United Nations, Divided Souls

The entire camp seemed to settle into a silent, shocked stupor. Activity ground to a halt as the word spread among the mortals that MacLeod was dead. No one knew quite what to do, so they did nothing. Hawk sat in the war room alone, staring at a data terminal that had gone berserk with messages coming through in such volume they were virtually unanswerable. He had been stricken with a grief as profound as if one of his own family had been taken, perhaps even more so. For any Immortal to die was an incomprehensible loss. To lose Duncan MacLeod, who had been not just the focus of the Community, but a personal friend - an incomparable warrior with a gentle heart, lover to his sister Kir, a man he had known from his earliest memories of childhood. It was as though the sun had decided not to shine that day, or the moon not to rise. The council had met, briefly. The recent resentment of the Immortals had dissolved in the terrible onslaught of realization that they, too, could die.

And what had happened to all that MacLeod had carried? That was what the council wanted Hawk to find out. And some small, rational part of Hawk insisted on contemplating the problem. MacLeod had been one of the First Four, those who carried the history of his people, their legends, their ideals. His had been the burden of all the hideous hatred that K'oltek had absorbed through his three thousand years of being Hiyoka for his people. That he had overcome such an agony spoke to the strength of his spirit. Did that spirit now reside in another? How would it manifest itself? Would that great evil be released on the world again? And the other voices, not the voices gathered by the Hyoka, but those he had carried before the burden of his heritage sttled upon him, the ones that gave him the strength to subdue that evil for such a long time -- where were they now? Methos had asked the question but no one had an answer. These things were beyond Hawk's ability even to speculate on, and he needed the Immortals strong and able and sane to answer those questions. But sanity for any of them seemed unlikely as the best of who they were, the glue that had bound them together, had been ripped away.

The datavoice terminal on the desk sounded its electronic beep, which it would not have done unless the message were urgent.

"Hawk," he answered.

"Sir, I have a message coming in from England. Priority Red. Scrambled."

"Who's it from?"

"The message is encoded, sir. The code is labeled 'centurion.'"

"All right, Modo. Send it through."

The message was short and to the point, and he hand carried it himself to his sister.

Three hours later, the Immortals gathered slowly in the conference room that was also sometimes referred to as the War Room. No one spoke. Finally, the electronic beep signaled them all that Marcus Constantine's call was coming in. No one had any illusions about the subject matter of the emergency, highly risky, teleconference call. The screen at the end of the room came to life in a gray static haze before it coalesced into a three dimensional image of Marcus Constantine and the familiar figure of Amanda.

There was an awkward silence as the six Immortals looked at each other. Kir could see the strain on Constantine's face, but it was Amanda that captured her attention. The woman's face looked pale and thin and wan, except for bloodshot eyes and tear-swollen face. She had loved Duncan far longer than Kir had even been alive. Suddenly the antagonism that had been between them since the moment they met had turned into a mutual sense of terrible loss.

"Constantine," Kir acknowledged with a nod of her head. "Amanda." The two women shared a long look that made the others in the room uncomfortable.

"Kir," Constantine said, returning the acknowledgment. "Can you tell us what happened?"

"We were betrayed," Kir said quietly, working to control her voice and emotions. "Duncan was taken by Bar Abbas about four weeks ago. We didn't let you know because his rescue going to be difficult if not impossible and the more who knew, the less likely his rescue became. Then ... about six hours ago ... well, I assume you felt it."

"Who killed him, Kir? Was it Abbas?" Constantine demanded.

Amanda's face had paled, then flushed at Kir's explanation. The idea that he had been captured over four weeks before and she had not known made her feel sick with helpless anger.

"We don't know. No one here has the sensitivity that Mac had to tell individual identities. It's even possible ..." Kir's voice trailed off as she was unable to say what was in her mind.

"What's possible?!" Amanda finally demanded, the words seeming to erupt from her tight throat.

"That he was killed by a mortal. That there was no Quickening," Kir finished. She felt so tired, so drained. The words dribbled out, threatening to be accompanied by tears, but she refused to acknowledge them.

"NO!" Amanda screamed. "Damn you! Damn you and your stupid Nation! How dare you sit there and tell me that all that Duncan MacLeod ever was is gone. That everything he knew and felt and believed was for nothing! That everything he believed in, everything he loved has just ... just dissipated into the ether like his life had no meaning!"

"Amanda!" Methos said into the tense silence following her speech.

She looked at him, her eyes bright and hard and suspicious. "What do you want, Methos? You want us all to sit around and tell you it was okay to drive Duncan away and into the arms of the Eastern Dawn? That what you did was understandable? Or maybe you want us to tell you it was really Mac's fault? That somehow he caved in that roof of the catacombs in Italy. That you went down there because he somehow sent you there. That all your hatred for him is somehow justified."

"No, Amanda," Methos replied calmly, although is face had grown even more pale at her tirade. "I wanted to ..."

"No!" Connor growled, his huge hand grasping Methos' thin arm in a painful grip. "Don't, Methos. I think you've inflicted your insanity on enough of us already."

Their eyes met, and just as Connor began to realize that even he was no match for the iron will of the oldest Immortal, Kir intervened.

"Let him speak," she said quietly.

"But, Kir ..."

"I said let him speak, Connor," she repeated in a Voice that was not to be disobeyed.

When he was through with his explanation of why he thought MacLeod was not dead, Constantine and Amanda gave each other a long dubious look.

Amanda finally enclosed her face in her hands, elbows leaning heavily on the table in front of her.

"Kir?" Constantine finally said.

"Yes, Marcus."

"Do you believe this ... story?"

"I believe ... it's a possibility," she said so softly the microphones barely picked it up to transmit it, scramble it, unscramble it and project it a half world away.

"Sean MacLeod," Constantine called.

For the first time since the beginning of the call, Sean looked up. Amanda raised her head when she heard his voice, her heart sinking at both the resemblance to the man she had loved, and at the hideously dark circles under his eyes and strain around his mouth. The youngest Immortal looked older than anyone in the room.

"Constantine, I don't know what to believe," he sighed. "I didn't feel a Quickening. Certainly not one strong enough to be his. But ... I don't feel him." The last was said with marginal vocal control.

"Look," Constantine said brusquely, "I know we're all in deep shock, but we have to take action as soon as possible to ensure the viability of the Community. All of us felt it weaken and we don't know what the ramifications of that are. We don't want to cause a panic, and we certainly don't want to risk triggering a Gathering."

"I don't think there's any reason for panic yet, Marcus," Methos interjected. "I can carry this for awhile. I never felt it as intensely as Duncan did. And the object of our efforts should be in getting him back!"

"How can you be certain, Miklos, that the agony of your heart has not led you down a path of delusion?" Constantine asked Methos in their shared ancient tongue.

"Until you are absolutely certain I am wrong, Marcus Constantine, how can you afford not to believe?" he answered quietly.

"Even so, Adam," Marcus finally said in English after a long pause, "Without Duncan there is little focus to the link and there is a very real danger that some connections will be lost entirely. Sean?" he called, and the sad-eyed old-looking young man looked up at his projected image. "You must step into your father's shoes."

"No!" Methos roared, coming to his feet. "You will not corrupt him with your damned Community the way you did Duncan!"

"Wait, Adam," Sean tried to say soothingly, rising and trying to get his brother to sit back down. "It's okay. It's something he would have wanted me to do."

"Bullshit!" The Oldest Immortal turned the full force of his ire on the Youngest Immortal. "He wanted ... no he wants you to grow up and live without dealing with the shit that he had to until you were truly ready for it. And you're not ready, Sean. Trust me on this one." He took Sean's lean shoulders in his hands, almost shaking him. "All we have to do is find him, Sean. Let the Community take care of itself for a change."

"That's not what Mac would have wanted." The voice was cold and hard and brittle. "He believed in the Community, Methos," Amanda said. "He died for it, rather than give away our locations. How can you just dismiss it like that?"

"And how can you ask his son to take over a task that is not rightly his? A task that requires power and talent and a strength of will that can withstand the onslaught of hundreds of minds far more ancient than his own. He is the youngest among us, Amanda! He's taken exactly one Quickening in his whole life!"

"I know, Methos," she said coldly. "I was there. But the Community needs focus, Methos. Just power isn't enough. Sean has always had latent talent ..."

"Yes, latent talent. Talent that will show itself with time and training and a growth of power," Methos insisted. "But we shouldn't even be talking about this!" His voice was rising in anger, near hysteria. "I need Sean to help find Mac. If we find Mac, it will be okay!" he insisted. "If we find Mac ... he'll make it ... everything will be okay." He was suddenly shuddering, sweating and pale and his voice trailed off as Sean forced him into a chair.

"Shit!" Methos murmured to himself, disgusted at his lack of control. "I'm sorry, Sean. Don't let them do this to you, please!" he whispered. He grasped his brother's hand in a painful grip. "Have a little faith in me. I may very well be insane about a lot of things, but not about this!"

Sean knew his brother was fighting off another panic attack, and at that moment all he wanted was to get them both out of there and into a private place where they could deal with it.

