by C.L. Finn

Hot, searing, empty pain.... and numbness.

A strange combination. If Duncan MacLeod was capable of rational thought, he would wonder at how he could experience the two opposing sensations at the same time. But he was capable of only one thought-- one thought that kept screaming in his mind, over and over.

Richie's dead.

I did it.

I killed Richie.

Variations on the same theme. Over and over as he walked. He didn't even know where he was walking or where he intended to end up-- only that he couldn't stop or he'd be consumed by the scream. So he kept going-- unaware of the cold and the light snow that had begun to fall. All he could feel was the hollow, burning pain in his chest and the soft leather he clutched in one hand. The rest of his body and mind had succumbed to an all-consuming numbness.

So he walked-- quickly and purposefully, intent on a destination. He just didn't know what that destination was yet. All he knew was that he couldn't stop.

"He's lost."

"No!" Methos yelled, whirling around to glare at Joe Dawson.

Joe sat on the dormant escalator, his head in his hands. Once Methos had calmed the mortal's sobs, he'd helped him sit down. Since then, silence had descended on the old building, both men lost in their own pain and fear-- until Joe had muttered those words. He had dared to speak what they were both thinking.

"I won't accept that, Joe," Methos said more calmly, but with a fierce insistence. He wasn't sure if he was trying to convince the Watcher or himself.

"What're we going to do?" Joe asked, looking back at the corpse of the young man he had watched grow up over the past few years.

"I don't know."

"Jesus, Methos. You're 5000 years old, surely you have a clue," Joe insisted.

Methos strode up to Joe and, much to the mortal's surprise, grabbed him by his collar and lifted him about an inch off the step he was sitting on. Joe froze in shock, caught in the cold anger of Methos' eyes.

"How many times do I have to tell you," he growled through clenched teeth, "I don't have all the answers." He dropped Joe and turned away, taking a deep breath to try and calm the helpless rage that had overtaken him.

"Don't you think if I knew how to fix this, that I would? How can you sit there and imply that I would willingly let him go through this? He needs help and there's nothing I can do," Methos yelled, slamming his hand against the brick wall, not even registering the pain.

Joe watched in shock as his anger faded as quickly as it had come. Methos seemed to deflate in front of Joe's eyes, as he turned and slid down the wall, staring at the Katana Duncan had abandoned.

"If he's lost, I'm lost," Methos whispered into the returning silence.

"I'm sorry, Methos," Joe said after a moment. "It wasn't an accusation. I'm just grasping at straws here."

"I know," Methos said and scrubbed his face with his hands, trying to clear his mind. He knew what he had to do. "Joe, are you okay? Can you take care of things here?" he asked, standing up and pointing at Richie's body.

"Sure," Joe nodded.

"I have to go find him."

Joe watched as Methos knelt over Richie's body and reclaimed Duncan's sword, cradling it in his hands like a fragile thing. He took a deep breath, stood up and tucked the sword into his coat, next to his own. Then he turned and walked out without another word. Joe was surprised to find himself saying a silent prayer for the ancient Immortal. He couldn't bear to lose all his friends in one day.

Methos pushed open the heavy wooden doors of Darius' chapel and brushed the snow out of his hair. He was overcome with the sense of emptiness inside. He'd felt that to some degree ever since the death of the old priest, so used to walking in and feeling the distinctive presence of an Immortal. The sensation had come to be a part of this place, but now it was gone. And the emptiness was more striking for the fact that Methos had expected, and desperately hoped, that he would feel MacLeod here as he walked in. But all he felt was the emptiness-- there was no Immortal here but himself.

Frustrated, he sat down in one of the front chairs, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and cradle his head in his hands. He'd been sure he would find MacLeod here-- he always came here when he was lost. Methos hoped this wasn't a sign that he was lost for good. He knew Duncan wasn't dead-- he was sure he would feel that loss because of the connection they'd had since the Quickening in Bordeaux. But where else would he go? That was the question. He had driven past the barge on the way to the church and there was no sign of him. He wracked his brain to try and figure out what places held a connection to Richie.

Where would MacLeod go to mourn the loss of the boy he loved as a son?

"I'm sorry, Tessa," Duncan sobbed. "I'm so sorry. I tried to protect him, I tried to teach him. I promised to keep him safe and instead I killed him."

