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

He wasn't quite sleeping, but neither was he fully awake. There was pain and softness, a weariness that made him want to weep and the coursing of blood though his loins that reminded him he was still painfully alive.

His fingers encountered the long fall of silken hair even as a warm, soft mouth pressed against his lips. "Shhhh...you're all right, Methos. No dreams, no nightmares." There was an underlying Voice whispering at him not to think, only to feel.

He could stand no more tension in either body or spirit, pulling away as he realized it was Kir who touched him so carefully, her warm body chasing the coldness away, fingers stroking at him to ease the prolonged ache he had denied for days now. A state he rarely ever sustained unless he had taken a Quickening and his breath caught, not from her ministrations but from memory. "Oh, God...did I kill her?"

Kir paused, hearing the fear of a child in his voice, unexpected that grief should be the first thing he felt or acknowledged. "No, Methos. Alexandra is very much alive and very embarrassed," she said, stretching out beside him and holding him against her breast to ease the shuddering sobs that had overtaken him. They were near silent, his body the only betrayer of his fear and she set aside her caresses to rock him, and comfort.

This had not been a choice she had consulted either Sean or Connor on. Methos' collapse had shocked and frightened them all and Xan's stuttering excuses and her own sobs as she reawakened alive and fully aware of what she had almost done had shaken Kir. She could hardly blame Xan for laying most of her anger at Kir's feet. Her accusation to the "healers" among them had cut harshly into both Kir and Sean, but the latter was testing the "healer, heal thyself" adage to its limits. Sean seemed to be deteriorating at a level close to Methos' or perhaps in parallel.

Kir spent a good few hours while Methos was dead to the world, talking to Connor and her own conscience. Somewhere along the line she had traded who she was for what she did. Yes, she was a military Commander whose expertise was rescues. She was also, or had been, Duncan's lover for nearly half a century. In her own way, however, she had become as single minded as Methos in her quest to find Duncan. Not counting the costs to herself...or anyone.

Long before any of it she had been a healer, a shaman, one of the wise among her people. She had lost her path somewhere, stepped aside and let the conflict her people faced guide her steps rather than her own spirit. Perhaps because her first death had come at the apex of another such conflict. She had lost her life and her innocence on the Trail of Tears, but the spirits of her ancestors had granted her time and purpose enough to learn and go on. She had stopped listening to them at some point, but their voices were not gone, only drowned out by her own protests that the world was cruel and unfair.

The world was what it was. She looked down, stroking the dark, fine curls on Methos' head, murmuring to him in her native tongue as a mother would to a child. But he was no child, he was a man pushed past the breaking point, his own sense of honor so twisted and tangled up in his love for another such warrior he could no longer find his path either. Honor was not something that could be dictated, it was something one lived and in Methos' case, it did not need to agree with anyone else's honor: not hers, not his brother's and not Duncan's.

"You have done no harm to anyone but yourself," she said, bending down and curling around him. "And it is time for that to end as well," She let her fingers stroke along his jaw, and felt the muscle there twitch.

"There's only one way to end it," he whispered back.

"No. No, Methos. Your death will cut as deeply as Duncan's. You have to believe that."

"My death is long overdue. Mac bought it back for me for awhile. If I ever carry the voices of your people, Silent Storm, my voice will not be among them."

She smiled a little at that. "I think, old one, that your voice will sound even beyond death." She shifted a little to lay beside him, pushing her hair back and tracing her finger along the hard, sharp planes of his face. His eyes were closed, body only slightly less tense now than it had been hours before. She moved her hands, felt him jerk as her fingers moved over the erection that still dragged at his concentration and his strength. It had eased only slightly as he slept. There was, no doubt, a medical explanation for it as well but Kir was less interested in the medicine of men than she was in medicine for the soul.

"And what tale will you tell Duncan for your attentions?" he asked without opening his eyes, drawing away from her. She followed, fitting her body against his. There was little or no violence left in him she thought, but even if it surfaced again like a beast to claw at him, she would meet it. She was warrior as well as shaman.

"Only that no matter the form, there is love for you beneath it all. It is just frightening sometimes -- it frightened Duncan."

"I warned you to be afraid of my love once before, Kir. You should listen to your elders," he said and rolled away with every intention of leaving the bed. He opened his eyes, for the first time realizing he was not in the suite, that this was smaller room. His hesitation gave Kir time enough to move up behind him, to slip her arms around his chest and press her lips to his shoulder.

"And I am an elder of my tribe. Will you listen to me?"

He did not move, his silence his only acquiescence. "Will you believe that what I offer is not out of pity? That it is no betrayal of what I or you feel for Duncan if we share this time or our bodies? It is more a betrayal if we do not. You have brought us this far -- convinced us all through your own sacrifice that he lives. But you are, for all your strength, for all your long life, still human, Methos. As am I. And I have already come near to betraying who I am by not answering to your needs and your pain because I was afraid."

"Fucking me will not make you a better shaman, Storm." His voice was harsh, pushing her away again, but that weapon had been once too often used on her. She slipped to his side, meeting his eyes, ignoring the hard set of his mouth and the cold light in his eyes.

"No, it will not, and fucking you will not make our task any shorter or longer." She used his words with a far gentler tone. "Making love to you will cure nothing either except to ease your body, and perhaps let you remember what it is like to be loved, if only for a moment. To remind you what has been denied you by one you love. But not by all who love you," she said and there were tears in her eyes. It was a hard thing to say about Duncan who had always been a generous lover save to this man. She could no longer hold Duncan completely blameless in this, nor would she make excuses. Whatever lay between Duncan and Methos would have to be resolved between them and spirits willing they would get the chance, but not if Methos destroyed himself by believing his own monstrous instincts were the sum and total of who he was.

"He has never denied me his love," Methos said and his voice broke. "Not once...only denied its existence."

"And its expression," she said her own voice catching as she felt the pain wash over her from the man beside her.

"I never needed it..." he almost fell and Kir caught him. "Never asked for it until...how could he leave me there?" She almost didn't hear him, knowing it was the one issue Methos had yet to get past. It didn't matter where the blame lay or if it were rational or reasonable. Abandonment was the one wound Methos was unable to live with. It was not betrayal, it was loss, it was wondering what he could have ever have done to deserve such a fate. It did not matter if he spoke of Duncan leaving him to his living tomb, or Bar Abbas leaving him to the brutal demands of a whoremaster, or the unknown mother who had left her child to fend for himself in a world far more brutal and callous than Kir could imagine. It was that which drove him -- he would not abandon Duncan. Not even unto death.

She pulled him back, once more soothing him, letting their tears fall together as she tried her best to stop the bleeding from a wound so old he had made it part of himself. Her lips tasted salt on his skin, then the bitterness of grief on his lips, and the too long denied need in the way his body strained against her, seeking anything to replace the fear and loss that were his constant companions. She half expected the rage to rise to supplant those fears and instead found him hesitant, afraid to ask for fear of being rejected again, of damaging the frail web of their relationship has he had damaged the web that wove he and Duncan together.

But he did need and in surrendering to that need, Kir found no ancient man, well versed in the art of love, but someone more like her first love, dead and buried these three hundred plus years; dead before she had ever begun her fateful trek across the mountains she knew as home. His responses were all the sweeter for being so cautious, more precious for being without artifice. She had seen him with the man at the party, the skill and seduction that Xan claimed as a natural talent, but here, without purpose or command he was almost shy, silent as he nuzzled her breast and tasted her, achingly gentle as he touched her with feather light caresses. He cautiously joined their bodies, almost crying out as she closed around him firmly and kissed him forcefully to let him know she would not break.

Then thought she would as he moved within her, gently despite the long held need. For once she cursed her own responsiveness as she felt the shuddering crash of an orgasm take her and Methos was still hard and wanting, He pulled free, ready to roll away in frustration but she would not, could not allow him to escape, reaching for him, tasting herself on the hard length of flesh that seemed to be more torment than pleasure for him. He bucked against her and moaned, twisting beneath her hands and mouth as if he were being tortured, then arching upward. She moved over him, again sheathing his body in her own, still moist, and moved with him so he would not exhaust himself. She was weeping in a frustration to match his own when she finally heard the choked cry, and felt him release, his body almost convulsing. He twitched within her as she leaned down to lay her head on his chest, listening to the racing heart as she parted them, her fingers stroking lightly over the softening flesh. They were both sweat drenched and she pulled him against her, covering them with the warm blankets and once more cradling him like a child until both his and her own trembling eased and his breathing became more regular. She kissed the top of his head as she felt him finally relax completely and slip into sleep. Not too long afterward she followed him, still holding him securely.

When she woke in the morning, she was alone, but she had not dreamed the soft kiss laid on her mouth as the dawn broke.

Breakfast had been laid out in the communal room -- even more lavish than before with out of season fruits and warm pastries. Kir paused to nibble on a flaky croissant glancing at Sean and Connor who seemed more subdued than she had seen them. She felt around the room.

"Where is he?" she asked, realizing Methos' signature was not present.

"Gone to talk to Xan." Sean said, dully and Kir took a good look at him. "Did you sleep?"

"No," he snapped out at her and went to refill his coffee cup.

She looked at Connor, who shook his head, face impassive but his expression was hard and cold. "What happened?" she demanded.

"What did you do to him?" Sean asked, voice low and laden with fury.

"Sean!" Connor said, voice also low but far more in control.

Kir looked from one man to another in total confusion. "What the hell happened?"

"What happened last night, Kir?" Connor asked. "What did you talk to him about? What did you say?"