"Enough of this!" he said, standing to face the rest of the Immortals. "If Adam believes Da is alive then it's good enough for me. Look, Constantine, I'll think about what you've said, but taking over what Da was doing was going to be iffy under the best of circumstances and with him tutoring me every step of the way. Now ..." he left unspoken the obvious observation about the less-than-ideal circumstances he would face with Methos nearly insane and his father ... gone. "And if Da is alive, then getting him back has to be our first priority." He had kept his hand on Methos' shoulder and he felt it begin to seize up. He pulled his brother to his feet and kept a firm hand on his arm as he urged the thin man to the door and out of the room.

The hallway was Sean's least favorite place to be forced to stop with Methos; too many curious onlookers who stared but said nothing. He had little choice, however, for short of carrying Methos it was obvious his brother would not make it another ten feet until he stopped shaking. As it was, Sean had to help hold him up, murmuring in his brother's ear encouragements to breathe, to realize he was neither trapped nor helpless.

When Methos could move, Sean was quick to get him away from prying eyes. With most of the personnel in the armed and volunteer service certain Duncan MacLeod was dead, the speculation had already begun as to whether the Grandfather would be the one to take his place both in the Immortal Community and in the ranked offices of the political command. Morale could not be helped by public displays of Methos' weakness, either physical or mental.

The elevator was not the best choice for his brother to recover either but the roof was -- the open space always seeming to reassure the elder Immortal when words and reason could not. Sean got them as far as the level of the penthouse then found himself more or less following Methos up the stairs and onto the open expanse. Kir's garden drew both of them away from the concrete and asphalt of the roof, Sean not protesting when Methos pushed him away more or less gently to stand with his face turned up to the sky, eyes closed, dragging in great breaths of air as he fought off the last of his panic.

Done, and far more in control of himself, Methos turned back to face the younger Immortal. His face was nearly expressionless save the glittering of his eyes. It took Sean a moment to realize his companion was angry. What he could not initially be sure of was exactly who Methos had his anger trained upon.

"You need to decide right now which is more important to you," Methos said in a low even voice. "Your father's ideals or your father."

"Which means what?" Sean asked, caught off guard.

"Marcus and Amanda and god knows who else among our race will demand the Community be put above Duncan -- because they are too cowardly and too complacent to fend for themselves any longer. Their choice, not mine. So if your words inside were simply to placate Marcus so you could tend to me, you can take yourself and your universal concerns out of my sight."

"What are you talking about?" Sean demanded, getting to his feet. "What are you planning to do?"

"I plan on finding Duncan. Alone if I have to...but with help, willing or unwilling if I can," Methos said evenly. "But it starts now. I start now because there is no guarantee that Barabbas won't kill him and I don't know how much time I have."

"You don't even know where he is!" Sean snapped.

"I don't have to...all I have to do is find other people who do." Methos said and Sean stared at him. His brother was utterly calm, voice devoid of expression.

"And which people might that be? Adam, you talked to Revas...he doesn't know anyone."

"I am not talking about mortals," Methos said and the last word was said in such a tone that clearly separated Immortals from their short-lived brethren. "There are other...Immortals...that Barabbas would use on occasion for his...endeavors. One of them will know how to find him."

"And how do you find them? Do we start in D.C. and question everyone we meet, 'have you seen this man'? That could take years!"

"No, we question Immortals in the area who are members of the community but not of the nation...there are a goodly number still living in Boston, a few old acquaintances," Methos said quietly, his eyes never leaving Sean's face.

"You have to find them as well...shit!" Sean said suddenly. "That's why you don't want me to take up the link...you are going to use it to find them! Adam, you can't do that!! It betrays everything the Community means! It betrays everything my father died..." he stopped, as the gold-green eyes darkened and Methos lifted his chin in challenge.

"Is he dead?" It was said so quietly Sean would have had to strain to hear it had he not already known what Methos was driving the conversation toward. If Duncan MacLeod was dead, what Methos was contemplating would betray everything his father had lived for, worked for -- stood for in his long life. But if he was alive...what betrayal was worth his life?

"You have lost your mind," Sean said flatly, evenly, meaning every syllable.

"Very likely."

"Methos, they will hunt you down. If you betray the community like this, betray their trust, they will, like a pack of animals, hunt you down and take your head."

"Not if I get to them first," Methos said with a faint, feral smile that left Sean cold and worse, afraid. He had never in his life feared his brother. Feared for him, felt for him. He had heard the stories, knew of the past, of the Horsemen, of the darkness that had once claimed Methos' soul but never been afraid of it for himself until now. This was no loving image from his childhood, not the wreck of a man that had emerged from hell to try to rebuild his life or end it. The man before him was a stranger -- a ruthless one at that.

"You do this...even if Da is alive...he will hate you..."

"He has to be alive to hate me..." Methos said and Sean caught his breath. It was nearly exactly what his Father had said to him that horrible, fateful night Methos and Duncan had fought.

"What do you want from me?" Sean asked.

"You have two choices, Sean...and only two. You can help me or you can stay the hell out of my way," Methos said softly. "And once you make that choice there will be no turning back. Not until we find him."

"Or what?" Sean kept his voice soft, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear Methos say it.

"You think I would take your head?"

Never try to follow his thoughts. It's pointless, Sean told himself. "I...I'm not sure," he admitted and let his brother see his very real fear. He did not flinch or pull back when Methos approached and lay his hands on either side of his neck, holding his head gently and forcing Sean to meet his eyes.

"I want you to be here for Duncan when we find him," Methos said very quietly, intensely. "The difference is do I bring him to you or do you help me find him? Taking your head is not part of the agenda."

"But you would," Sean said.

Methos released him, regarding him seriously with no attempt to comfort or reason with him. "No. But it doesn't really matter if you believe me or not. I need an answer, Sean. Your answer is very much going to affect what I do next."

The youngest MacLeod sat down, pulling at the long leaves of one of Kir's irises. "Is it worth the lives of so many Immortals to save my father?" he asked, speaking the arguments out loud and without emotion. "You and he found a way to stop the Gathering...to quell the urge to kill mindlessly, without purpose. To avert the outcome of the Game."

"And deny any one man the right to the Prize," Methos reminded him. "Whatever the hell it is or was. I know what I am planning...I know that what I do could shatter two hundred years of relative peace between our kind."

"I don't know what that was like," Sean whispered. "Can you...is it worth it to go back to that...? And if we do find him, if he's alive and we...what will he think, Adam? He will see the past two centuries -- the burden he has carried -- it will all be pointless, for nothing."

"Will it?" Methos said turning away. "Those of our kind who like the security of the Community may find they can do without the safety net Mac has been providing. Those of our kind who resisted, well, nothing much will change for them, will it?"

"How far are you willing to go, Adam? You told me once that you don't handle Quickenings very well...but you are proposing now that you will...do whatever it takes. Are you really willing to go back to killing or are you just so desperate to make things right between you and Da that you can't see clearly what it is you are doing? This goes against everything Da believes -- my father, who you say or have said you love more than your own life. This will destroy any hope of a reconciliation between you."

Methos lips curved into a cold sneer of sarcasm as he leaned closer to his brother and caught his chin. "How far will I go? How far will you go, Sean MacLeod? You were quite willing to fuck me, your own brother, to keep me from taking Duncan's head, but you aren't willing to kill to save your father's life? If that's where you draw the line, I will do my level best to make sure you don't have to take any heads. That way you can be lily pure when we find Duncan."

Methos released him, cheek twitching, the only sign that he was just barely keeping a rein on his temper. He stared at Sean for a long moment with an expression close to disgust before moving past Sean to the stairs.

Sean had blanched at his brother's last words, knowing Methos was manipulating him, twisting his emotions and his loyalties. Even knowing that did not help curb his doubts. It also reaffirmed that Methos was not kidding when he implied he would use any methods he had to to find his friend.

Worst of all, his words made a kind of cold and eerie sense to Sean and the idea that he was too weak to handle a Quickening got to him. He closed his eyes and shivered, unable to stop the memories of Nardo's Quickening, how it had coursed through him, how it had twisted him.

How it had made him feel like a god might. That lure frightened him almost as much as Methos did.

Da, help me with this, please, he prayed and waited for the calm, for his father's presence or even the memory of it to ease him back into a more rational frame of mind. He sat and waited until the shadows lengthened, until the leaf-blade he had been toying with was shredded into thin filaments of green pulp. Then he got up and looked not toward heaven but north, toward the supposed location of his father's imprisonment. Da, forgive me. Then he left the silent pleas and went to find out if it were possible to follow his brother into hell.

MacLeod had gone oddly limp as he took the third Quickening, his body jerking spasmodically as though puppet strings were the only available animation. Abbas watched curiously. The Scot's reactions to the surges of energy had been increasingly desperate, clearly a physical and emotional torture far beyond that of Kiem Sun's drugs or other more direct application of pain that had gone on in various forms for weeks. Had he passed out under the onslaught? Died? Abbas frowned. Dying probably wasn't good given the man's early eagerness for that condition. He silently followed Sun into the noxious smelling room, filled not only with the sharp electric smell of a Quickening, but permeated with the odor of fear and sweat and pain and blood, and now the offal of the bodily excrement released in the deaths of the three Immortals.

