member of the Community. It . . . NOOOO!" A scream erupted from his throat and he scrambled backwards to the wall as though trying to escape what was coming.

"Christ!" Sean whispered, reaching for his brother again as the second Quickening took both of them. But Sean froze halfway there, a look of utter astonishment on his face as the sensation just . . . stopped.

Modo had witnessed the Immortals' bizarre reactions in awed confusion. He'd seen Mac MacLeod take a Quickening. It was an awesome sight, but this . . . both Methos and Sean were affected across some psychic connection that he couldn't begin to understand. But suddenly it was as if every one of the Immortals stopped breathing simultaneously. Then Connor slowly slid along the wall to the floor as a stream of words poured out in a language he didn't understand. Kir took a long intake of air, arching back, her long braids looping onto the floor.

"Oh, Spirit's Protect Us, NO!" she wailed.

Then Sean folded over onto himself with an inhuman cry of anguish that tore at the soul. He curled into a ball, hugging his knees, sobbing uncontrollably.

But at last it was Methos, sitting against the wall, his eyes distant, unfocused, his expression more puzzled than anything, who drew Modo's eye. He cocked his head as though listening for some distant, subtle sound, then his eyes grew large and he gasped. "No, Mac! Don't!" he choked. Then his breath stopped as his eyes rolled slowly back, his face went gray and he slowly slumped to the floor, motionless.

Kir was hugging herself, rocking back and forth, a small keening noise escaping from her throat. Modo moved to her side and pulled her to his chest where she lay her head. "He's gone," she whispered. "They've killed him."

Connor reached out to Methos, an instinctive reaction. He needed to do something, anything other than think about the sudden emptiness in his heart, to calm the raging confusion as the link that had so comfortably resided in his brain for almost 200 years shifted and moved and settled . . . elsewhere . . . somewhere other than with his clansman.

But Methos was dead.

Then the room was silent except for Sean MacLeod's brokenhearted weeping. Kir took a deep breath at last, pushing herself away from the comfort of Modo's burly arms. She was a healer and she reached out to the sobbing man, but stopped as Methos jerked awake with a noisy gasp, sat forward and stumbled to his feet, grabbing onto Connor who reached out to keep him from falling again. The look in the old man's eyes was wild, desperate, confused. Kir rose, reaching for his arms.

"Methos," she called gently, but he didn't hear her, struggling to push away, to move past her. "Adam!" she said sharply just before her head snapped back and pain exploded in her face. She found herself on the floor again, flat on her back.

He stood over her, fists clenching spasmodically. Hazel eyes glittered gold in a completely alien face and Kir felt a cold wash of sheer terror spread across her shoulders. The man had hovered on the edge of madness ever since they had brought him back from Rome and Duncan's death appeared to have finally pushed him over. She held her nearly dislocated jaw, unable to call out to him as he first bent down to gently touch Sean's bowed head, then stumbled from the room.

Kir shared a long, frightened look with Connor, who nodded then followed to make certain the ancient did no harm to himself or others while the healer moved to take Sean in her arms, trying to console the inconsolable.

Modo crept away, swallowing his own tears that welled up, both at the open agony of grief the Immortals displayed as well as a deep sense of personal loss. The small, burly man found a private corner and gave in to his own grief, never having realized before how much they had all come to depend on the one they had all jokingly called Boy Scout, derided and made fun of as being too handsome to be taken seriously, an over-anxious overachiever that drove them all crazy. MacLeod was supposed to be Immortal, immutable, as constant as time itself. Modo realized that the Highlander had become a unique symbol for the Nation -- ever strong, ever dedicated, ever caring. Someone they could trust to always be there in a time of need. It seemed impossible that he could really be gone.

Connor followed Methos as those long, thin legs carried him quickly up the stairs to the building's rooftop where the old man came to a halt at the edge. His hair had grown long during his captivity in Rome, and the cold Spring wind blew it up around his head like some separate, living thing. The two men stood looking out over the city, neither seeing the view.

The chilly wind bit into flesh and was a welcome distraction from the wrenching agony of Connor's thoughts and he decided he was actually glad neither of them had a coat. It also meant they did not have swords and, given the tension in the Oldest Immortal's stance, Connor was unsure whether the man was suicidal or homicidal, but he was certain it was probably one or the other. Yes, it was best that neither of them carried any lethal weapons.