"We didn't talk much at all," she said and felt heat rise into her cheeks. Had she done more damage than healing then? Again? "I...I slept with him," she said. "He needed to find some kind of release and I needed...to remember I am a healer."

Connor blinked and glanced at his young kinsman -- Sean looking confused now.

"That's all?" Sean asked. "You didn't try to ..use your Voice, get in his head?"

"A little, just enough to make him relax. To sleep. Sean, Connor, please. What's happened?"

Sean moved away, going to his pack and pulling out something, returning to Kir with Duncan's bone handled knife in his hand. The bone was stained although the blade was cleaned. The knife Duncan had given to Methos before he left.

"I found him in the bathroom...down the hall," he said softly, dropping the blade in Kir's hand. "He was using this on himself. He probably bled to death three or four times before I found him."

She stared at it. "Why?"

"He said he needed some quiet," Sean said dully. "It was his coming back to life the second time that woke me. This is ...it's like he is still buried. I thought you had," Sean waved his hands formlessly, "I don't know what I thought. It has to end, Kir, or so help me, I will kill him myself and pin his dead body to a coffin with a stake through his heart until we find Da ... or are sure Da is dead."

She didn't say it. Sean knew that without Methos their chances of finding Duncan alive or dead were almost nil. But it was one thing to know someone you loved was being held, tortured...Ancestors knew what else. It was another thing entirely to watch it happening before your eyes with never a hand lifted to touch Methos but his own.

She nodded. "Let's get in touch with Amanda, see if we can push up our schedule a bit. Why did he go to see Xan?"

"He said, there was till a debt between them and he would settle it once and for all -- I don't think he meant taking her head." Connor pulled his sword and started polishing it. "But I wouldn't lay any money down on it."

The last speculation was laid to rest within the hour as Methos and a very subdued Xan arrived. Methos had a look of determination on his wan face and Kir could not help but put her hand over her mouth at the sight of him. He was calm, probably more in control than he had been in awhile. But the insides of his arms were marked with scars. Fading and looking weeks old, but scarred nonetheless.

"Get your gear," he said quietly, voice harsh and raw. "We are moving."

"To where?" Connor asked, treading warily. "And why?"

"There is a...sub-basement below the club," Xan said. "My own escape route. Defensible, with access to the harbor should you need it. I will stay in touch with Amanda. This week will be full of ...parties, events. Your presence might be noticed. There is surveillance equipment there and a secure communications post -- not unlike what you found at Constantine's estate."

"We have to rely on Amanda to get us to Sun. To get you three to Sun. When she has you can call me..." Methos said.

"Where will you be?" Sean asked. "You aren't going after Abbas, alone!" he said sharply.

"No. I'm not sure I could if I wanted to. I'll be there...in body. Silent Storm...you are a shaman -- I have to find Duncan. I can't find him on this plane. I need to find him on the other."

A dream walk in his physical condition was dangerous. "That's not a good idea," she protested.

"I don't give a shit," he said without raising his voice. His whole tone was flat, as was, she suddenly realized, his signature. "If we found him tomorrow I could probably cope but there's no guarantee and I can't sustain both the community and my link with Duncan any longer. Not as I am. Living takes too much energy. Xan has the means to keep me....unconscious...in a coma. You have the gift to bring me out of it on a Word," he said, locking eyes with her.

She said nothing but dropped her gaze and Methos shifted his focus to Connor. There was a delay in the movement of his eyes before he actually focused on Connor, Kir saw. "Your job is to make sure, damn sure, Sean doesn't kill anybody or get himself killed until then," he said. "The link will stay but it will barely be noticeable and there are enough community bound Immortals around for the impetus of the Gathering to pick up in intensity and for challenges to be issued. If you can't do that, then you load his ass onto a truck or a plane and you take him home."

"I'm not leaving!" Sean said, angry and confused at being treated like a child -- even though he felt like one.

"I'm not asking," Methos said implacably. "I can't afford to worry about you right now, Sean. And despite your gifts and your heritage, which you aren't using since you've never had to before, you have become as big a threat to saving your father as Sun or Abbas. If you don't agree to do exactly as Connor and Kir say, I will kill you myself, right here, right now, and ship you back to Hawk of Moons in a body bag. I warned you about this when we started."

Sean could only stare at him, aware that Connor had nodded his agreement and that Kir was as pale as the cream colored walls. There was no inflection or emotion in Methos' voice. There was nothing at all there to feel. He meant it. If Sean wanted any part of this he was going to soldier down and take orders. They had no time or room for emotion any longer.

Wordlessly he nodded, wondering if he were about to lose the only other person in the world that meant more to him than his own life. Then realizing, as he turned to gather his things, that it had already happened.

Xan's basement was below the harbor but not damp. The construction was old and utilitarian for the most part but not completely without amenities and the equipment -- Sean was surprised to see the surveillance done here was even more comprehensive than the equipment on the upper level. It was chilling to realize that while he and the others had taken their turns watching the party rooms and events, someone, no doubt had been watching them.

She said nothing about the additional equipment. Only three of her people even knew these rooms existed or so she said and those three were burdened with bringing supplies. Until they heard from Amanda, none of them would leave. Connor checked out the escape routes and the locks...re-coding the massive steel door that led to the upper levels and then checking it. He seemed satisfied that no one could get in that they did not invite but the steel bar came down anyway. "I'm not sure plastique could get through this," he commented, looking at the door.

"The construction is close to that used for the old NORAD post," Xan said quietly and Connor was equally silent but impressed.

Sean was allowed to help in the small infirmary. Even knowing that there was no drug that could permanently kill his brother he had no wish to see him in pain or more incapacitated than he volunteered to be. But watching Methos, Sean wasn't even sure his brother was capable of feeling pain any longer. A last few precise instructions and Methos lay down on one of the beds, Sean on one side and Kir on the other.

"Keep it steady," Methos cautioned, meaning the drugs they were prepared to launch into his system. Sean was appalled at the combination and the dosage but his arguments were over before they began.

Kir went first, the meditation technique familiar to all of them but it went deeper, far deeper than Sean had ever been and he had to stop listening or be dragged down with them. The compulsion in Kir's voice was like the ragged rasp of a rope across his nerves and made him feel cold even as he felt his brother's body temperature rapidly drop several degrees. He adjusted the drip rate on the prepared bags, glancing anxiously at the two-dozen other versions of the same combination of drugs, slipping the tiny stainless steel needle directly into the vein of his brother's arm, the tubing trailing away. The puncture wound healed around it until the tube seemed to grow out of Methos' arm.

His breathing slowed to almost nothing, his heart rate the same and he went paler, if it were possible, not enough blood being pumped through his system to keep the tiny capillaries dilated.

Long minutes passed before Kir finally opened her eyes, the dark orbs dilated and unfocused. Sean reached out to steady her and she clung to him for a long moment and then began to sob quietly. Sean checked the drip and then moved away, pulling her into a corner to hold her. He asked her nothing, only stroked her head, his eyes fixed on his brother's unmoving body.

She calmed after awhile but not before Connor had come to check on them, face grim as he glanced at Methos then at the pair in the corner. He entered, crouching down before them to touch Kir's shoulder lightly.

"Just for a moment, before I had to pull back or go with him, I felt...he was right. We may be able to recover Duncan's body but I'm not sure there's much else to salvage," she said with a harsh swallow, wiping at her eyes. "It's what Methos is going to try...to anchor what's left of Duncan's spirit...so there will be a place to start from. I had no idea..." she whispered and leaned into Sean's strength again.

"How long can he maintain that?" Connor asked.

"With the drugs? Indefinitely. But too long and he will be as lost to us as Duncan is," she said softly.

"Amanda will hurry," Sean said, trying to sound confident. "What's the signal to bring him out?"

"Just a word...a trigger. I vaguely remember something like it...but I can't place the term," Kir said sounding weary and confused. "He said, 'Candygram'."

Sean stared at her for a long moment and then started laughing. The first was more of a sob but it quickly gave way to real humor until his whole body was shaking with it, laughter bringing him a release of tension that nothing else could have achieved. Kir and Connor stared at him for a moment as if he had lost his mind.

He took a deep breath, wiping at his streaming eyes and started laughing all over again.

"I'm sorry...give me a minute..." he paused and took another deep breath. "It was originally part of a an old comedy broadcast -- before I was born. But Methos.." he started chuckling again. "Shortly after he and Da met..."

He talked and they listened...glimpsing into a piece of Duncan and Methos' history from Sean's recounting while the only available witness to the incident bore them silent company, offering a little laughter should it be his final gift.

No dream walk was the same...in look or feel...for as many as Kir had taken each one was like a new discovery. Each had its own reality and as she spoke softly to Methos and felt their spirits move together she felt the man grow frailer. She did not act surprised when her mind's eyes gazed upon her companion. His physical form had seemed to melt away, leaving a mere shade of himself, but a shade that burned brightly. He was right, his physical form was as much an encumbrance as a part of him any longer. And this was why he had needed her. Physically, Methos no longer had the strength to even release his grip on his own body. He needed hers. Thus the mutilation of earlier, to separate himself from the body that was reacting to the steady drain on his physical and emotional strength as an animal would chew off a paw to escape the hunter's trap.

Her own spirit form wrapped around him as he shed the weight of the physical like a snake shedding its skin. She carried him when that pull became too strong to fight, wrapping him like a babe in the strength of her own spirit...those near invisible threads of binding trailing behind them like starlight.

She was called Storm but in truth she was more like the eye of the hurricane, calm, clear, a promise that better weather would return.

But as Methos shed his own form she was not sure there was a word in any language for how he appeared to her. A bird, a firefly, a wisp of cloud as their walk and the drugs finished the separation of spirit as far as it could be and still sustain life.