It bothered Sun not at all as he examined MacLeod with clinical detachment, taking his pulse, feeling for his temperature, checking his pupils.

"Well?" Abbas asked after a long silence while Sun gazed down at his subject as he idly pulled on a lower lip.

"He appears to have gone into a ... sort of, uh, coma," Sun answered.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not sure. His pupils are responsive, his pulse slow and weak, his temperature ..." he checked it again, "seems to be dropping to below normal, and ..."

"And what?" Abbas growled, beginning to lose patience. He didn't want to think about the consequences if somehow MacLeod might actually, permanently die on them and they hadn't managed to extract a single useful piece of information after a month of torture.

"I don't feel him," Sun said hesitantly.

"Wha ..." but suddenly Abbas knew exactly what the man was saying. MacLeod's presence, which had become a permanent, almost painfully loud song in his head for the past month, was gone. "No!" he cried out, pushing the smaller man aside and taking the once heavily muscled shoulders in his hands and shaking them. "Wake up, you son-of-a-bitch, these mental tricks won't work with me!" But the gaunt frame in his hands was limp and unresponsive, the dark eyes in hollow sockets slit partially open but completely expressionless. Abbas closed his eyes, extending his senses, reaching out ... but there was nothing there except a slight tingling in his palms where his flesh rubbed against the damp, chilling skin of the Highlander's lifeless body.

Abbas drew his hands back, wiping their dampness off on his trousers, uncertain whether it was the Scotsman's sweat or his own he was wiping away. "This is your doing, you idiot!" Abbas said to Sun, backing towards the door. "Your stupid drugs. A Quickening never does this to one of us. Yes, that's what it has to be," he nodded to himself. He raised a thick stubby finger to point to the small, oriental man who had gone ashen at Abbas' words. "You fix this, Sun! You better fix this or the council will hear about the botch you've made of this whole business."

"The botch I'VE made?" Sun growled, advancing on the larger man and eventually backing him out of the door. Neither of them wanted to be in that terrible blood-splashed room anymore. "You were the one who insisted on killing three Immortals just to test his ability to take Quickenings! And one of them had the Talent! What a waste! My drugs didn't do this, you idiot. You did!"

"Don't be absurd. Immortals have been taking Quickenings since the beginning of time. Bring him back, Sun. Or you'll find your precious research grants being used to experiment on you!" Abbas turned on his heel and slammed out the laboratory door.

Sun had MacLeod moved to the new huge psychiatric hospital on the outskirts of Philadelphia. For two weeks he ran every test he could think of - CAT scans, EEG's, blood chemistry. Everything came back perfectly normal except, of course, the EEG. MacLeod's brainwave signature was unlike any he or the neurologists or other medical specialists had ever seen. All electrical energy seemed to be extraordinarily depressed, but not completely gone. His autonomic functions were operating, but at a very low level. Only six or eight breaths a minute, pulse down to 48, body temperature had dropped almost ten degrees. He was completely unresponsive to any stimulus, including drugs, electro-shock therapy, and extreme pain. He shouldn't have been able to sustain life but, of course, as an Immortal, the normal rules didn't apply.

The flesh had melted off the warrior's body Kiem Sun had always admired and, he had to admit to himself, secretly desired. It now seemed oddly vulnerable under his hands. The abuse he had wrought haunted him as he again felt that unnaturally cool flesh, again watched the dark pupils contract under his examination light, showing more of the multi-colored irises in hollow eye sockets. He had never intended to spend his life doing harm to his own kind. He, along with many others, had once considered Duncan MacLeod the best of their race, but here he was, a mindless wreck trapped in an insensate, unresponsive, incontinent shell of a body. And there didn't seem to be anything he could do about it.

A feathered chill washed over his shoulders and he turned.

"Well, Dr. Sun, how is our patient this morning?" Abbas asked. He was dressed in full Eastern Dawn military regalia, complete with old style epaulettes and gold braid. The medical staff certainly seemed impressed. They were hanging just outside the door and he could see them lurking close around corners, curious about the famous Immortal.

"The same," Sun said, pulling the light blanket up closer around MacLeod's shoulders where his collar bones stood out in sharp relief against his flesh. "Whatever he did, Abbas, there's nothing medical science can do to help him. You need someone with serious Talent, probably a member of the Community. Even then, I doubt it would help. There are few, if any, strong enough to reach him - wherever he's gone."

"Are you feeling sorry for him?" Abbas asked, with no little amusement at Sun's sad and somewhat regretful tone.

Sun gathered himself, schooling his features into neutrality. "Of course not! It's just a shame to lose all that power."

"What do you mean?" Abbas asked, moving closer, his eyes shifting uneasily between the body in the bed and the other Immortal.

"Well, in the absence of that incredible presence he usually exudes, I doubt that even taking his head would do very much good, and might actually do real harm to whoever got the Quickening," Sun said with careful indifference, signing off on MacLeod's datachart with a quick thumbprint, approving an intravenous feeding. MacLeod did not seem to take well to a stomach tube, automatically regurgitating anything that made its way to his digestive system. Nothing they did seemed to stop the continuing deterioration of that once-glorious physique.

"You think?" Abbas asked dubiously.

"Well, it's possible whoever took it would get sucked down into whatever hell he is occupying, or that they could get overwhelmed by that Dark Quickening he took, or even by Darius' Light Quickening. Who knows? Anyway, it seems like a risky proposition to me, regardless of the power. And who knows if you'd even get that given his current state?" Kiem Sun kept his voice neutral, disinterested.

"Hmmm," Abbas murmured, running his finger across MacLeod's broad forehead, sensing only the barest of Immortal presence at the touch. "Perhaps," he said. "But perhaps taking his head would release all that power," he added, turning to Sun with a feral smile. "They say he has taken more ancients than anyone. Something to think about, eh?" He turned back to the scientist. "Well, the counsel has seen your records, Sun. Somehow you've managed to convince them that our friend here has a power and value worth keeping, at least for the moment." He moved closer, forcing Sun back a few steps to the wall. "But don't you ever, ever cross me Sun. And if I chose to take the Highlander's head, it would be ... unwise ... to get in my way."

"Hey," Sun shrugged, "It's your life, Abbas. If you want to live like that," he gestured to the motionless figure on the bed, "that's your choice."

"Just keep him alive," Abbas said over his shoulder as he left, then turned. "Just barely, mind you," he instructed, "but I want him kept alive."

It was nearly two weeks before Methos was ready to make his first foray into the realm outside Atlanta's relative safety. He would have left sooner but there were arguments and bargains to make within the Nation...meetings and plans laid that were kept just this side of secret.

He worked out daily and ate with a renewed appetite that pleased Oella to no end but disturbed Sean. Within a day of their conversation on the rooftop, Methos was on Sean to spar with him and when Sean had exhausted his skill against his brother, Methos called Connor out.

The chance to trounce the older Immortal was not one Connor MacLeod could pass up but his victory was short lived. Within the week, Methos was doing more than holding his own and there was more than one bout that had Sean certain one or both of them would end up permanently dead as tempers flared. Methos had taught Sean some things but Duncan MacLeod had been his primary teacher and Sean saw now the kind of fighting his father, for his own reasons, had never taught him. Methos was not the swordsman Duncan was, nor even Connor but as a fighter, Sean had to admit a grudging admiration and not a little surprise as the darker side of his brother's nature was revealed. Dirty fighting didn't even begin to describe what Methos was capable of given enough motivation.

The second surprise was that Connor wasn't averse to learning a few things as well.

But possibly the most disturbing was what Sean found changing within his own soul. As they sparred, either he and Methos or he and Connor, he found himself slipping into a cold dark mental space where concentration and focus meant something entirely different from the discipline his father had taught him. This was about killing, not about living or surviving or learning or competing. This was about the call to eliminate others of his own kind, competitors at some level he had never before contemplated or felt. It was a sense of hot need, an aggression that drove him past his usual limits, and for one frightening moment he had his blade at Connor's throat and seriously considered using it. It took several long seconds of looking into those hard gray eyes before he backed off, trembling so hard he almost fell.

He and Connor stood side by side for several minutes, wiping their blades and letting their breathing return to normal.

"Why did you let me do that?" Sean finally asked, sitting and wearily toweling off his neck and face.

"Because I wanted to see how far it would take you." the man replied as he replaced his blade in its ornamental sheath.

"Where what would take me? Whether I would take your head?" Sean asked in anger. He seemed to be angry a lot recently.

"You're good, but not that good," Connor chuckled, but then his face grew very serious. "It's a look I hadn't seen in a long time, lad. And certainly a look I'd never seen on your face. You're startin' to feel it, Sean." Connor sat down beside him, leaning forward on his needs, hands clasped. "The Community's bonds are weakening and the youngest will feel it first."

"Feel what?" Sean knew, but had to ask.

"The Gathering madness, son. An anger. A need to hunt. I needed to know whether you can control it. If you can't you'll be a liability to Methos, to all of us."