The silence stretched out until each man became lost in his own churning thoughts, almost oblivious to the other. Then Methos' voice brought Connor abruptly back from a sad reverie of those days so very long ago when he had stumbled a brash young Immortal in the Highlands of Scotland. It had been such a wonder at the time. To find one of his own kind among his own clan. Such a rare blessing, like having a family again. And now he was gone. After 600 years -- gone.

"Tell Kir I'm sorry I hit her," Methos said roughly. "I . . . don't need a baby-sitter, Connor. I won't hurt myself or anyone else, at least not for the moment. I have . . . things to think about. Things to do." His voice drifted off, his thoughts elsewhere. "Right now I need to be alone. Please."

Connor gazed at the Oldest Immortal. The man had his arms crossed tightly across his chest. High spots of color from the chill wind accented the sharp, thin face. But he looked calm, almost serene. Connor couldn't decide whether or not he hated the man. It was hard to tell since it was impossible to tell which Methos you were dealing with at any point in time -- there were so many to chose from. How Duncan ever put up with him for so long I'll never understand, Connor thought to himself as he turned and retreated into the building to escape the cold.

Kir rocked Sean like a child until there were no more tears left, only dry, shaking hiccups in a persistently trembling body. Her own tears flowed silently down her face, dampening his dark, thick hair, so like Duncan's. He even smelled like his father, like deep woods and clean air. The room gradually darkened, and finally Sean pulled away, wiping his face and nose with his sleeve. The others had respectfully left them alone, although Kir was certain there were dozens of eyes watching the window, watching the door. Waiting for them to come out, to re-enter the world. She wasn't sure she could anymore.

Sean slowly stood and moved to the window. "I want to find his body," he whispered at last, his voice rough from his long bought with tears. "I want to bury him properly, as he deserved."

Kir stood and put her hands on his back, as she had so many times with his father. It seemed everything was reminding her of him, she thought. "We'll do what we can, Sean. But he will be remembered and honored by all of us and by the Nation until the end of time." A final tear traced it's way down her cheek and she angrily wiped it away.

"Sean," she whispered. "I know you're in agony, but Adam is . . ."

"My dear brother is responsible for this," Sean growled, again near tears. "If he hadn't chased Da away . . ." his voice locked up and he couldn't go on, and the trembling had started again.

"Your brother needs you at least as much as you need him, Sean. You can't get through this without him, and just as you know Duncan wasn't responsible for Adam's three years of hell, you know that Adam is not responsible for Duncan's death. But he'll blame himself, won't he?" She turned Duncan MacLeod's son around to face her, eye to eye. "Won't he?" she insisted.

"I can't . . ." Sean gasped, barely controlling near hysteria.

But Kir wouldn't let him escape. The boy needed to have a purpose. Needed to be needed in order to get past this without some deep permanent damage to his soul.

"You're a healer, Sean MacLeod. Born and bred. You have a gift and you have the training." Kir shook him. "Use it, MacLeod." She deliberately used the last name only, the one that had always referenced his father, to remind him of that strength, and that the heritage was now his to carry on.

Methos sat at the desk, his head in his hands as long, elegant fingers dug into his forehead. The hands were shaking.

He turned back to look at his brother, to find those hazel eyes fixed on him. "Sean, I ..." he stopped when the youngest Immortal held up his hand, closed his eyes and turned his head as though the words caused him physical pain.

"Don't, Methos. Part of me knows you didn't really wish him harm. But right now ... Just don't." He held his breath as a tear escaped his brother's eye, rolling slowly down and dripped onto the desk.

"Listen to me, Sean," he rose as Sean started to leave the room. "Listen to me!" The desperation in the voice stopped the younger man at the door.

Methos slowly sank back into his chair, swallowing more tears. "I've been a fool," he whispered.

"There's a revelation," Sean murmured, still unwilling to turn and look at his brother.

"And a coward," Methos said, slightly more strongly, putting his face back into his hands, briefly, then resting his chin on his fists. "Look at me, Sean, please."

Every fiber of his being wanted to run away. There was too much pain already making his body and mind ache with an emotional and physical agony that made him want to scream. But Kir was right, he was a healer. It was what he was, what he did. He couldn't ignore the chance to help, he couldn't refuse to listen. He turned, moved to the window and leaned up against the sill, crossed his arms and waited, steeling himself.