Confusion washed over her as he changed, lifted from her arms and she turned to look at their surroundings.

Had she expected a barren plain? Some place dark and lonely? It was none such. The sky above was so blue it hurt to look at it and they stood not on a plain but on the top of a cliff overlooking an ocean that never ended, calm seas and the deep dark green that spoke of unimaginable fathoms. Low growing foliage surrounded them, tiny blossoms of white and yellow and pink peeking out of the low shrubs. Behind them was a vast dark forest, impenetrable and silent. Overhead, thousands of gulls wheeled and cried out, winging perfect formations turning into the light breeze.

Until one broke away, diving toward her in a streak of white until it stopped and shattered into a million crystal tears and fell to her feet like tiny diamonds. She bent to lift one and felt the sharp point pierce her finger, leaving a bloody trail across her flesh.

"A warning," a voice, Methos' voice whispered in her ear and she turned to see him fading away like a heat mirage. The crystal tears were growing, rising up like clear roses...each one with razor sharp thorns, the blossom filling with more blood as they opened and as petals fell, the blood became liquid until it had spread under her feet.

This is my imagery, not Methos' she told her own spirit form sharply.

"No, it's not," The voice again but further away and she saw him, standing on the edge of the cliff, arms spread wide to catch the breeze. She came toward him, shedding her own white feather spirit form until she stood behind him, dressed in her tribal dress of centuries before.

"Don't get too caught up in my madness, Storm. It's very beguiling, even for me," he said and she looked at him.

Not a frail creature, nor a strong one. Familiar and not, the features were his but they shifted from the youth he had been to the ancient he was. He pointed up and Kir looked at the birds. They screeched and screamed, almost deafening if you listened.

"Those are your voices, Kir. The voices of the Community. All of it. Unless you are standing beside me, you won't hear mine. And I can't hear Mac's," he said and shimmered again, slimming until he seemed almost skeletal...much as he had when they first released him from his tomb.

"You can't hold your shape...even here," she said.

"No." he said and the young Methos was back, boyish and slim, hair curling across the bared skin of his shoulders and she saw the bloody welts rise on his skin but he seemed not to notice even as the blood dripped to turn into more sharp crystal tears, growing into the bloody roses.

"I will need you, here, in this place," he said as the welts healed and he looked more like the Methos she had known, but only briefly. "To help me back up..."

"Where are you going?" she asked and watched but did not interfere as the spirit form of Duncan's knife appeared in his hand only the blade was crystal and already filled with blood as he began to systematically cut the flesh from his arms and toss it toward the wheeling, shrieking birds.

"There..." he pointed with the knife toward the sea and Kir saw it. A tiny raft drifting further and further from shore. A huddled form on the bare wood. Duncan.

He might have been miles away, but she could see him clearly, a familiar form but that was all for he was bleeding as well, the blood running across the wood to trail into the sea, leaving a crimson path behind the raft.

"I can get to him but I'm not sure I can get back."

His right arm was bared of flesh to the bone but the birds were silent, having settled to eat their grisly meal.

"What will call you..."

He smiled and turned to her and Kir almost stepped back in fear. Where his eyes should have been were nothing but black holes, endless, no whites, faint pricks of light appearing and fading.

"A message..." he took her hand and cut it into her palm, leaving it in bloody letters. There was no pain and except to fill the wound, the blood did not overflow.

He shimmered again, becoming more liquid than water, erupting like a geyser and she stepped back as more of the crystal tears appeared among the droplets shredding her skin as they fell and the pain was such that she had to back away. Only to find him in the center of them all, bloodied and bare, hardly able to raise his head. "Tell Amanda to hurry, please," he whispered and lifted the knife again, this time to cut out his own heart and leave it on the ground where it turned to crystal as well and hardened but did not fill with blood. He rose, and then fell from the cliff into the waters below.

She rushed to the cliff edge and saw him, swimming with labored strokes, trailing his own crimson streamer as he fought to reach the raft. He sank a dozen times and came to the surface.

She backed away and looked at the heart on the cliff and saw the faintest tingeing of blood begin to fill the clear organ.

That much time and no more.

Without another thought, knowing she could not help the swimmer she ran, wrapping her spirit form around her and picking up the thin silver thread that would lead her back....sobbing all the way.

For Amanda, the next week and a half were a tiresome blur of social gatherings at Xan's followed by late night trysts with Sun, who slowly began to relax around her, although he rarely spoke of Eastern Dawn business. They would make love, and Amanda exerted every trick she knew to keep him entertained, hoping ultimately to ensnare him in an emotional web. But Sun seemed unaffected, distant. He appeared to enjoy their lovemaking but she was continually frustrated that he never seemed dependent, enthralled or enraptured. Gradually, Amanda realized that whatever Sun's obsessions were, she was not destined to be among them.

Instead, it seemed he just wanted a friendship. Someone to talk to, someone around whom he could drop his guard just a little, preferably one of his own kind. So Amanda brushed up on her philosophy and religion and history, topics that Sun enjoyed, but subjects she had never diligently pursued. It was an irony, she mused, that it was only her memory of those long evenings with Duncan, during which he would try to get her interested in Jung and Freud, Popper, Neitzsche, Rorty and others, over her vehement protests, that allowed her to converse intelligibly with the man who just might hold the key to the lost Scotsman's rescue.

But for every moment she was not doing Abbas' high-pressure bidding, she felt the urgency of action from her Community compatriots. Time seemed ever more precious, the answers ever more elusive with Abbas constantly demanding the same reports on Sun that she knew Methos' was anxious to receive. In all her long life, Amanda had always placed her own needs, petty or otherwise, above all else. But she now felt the weight of responsibility for the survival of the Community on her shoulders and it was both exhausting and uplifting. If she succeeded, she would make a real difference to the lives of those she cared about. But if she failed ... her mind would not acknowledge that possibility. Methos was precariously balanced on a knife-edge of near-madness, and Sean -- the image of his haunted, anxious face disturbed her dreams. As for Duncan, Amanda resolutely refused to acknowledge Methos' description of MacLeod's soul as possibly being lost to them, even if they recovered his physical form. The Highlander had triumphed over obstacles and travails that no one in history had encountered. He would do so again. She refused to believe otherwise.

It was well into the second week of late-night meetings with Sun, and Amanda was exhausted. Sun droned on for over an hour about the proper role of Immortals in the world, finally winding down as he noticed his audience's attention was drifting.

The small man was lying on the bed, his head pillowed in Amanda's lap as she gently, absently stroked his forehead, pretending to listen. He smiled in bemusement as he noticed the glazed, sleepy look in his lover's eyes, which were drifting closed. He lifted his hand to hers, pulling it down to his lips for a gentle kiss, which startled her out of her own reverie.

"I'm sorry, Emma. I'm boring you," he observed gently.

Amanda started to protest, but then sighed. She really kind of liked the man, and perhaps the best way to gain his confidence was to at least appear to give a little of her own. "It is I who am sorry, Sun," she replied. "You're not boring me, but I'm very tired. This has been a long few weeks and it seems I can't get any real rest or relaxation." Her arm gesture encompassed the comfortable but impersonal room they were occupying. "It seems I have no place other than rooms like these to go to. For centuries I have always had a place to retreat to, but now?" she shrugged elegantly. "I would give a great deal to relax in a real home."

There was a long silence, and Amanda almost held her breath, hoping her modest, subtle appeal would be heard and acted on.

"Would you like to stay with me?" Sun finally asked in a voice so quiet it was almost a whisper. There was an undercurrent of a plea in the voice, as though he feared she would laugh at him for his suggestion. Perhaps she had had more impact on the man than she had expected.

He had no idea how many days or years it had taken him to reach the raft and for the longest time he could only cling to the side, without the strength to pull himself up. He finally did, by gripping Duncan's ankle and hauling himself upward, the Scot unmoving and unaware. Just in time. He heard the gulls, coming toward him and methodically began cutting away at his leg, tossing the bits upward until they were satisfied. His arm was healing but slowly: muscle, but no skin yet.

His vultures fed, he turned to Duncan. There were no wounds that he could see marring the perfection of his friend's bronze skin but the blood seeped, nonetheless, staining the wood and draining in small rivulets to the sea. He spent just a moment, touching the face, closing his eyes as he let his fingers run across the flawless skin but his finger tips, crystal sharp as they were, left wounds that bled slowly wherever they touched, as though there was little life remaining in the motionless form.

"So it has always been," he said. "We will forever wound one another it seems. Well, then, my friend, let's see if we can't do a little healing as well."

The water around them was warm and Methos cupped his hands into it, lifting the water to bathe the blood from his friend first, never touching him, again and again until he ached but the decking was cleared. He glanced back at the gulls but they still fed. Soon enough they would come after him again.

He stretched out beside Duncan, still not touching him, afraid to get too close, and took the knife to pierce the scar on his hand until it bled then, very carefully, cut into the self-same scar on Duncan's hand and laid their bloody palms together and felt the strength flow. Not a drop hit the decking until he heard the gulls begin to screech. Seawater closed the wounds and Methos began once more feeding himself to the needy voices for a little bit before returning to his friend. Alternating his attention until it became all he was.

And on the cliff behind him, so far away, he knew the crystal heart was filling with more and more blood. When it was full it would burst.