Gaining supplies and transportation seemed nearly impossible...Hawk of Moons denying access for the same reasons he had denied Duncan for three years. Methos' planned search for Duncan was considered suicidal. The fact that it was more likely to be homicidal was carefully kept from the council and the community.

Until the day Methos spent six hours with Hawk and Kir and the eldest of the elders in a closed and private session. When he emerged he was tight-lipped and silent. Hawk looked uneasy and Kir looked thoughtful.

There was a signed and approved requisition for transportation, supplies and weaponry delivered to the penthouse the next day.

Despite his sudden energy and activity, Methos was still having nightmares until Sean finally relented and began doing as he promised, drugging his brother to sleep every night so they could all get some sleep.

Kir remained silent and distant but Sean was more aware than ever of her watching Methos and, he realized after a week, watching him as well.

Exactly thirteen days after the conference, almost to the hour, as they sat down to dinner Methos informed Sean they would be leaving in the morning.

"Pack light," he told him and there was no more discussion but there was a look exchanged between Methos and Kir that Sean did not understand until the following morning when Kir deposited her kit bag next to his as dawn crept through the apartment.

"What are you doing?" he asked her as she filled a thermos full of coffee and added a few other things from the kitchen to her bag.

"She's coming with us," Methos informed his brother as he emerged with his own pack. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, a long sleeved flannel shirt draped over the top of his bag. The food and exercise had not completely erased his gauntness but there was more tone on the slim body than Sean recalled seeing in years of watching his brother

in the role of a scholar. Methos had always been reasonably fit though not into the rigorous exercise routines that Duncan and Sean thought almost as necessary as breathing. At the moment however, Sean was not sure he would want to pit his own strength and stamina against his brother even were Sean at his own peak. Methos resembled nothing so much as a well worked greyhound, sleek and slender still but there was muscle under the deceptive thinness and the strength of will behind the cool hazel eyes was almost a tangible thing.

"Adam..." Sean began and stopped when that gaze focused on him.

"This is not a democracy. You do not get a vote," Methos said in a perfectly normal voice. "Kir is going to make sure I don't lose my head to Barabbas or any other Immortal more foolish than I am," he said. "Her job is to take my head should it seem likely I am about to lose it to someone else...or just if I lose it in general."

Sean could only stare at him for a long moment and then at Kir, waiting for her to deny it. She did not, nor did she drop her gaze. "Methos' Quickening is too strong and too valuable to be lost by chance to Bar Abbas or any other Immortal. Or just lost because of carelessness. And I will not let him be captured." Kir spoke calmly as well but Sean heard the tremor just under the words. She was not particularly thrilled with the idea of gaining Methos' Quickening should the need arise.

"Of course, if you think yourself absolutely capable of taking my head should the need arise, Kir can stay home and water her daisies." Methos said.

"This is the bargain you made to get the transport," Sean said after a long moment.

Methos shrugged into the flannel shirt and then shouldered his pack. "Are we ready?" He asked and headed for the door, leaving Kir and Sean to follow.

It was neither the first nor the last time Sean MacLeod would wonder if they had not all lost their minds.

The long drive north was done in fits and starts, with frequent side trips to avoid E.D. patrols, and other side trips simply because the roads were impassable. The long days and were punctuated by even longer nights as Methos pressed them to continue on, driving in shifts, sleeping in the back. Sean could feel Connor's eyes on him from time to time when he inadvertently snapped an angry retort to one of his fellow passengers. Sean didn't think he was anything other than just tired, worried and physically itchy from the forced inactivity of the long, uncomfortable ride. But at night, when it was his turn to drive and the others were asleep, or at least dozing, he felt it. A strange and unidentifiable need tinged with anger coiled deep inside. He opened the van window, breathing deeply of the summer air, letting his mind relax into the meditations that he had practiced all his life, recognizing the evil within, feeling it loosen ever so slightly. The exercise reminded him of his dad, and it comforted him to use what he had been taught against this ancient primeval urge his father had sacrificed so much to eliminate from his life, from all their lives.

He had allowed himself to acknowledge that Duncan MacLeod might still be alive. Did he believe it in his heart? He wanted to so bad it hurt. But how horrible it would be if after all this ... his breath caught in a near sob and he felt a tear escape, its moisture cooling his face in the breeze of the open window.

He felt a hand on his knee and he looked over at Kir, who he had thought was asleep.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, swiping at his tears in embarrassment. He looked over at her serene face, its Indian ancestry prominent in a moonlit profile. "How many have you taken, Kir?" he asked softly.

"How many? Quickenings, you mean?"

He nodded.

"Not very many, Spirits be Thanked," she whispered. "My people have a warrior heritage but we have never killed indiscriminately. And I really knew very few other Immortals until I met your dad. And he had already managed to stop the Game when I was only about your age. There were a few years there in the late 20th Century, when the Gathering was building ..." she shuddered in the dark. "But to answer your real question, Sean, yes, I will take Methos' head if I have to."

Sean swallowed past the impossibly hard place in his throat and kept driving through the night.

The outskirts of Boston were the picture of normalcy. The city had never been directly attacked and, as such, had become a refuge for the elite of the Eastern Dawn aristocracy. Philadelphia might be its capital, but Boston was the cultural and financial center of this part of the world and the roads improved considerably the closer they got to the city.

Sean was getting tired, though, and finally pulled into a fuel and convenience store, punching up a request for coffee and bagels as the van was automatically filled with the requisite methane. His passengers stirred sluggishly at the change in vibration when the vehicle stopped.

"Are we there yet?" Connor murmured from the back, sitting up and stretching hugely.

"We as much 'here' as I know to take us," Sean sighed, pulling the coffee out of the dispenser and handing them around, along with the bagels. "I think it's up to Adam to tell us where we go next."

Methos took the coffee wordlessly, blowing on it before taking small sips. Sean turned to take a good look at his brother and did not like what he saw. The skin was sallow, almost waxy. He'd allowed him a narcotic again during the night, but the dosages were creeping up, sometimes leaving the man dull-eyed and lethargic without giving him any real rest. They were going to have to find another answer, and soon.

"Well, old man?" Connor prompted.

"I need to take a piss and make a call," Methos said, his voice rough and unnatural sounding as he blearily stumbled out of the back of the van. The other three Immortals watched as he made his way to a public communications terminal. Then Kir and Connor turned to Sean.

"What?" Sean looked at their expectant faces. "You think I have all the answers?" He shrugged. "He's the smartest, most experienced, knowledgeable manipulator and strategic thinker in the world. The difference between the way his mind works, under the best of circumstances, and insanity is a very, very thin line. Hey, guys, I'm only 157 years old. Whaddaya expect from me?"

"You're the psychiatrist," Connor groused. "It would be nice to know at least if he's a total whacko."

"We try not to use terms like 'total whacko', but at the moment I think Adam could be classified as manic depressive, obsessive-compulsive and certainly capable of violence. In other words, by Immortal standards, he's ... marginally sane." He watched as Methos completed his call and headed towards the men's room. "As for how close to the margin he is ... well, I think we're all on very thin ice here."

They gathered back at the van after each had gotten out to stretch and visit the bathroom. Connor had gotten in behind the driver's seat and they all turned to Methos expectantly.

"I assume you know how to get to the harbor area," Methos instructed dryly. "We are going to see an old friend of mine."

"How old?" Sean asked.

The look he received in response to his question did not invite a follow-up request, but Sean pressed anyway. "An Immortal? Is he a member of the Community? This is an Eastern Dawn stronghold, Methos, how will we know we won't get betrayed?"

The tension had built in Methos' body as Sean had pressed. "Because I trust her ... well, almost trust her," Methos amended. "She's a member of the Community but has never officially taken sides. The E.D. thinks of her as loyal to them, but Alexandra has never been loyal to anyone except herself. But she and I go back a long way and I don't think she'll betray us, at least not right away. And it's her contacts with the Dawn that we need right now."

"Well, now I feel better," Connor growled as he pulled out into traffic.

The old van eventually pulled up into a long circular driveway lined with carefully groomed flowering shrubs and a vast stretch of lawn, which was remarkable given the proximity to downtown Boston and the nearby commercial shipping wharf. The three-story Greco-Roman building with its long white supporting columns looked like it belonged in some historic video drama, an effect only enhanced when a young man and young woman, marginally attired in matching blue and white body hugging briefs and shirts hinting at ancient gladiator costumes, greeted them with white, toothy smiles.

"Welcome to the Bayside Club!" the young man exclaimed as though he were greeting a long-lost and much-beloved relative. He opened the door for Kir and took her hand as she exited, while the young woman did the same for Connor, who let his eyes linger appreciatively over the child's perfect, and perfectly displayed, physique.

Sean and Kir exchanged confused and wary glances as Connor occupied himself with the young woman, and Methos made his way wearily up the marble steps towards two more well-muscled young men who swung open the shiny brass doors as he neared. But before he could step inside, out flowed the goddess of beauty herself dressed in flowing chiffon that clung to an exquisite body that, apparently, had next to nothing on underneath. Coal black hair was braided and twisted atop her head, only a few dark curls escaping to lay against the pale throat, accenting the wide band of pearl studded ribbon that encircled her neck.