Duncan's walking had brought him unconsciously to this place-- Tessa's grave. Now he knelt over her grave, not noticing the wet cold that was seeping into him as it continued to snow. He was confessing his sins, trying to ask forgiveness for what he'd done. But he knew there was no forgiveness-- no atoning for this crime. His fingers unconsciously kneaded the leather of the glove he still had clutched in his hand-- Richie's glove.

"I failed him, Tess... and I failed you," Duncan said, remembering the promise he had made on Tessa's grave right after he'd buried her. He knew how much Tessa had grown to love Richie-- the three of them had formed a family-- and he had been so afraid of Richie's new life as an Immortal. So, it was on this spot that he had promised Tessa that he would take care of Richie-- that Tessa could rest knowing Richie would be safe. And now he had betrayed that promise.

He had killed his son.

Sacrificed him, like Abraham, in the cause of some battle for greater good. Only there had been no intervention-- no salvation for this Isaac. And there had been no victory. He had failed-- it was an evil greater than him-- something that he could not fight. Richie didn't deserve this fate. He didn't deserve to be some pawn in this ridiculous battle.

"You would have been so proud of him, Tess," he said, sitting down on the marble slab that covered Tessa's grave. "He grew up into a strong, smart, honorable man. I wish you could have seen it. You should've been here.  He should be here now."

The pain overwhelmed Duncan again and he clutched the glove to his chest. He lay down on the stone and curled up into a ball, not feeling anything but the profound emptiness and pain that filled his chest.

And that was how Methos found him.

Playing a hunch, Methos had called Joe to find out where Tessa was buried. He'd been relieved to feel Duncan's presence as soon as he drove up to the cemetery, but that relief was short lived when he found his friend curled up on top of the granite slab. He was alarmed when Duncan didn't even look up or react at feeling the presence of another Immortal-- at least he was on holy ground.

"MacLeod?" he said, approaching his friend. When he got no response he moved closer and reached out to touch Duncan's shoulder. "Duncan, are you okay?"

Duncan flinched away at the touch and sat up, moving away from Methos. "Unless you've come to take my head, I really don't want any company."

"Nope. Sorry," Methos said, shaking his head decisively and with some anger. "I'm not going to play this game." He sat down on the slab next to Duncan. "I'm not taking your head, and I'm not leaving. You're sitting out here in the snow with no coat on-- you're obviously not okay."

Duncan just stared down at the glove in his hand, trying hard to ignore Methos as he sat and watched the younger Immortal. After a few moments of silence, Methos reached out and laid his hand on Duncan's shoulder, turning his body toward him.

"Talk to me, Mac," he pleaded quietly.

"I'm not crazy, Methos," Duncan said, trying to pull away.

"Okay."

"I mean it," he said, more intently. "I don't know what's going on, but it's real. Richie saw it too-- that's why he went to the track. I'm not insane," he yelled, grabbing Methos' coat and shaking him. "Please believe me."

The last plea was no more than a whisper, but the desperate tone broke Methos' heart. Until now, he hadn't been sure, but looking at Duncan's intent pleading face, he suddenly knew for sure that this warrior had not lost his mind. He wasn't sure why, but his gut was telling him that whatever was happening to Duncan was real-- and that terrified him even more than the thought of Duncan losing his mind.

"I do believe you," he said, and pulled Duncan into a tight embrace, holding his shivering body against his own warmth. "We'll get to the bottom of this. I promise."

Duncan relaxed into Methos' arms, his shivers becoming sobs as he allowed the tears to overcome him. Methos wrapped his coat around both of them and held Duncan, soothing him with his hands and his voice while he cried. After a while, the tears subsided, but Duncan didn't move, needing the comfort and warmth that the ancient Immortal offered. Methos was unsure how long they sat like that, but when the sky began to take on the gray of pre-dawn and his own body temperature had dropped too far he knew it was time to try and get Duncan home.

"Come on, Mac," he said, pulling away slightly. "We're both freezing... let's get you home."

Duncan nodded and turned back to look at Tessa's name on the slab below him. He ran his hand through his hair, and shook his head sadly.

"I can't go back to the barge," he looked at Methos, asking for understanding. "I can't face it."

Methos did understand. "Right," he said decisively, standing up. "My place it is, then." He reached his hand out to help Duncan up, then wrapped an arm around his waist to help him back to Methos' car.