Amanda had relied on the various electronic observation devices at Xan's to cue the Four Muskateers, as she had started calling them in her mind, that she was at last going to be able to broach Sun's personal space. It was almost dawn when Sun let them in through the eight foot lacquered double doors that served as the entrance to his apartment, using a combination of thumbprint and keypad code to enter. The expansive apartment had a distinctive oriental flair, its smooth marble floors and fabric covered walls reflective of an austere, refined sensibility. A large fireplace dominated one wall of the living room, flanked by shelves of real books. The few vases and jade figurines placed judiciously around the room were all, Amanda noted with an expert eye, probably genuine and priceless.

But Sun led her through the large, open living area to the bedroom, another nearly empty space but for the large platform bed that dominated at one end. She easily slipped out of the soft satin gown she had worn and in moments they were lying close between cool sheets. She felt Sun slip into a deep sleep, one arm draped possessively over his new bed partner.

"Kir," a familiar voice whispered in her dream. "Kir," the voice was sharp, cutting into her lethargy like a blade.

Sean watched as the Indian woman opened her hollow eyes, taking a moment to pull herself back to the here and now from the exhausting vigil she had been keeping for the past ten days.

"It's time, Kir. Amanda has convinced Sun to take him to his place."

At last, was her first thought. Her second was not really a thought, just a wash of dread. Now she had to drag Methos back from the precipice. If she could. Sean took her hand and pulled her up off the infirmary's second small bed.

"Take out the tube," she murmured to Sean as she stretched cramped muscles, moving around to warm her body and settle her mind. Bringing Methos out of his trance would be much more difficult that helping him into it.

She caught up Methos' hand, cold skin, translucent, dry as tissue paper. He had sweated earlier in his coma, Sean bathing him several times a day and adding nutrients to the slow drip in the hopes of keeping the body somehow in balance. It had passed, the sweating, and they had stripped him once Kir had assured them that it was unlikely that anything they might do to his body would rouse him out of his coma.

With a deep, calming breath she centered her thoughts, quickly slipping from waking to dreaming, feeling as if she were running and so she was...her own voices whispering to her to hurry. The darkness gave way to the wide open sky, to that open cliff top...to the gulls wheeling and crying and shrieking above her, circling something far out to sea. Beneath her feet the ground was dry, the lush foliage she remembered withered and dying. Behind her was the forest, still deep and dark, but silent, feeling ominously empty and lifeless. She stared out, seeing the raft and its two occupants. The crimson that had trailed behind the vessel was gone but her vision became clear and telescoping as she looked out.

Duncan looked much as he had before, his hand clasped in Methos', but the man who maintained that grip could scarcely be called human any longer, bare ribs showing, only the arm that held Duncan's had any flesh on it at all and it was scarred and ugly.

He had nothing left to feed the gulls with unless he let go of Duncan's hand and the gulls seemed uninterested in the Highlander for all that he looked flushed and healthy. So they dove at Methos instead, plucking at what little flesh remained on his body and he bore it, head down to protect his eyes or just not to see.

She looked down at her feet, seeing the crystal heart, flushed and near filled with his life's blood.

She felt not at all silly as she cried out, putting force behind her desperate summons. "Candygram!" She called and the gulls took up the cry, shrieking and scolding at her, so loud even from where she stood that they drowned her out.

She called again and they screamed louder. The power of her Voice was set behind the call and the gulls went silent and fell back. Once more and she saw Methos stir and raise his head to stare at her, dully, and then she saw their hands.

He had tied their hands together.

His other hand was twisted and deformed but still held the knife. He made a cut, twisting, and slashing, sawing through the flesh to part them and left Duncan's side, dropping into the water.

And for long moments did not surface. When he did he could move but feebly, trying to swim but he was impossibly far and the gulls were swooping and diving at him again.

The heart at her feet had begun to pulse, swelling slightly, unable to contain both the blood and the labor.

She was spirit. She was shaman. She was the spiritual lifeline of her people and yet she could not reach him. Then the wind stirred the forest behind her and it was as though she felt loving, familiar hands at her back, feather light, lifting her long, long hair. Her hair. She pulled it around and began braiding it, and its length grew and grew until she tossed it out onto the water until at last a thin white hand surfaced, and closed around it, twining its great length around the wrist as she pulled the barely human form to the sand at the base of the cliff.

And there he lay, sprawled and exhausted. She could not go down after him. He would have to climb, or at least hold on so she could pull him up.

Then the distant warm echo reached them. Sean...calling his brother but using his Voice without direction. He did not know how to find them. But she could use her own to redirect it and she did. The long rope of her hair was so close. He had but to close his hand around it.

"Dahdam," it was the barest whisper yet it stirred him, gave him strength and he reached....

Kir's hand clasped his and pulled, the distance between them no longer so great and he had no weight. She pulled him up, her clasp firm enough to break that fragile skin and her grip grew slick as the blood flowed but she did not let go. Then he was beside her on the cliff-top, no longer the torn and batted skeletal figure but once more the form shifting image of the younger Methos.

His youth, where his spirit had been tempered, where his will to survive had been born. She understood that change now and why it was so compelling.

"This is going to hurt," he whispered, picking up the crystal heart in one hand, the knife in the other...but he faltered and she could have wept at the look on that young face...betrayed and lost and no longer understanding what he was doing. Very gently Kir took both from him and trusting as a child he closed his eyes and braced himself...

It was not true surgery, only allegory, but Kir could not stop her own wail from mingling with his as she slashed at his chest, opening a wound, cutting through bone and muscle and then thrusting the heart back into his chest. The wound closed immediately but Methos was still screaming in agony and she gathered him up. He would not be able to sustain this...the separation of body and spirit would be permanent...His cries were muffled against her breast and she ran...feeling the body convulsing in her arms....

And she lost him....

Amanda lay for hours, drifting in and out of sleep. Too exhausted not to, but too tense to stay asleep for long. Finally, she edged to the side of the bed, carefully rising, then started as she felt a hand around her wrist, stopping her.

"Where are you going, my love?" Sun asked, his eyes glittering.

Amanda turned back and sat beside him, leaning over to kiss his forehead. "A girl needs to use the facilities from time to time," she replied teasingly.

"Fair warning, Emma, my dear," Sun said, obviously fully awake and aware. "This place is my sanctuary and I'm very jealous of my privacy. There are impenetrable security devices on almost everything of importance to me, so tread lightly." His smile was not quite warm and not quite trusting, and his grip on her wrist was painfully tight. Then his face relaxed and he let her go with a small laugh. "But you don't need a security code for the bathroom. It's through there," he pointed, lying back down and enjoying the sight of Amanda's exquisite form decorating his own home.

They spent the day in languid ease, Sun laughing more easily than Amanda had ever seen him. As she became acquainted with his space, she carefully noted an office with every file and piece of equipment locked tightly away. Late in the afternoon as the lingering summer sun cast long shadows across the polished marble floor, she sat next to him while he read some treatise on scientific research. She idly wondered if this whole effort had been a blind alley, a fool's errand. Sun seemed harmless, a little sad and lonely, but then most Immortals were a little sad and lonely. She actually regretted what was to happen to the man as she silently rose to pour him a snifter of fine brandy. The small capsule she dropped into the glass dissolved quickly as she swirled the golden liquid round and round.

"I can't tell you what just this time with you has meant to me, Sun," she murmured as she settled beside him, handing him the glass. "It's the first peaceful afternoon I've had in a long time."

He took a mouthful of the drink, closing his eyes to appreciate the fine, delicate flavor and the warmth it created in his throat. He leaned over to kiss her, the liquid still on his lips, but she pulled slightly away. Sun cocked his head at her, a question on his face, but the question quickly evolved to concern, then amazement. Amanda caught the crystal tumbler as it trembled in his hand as the powerful drug took firm hold and Kiem Sun slowly toppled over towards Amanda, his head sagging peacefully into her lap.

"Sorry, Sun," she whispered. "I sure hope this is worth it," she murmured, moving quickly to a datavoice terminal.

`

Sean had to cut into his brother's arm to remove the tubing. Blood flowed in an alarming stream as he cut into the vein and the healing, normally taking seconds, seemed to take forever. But finally the skin closed, leaving a red mark, then gradually fading. Sean had no idea how long the drugs would take to work their way out of Adam's system. The body was cold and white, so close to death that only the barest, slow rise and fall of his chest gave any evidence of life at all. Kir stood a silent sentinel, her hand gripping Methos', eyes closed, head bowed, her long hair draping over her shoulders and down her back.

"Come back to us, Dahdam," Sean whispered softly, using the first name his baby lips had formed, feeling very much the child, helpless and lost.

It took time. More time than Sean wanted it to, and he almost jumped when Connor's large hand came to rest on his shoulder, then began to knead it softly.

"Call him, Sean," Connor said softly, eyes a little distant. Not with trance or power but with some memory of his own.

He had the gift and a glance at Kir showed her still unmoving, hand tightly clenched around Methos' as if she were afraid to let go.

Dahdam, he said it, putting some force behind it both in his verbal expression and along that frail link they shared. Clearing his mind of confusion and anxiety, one hand rubbing along the back of his brother's arm gently while he leaned close, pushing the limp dark hair off the pale forehead. "Adam, please..." he whispered against the cold skin.

It was not instantaneous, but it may well have been. Sean heard his brother gasp -- a harsh pained sound and a softer sound from Kir. Suddenly he wasn't just barely touching Methos, he was flinging his body over his brother's as a massive convulsion hit. Kir let go of his hand and slipped away to the floor. With his head pressed against the pale chest, Sean heard the racing heart again, Adam gasping for breath as if he were drowning.

He heard Connor swear, trying to still the flailing legs, then again and Sean with him as Methos suddenly went rigid, back arched as if someone had reached into his chest, grabbed his heart and pulled it upward and out. He held that position for perhaps three seconds before he went limp.