"Miklos," she said softly, and stepped up to him, reaching up to stroke his face briefly with a hand as pale and soft and fragrant as a fresh, white rose, and pressed her lips to his in a long, lingering kiss that had her own staff starting to share looks of curiosity.

"You are so thin, my Miklos," she murmured in concern, but then smiled. "But no less beautiful." Her hands traveled across his shoulders and down his arms. "But you are tired and tense beyond bearing so you have come to Alexandra, which is as it should be. Come, my love." She pulled his hand over her arm and disappeared inside, leaving Kir, Sean and Connor to convince the staff not to touch their 'luggage.'

Their escorts looked very uncomfortable entering the structure empty handed but they flanked the three visitors, pausing as the trio got a good look at the interior.

"Tell me that isn't what I think it is," Kir whispered to Sean staring at an all too familiar painting hanging just inside the enormous foyer.

"I would say, yes," Sean whispered back in an equally soft voice, utterly captivated by he portrait of a woman with a captivating smile. He shifted his gaze and had to remind himself to close his mouth as another huge painting caught his eyes. Water Lilies or some such, in pastels, dominated another wall. Vaguely he became aware of music - live music - a string quartet if he were any judge.

They were gently coaxed along, Kir and Sean completely awed and baffled by their surroundings but Connor just had a huge and very silly grin on his face, peering lasciviously at the lovely young woman walking beside him. She returned his smile invitingly.

"This can't be a private residence," Sean muttered as their guides turned them down a long hall, past a wall of windows that looked out on a series of foliage bordered shallow pools. There were a few people lounging beside the waters and a glance upward showed him the whole area was glassed in. There was some sign of wear on the otherwise opulent display...feathery cracks in some of the panes and at least two that were covered in some material less transparent but sturdier than glass.

A movement at the edge of one of the pools shifted his gaze and he turned away almost immediately, scarlet tingeing his cheeks. "Christ! What is this place?" He hissed although he half suspected the answer.

Connor confirmed it a moment later with a wicked grin. "Welcome to the Mother of all Cathouses, my friends!" he laughed. "Good Lord above, even the Sun King didn't have it so good!"

Kir started to say something and then thought the better of it, hurrying forward to where she had barely caught a glimpse of Alexandra and Methos turning the corner of yet another hallway.

Hurrying didn't actually gain them anything, the hallway being short and ending in another set of heavy doors, white with gilt trim. The room within was an office, a formal sitting room of sorts but all the furniture was comfortable as well as functional. The only concession to the idea that it was an place where work was done as opposed to entertaining was the massive carved mahogany desk set under the floor to ceiling windows overlooking another set of pools. These, Sean noticed almost hesitantly, were better suited for bathing or soaking and not for...well, whatever the couple by the pool had been doing. Even now he found his brain wandering to how such a thing were physically possible.

Alexandra ignored her desk entirely, drawing Methos to a low divan to sit next to her, settling him and inviting Kir, Sean and Connor to do the same with distracted politeness. Their escorts offered refreshment and only Connor seemed disappointed that it was a light fruity beverage rather than something more alcoholic. Settled and served, Alexandra dismissed her staff with a smile and a look, the heavy doors closing silently.

"Introduce me, Miklos," Alexandra said, turning a warm yet oddly assessing smile on her guests.

"Not necessarily wise, Xan," Methos murmured.

"I don't require credentials, love, and you did call me. Shall I simply call them thing one, thing two and thing three?" Alexandra asked with a soft chuckle.

Methos shook his head. "No. Sean, Kir and Connor," he said after a moment, indicating each with a tilt of his head. "Alexandra. Ascoupolous?"

"Much simpler these day. Alexandra Karpis. The Eastern Dawn has little use for what they think of as pretentious names. Oh, sit down Connor MacLeod!" she said sharply and the languid air of a courtesan vanished instantly with a snap of common annoyance. "Yes, I know who you are. And this lovely young man must be the miracle child of the MacLeod clan. I don't know you Kir, but..." and Kir found herself almost blushing under the very sensual and appreciative appraisal the other Immortal woman gave her. "Before you get all twisted up in knots, Connor, let me remind you just how far you are into the Eastern Dawn's holdings. I hold my position and my property because of services I offer that they cannot admit to the public, nor wish to deny themselves in private. And yes Connor, this is the best of all Cathouses," she added with a disarming smile. "I can assure you a certain amount of safety for a few days but not for longer. So, Miklos," she turned her attention back to her ancient friend. "Although I could only wish you came here to see me out of fondness, I know it is not so. You said you needed my help for more than shelter."

"Duncan has been captured and is held prisoner by the Eastern Dawn," Methos said without preamble, setting his glass down on the table in front of him. "We need to get him out."

Alexandra stared at him for a long moment, long enough for the others to grow uncomfortable. Methos did not look at the woman even when she rose gracefully to stare out the window. "I was afraid something had happened when the connection ... faltered ... Well, they have not broken him or I would be dead," she commented after a few more moments. "You could have better asked me for the moon, Miklos. I might have some small chance of accomplishing that for you," she said and turned around, face still calm. "I can't help you," she said simply. "You may certainly rest here for a couple of days - take advantage of my more than ample hospitality, on the house, as it were."

Methos said nothing for a long moment. "Bar Abbas may have him," he said at last and Sean watched his brother and Alexandra carefully. There was some intricate dance being played out here, but he was completely uncertain as to either rhythm or rhyme.

"You have ever been the fool," Alexandra said staring at Methos with a mix of disgust and pity. "You want me to help you willingly put yourself within his reach again? I think senility has set in, Methos." She walked over to him, lifting his chin in her hand. "If I had killed that arrogant bastard of a Scot one hundredyears ago, we would not be having this conversation."

Methos met her gaze evenly, his own voice as cold and dispassionate as hers. "No. We wouldn't," he agreed and Sean could almost feel the undercurrents ripple between them like electrified air before a storm. Beside him he knew that both Connor and Kir were as tense as he was. However much a friend this woman might be to Methos, it was obvious and certain that she had little regard for Duncan MacLeod at all.

The stand-off passed without further words and Alexandra dropped her hand. "I will think about it," she said solemnly and Methos nodded, some of the tension easing from his long frame. Then the seriousness vanished from Alexandra's face as if it had never been. "In the meantime, allow yourselves to enjoy what I can imagine and the Eastern Dawn can afford to pay for. You all need baths...that will be the first order while rooms are prepared. Separate or together?"

"Together," Methos said and rose, recognizing when an interview was over. Alexandra nodded and pulled on an antique bell cord. "Join me for lunch then after you have been bathed and are settled." She said as the doors opened and four of the scantily clad staff entered to lead the way.

Methos led, not even glancing back at their hostess.

"Been bathed?" Sean asked him as he passed and Methos actually gave him a faint smile.

"Bathed by an expert," Methos commented. "Relax and enjoy, little brother. You may never get this chance again."

For all that luxury within the Nation was a relative thing, Kir was not initially too quick to judge or deny herself the hospitality Alexandra Karpis offered her guests. The communal bathing pools they had observed on entry were bypassed for more private attentions, secured behind doors carefully watched by a pair of guards, male and female, who were as stunningly attractive as their less defensive counterparts but who, with a glance at posture and bearing had obviously spent time training in somebody's army -- training hard. Nor were the lightweight hand weapons strapped to their backs and sides meant to go unnoticed. What disturbed her most was that each of them carried a short sword as well as the more modern weaponry -- something not unlike the short gladius that Methos carried as a backup. Neither of them were Immortal but the blades looked anything but ornamental.

"What does she have, a standing army?" Kir hissed at Methos as the doors were unlocked and opened then locked behind them. The locks made her nervous but Methos reacted just the opposite, relaxing somewhat -- enough to give Kir a faint twisted grin.

"Very likely," he answered her question. "Or at least an impressive household guard. Xan likes the idea of providing services in the most precarious of political atmospheres -- she stands alone and her house becomes neutral ground for all who enter. Bringing a quarrel into Xan's realm can be fatal if you aren't careful. She plays both sides. During WWII She was using her house to smuggle weapons to the French resistance while entertaining the Nazi elite in her ballroom and helping Jews escape out of her basement..." he chuckled. "The Nazi's were paying for their own defeat. She's a clever girl. Always has been. Had the Germans won, she would have been Queen of the Reich. When they lost she was a heroine of the resistance. But Xan always looks out for Xan first. Never doubt it, Kir."

The chamber they were offered housed three pools that might hold six adults, one bubbling from air jets and the other two steaming from the heat. Attendants came forward, offering to help them with clothing. There was hesitancy among the three younger Immortals for their attendants were all dressed, however scantily, but Methos showed no hesitation in stripping down and then laying face down on one of the half dozen benches set beside the pools. The others were offered thin wraps and shown to screens for modesty but Kir was the first to shake off the unnatural resistance to luxury and undressed, allowing a young man to take her clothing away to be cleaned, he informed her on her question, before laying down on the bench facing Methos. Connor and Sean relented although Connor rather loudly retained his sword, sliding it under the bench. Watching the eldest of them, Kir could have sworn he was smiling at the outburst. He opened his eyes to meet Kir's and with a wink reached under his rest, indicating she should do the same.