Methos swallowed and took a quick breath, wiping away a sheen of sweat off his forehead. "Much of my life ... over and over again ... I've allowed myself...for the sake of survival...to become a victim of one kind or another. Willingly made myself a party to unspeakable evil, knowing I would be used -- enslaved, abused. I endured again and again, always wondering what there was about me, what I did, that ... attracted such treatment." He waved his hands as Sean took a breath to say something. "I'm not trying to get your sympathy, just trying to explain. I've known this about myself for a long, long time. You know all the theories, but none of them really work when you've had five millennia to work through all those self-worth issues. When I met Duncan, even before I met him, he represented everything I wasn't. No matter what adversity he confronted, he was never a victim, never allowed himself to become one. From the first moment we met, he represented strength and courage and character and I wanted desperately to learn from him, to understand him and, through that understanding, maybe to understand myself a little better. And it worked. When we were together, I felt strong, valued, useful. I was no longer anyone's victim... . Until Rome."

"Then all my worst nightmares returned, and it seemed to me that this man that I had learned to trust with my life was actually the source of a whole new level of victimization." Methos fingered the papers on the desk mindlessly, stopping as he brushed away more tears. "I've been betrayed before. Even betrayed by people I cared about, but not like that. And to make it even worse, at some point I realized that I could have stopped it. I could have broken the link, but I didn't. I was a coward. I clung to that link, to that pain, letting myself suffer, because even then I couldn't let that lifeline go. I had sunk back to being the worst of everything I had fought so hard to overcome."

Sean shifted uncomfortably. This was too deep, too heavy a pain for him to deal with right now. He had his own burden to carry and this was just too much. "I'm sorry, Adam," he said. "I truly am. But right now ... please. I can't ..."

Methos breath caught in a quick sob. "You still don't understand, Sean. I didn't understand myself until just a little while ago. He couldn't have broken the link! Nor could I! It goes too deep. It's become too much a part of what we are. What your father did was to consciously break the Community's link. You felt that. But what you didn't feel was that he also tried to go further, to break our link, to hide from me, to go somewhere in his mind so deep that we are no longer connected." Methos rose up from behind the desk, came around and grabbed his brother's shoulders and shaking him until their eyes met. "Don't you understand? It can't be done! That link will only be broken with his true death and, believe me, if it had happened I would know it. If that had happened I don't know if what's left of my sanity could survive it. As it is, there is this horrible black hole where he's supposed to be."

Sean's brow furrowed in confusion. "Are you telling me you don't think he's dead?" he asked in a voice so tentative it could barely be heard.

"I'm telling you, Sean MacLeod, that your father is alive. Barely. I don't know where, but I swear to you, if it takes all of my next 5,000 years, I will find him."

Sean looked into his ancient brother's face and saw fear and guilt and grief, but he also saw certainty and iron resolution ... and perhaps even madness. Christ almighty, I can't do this, Sean thought. Da dead and Methos insane.

Methos looked into his sweet young brother's golden eyes and saw doubt and concern and grief reflected there. What had he and Duncan done to this child? Expected so much, tested too hard, pressed him beyond the limits any reasonable person could expect as he was violently pushed and pulled between the two people he cared most about in the world. Two people who couldn't seem to keep from constantly tearing at each other, hurting each other.

Sean swallowed his tears, letting his professional shield against personal involvement take over. It didn't really work, but it helped him put up a good front. "Adam, it's not your fault. You didn't send him out there. He made his own choices. He was always at risk, and this was always a possibility. Duncan MacLeod always lived on the edge. Let him go, my brother," he whispered. He wanted to put his arms around him, but was afraid his own fragile control would break at the contact.

A twisted smile lifted the corner of Methos' lips. "You don't believe me, do you?"

"It's not a matter of belief, Adam. He's gone. We all felt it. I don't want to believe it either, but denying it will only make it worse."

"What about his Quickening? You don't think we would all have felt that backlash? It would have taken power down in half the Eastern Seaboard, but there was nothing! Those three Quickenings were ones he took, not his own! Then nothing. Then his presence just winked out. I'm telling you there is still something there. You may not be able to feel it, but I can! It's like ... it's like the after image when a light has flashed in front of your eyes, just a fading outline, but I swear to you it's there. I'm not mad, Sean. Desperate, maybe. A little unbalanced certainly, but not insane."

"Three? I only felt two," Sean said dubiously.