"Christ!" Sean swore. No pulse, no breathing. Nothing. He heard the datavoice receiver beep and nodded when Connor looked at him. Kir was getting to her feet, looking dazed.

"What happened?" he demanded softly of Kir, pressing both palms to his brother's face.

"I'm not sure..." She muttered pressing her hands to her temples as Connor moved to respond to the electronic summons. "We were almost here...almost back and then he was gone."

"Gone where?"

"I don't know!" She said near tears and fought them off, taking a deep breath to calm herself, preparing to go back to that plane...but she had difficulty finding the calm she needed...hearing Methos' scream in her soul, the pain that ripped at him as they tried to break free.

"Amanda has Sun," Connor reported upon his return. "Trussed up like a turkey...it's now or never."

"Sean," Kir hissed, "give me a sedative, just a bit...enough to....I have to be calm."

He didn't even hesitate just prepared the syringe and eased it into her vein.

She hated drugs...even peyote seemed somehow a false path, but she had no time to run through her meditations. She had to find Methos before he became lost forever. And Duncan with him.

The calm came, fuzzy edged and drowsy but she used it, slipped past, below the drugs...seeking that place....

"What do you mean you can't come yet!" Amanda growled. She had just spent the last half hour breaking Sun's security codes, including dragging his drugged and uncooperative body across the floor to stick his damned thumbprint onto the datapad, and she was in no mood for games. Everyone was feeling the desperate urgency and the press of time. Even more pressing was her absolute certainty that Abbas knew she was here and would eventually come calling.

"There's a problem with Methos," Connor growled. His face in the small screen was haggard and unshaven. "It seems Kir and Sean are having a hard time bringing him back."

"Bringing him back? Where the hell did he go? For God's sake, Connor, don't tell me that crazy old man left! If that's the case, then you and Kir and Sean get down here without him because we don't have much time."

"He went to find Duncan on some level that only he can comprehend, Amanda. He was afraid Mac would slip away before we ever reached him," Connor whispered, his voice full of pain and patience. "Kir was supposed to bring him back, but ... it's taking longer than we thought."

There was a long, ugly silence as Amanda slowly closed her large, round eyes and opened them again. "We are all mad," she whispered.

"Aye, lass, that we are," Connor answered. "We'll be there as soon as we can."

The cliff was bare, the gulls were gone and even the raft. Kir turned, seeking, looking at the dark forest, so empty and deep...and now forbidding and frightening.

They are just shadows, she told herself and headed into the dark place.

It was familiar even in its darkness, glimpses of things she knew or recognized that vanished if she looked too close. If she stared at the path beneath her feet, it faded, appearing only in front of her, not where she traveled.

The forest gave way to the barrenness she had expected earlier, on her first foray...or not barren but ruined...ruins...

Rome rose around her and then fell...and she almost panicked as the stones began to rain down on her. They cannot hurt you if you give them no substance. Her own teacher's words came back to calm her and she clung to them, feeling the stones pass through her, around her, until they settled.

She did not have to seek far...she knew this reality...she had been here....

She did not need to dig, the stairwell opened for her like Moses parting the Red Sea. Nor did she have to clear away debris. She did have to crouch before the small opening though.

"Methos," she called softly and got only a whimper in reply.

Alice Through the Looking Glass could not have twisted reality so completely as Kir crept into the small dark place and let her own light illuminate the huddled creature, the trapped animal that Methos had become.

"This is cozy," she said, remaining calm for all she knew there was urgency in this meeting.

Large eyes stared at her, wounded child then, not wounded creature.

"Do you like it here or is it just familiar?" she asked.

"No."

To which question she couldn't say. This was Methos, he looked as she remembered him. Not dead and lying under the watchful eyes of his brother, but the luminous youth she had seen outside of Xan's bath, the young man on the cliff, what and who Methos was meant to be before his long life buried him under its weight of joy and pain, laughter and regret. All of it.

"You don't have to stay here." She reached for him and watched him flinch but he did not try to move away only went rigid. Her fingers caressed his cheek, soothing.

Suddenly he was an animal, biting, scratching and vicious, pining her down and holding her, pinning her with strength and the gaze of flat, hard eyes. She could feel the scratches on her face and body, across her belly and thighs, like she had been fighting with a wildcat.

And for each wound he inflicted on her, a twin appeared on his own flesh, torn skin bloodied as if she had attacked him.

"I can't leave," he hissed. "He'll come...he will...he'll find me..." And away, scurrying into the darkness like a hunted thing.

"You have to go to him!" She called. "Methos, he's lost. You have to find him."

Above ground and the skies shifted, lightning flashes arching across the void, the dark blue riding down like a waterfall to drain the skies of color....

Whose control of their realm was faltering, she could not tell. Regardless, the reality around her was hers and she needed it....

Stilled.

The forest rose around her, lush and green and dark and sweet. She inhaled the strong familiar scent and it calmed her. She made her own path this time, spirit form once more, White Feathered and fluid and found him in the center of the forest, an open glade...tiny and growing smaller but in the center the sun was bright and warm and he sat, arms locked around his knees, the terrible wounds from their fight fading slowly on the pale skin.

"If I stay here, I'll be with him," he said softly and she knelt before him. He lifted his eyes to hers, the gold-green intense. He was tired.

"Until you are both gone. I know," she said and she did. This would be easier for him. Maybe easier for Duncan as well. It was cruel, it was unfair and she did it anyway.

"Then Sean will face the Gathering alone," she said and heard the crying of the gulls returning. He looked up, afraid, and then at her, closed his eyes and....

He shattered into a thousand crystal tears again and Kir picked each one up, gathering the tiny fruit into her skirt, bloodying her hands but she missed not one and then pulled the folds of her skirt around the little pieces...and stopped, watching the glade begin to shrink and fade and wither around her.

A handful, barely a dozen tears, she cast back and watched the roses grow and bleed and the forest stopped closing in on them, slowed and she was running, carrying her precious burden back along the path, cradling it to her like an infant.

By the time she reached the silver-white tunnel through which the threads of their lives stretched, Methos was in her arms again, a heavy burden to carry...too heavy....the path unclear.

The feel of hands on her, lifting her burden away, unskilled but strong, and Methos was gone through the light.

She could rest now, couldn't she?

When the hand returned for her, however, she did not resist.

Methos and Kir breathed together. One came like a sob, and Connor caught Kir as she fell then held her as she trembled and wept and tried to scratch herself with her fingernails. He gripped her wrists until she calmed, until the truth of her presence was settled once more in her body and mind and spirit.

There were no tears from Methos, no expression save that one sharp intake of breath which for all its softness was the most profound expression of pain Sean had ever heard in his long life.

The eyes, when they opened were clear, though, fixing on Sean's face for a long moment, burning brightly like they were fevered.

"Adam."

"For now," he said and the voice was hoarse and thin. A long fingered hand reached out to touch his face for a breathless moment then moved to grip Sean's wrist. Cautiously Sean helped his brother sit up, expecting him to falter, give way under dizziness after being prone so long.

He did not. "Remind me to thank Amanda for her perseverance," Methos said. "Let's go."

He got off the bed, Sean still holding his arm, Kir and Connor watching with wide eyes.

"Adam," Sean stopped him when he would have walked to the door. Methos stilled, all his concentration on Sean as if he were capable of only one thing at a time. Sean swallowed as those eyes fixed on his face. Waiting.

"I think clothes would be a good idea," Sean said softly.

Methos looked down and blinked at his own nudity, as if not recognizing the body as his own. "Probably," he said and smiled faintly.

A smile Sean recognized, had seen again and again as he grew up, without coloring, amusement softening the hollowed, bruised look of the thin face.

"Methos..." Kir's voice was shaky and her body not much better. How could he stand there, and look so collected, so utterly normal -- more normal than he had in awhile. He looked worse, not quite as bad as he had after Rome but close.

Except the madness that had so haunted him seemed to have been set aside. Not absent or diminished, but carefully shelved away, requiring too much energy to maintain. "I'm here too," he said.

Sean had to help him dress, not because of any physical weakness but because for all his other apparent normalcy, Methos seemed to have problems with the little things...like buttons.

The essentials. He had shed everything save those things he absolutely required. What he could recall, what he could do, the power still held in the raw undertones of his voice even when he spoke normally.

The crystal tears had rained down and scattered, each one some facet of what Methos was, what he knew...he could only use a few at a time lest they shred him to pieces.

Loading up into the van, Kir could only hope she had not left something essential behind in that quiet glade.

At long last the security system chirped. Kiem Sun had long since regained consciousness and was trussed up with tape and gagged, his eyes angry and glittering as he watched Amanda key in the security code she had somehow purloined to allow the visitors up. Then those black eyes grew wide as he felt the cold chill of Immortal presence roll over him not once, but four times and fear quickly overwhelmed the anger.

There was a distinct aura of strain and contained violence about the entire group as Sun warily watched them enter. There was a tall, willowy, hollow-eyed American Indian woman, an even taller steely eyed man who stalked like a great jungle cat, a vaguely familiar-looking man with handsome features and an athlete's build but with haunted, nervous eyes, and then there was the slim man who trailed in last.

Amanda escorted them all into the living area where they studied him like some oddity at the local zoo. "He may know something," the woman he knew as Emma reported to them, "but he's given no indications of it so far." She went to stand with Sean, taking his big hand in her own, pained by the dark, brooding look that seemed to have drawn deep new lines around his mouth.

The dark woman moved like water, half-sitting on the arm of the couch, watching his face carefully before she reach out and painfully ripped away the tape on his mouth. "Dr. Sun, my name is Kirin Storm of the Cherokee Nation," she announced quietly.