Her fingers played along the stone until she felt a recess and the cool feel of steel, curious she leaned over the bench to look underneath, almost laughing. Xan, it seemed, was extremely cautious. The two foot blade was well oiled and sharp, secured to the recess by a single metal strap secured by a riveted snap set in the stone. The pop of her thumb released the strap and the blade fell into her hand, weight unfamiliar but entirely serviceable in an emergency. The male attendant who had taken her clothes knelt beside her with a grin and she surrendered it to him, allowing him to resecure it in its hiding place.

"Her favorite author of all time is Ian Fleming," Methos commented but made no effort to explain the reference when it escaped Kir.

Warm hands touched the skin of her shoulder as she resettled on the bench, glance back to where Sean was the last to lay down then her attendant obscured her view. Her braid was allowed to fall across her shoulder to the floor as a warm cloth was pressed against her skin, wiping away the worst of the sweat and dirt. The touch was firm and sure, non-threatening and non-arousing except in its ability to soothe and relax. She could not see her own attendant but she found herself watching the man who so bathed Methos. He looked to be older than Sean, closer to fifty than forty but he was still fit and showed all the confidence of someone who is absolutely certain of his calling and profession. Watching him she saw him occasionally providing soft spoken direction to the other attendants without ever breaking the rhythmic work he performed on his client's long body. A murmur and a touch had Methos roll over on his back, and a moment later Kir was also prompted to shift position. She was a little startled to find her attendant was a woman, the strength of her hands had suggest otherwise. The young woman gave her a sweet smile as she continued to bathe her, adjusting limbs with all the impersonal but thorough attention of a nurse.

She became aware of movement behind her and turned her head to see Methos and his attendant moving to the first of the still pools. The older looking man followed Methos into the water without concern for his clothes, carrying a tray of cloths and lotions, which he set to one side of a sloped rest. He waited patiently while Methos ducked under the water to rinse off, wetting hair and emerging again. The elder man moved closer, applying soap to the broad, thin shoulders, again with the slow but efficient movements, then soaped the dark hair as Methos settled on the end of the rest. Another dunking and Methos levered himself up on the rest to have his lower torso and legs washed even as Kir was led into the water.

It was almost too hot, but it felt wonderful and by the current dragging lightly at her ankles, Kir guessed the water was being constantly recycled. Her attendant undid her hair and fanned it out so Kir could wet it thoroughly. Having someone else wash her hair was a treat and a luxury she could get used to, one she indulged in infrequently and had to clamp down on a sharp spike of grief. Duncan loved to wash her hair, to comb it out to braid it and unbraid it, let it fan out across his chest or tangle it in his fingers. She had thought to cut it a dozen times since the war had started, for expediency's sake, only to have her lover dissuade her again and again.

"Lady Kir?" The young woman said softly, firm hands on her shoulders and Kir realized she was crying.

"I'm all right," Kir managed.

"I can have someone else tend you," The woman offered, her voice still soft so as not to alert the others to her distress, those hands squeezing at Kir's shoulders carefully, relieving the tension building there. There was naught but quiet concern in the woman's voice.

"No, I'm fine," Kir said and the woman nodded, resuming her bathing of her charge. By the time Kir was settled on the rest, she had regained her composure, trying to wash the rest of the incident away as water was sluiced across her thighs and belly.

Had it not felt so wonderful, the whole process might have been tedious. Out of the still pool and into the whirlpool for a long soak and then once more to the benches, this time for deep massages that left Kir achy but loose then back into the final pool for another rinse.

Being dried off was equally impersonal and thorough and then Kir was offered a garment...she almost burst out laughing at the filmy wrap of silk and cotton, worn tunic style and added to the overall feel of Roman decadence. Her attendant inquired as to another mode of dress and Kir had to press the issue. Pleasant as it was she had no intention of meeting her hostess in a garment that left one breast exposed and the rest of her body hardly up to the imagination.

She was provided with three choices or the option of returning to her own clothes, but feeling more clean than she had ever felt in her life she opted for something a little more substantial and that had pants instead of skirts. The soft fabric still hugged or draped every curve and while Connor was more comfortable in the short tunic style clothing Methos had chosen, Sean was more inclined toward Kir's choices and in fact looked a little stunned still by the whole experience.

"Is it me, or have we apparently stepped back a couple of thousand years," he whispered to Kir as they were dressed.

"Close to it," she acknowledged, glancing at Connor who, despite the lean hard ranginess of his brawny figure actually looked rather good in the modified chiton. He was less uncomfortable in the skirt, still familiar with the kilts of his upbringing as Duncan was. Sean had never taken up the habit although he had, on occasion, worn a kilt to this or that function in deference to his father. Her eyes shifted again though, settling on Methos who looked if not relaxed at least less tense and the warmth of the water and the massages had put some color in his face -- although it reminded Kir more of the false color a fever might lend rather than anything closer to health. But of all of them, he seemed most comfortable in the offered garb and she had to admit it suited him, the long muscular legs were never so impressive as they were now, exposed by the mid thigh length of cloth, slender figure never seeming so graceful as it did with clothing that moved with him rather than obscuring his body.

His hair had grown out again and Kir realized who she was seeing was not so very different from the man Marcus Constantine had met some 2200 years earlier. Her own heart gave a surprised jump as she saw what she had not exactly missed for the last two centuries but had been aware of only peripherally.

She was as guilty as anyone of only seeing Methos in comparison to Duncan. Methos' appeal both to her and her people had been in his age, in the history and power he represented...it was an overwhelming realization at times. But here, outside the environment of either the Nation, of the stark but not harsh environs of a primarily military and political society such as they lived amongst in Atlanta, here Methos could be seen in the context of himself. The man he might have been, had been at one time, long before the present societal or political structure was in place.

He was beautiful. Those same classic lines that had survived millennia in sculpture and painting from the world's oldest civilizations showed up again in living flesh. Helen of Troy might have launched a thousand ships, but Methos could, exposed as he was now without the artifice and camouflage he had perfected over the centuries, stop traffic.

But it was not the earthy beauty of her own beloved Scot, whose dark looks were at once as open as his much loved highlands and secret as the deepest forest, but something far more ethereal. Not androgynous and no less masculine but it was a masculinity born of the pared-down slender form rather than an aspect of his personality. Duncan was all male, a man fully aware of his grace and beauty and passion. Whereas Methos was forever trapped in a form that had just bridged that gap between youth and man grown, perched forever on the brink of innocence and desire and sensuality -- all of it wrapped tightly around a gaze and countenance that spoke of experience and wisdom and all the pain and love those lessons had taught him in five millennia.

Her fingers clutched at Sean's, teeth clenched to keep her silence as what Methos was washed over her as it never had before. To call him Grandfather any longer sounded and felt like a blasphemy. Duncan had been right those many years before in describing his friend.

A combination of exquisitely open to hurt and yet capable of absorbing and inflicting infinite pain is our Methos

So Duncan had known, always known about his friend. As for the bargain Methos had made with her people, to someday willingly take up the burden of their heritage, Kir could understand now why he was reluctant to do so.

He was no part of her people, or any other save those he chose to make his own, just as Duncan rebuilt his clan from the people he cared for. Methos had no more loyalty to mortals than Immortals, possibly even less to the latter, knowing them for the false gods they sometimes purported to be. Face and form not withstanding, Methos was no grandfather but more nearly a child, born when the world was young and watching as it grew older. But he had never lost either the fascination or the wonder of the world he was born to -- where every wind, every brilliant star was a mystery. Blessing and curse to be able to forever view the world as if it had no order at all -- to know that your ability to affect change was only temporary.

And yet he had remained by Duncan's side for nearly two centuries, letting the Highlander's priorities become his, raising a son that was every bit as much Methos' as Duncan's and yet not at all in some ways. Sean could no more grasp the enormity of his brother's experience than Kir could. There was nothing in modern psychology or science to breach the gap between Methos and the rest of the world.

Kir could not even begin to understand the loneliness such an existence could foster. No wonder then that Marcus might allow behaviors from Methos that he would tolerate in no other. The old Roman was wiser than he knew. Then to be set further apart by his very age. For the first time Kir began to doubt the viability of her own promise and knew why Abbas might have been willing to settle for Duncan when he could not claim Methos. Taking the ancient when he was weak, when his physical and mental strength had been faltering might have been the only opportunity Abbas had to lay claim to that power. Were anyone to try and lay claim to Methos' Quickening at this point, Kir was not entirely sure they could survive -- if not bodily than most likely not mentally.

Her brain twisted around the concept. That mortals had taken the heads of Immortals to sunder Duncan's spirit from his body, Methos was almost certain of. Should Abbas or anyone else lay claim to the ancient, Kir was not sure they would want either his death or his Quickening.

And the waste of all that time was too horrible to contemplate as was the loss of this man for himself. Duncan's fear of a more intimate relationship with Methos made far more sense to her. Duncan had compassion and power and an infinite capacity to love, but he must have felt the same overwhelming awe she now experienced and more for knowing Methos far better. How easy could it be to lose one's sense of self under such a power -- easier and safer to keep it slightly distant, as she had done, as her people did, to accept him as a symbol not a man.