"Three. The first was someone in the Community. The second was when he started to shut down, and that's what you felt. The third ..." Methos swallowed at the memory of feeling like he was following Duncan's fall into an endless dark hole, a hole too much like that he had occupied so recently. Then ... nothing. Not a death, just a cessation of life. "The third was when he tried to cut himself off from me, but even then there's something there." Methos wandered away, pacing the room, preoccupied with trying to articulate the sensation that was really more an absence of feeling, an identifiable void.

"So he was fighting," Sean explained carefully, patiently. "Took out three Immortals and a mortal killed him. That's why there was no Quickening, Adam. He's gone. Truly gone. This denial is understandable but will only be much more painful in the long run."

That made Methos pause. The pale man closed his eyes, a look of abject horror crossing his face at the thought that perhaps his brother was right. Maybe Mac had died, truly died, and all that he was and had been, all that he carried within him, had been irrevocably lost. His chest tightened. The concept was unthinkable, unacceptable. "No," Methos whispered. "No," he said again with conviction. "He's alive. At least his head is still intact. I don't know how I would know if he had been killed, but I ... would ... know!"

Sean's eyes couldn't hold his and his head lowered while he thought for a moment. "I can't help you, Adam," he finally said. "I know I ought to be able to, but ... standing here arguing with you about whether Da is dead or not ... please don't make me do this." His words ended with a choked sob, and Methos pulled him into his arms, letting Sean weep convulsively into his shoulder.

Kir came in from a walk that had taken her through a significant portion of northwestern Atlanta. She needed time to calm herself, to find some kind of center, a reason to go on. Duncan had become a central part of her life and without him, without knowing that today or tomorrow or next week or next month he would be there, those doe-brown eyes drinking her in like elixir, life seemed suddenly terribly empty. What her people had also lost was an additional grief her mind and heart was not yet ready to face.

Sean was sitting in the big armchair in the living room, staring off into space. Connor sat on the couch, cycling mindlessly through entertainment and sports channels on the video terminal. They were all nursing their wounds in their own private ways. She was supposed to help them, to understand their pain, to lessen it. But who would lessen her pain, she wondered.

Of them all, Sean was the one she felt the worst for. His golden eyes were distant, distracted, his eyes and nose swollen and red from weeping. He looked up when she came in, and there was some new pain there. She didn't want to hear it, but knew she had to. She sat on the couch next to Connor, who immediately put his big hand on her knee, comforting and seeking comfort, and she waited.

"Adam is convinced he's still alive," Sean finally whispered, his hand passed over his face, scrubbing a two-day-old stubble of beard. "I'm not at all sure he's sane anymore." Connor shut off the video, crossing his arms, his face closed and unreadable.

Kir stood and crossed to the window, looking at but not really seeing the scenery outside. "I'm not sure any of us are sane anymore," she replied.

"I don't give a flying fuck what Methos thinks," Connor growled, rising restlessly to pace the room. "If we'd have left him in his little private hell-hole, Duncan would still be alive."

"Stop it, Connor," Sean said tiredly. "Beating him or yourself up about it isn't going to bring him back."

"Neither will his sick, wishful thinking," Connor snapped. He paused in his wanderings in front of the coffee table where a stack of books Duncan had been reading caught his eye. He picked up the top volume. His clansman had always loved books. Real ones printed on fine paper, leather bound. Everyone else he knew had long since gone to electronic versions. Cheaper, longer lasting, easier to transport. This one was small, hardback, but old. A first edition. Steven Hawkings' "A Brief History of Time." How appropos, Connor thought as grief and rage welled up inside stronger than he had felt in centuries. Then the book flew out of his hand, crashing against the wall and falling to the floor.

"Mac will not appreciate your abusing his precious books," a calm voice spoke from the doorway. Methos leaned languidly against the doorframe, his arms crossed. Only the tightness around his mouth betrayed his otherwise relaxed posture.

In an instant Connor was on him, gathering up the loose sweater in big fists and slamming the Oldest Immortal hard against the wall. "Don't you dare say that!" Connor's face flushed bright red with anger. "Don't you dare even speak his name you son-of-a-bitch. He was my kinsman!" He emphasized the words by pushing Methos back against the wall again and again. "He was my student! I knew him before any of you ever did. I knew him longer than anyone in his or my life." Connor pushed his face close to Methos', his whole frame shaking as he spoke. "Do you remember the night of the first Ceremony, Methos? I asked you then what price Duncan would have to pay for your survival, for stopping the Game. I guess we know, now don't we, Old Man!"