Ah, thought Sun, gasping at the sharp pain caused as the tape's adhesive ripped at his flesh. This is about MacLeod. But they can't possibly know, and Emma believes me ignorant.

"We are interested," she said softly as the gray-eyed panther circled the room, "in knowing what has happened to Duncan MacLeod," her inquiry confirming his suspicions. Her voice carried a vibration that moved up his spine, seeped into his skin. This one had the Talent, his scientific mind observed, carefully analyzing and cataloguing its affects.

Sun took a deep breath to clear his mind. "So am I," he answered forcefully, careful to tell a careful truth. "I heard Abbas really did a number on him. What do you want from me?" For some reason, the thin man standing in the room's corner shadows made him very nervous and he couldn't seem to control the sweating that was beginning to stain his armpits.

The Storm woman leaned close, watching him intently. "He was moved from the Lexington Prison by the Research Division. You are head of the Research Division, Dr. Sun, so let me ask again. What happened to Duncan MacLeod?" The vibrations against his skin became almost painful and he swallowed against the dryness of his throat.

"I told you, I, too want to know what happened to Duncan. He was my friend, Ms. Storm," Sun insisted. "I knew him centuries ago. It was Abbas," Sun insisted. "Abbas took him prisoner, I heard. Tortured him. Made him take Quickening after Quickening." Sun's breath was uneven and gasping. "It must have been ... horrifying."

Amanda felt Sean tense, his body vibrating like a taut, thrumming wire. Kir looked at Sun for a long time, then stood and turned to the thin man. "He's telling the truth," she stated flatly.

The thin man stepped out of the shadows. Sun had to force himself not to cringe as the brilliantly intense gold-green eyes stared at him. "Then how do we get to Abbas," the thin man said, his voice was hoarse and dry, cutting across Sun's nerves like a razor-sharp knife blade.

"Ah," Sun's smile was strained. "That is something I would be delighted to help you with. But it is both unnecessary and uncomfortable to keep me bound."

"Untie him," Amanda whispered. "He hates Abbas, too. I've heard it in his voice. He'll be of more use to us as an ally than an enemy."

The five Immortals shared long looks, but finally Connor slipped behind the Oriental and with a swift motion of a small, sharp blade, the bonds were cut.

"You guys talk and make nice. I'm going to take a look at his files." She turned to leave, plucking Sean's sleeve as she passed him, anxious to get him away from what was likely to be a conversation that would only dredge up more ugly mental pictures of what had been done to Duncan. "Come, Sean," she urged. "You don't need to hear this."

Sun fought to control his surge of panic as the two disappeared towards his office. They would never get past his security codes, he assured himself, willing his heart to calm, his breath to slow. But who was the thin man with the hard, blank eyes?

"Don't worry, Sean," Amanda reassured Sean as he nervously looked back over his shoulder at the odd tableau behind him. "Kir will keep Methos from going too far. He's probably just a cog in the Eastern Dawn machine. We'll be lucky if he knows anything useful at all. But there might be something here that can get us closer to Abbas." She tried Sun's desk, which had a keypad lock, so she extracted a palm-sized datapad from her pocket, fitted it carefully over the electronic key, entered a code number and sat back on her heels.

In the meantime, Sean looked among the shelves, full of row upon row of data disks, each carefully labeled in an alphanumeric code.

"Got it!" Amanda whispered behind him, and with a triumphant snap, pulled open the access panel to the data pad for Sun's system. "Technologies may change, methods evolve, but when you've got the touch, you've got the touch," she congratulated herself.

"Okay, Sean, Let's see if there's anything here worth finding out." She pulled up a chair and bent over the datapad as Sean watched in admiration. Her fingers flew, searching for anything to do with Abbas. She found his name referenced in various reports, then her attention slowed and her mind almost came to a complete halt as she came across a cover memo to Abbas referencing a report on the pain tolerance of Immortals.

Her hands paused and she felt Sean go still behind her, reading over her shoulder. Slowly her fingers moved again as she changed her focus, looking for and finding a descriptive index of Sun's research records, honing in on the section devoted to Immortals, then instituting a search for anything to do with Duncan MacLeod, no, nothing specific there. Highlander? Nothing on that. Torture... ah, there were several files on that. She delved further, feeling her skin wash with chills.

The files on torture were divided into several categories including psychological, physical pain and drugs. She went methodically through each one, sensing Sean's increasing tension behind her as she paged through each sub-index. Her heart went out to him. He was so young. He didn't know how seductive torture could be, once you had allowed yourself to stop empathizing with your victim. And torture of Immortals... she had heard stories over the centuries that had given her nightmares for years. Duncan never talked about it, Connor always changed the subject and Methos... well Methos actually joked about it from time to time, when he was more sane than he was right now, at least.

As for her own experiences...Amanda's mind skittered away from those images. Fortunately, she had always had a unique capacity to let unpleasantness slide and fade like a puddle of moisture after a desert rain, evaporating in the desert, dwindling and dwindling until it was only a distant memory.

"Hello," Amanda finally said in a soft whisper that made Sean pause as he rummaged through Sun's shelves, thumbing through printed texts on everything from pharmacological testing protocols to herbal medicines.

"Find something?"

"I'm not sure. There a subfile here under drugs, called "Human/Immortal Trials" that reference specific test subjects that might give us a clue to the alphanumeric coding he uses. After several minutes of searching, they decided that the alpha was the first letter of the last name and the number was the sequence used in the test. They searched for a few minutes under "M", but there seemed to be hundreds of entries, with no other clue as to the subject's identity.

"There are usually two letters, usually "I" or "M", which could stand for Immortal and Mortal," Sean suggested. "And the letters might be about age, if he's working on Immortals. That's really what the differences among us are, isn't it?" Sean finally suggested. Both of them were struggling to retain their composure as Amanda looked up at him with her wide, dark eyes and her face transformed into a grim smile. Suddenly the numbers made sense.

"When was Duncan born?" she murmured to herself.

"Late 1500's," Sean answered, "Fifteen... Ninety-something."

Amanda and Sean dove for the shelved datafiles in that number range. It took a few more minutes, but Sean's suddenly still body language was an unmistakable cue that he had found something. "Here it is," he whispered. "I1592M" And the temperature in the room suddenly seemed to have dropped considerably.

His hand trembled slightly as he pushed the disk into the reader, sitting on the very edge of the chair in front of the screen. The system automatically accessed the files, which began with text about "Subject M", initially described as an Immortal white male, physical age of approximately 35, well-built, six feet tall.

He paged through the text, which was full of dosage annotations over many weeks, finally reaching a summary.

"Subject M has a remarkable resistance to Drug E2i4, despite accelerating dosages over a long period of time. I can only speculate that it is associated with the subject's extraordinarily strong Quickening energy. The extreme pain built into the drug which has heretofore proven 100% effective, for this subject, does not provide a sufficient deterrent to resistance. More research needs to be done on the nature of the pain that resistance to E2i4 generates to see if a more effective discouragement can be found," Sean read aloud, his voice growing more flat and toneless with each word.

He reached an unsteady hand to the keypad, scanning forward to a video file. The screen showed a small bare, gray room occupied by a man strapped to a table. A voice was droning questions as the figure moved, straining periodically against the restraints. Amanda was standing behind him, and her hand gradually closed tightly on the rigid steel of Sean's shoulder. It took a moment to be absolutely certain because the body was so much thinner than when they had last seen it, the skin pallid, gray and slicked with sweat, but they knew who it had to be. Sean moved the focus in further, to the man's eyes. Those dark, expressive, pain-distorted eyes that were unmistakably his father's. Sean leaned in closer, scanning forward.

"Don't," Amanda whispered, leaning forward to stop him, not wanting to see, not wanting Sean to see, but it was too late. The sound that erupted from the speakers was an inhuman scream and the body on the table, now naked and even more deteriorated, convulsed again and again, bleeding where the restraints had torn away his flesh. The muscles under her hand twitched and trembled and Sean slowly stood, paging through date after date of the same horrifying tableau as, behind an observation window in every scene, Kiem Sun could be seen speaking carefully into a microphone, patiently asking questions as Bar Abbas paced in the background. And when the answers were not immediately forthcoming, it was Kiem Sun's hand triggering the pain in "Subject M" until the screaming was only a silent exhalation over vocal chords that no longer responded.

"Stop it, Sean," Amanda reached around him, pushing the scan to the end of the file, but Sean stopped her and forwarded it more slowly, his free hand gripping hers fiercely enough to bruise it. He slowed the tape, a different sound now issuing from the speakers and Amanda paled, consciously swallowing to still the nausea that rose in her throat.

The sounds were Sun's, not Duncan's, harsh pants and grunts, the camera angle obscuring the most vivid of the imagery but there was no doubt what Sun was doing or that Duncan was not a willing participant. Duncan's arms and chest were still bound but Sun had his legs freed, the unconscious man's legs bent against his chest, held in place by Sun's hands as the smaller man rocked back and forth, moaning as his physical pleasure built. Sun shuddered, nearly convulsing then leaned forward over his victim's chest, stroking Duncan's face and chest with all the gentleness of a lover rather than a rapist. Amanda could not tear her eyes away as Sun gathered his strength and clambered down off the table, turning toward the camera to secure his clothing then gathering cloths and water, bathing Duncan tenderly. Had it not been so obvious a violation, Amanda might almost have been moved by the care he took--instead it was all she could do not to vomit right there. This, then, was the obsession she had sensed from the beginning. Sun had, indeed, cared about what happened to Duncan MacLeod. Shaking herself out of her shock, she moved the scan forward again, only then realizing Sean was gone.