It was an understandable fear, not necessarily a valid one. That Xan showed less awe around her old friend spoke much of their hostess' age and wisdom and Kir could not help but wonder if Methos may not have had some other, subconscious reason for seeking out this woman.

"Kir?" Sean's voice interrupted her thoughts and she was grateful for it. They were already moving -- she had been unaware when they started walking. "You look like you've seen a ghost, Ghost?" he teased but his concern was real.

"I think I may have," she said honestly but did not try to explain how one could see the ghost of the living, rather than the dead.

"There are several...social functions occurring over the next few weeks. The consolidation of Eastern Dawn holdings in North America has begun, with its attendant meetings and forums and congresses," Alexandra informed them once they were seated at her table for the lunch she had promised.

Kir would not have been surprised had they been offered pillows and servants feeding them grapes but the table was of a standard type, albeit ornate, and chairs the preferred seating arrangement. The same silent attendants moved without distraction, laying down dishes and pouring wine. The meal was light but filling, as high on the grain side as any food found in the southern part of the continent, appealingly presented in a form almost too lovely to be disturbed by a fork. Xan showed no such restraint, taking delicate bites of the diced chicken and rice covered in a sauce so rich, Kir was afraid her stomach would revolt at the sheer unusual texture of it. But it was delicious and plates emptied were replaced with fresh dishes until even Connor seemed unable to continue.

So attuned to the changes in herself regarding Methos, Kir watched him as Xan spoke, noting how little he ate although he tasted everything. She had half an ear to Xan and another to Connor who had finally decided charm would get him further than force with Alexandra -- and he did have the MacLeod charm in full force.

"With the exception of Kir, Abbas knows all of us on sight," Connor told their hostess when she proposed getting them invitations for at least some of the parties being planned -- a good many of them requiring Xan's ability to plan, if not her presence.

"The general is unlikely to attend all of them. He will go where the influence is thickest, where only the most senior members of the council and military attend. The underlings hold no interest for him at all. He is an expert at bargaining for his position and never deals with middlemen -- only with the most powerful. Nor does he rely on anyone but himself. He never has," she added with a telling glance at Methos who had spoken not a word. "And he always has a way out. This is not a man you easily trick, and you would be a fool to try. But he does have weaknesses. He inspires no loyalty nor counts on any from his own underlings -- and he will use any means to get what he wants. Once he figures that out."

"Which means exactly what?" Sean asked, confused.

"Meaning Barabbas is unpredictable," Methos said quietly, hands folded together loosely. "Meaning that he has no plans for world domination, only in accumulating enough power, of every kind, to make himself unassailable. Meaning that he operates in the moment, always, which makes trying to figure out what he will do or which way he will jump in a given situation almost impossible to anticipate. But he will always save himself first...and sacrifice anyone and anything to escape." he added, almost a whisper.

"So we find a way to take him and threaten his life if he doesn't taken us to Duncan," Connor said.

"Lovely idea if it would work," Methos said with a bitter smile at the elder MacLeod. "Except Abbas will know we want Duncan alive much more than we want Abbas dead. The trick, if we can get to him, is to make him want to die more than he wants Duncan dead," he said and pushed off from the table. "Which won't work either if we can't get to him. You have rooms for us Xan?" he added the meal and the planning obviously over as far as Methos was concerned.

Alexandra rose with him and nodded, servants coming to pull chairs out. "So you will be shown and other diversions if you wish, she smiled but tucked her arm into Methos'. "But you and I have much to catch up on."

"We haven't had much sleep--" Methos began pulling away.

"Then I will bore you tears with outrageously true stories. I have things to attend to this evening. You can provide me with an hour, Miklos," she murmured catching his fingers. There was no pleading in her voice but her eyes caught and held his as if the other's did not exist.

"Xan, I really need some sleep," Methos began as his companion moved away from him to her dresser, pulling down the feathery locks of hair. She might have been no more than sixteen with her hair undone.

"I know, Miklos. There is the bed," she said with an amused smile pointing at the satins and lace and ruffled confection of her bed.

"To sleep," he said with a rough chuckle.

"So you shall, if that is what you want," she persisted and returned to him, stopping but a hands breadth away and unfastening the ties on her gown to let it fall to the floor.

"Ever direct," he said but did not move away when she closed the distance, pressed close and fit her mouth against his.

"It usually works best although deceptions are more fun," she said with a silvery laugh. "Unless you have somehow managed to hide a preference for the dark-haired beauty who watches you like a hawk," she suggested, fingering the ties on his tunic as well.

"No...no. Kir ...Kir and Duncan have been together for...for a long time," he finished as she resumed her lazy kiss.

"Idiot," she said without rancor, blowing a sweet breath across his cheek.

"Kir or Duncan?"

"Both," she murmured. "If you were going to run away, Miklos. You would have done so before now," her fingers pressed into his chest spreading the fabric. "You have gotten far too thin. Again. Don't they feed you in that Nation of yours?"

"Very well," he said and then caught her hands and pushed her gently away.

She stepped back, eyed him thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded. "Very well," she said and undid the ties, stripping the clothing off him in a single movement.

"Xan," he began again as she led him to the bed.

"To sleep," she said, pulling the blankets down before pushing him down as well. "If you wanted to leave me you could have, Miklos. Gone to your friends. You did not. Why is that?" she asked , still pushing and pulling him gently to get him in the bed and then slipping in beside him, turning him so he faced her.

"Because they look at you as if you are mad? Because the lovely Kir seems to think you are something wondrous and terrible at the same time and Connor thinks of you as less than nothing? Your Sean I have not seen enough of yet. He is almost as hard to read as you are. But I will." Her fingers moved over his face, smoothing the fine lines, her other hand under his neck to sort the silky strands of his hair soothingly.

"Because none of this would be necessary save for me," Methos said evenly. "Duncan and I...fought is the only word I can come up with. Hurt each other badly. He went on this mission to give me some space and...found Bar Abbas waiting."

"Which he was probably doing even before you fought," she said reasonably, kissing his nose. "You must have learned this guilt for that idiotic Scotsman. Fine!" she retracted, feeling him tense. "Your most beautiful and noble friend whom you love dearly though I cannot understand why. He holds power and beauty -- a dangerous combination as you well know. And a combination you know to avoid. Was Alexander not enough for you? Or Philip? Or Cleopatra...although I suppose beauty could not be said to be the lure for you there," she added with a giggle and Methos chuckled, relaxing.

"Beauty of spirit then," he acquiesced.

"Methos you have been advisor to some of the most powerful people in history, even if they did not know it. You know what can come from such encounters."

"Duncan is not an emperor."

"No. But he could be...lack of ambition makes him no less a threat to you."

"He is...my friend and more, Xan. He is beautiful and powerful, but he uses both...he uses them well," Methos murmured. "Like Alexander, but even...We will never agree on this."

"Because he sees the people, the individuals as well as the rest," she sighed. "But he is blind when it come to you."

"Because I have kept him so. Tried to..." Methos said. "Until...I cut him knowingly far deeper than he did to me unknowingly," he said. "I can't leave it like this. I am bleeding to death, Xan. He is the only cure I know, the only salvation I have."

"You have ever been your own salvation, Methos," she said, gathering him close. "Until you met him. I could kill him for that alone, for making you doubt yourself again."

"When we met I was already dead," he said flatly and Alexandra did not reply...knowing part of it was true as she pulled him into her arms. But the other part of the truth still lay in the ruins of a civilization that predated her, waiting for someone to wake it up with something more powerful than a kiss, but no less gentle.

The protest against Methos going with Alexandra died before it ever fully materialized in Kir's mind. Biting her lip, she rose with Connor and Sean, following their hostess' servants back down the long hallway and then up a single wide flight of steps to the second level. The music that had greeted them on their arrival was gone, replaced by a subtle melody, this one piped in.

The room they were shown seemed a little too ready at first. It was the size of a salon but it was set up with four beds. Differences in the shades of the floor showed where rugs had been moved and rearranged, pictures moved...Alexandra had gone to a lot of trouble to meet their request to stay together. Given the nature of her business, Kir was surprised she had not supplied them with one large room and shoved two king size beds together. The thought of it made her smile again at the extravagance being shown. Alexandra did not just like her comforts...she may well have invented the concept.

A quick tour showed them the bathrooms and a low sideboard was covered with fruits and light fare, beverages and a hastily arranged but well varied selection of liquor. Every comfort.

Sean was the first to dive into his pack and trade the odd tunic and trousers for his own clothes...sighing softly in both gratitude and resignation when he found his clothing cleaned. "Elves and faeries," he muttered, shedding the tunic for a T-shirt and the slacks for jeans. He checked the rest of his gear, Connor and Kir following suit. Weapons were intact and undisturbed although Connor was sure the small handgun he carried had been cleaned.

"So, what do you think?" Kir asked in general, taking a brush to her hair and braiding it.

"I think the lovely Lady Xan is a little too smooth tae' be trusted any further than I can see her," Connor said, making a more thorough check of his weaponry and equipment to make sure nothing had been tampered with. "But I have to admire her style," he added with a chuckle.