Methos' face went closed and hard as the barb slid home. "Well maybe if the person sent to watch out for him had done his job a little better ..." he began viciously.

"Stop it!" Kir cried out, suddenly there, pushing Connor away. Something in the desperation of her voice made Connor back off, but his ice-colored eyes and Methos' gold-green ones seemed locked in a visual battle of wills.

"Stop it," she said again, choking on the words. "Stop it, both of you. It's this kind of stupid, aggressive, testosterone-driven macho bullshit that killed him." She spun away, tormented by the hard angry challenge in their eyes. "You all ... we all ... made fun of him for running around, throwing himself in harm's way. But face it, you all secretly admired it, relished it, even emulated it. You all go strutting around assuming that somehow you'll always be able to conquer all obstacles, survive all threats. He did the same, even though he knew they were after him, would do anything to get him. Almost ... almost as though he wanted them to kill him, to be punished for not being as bloody perfect as he wanted to be." She couldn't go on, her own guilt for not, somehow, being able to stop him washed over her, choking her. She felt Sean's arms fold around her, but she pushed him away. He felt too much like Duncan, looked too much like Duncan, and her sorrow had been replaced by a deep, painful anger.

"Don't touch me," she whispered harshly. "None of you ever think of the agony you cause, of the terrible ... emptiness you would leave behind." Grief caught up with her in a wave that rose up from her throat, spilling tears over her cheeks.

"He's not dead," Methos said into the tense silence.

An inarticulate cry escaped Kir and she turned and struck him in the chest with her fist, then hit him again, flailing away until he grabbed her wrists, then crushed her to him as she sobbed. "I know you don't believe me," he said into her hair, lifting his head and addressing Sean and Connor as well. "I know you think I've lost it, but it's true. I swear by all that's holy." He gently pushed Kir away, wiping away her tears with his long thumb. "Duncan MacLeod is not dead."

"Methos, that's enough!" Sean said harshly, nerves drawn tight by his own grief, by Kir's outburst.

"No, it's not enough!" Methos said sharply and gripped Kir's arms with all the strength he had. "How many times did you try to stop him from looking for me? How many times did he follow some fleeting instinct to find me when no one else would believe I could be found. You told me he would wake up and know when I was awake and that sometimes Sean would feel it as well. But not every time."

"Dammit, Methos, if he were alive don't you think I would know it! He's my Father!" Sean said and it was Connor who kept the younger Immortal from attempting a second assault on the older man.

Connor was quite prepared to deck the old one as well, anything to shut him up, to stop him from adding to the pain already being layered upon Kir and Sean -- upon himself. But those hazel eyes were not gleaming with desperation, the vocal pattern was not one of hope but of absolute certainty.

"Why you and why not Sean?" Connor demanded, willing to give in to the faintest of hope of his own, if only for a moment. "Why not Kir?"

"Because the connection Mac and I have predates the Community. Because we shared a Quickening...because I am older and that same strength that I accused Duncan of betraying in leaving me in my hole, of using to keep himself from being overwhelmed by the responsibility of the Community, didn't fade when the link did. And it works both ways. Mac just doesn't have the experience or the training to use it." Methos said evenly and released Kir, locking gazes with her.

"But you have that training, Silent Storm. You wouldn't use it on Revas but you can on me. Neither you nor Mac were ever willing to walk the edge of darkness for fear of stepping over the line. So I have a couple of questions for you, Shaman," he grated the title out. "What if I am right? Do you have the courage to reach back through the memories of the dead of your race, and listen for their echo in another soul? Because Mac carries those souls as well, inherited them from K'oltec...and you know it. The only way those voices could be silenced would be on his death -- his true death. And if someone has taken his head and his Quickening those voices will now reside in another. Won't they?" His gaze had hardened and Kir backed away.

He should not have known, could not have known. But it was not madness that prompted his words. She would almost have preferred it to be madness but it wasn't.

Sean was not so sure. His brain automatically went into clinical mode, wondering if between he and Connor they could hold Methos long enough to sedate him. He was moving toward his medical kit without thinking about it Connor releasing him but his kinsman was no longer staring at Methos with a combination of pity and revulsion but at Kir.

Her dark eyes were all pupil, her breath coming in short harsh pants, staring at Methos as if he had suddenly changed into her heart's desire or her worst nightmare.

"Where are those voices, now, Kirin?" Methos asked her, softly.