Amanda was drawn back to the screen like someone mesmerized, this incomprehensible evil done to the person she loved most in the world was the most repellent thing she had ever seen in millennia and a half of existence.

Kir looked up as Sean came into the room in the midst of Connor and Sun sharing a joke at Abbas' expense. What she read in his face brought her to her feet.

"Sean?"

But she got no answer as the man moved slowly toward Sun. Methos also turned, standing slowly, recognizing the barely restrained violence in his brother's eyes.

"Sean, what's happened?" Connor asked quietly..

"He's lying."

The voice was so soft and gentle, Methos thought with some distant part of his brain. The same voice that had recited nursery rhymes and Dr. Seuss with him by heart.

"He's the one."

Sun had come to his feet and was now backing away, eyes full of pure panic as they searched for an escape route and found none.

"He's what one, brother?" Methos asked last, suddenly fearful that this other precious part of his life was in jeopardy. But Sean didn't hear him. The hate that was carved into Sean's face was like a stone wall, blocking out all except the sight of the man who had tortured his father into oblivion.

"He and Abbas. But He," a trembling finger was raised to point accusingly. "He was responsible for...he....you raped....you fucking son of a bitch!!" the last was a scream as Sean rushed forward.

There are moments in life that stretch out into infinity as pain and tragedy condense and fold in on themselves. This was such a moment. Methos recognized it, felt it gather around him as Sun turned hitting the side of the fireplace mantle to trigger the revelation of a ceiling-high collection of swords mounted above. Sun's hand reached out, his hand closing over the center blade, an all-too-familiar dragonhead katana ...

As fast as Methos was, he wasn't fast enough. Sean's movements were inhumanly quick as, in two strides and a long, high-pitched swing of his blade, Kiem Sun's head flew away, landing with a wet thud on the floor. The body slowly toppled, spilling and spraying blood over Sean's face and chest before it landed in a heap in front of the fireplace.

Methos cried out, lurching towards his brother, wanting to stop what had happened and what was to come, but Kir was there, holding him, pulling him away as the power, the life force, the history and experience that had been Kiem Sun flowed, creeping towards a new host.

Sean could hear his heart pounding in his ears as he watched that mass of energy move towards him. Or was that pure unadulterated hate that created that rhythmic noise? He wasn't certain. There were no meditations, there was no discipline he wanted to exert to control this anymore. There was only the churning, crushing need for violence, for vengeance, for power, for death. And now death crept over the floor towards him, forcing him to step back, and back again. And as it inevitably reached him, moved over him and filled him, chilling him to the bone, boiling his blood, he crashed to his knees and spread his arms, finally giving in and welcoming this death, his face wreathed with triumphant vengeance.

But vengeance is ever short lived, as the images of Sun's twisted life raged to the surface, flashing behind the irises of Sean' eyes and the raw ends of his emotions with far more impact than the video he had seen. Worse, for the images now had feelings to them, desires and motivations and justifications that ripped through Sean as if Sun would somehow live again in the body of the son of the man he had destroyed...as he had destroyed others. His violence and prurient interest in pain and suffering had neither begun nor ended with Duncan MacLeod but that was the subject closest to Sean. He screamed against the reenactment, however virtual, that made his fingers clench convulsively as if he and not Sun had depressed that button, imparted that pain again and again. Then he was the agony as the strident energies of Sun's quickening ripped through him over and over, dragging at his will, driving him toward the floor to crawl away in fear and shame and need and hatred like a cowed dog.

The overhead lights exploded, some flickering, lighting the chamber with a near strobe effect as the power from Sun's ancient life sought grounding in Sean or anything else it could touch. The light effects making the imagery in his mind and brain more unrealistic. There was no clean perspective to be found in this as he tried to escape the Quickening he had wanted so very, very badly. The worst kind to take. It began to ease and he sought something familiar and reassuring, eyes settling on his brother's face. Only there was no reassurance there and what he thought had finished with him surged again with another scream at the sight of that white face, twisted in pain, unable to take comfort from or push away Kir's attempts at comfort. Then the last of that energy coalesced into a mass, like ball lighting skittering around the room blowing lamps, finally knocking out power altogether and sending the room into shadows, until it settled, finally, burning into Sean's chest like a beast trying to eat its way to his soul and was gone.

It left Sean nauseous and had he the strength, he would have vomited, not only from the Quickening but from the foul feel of Sun in his soul, from the bitter bile of his own hatred and lack of restraint. Worse was the harsh, urgent, erotic need that burned in him, after all the horror, to be so physically aroused and tempted was more than he could bear. Except that need was more than just a fire in his loins as awareness of the power he had just gained wormed its way into his psyche. To want more -- to be stronger, to take on or force this urge of his heritage. It thrummed all around him, the power, the strength exuded by the three Immortals nearby. Kir with her bright steady pulse, the murmur of ancient drums and mountain winds swirling through him to calm him -- that Quickening could be his. Connor with his heavy rock-solid feel, as touched by untainted, clear mountain streams and the solidity of his Highland birthplace. And his brother...Sean shook, wrapping his arms more tightly around himself as if to restrain himself, both drawn to the deep well and repulsed by his own desire.

A desire that quickly swelled to anger as what Sun had done to his father rose up in Sean, as if he had participated in that vile act. It twisted inside him, rose up to taunt him and unable to bear it, he turned it outward, recalling his hands on his brother's body, Methos' hands on his, knowing Sean was but a poor substitute for the body he wanted to claim--might still claim, even now. His father had rejected this thin rail of a man, this ancient thing that had no more soul than Sun did. Sean rose, his mind's eye playing the scene over and over again only this time it was Methos mounting his father's helpless body, rutting like some beast with no care or sense to know that his attentions were unwelcome. Part of Sean knew this was absolute, irrational madness, but those murmured protests faded under his revulsion, under his hunger for the power that pulsed with every beat of Methos' heart. He could hear it, like the roar of an ocean in his ears.

His fingers tightened around the blade as he rose. "He raped him. Took what wasn't offered," he hissed. His blood boiled and burned with a need to hate, and it was easiest to hate those with the greatest power to hurt. "He deserved no better than what he got. But you--" his blade leveled at Methos. "You want the same thing, don't you? Is that how the game is played...you can destroy him, destroy my father. May have, driving him away because he wouldn't succumb to your overtures. I can't believe I ever thought what you feel is even anything close to love. Am I next? Is that why you were so eager to let me hold you? Let me be with you? You are worse than Sun. You made us love you then took that love and twisted it into something impure, foul."

"Sean, think about what you are doing. This is the Gathering madness..." Connor's voice broke over him but Sean had eyes only for his brother, Methos staring at him with an expression Sean saw only as guilt. "You want a judgment?" he hissed. "Pick up your damn sword, you pathetic whore."

"What?" Methos seemed to shake free of whatever guilt or despair he had sunk into. "A whore?"

"No...No..." Kir's Voice cut through, sharp, making Methos wince although Sean seemed oblivious. "It's the Quickening--Methos, you know better than this...this is Sun's Quickening."

"I may well be somebody's," Methos snarled at her. "You want me, Sean? Try it!" and he lunged, so fast Kir could not stop him, Connor's shout ignored by both men as steel collided with steal. Sean returned blow for blow, Connor edging around them, looking for some way to intervene with out losing his head or causing Sean or Methos to lose his. Sean fought with fury and grief but after the first wild charge, Methos settled into a studied, cold, calculating assault.

"You aren't your father's match, little boy," Methos taunted, ignoring the small scoring across his arms as he drove Sean back. "You never would be, never could be-- he made damn sure of it! Didn't he? DIDN'T HE?"

Connor swore and moved out of the way as Methos came at Sean with all the quickness of a striking cobra, delivering cut after cut on Sean's arms and legs. Moving around, Connor found himself beside Kir. "Be ready," he hissed.

"No," Kir murmured, tense, but not as agitated as Connor. " Look at the way Methos is fighting...."

Connor paid attention. He had sparred with Methos, knew the old man's tricks, how he liked to come in from the side and retreat. Unnerving in a spar. There was none of that strategy here, and most of Methos attacks were meant to harm, to inflict pain, to whittle away at Sean's strength. Twice Connor watched the ancient pass up a classic and easy disarmament, preferring to drive Sean back, wear him down.

Until Sean fell, reaching out to catch himself and Methos stomped down hard on the blade, trapping Sean's fingers under the hilt, his blade poised downward, not at Sean's throat but his heart. Fatal, but not final. Methos was gray and panting, Sean not much better, sweat standing out on his skin and clothes.

"Sun is no part of you," Methos said, that compulsion in his voice slipping through Sean's psyche. "What he did is no part of you at all. Say it."

"It's no part of me," Sean whispered, voice trembling on the edge of a sob.

"Who are you?"

"S...Sean MacLeod...Sean...."

"Who am I?"

"Adam...Methos...Adam..." The sob broke through as Sean bent his head.

"Be still...it's done....let it settle." Methos said, his own voice a whisper harsh with anger that was not so easily dispelled...he felt it coil and burn inside even as he forced himself to move away from his brother, staring down at Sun's body, watching the blood move in running tendrils over the marble floor. Despite all his efforts his mind circled back and back again to the same ugly, desperate thought.

He had known where Duncan was and now the knowledge was gone. His last chance to save him snatched from his grasp by his own brother ... his own son.

Without a word he spun on the youngest Immortal, not caring as he hauled Sean up by his shoulders, oblivious to Kir's shout and Connor's lunge at them as he shoved his brother against the wall with all his strength.