Sean smiled faintly. "She does have that...," he paused. "Neither Da nor Methos has ever mentioned her though...and given her reaction to Da...makes me wonder. No love lost there," he said. "Wonder what happened."

"I wonder where Methos met her," Connor said. "They seem friendly enough but there's stress there as well."

Kir nodded but said nothing. She had the barest suggestion of where and how and under what circumstances Methos and Xan might have met. Alexandra might well have come up with the concept of courtesan as well.

"What about you, Kir?" Sean asked her, sitting beside her on the bed.

"I think she might well have been describing herself when she was describing Bar Abbas. Not as ruthless or as single-minded but I think if it comes to it she will save herself first...even if it came to a choice between herself and Methos. But oddly enough, I think I trust her as well and I couldn't tell you why if my life depended on it."

"Well, you'd best think long and hard on that one, Silent Storm," Connor said quietly, eyeing her through a laser sight. The red dot appeared in the center of Kir's forehead. "Because your life, and all our lives might well depend upon it." He flicked the sight off. "We set watches?"

Kir nodded. "As we can. Let me get some sleep now and I'll take the first tonight. I think we are safe enough for now, so if you've a mind to explore the other pleasures of this little palace, Connor MacLeod, I suggest you do it while the day is still younger than you are."

Connor grinned and repacked his things. "So I might...get a feel for the rest of the layout, as it were," he snickered.

"As it were," Kir agreed, moving off the bed end to the head to pull the creamy blankets down.

"I'm with Kir," Sean added to his cousin around a yawn. The drive, the bath, the food and the worry all combined to make the appeal of the wide bed more than he could resist. He pulled his sword out, unconsciously testing the edge before sliding it under his pillows. He was asleep before Connor ever left the room.

"Mr. MacLeod?" a soft inquiry came from behind.

Connor swirled around, shocked that anyone could have gotten that close without him realizing it. Behind him was a . . . goddess. Medium height, large brilliantly blue eyes in a perfect face framed by golden hair that flowed and swirled around her head as though it were a separate, living being. None of the lean, athletic slimness preferred by his clansman here, only deep curves and rounded bosom and buttocks, soft shoulders and narrow waist, all delicately draped with the finest peach-colored silk that matched the natural high color in her cheeks.

For a moment Connor just stared until the woman's face colored and she lowered her eyes until he could only see her soft lashes against her pink cheeks. He shook himself out of his fascinated trance of admiration. "Yes?"

"My name is Charlie. Xan suggested that I show you around the facility and see if there was anything in particular you wanted or needed."

"Well...Charlie," Connor replied, uncertain where to begin, "I will have to thank her for providing me with such a . . . pleasing guide. I guess you can begin by telling me what they are doing." He gestured into a large room where couples of a various mix of genders where lying, distributed among soft pillows, each sitting very close but not touching, watching their partner intently. The looks on the faces ranged from sublimely happy to extremely pained.

"Ah," Charlie said. "That's the listening room. It's kind of a game, a competition. Each person has a transceiver in their ear with special harmonics activated when it picks up brain wave patterns associated with specific sexual stimulation in your partner. You are not allowed to touch your partner or yourself. The object of the game is to respond to that stimulation, setting off a similar reaction in your partner, without losing control. In other words, the first to have an orgasm loses. There are those who like to play the game in private, but others enjoy the competition of others. The last person to have an orgasm in an organized game like this can win a substantial prize." She turned her violet-blue eyes on him, wide with an innocence that was an odd contrast to the topic. "So far the longest time is seven hours." As she spoke they heard a long groan, followed by subdued laughter and one of the lights on the "scoreboard" above the door winked out. "But losing can be fun, too," Charlie smiled. "Would you like to try? I bet you would be very, very good at it."

"Nooo, lass," Connor replied. "I hear enough about control from a certain clansman of mine. There are times when control can be overrated, and I prefer my sports one-on-one the old fashioned way."

As he spoke the small germ of an idea began to form in his mind. He reached out to touch that lively mane of hair swirling around Charlie's face. "But if you would like to show me some of the possibilities provided by Madame Alexandra's conveniences, it might give me a more modern perspective."

Connor followed Charlie around for a half-hour while she escorted him through the extensive complex. Xan had an astonishing array of possible stimulations, from the merely interesting to the truly bizarre, even from the viewpoint of over 600 years of exposure to every possible combination and permutation purulent interest. But in addition to the special "playrooms" that provided everything from bondage areas to costumes and scenery, to partners of any gender or even genus that might interest her customers, it was possible through a combination of drugs, cortical stimulation and virtual reality imaging to create an entire universe to fulfill whatever fantasy the mind could create.

"I take it this is not necessarily condoned by our friends in the Eastern Dawn?" Connor inquired as he peeked into a semi-darkened room containing one figure lying on pillows, his eyes covered by goggles, leads attached to his temples, writhing in evident throes of unrestrained ecstasy.

By now, he was keeping his hand on the small of Charlie's back, letting his fingers occasionally slip around to her waist, moving up until he could just begin to feel the swelling of her breast. She leaned into him slightly and turned. Those dark blue eyes were both amused and coolly speculative. "Xan said you were to see all the possibilities, Mr. MacLeod. But you'll have to draw your own conclusions about that."

She turned and let him back down the corridor, past another door marked "Authorized Personnel Only."

"What's in there?" he asked casually.

"Just a technical room. This doesn't happen by magic, you know," she smiled. "Someone has to be at the controls. And we carefully observe our patrons to ensure they don't hurt themselves."

"Could I see?" Connor turned his grey-eyed, twisted smile on her, one he had used for centuries - a little naughty, a little nice, and frequently irresistible. But in this case evidently not irresistible enough as Charlie merely blushed and shook her head until her tresses bounced from side to side and waved her hand.

"Oh, no. Even I'm not allowed in there." She tugged on his hand, moving him reluctantly further down the hall. Connor followed meekly, but looked back as he heard a noise behind him. The door to the forbidden room opened as a young man in blue coveralls exited and Connor got a tantalizing glimpse of datascreens, monitors and an entire bank of computer equipment before the door closed, clicking firmly with an automatic locking system.

Charlie led him silently back through several areas they had already visited, down a quiet, deeply carpeted hallway and into a large, empty room dominated by a deep circular indentation in the middle of the floor. She released his hand and moved to the wall, releasing a control panel with the push of a concealed button. With only a few motions the room darkened to a soft warm glow from hidden, indirect lights. Gentle, rhythmic music seemed to emanate from the walls, and the ceiling gradually darkened and deepened, and Connor could have sworn actually opened to the night sky, midnight blue and dotted with the infinite twinkling magnificence of the Milky Way. A warm summer breeze brushed across his face and he felt Charlie's small hand play over his chest, finding its way into the folds of his tunic to his bare skin. Her head barely reached his shoulders, which put her mouth at the perfect height to trace her tongue across his pectoral muscles, searching out his nipples and barely touching, setting up the slightest delicate suction that made him draw in a sudden deep breath as he felt himself flush and harden with the pleasure of the sensation.

He looked down into those violet blue eyes and saw a playful intelligence there. "You wanted one-on-one, didn't you, Connor? This is a playroom. Let's play," she whispered, pulling his head down to hers and opening her mouth, inviting him in. His tongue accepted and she welcomed it, setting up a quiet rhythm that matched the gently pulsing music, which echoed the throbbing that was starting deep in his groin. Part of him wondered how she did that, synchronizing everything, but most of him just gave into the absolute sensuality of having every sense focused and manipulated on generating pleasure in his body. She led him into the circle, which was warm and soft and forgiving under his feet, pulling him down to her. With an imperceptible motion her clothes just fell away revealing a body as perfect and round and sensual as her face. Connor knelt, feeling the floor sink under his weight just enough to be comfortable, but not so much that it didn't provide support. He cupped his huge hand and placed it over her breast, delighted when it filled and overflowed his grasp, and even more delighted when he could take her nipple in his mouth, feeling the softness of her skin against his lips and cheek, thrilled to feel her skin pucker and harden under the gentle suction of his tongue.

He stopped, reaching for the closure on his tunic, only to find she had already found and released it. Her pink hands moved, his clothes fell away and she pushed him back against the soft floor, moving over him. His world contracted and melted into a collage of swirling midnight stars, warm summer breezes, soft skin and a pulsing that he could feel under, in and around him, until all rational thought evaporated, and there was only the circle, the woman and a desire that was gradually, gently nurtured and built and fed until it grew almost unbearable. Then somehow she sustained it, holding him there inside her, so utterly still as the music slowed to a long, sustained whispering chord, exactly on the edge of that moment of pure ecstasy. He couldn't breathe. It was too wonderful looking up into those wild blue eyes, feeling his body filled with such heat, in incredible agony of a need to come, but wanting to hold that moment forever even so. Then she sighed and let her head fall back as the music surged and her body clutched around him in waves and he came, generating a deep cry of near-pain it felt so good, releasing long surges of warmth and energy until he was straining into her so hard he could see sparkles of light behind his closed eyes.
 
 

TO PART SEVEN