"You wanted it, didn't you, Sean? You wanted me more than you wanted your father back? Not flattering, not even amusing or sweet," The raw voice hissed. "Do you think you are strong enough to hold all that I am and was?" The large hand rose and Sean cried out as Methos struck him - the physical shock of the blow jarring him out of his own private bubble of emotional agony, causing his muscles and nerves to jump and leap and focus their attention to this new stimulation. "You fool!" Again with the strike of a hand against his face, this time backhanded, and Sean moved back, his own confusion fading and paling under the rage in the thin face, the blaze of anger in the eyes gleaming dark and green, the pupils were so dilated. "If he knew where Duncan is, it is lost to me! Lost inside you! I hope you're satisfied with your vengeance Sean MacLeod because now I will have mine if I have to rip it from your mind detail by detail. You stupid, foolish CHILD!" his voice had altered, changed, part of it dropping from normal range into sub-auditory, echoing and thrumming through Sean's mind.

"Methos, NO." Kir's voice, also laden with compulsion but Sean only barely registered her protest, his eyes fixed on his brother's face.

"Do you know what he's done?!" The voice was a ragged edge of sound, barely recognizable as coming from a human throat.

"I know," Kir said, softly, phrasing set just so, body language non-threatening, for all that she held her sword. She was moving, positioning herself. "So does he." Sean was only peripherally aware that Connor had entered and moved as well, flanking the pair, eyes fixed on the sword in Methos' hand.

Sean was frozen into stillness as the meaning of Methos' anger, of his words, hit him far harder than his blows had, and his own eyes widened both at the dark rage in his brother's face, and at the cost of his mindless act of violence.

Kir silently moved behind Methos, body flexing, face pale and set, both hands on her sword, the dark eyes so filled with tears it was a wonder she could see as she prepared to fulfill the duty that had been laid on her shoulders, should Methos ever become lost to them, either physically or emotionally.

"Kir, stop," Sean said, mustering the last shreds of his own control. "He's right! What I know, what Sun knew, we need if we are to find Dad," he watched her, saw her think through it. Then all Sean's attention was on his brother, flinching as the sword dropped with a loud, discordant clatter from the white knuckled hand. "Do it," Sean whispered to him. "Find the information. Take it however you have to. I'm sorry," his voice cracked on a sob. "Find Da. I'm so sorry, Adam." Any illusion of control was gone, any care for his own fate lost under a grief so overwhelming Sean did not even want to try and survive it. He felt the long fingers grip his arms, expected to hear that seductive, compelling voice.

"Let him go, Methos," Kir's voice was the seductive one, the compelling voice of rationality.

Sean met his brother's eyes, watched the anger, fade, the madness, watched the slow slide from one emotion to another until they settled into something so expressionless, Sean felt his own heart lodge in his throat. What had he done? God in heaven, what had he done?

The hands moved, releasing him, and then reaching again, not to frame his face but to slide along his back, to pull him close and he fell into his brother's embrace, felt the long body curl around his even as his body shuddered under the onslaught of grief and depression and self-loathing.

"Relax," Methos murmured against the back of his neck, his voice dull but still the Voice beneath it laden with all the emotional undercurrents he had expected. He sobbed, knowing that his brother was lost to him. Methos had been pushed far past the point where he could feel anything any longer but he knew still how to reach others. "Don't think, Sean." An edge of compulsion but so soft and gentle it was welcome rather than intrusive.

What have I done? his soul screamed at him again even as his mind gave way under the Voice.

"These are not yours, These Memories, They can cause you No Pain."

Nor did they or was he even really aware of what he saw, or spoke, Methos' voice lulling him into a calm and quiet even as he felt the insinuation of his brother's presence into his mind and soul, light as a feather, sharp as a knife. Methos still spoke and Sean was aware of Kir in the background, saying something. His brother was trembling against him but the voice remained soft and gentle.

Something wasn't right and Sean fought to hear the voice above the Voice, and found it shaky and thin, repetitive, almost mechanical. He resisted nothing but spread his awareness, suddenly hearing his brother's heartbeat, too fast, to uneven, the blood pulsing not in a steady stream but erratically as if some artery had been nicked but not severed, bleeding to death slowly -- not his life's blood but his link to life. The memories stirred in Sean's brain, so carefully protected from the horror and pain but with the details intact...

That precious care was costing Methos more than he had to spare. His voice faltered as Sean did resist it, snatching back his own consciousness, letting new grief well up to replace the old and heard Methos gasp, the pain and the strain too much to bear if Sean resisted at all.

It was like fighting to the surface of a lake for air...and Sean felt he would burst, and did gasp, dragging in a breath as he broke that command. Only to cry out as his brother jerked convulsively, Sean's grip keeping him from falling over and all of it made worse by the nosebleed that had begun, streaking across the pale face. Kir was there to catch Methos as he fell backward, eyes rolling up in his head.

Sean thought he had screamed his protest but they would tell him later that the only sound he had made was to call his brother's name.

What have I done?

Bar Abbas stood across the street from Sun's apartment building.  His spies had seen Amanda enter and he had every intention of catching her as she left.  The bitch was up to something, he was sure, but he had a plan that would have her playing directly into his hands.  She would find MacLeod, he would follow and take his head.  Afterward, he would probably take hers.  Or perhaps he would keep Amanda around for other, more long term pleasures.  Simple and very satisfying.  Sun had tried to hide MacLeod from him, probably planning to take the power for himself eventually, but Abbas had some surprises in store for Dr. Kiem Sun as well.

A sudden flash of light from the window across the way riveted his attention as the hair on his arms rose in a familiar sensation.  Then he instinctively ducked as the windows blew out and power surged, creating a light show that sparked and flickered up and down the entire block, finally and suddenly sending the street into darkness.

Abbas picked himself up off the street, carefully brushing away the chips of broken Plexiglas that had landed on his jacket.  He had to stand for a moment, controlling his breath, managing his anger.  Clearly one of them had killed the other.  The only question was who was left standing.  If it was Sun, then he was back to square one.  If it was Amanda, then she had probably found evidence of who had conducted MacLeod's interrogation.  But Amanda would not have killed in anger.  She was too old and too smart for that, so she would have coerced or seduced his location out of the old oriental before she took his head, Abbas speculated, his mind moving, planning.  And . . . she would still be weakened from the Quickening, so if he moved quickly . . . Abbas slipped noiselessly through the shadows, placing himself strategically to be able to close in on Amanda as she emerged from the darkened apartment building.

He couldn't see her, but he felt her, as he knew she must feel him, but he stepped quickly, blocking her exit from the alley, giving her no place to retreat except back into the building.

"Abbas!" she growled, moving into a crouch as the sliding sound of her sword being drawn rang in the air.

He moved towards her quickly and she stumbled backwards, obviously weakened from Sun's strong Quickening.  "You underestimated me again, Amanda," Abbas said softly, his voice ringing against the hard cobblestones of the ancient alley.  "Did you really think I believed your protestations about not caring about MacLeod?  Now I would guess you know where he is and . . ." he stopped.  His head whipped around, looking to each side, then behind him, searching . . . until a tall silhouette stepped into the moonlight at the alley entrance.

"Remember me?" Connor MacLeod asked, a satisfied smile curling his lip and bringing an evil glint to his slate colored eyes.  "We met in Rome, I believe.  I should have taken your head then, but now will do almost as well."  He closed in from one side as a suddenly quite strong and agile Amanda stalked Abbas from the other.  The stocky, powerful figure swirled, first attacking the woman, then spinning away, trying to slip past the Scot, but Connor's blade caught him at the back of the knee, severing tendon and muscle and bringing him down hard.  Abbas rolled, hanging onto his blade, bringing it up and stabbing at the figure above him, but then expelled a grunt of agony as a booted foot caught him in the ribs.

He cursed in languages no longer spoken, slashing out again, but the last sight he saw was Amanda's beautiful face, twisted with hate as she drove the point of her blade deep into his chest.

~~~~~

Connor dumped Abbas' body onto the nearest couch with a grunt of effort.  His prize was barely acknowledged by Sean, who huddled with his arms wrapped tightly around his legs, his face pale and dazed, eyes fixed on Methos.

The eldest was being tended by Kir, who gently urged him to sip more orange juice.  The blood had been wiped away, but the stain of despair, of being pressed too far beyond his limits, was clear on Methos' blank and expressionless face.  But that face slowly turned towards him, shining and pale in the suddenly stark light that brightened the room as the power was restored.  The dark eyes, all pupil, fixed and focused on the bloody corpse Connor had so unceremoniously deposited only a few feet away.

"For me?" Methos whispered, the ugly parody of humor made worse by the raw sound of his voice, stripped of all the delicate nuances of his normal speech. he didn't try to move or do anything but stare at Connor's prize for long moments.

"Sean," Methos' voice cracked with command even in the whisper  and the youngest Immortal jerked a bit then moved, coming unsteadily to his feet and then Helping Kir pull the older man to his own. "Back to Xan's."

"Why?" Connor demanded but his protest was more curious than contradictory. They were all dancing on eggshells with Methos, not sure what would be unleashed or destroyed were they to challenge him. So far he had done nothing, barely moved, answered questions that needed answers and ignored the rest.

"Someone might have seen and Abbas wouldn't go anywhere without a checkpoint." Methos said. "Get the van, Kir. He's coming with us."

There was a brief debate between Kir and Connor before Kir slipped from the room. Methos held onto Sean's hands but in no other way acknowledged his brother, waiting for Amanda and Connor to bind and bundle up their prisoner's slack body. They left Sun where he was, not one of them sparing the dead man a second glance.