The drive back to Methos' apartment was made in silence. Duncan had retreated back into himself, staring out the window without really seeing anything. He followed Methos into his apartment and mumbled something about needing a shower, then disappeared into the bathroom. Not knowing how else to help his friend, Methos poured himself a drink. He desperately needed it to still his shaking hands.

Pulling off his coat, Methos tossed his and Duncan's swords down on the couch. He froze as a flash of red caught his eye. There was blood on the white ivory handle of Duncan's Katana. Methos shuddered. He didn't want Duncan to see it, whether it was Richie's or his own. He grabbed some cleaning solution and a rag out of the cabinet and scrubbed the sword until it gleamed, wishing he could wash that stain from Duncan's soul as well. When it was clean, he set it on the mantle and was going to pour himself another drink, but was interrupted by the phone.

"Hello," he answered, not really wanting to talk to anyone.

"Methos," Joe's voice came frantically over the line. "Did you find him?"

"Yeah, Joe. I found him at the grave."

"How is he?"

"Not so great-- but still alive. Everything taken care of on your end?" he asked, going to the kitchen and filling a tea-kettle with water and putting it on to boil.

"Yeah, everything's cleaned up. Richie's body is at the Watcher mortuary-- we'll get the paperwork taken care of to make things kosher. I can make arrangements for burial, but Mac's going to have to make some decisions."

"He's in no shape to do that right now, Joe. I'm going to try and make him get some sleep, then we'll see. But I need you to do me a favor."

"Sure, what is it?"

"I need you to do some digging in Watcher records for me. See what you can find on this prophecy, on the hermit Mac mentioned, on anything that seems to do with this millennium demon. I picked up Landry's journal when I went by the barge earlier and I'm going to see what I can come up with on my end, but I don't have that kind of access anymore."

"I'll see what I can find," Joe agreed, "and call you later today. And Methos?"

"Yeah?" Methos answered, and pulled some special herbs down from his cabinet to add to the tea he was making.

"Take care of him, will ya? And..." Joe hesitated, "watch your own head."

"He won't hurt me, Joe," Methos said, shaking his head at the thought.

"Yeah, that's what Richie thought," Joe mumbled. "Just be careful. I'll talk to you later."

With that, Joe hung up, leaving Methos to consider his words in silence. He tossed the phone down on the counter and scrubbed at his face, pushing the thought away. Duncan hadn't killed him when he had a chance during the Dark Quickening, and that was before Bordeaux-- he had no reason to fear Duncan now.

The kettle began to whistle and he pulled it off the heat, pouring the water over the strainer he'd prepared and leaving it to seep. He started to worry when he realized the water was still running in the shower and he hadn't heard a sound out of Duncan since he went in. He knocked softly on the bathroom door, and when he didn't get an answer he walked in.

"MacLeod?" he said, being assaulted by the heavy steam that permeated the room.

He found Duncan standing in the shower, leaning up against the wall, letting the scalding hot water run over him. His body was bright red, not only from the hot water, but also from scrubbing himself so hard he'd left welts on his skin. Methos reached in and turned the water off and grabbed a towel.

"I can't get it off, Methos," Duncan said, holding out his hands to show Methos the blood only he could see.

"I know, Mac," Methos answered softly, wrapping the hands in a towel and pulling Duncan out of the shower. He wrapped his terry-cloth robe around Duncan's body and led him out of the bathroom and sat him down on the bed. Duncan shivered and wrapped the robe tighter around himself.

"I'm cold," he complained as Methos took the towel from him.

"That's because you were out in the snow for hours without a coat," he said, using the towel to dry Duncan's hair. "And you're probably in shock." He suddenly felt like he was taking care of a child or invalid, and that image of this strong warrior terrified Methos. He quickly handed the towel to Duncan and walked back into the kitchen.

Duncan didn't seem to notice the abrupt change in attitude-- he just sat and stared down at his hands shivering. Methos poured a cup of the tea he'd made and took it back over to Duncan.

"Drink this," he said. He watched as Duncan sniffed at the tea and took a sip. Apparently satisfied with it, he drank down the rest of it quickly. "Why don't you climb into bed and get some sleep?"

Duncan nodded absently and started to take off his robe, the herbs already seeming to take effect. He startled Methos when he stopped and looked around frantically, then fled back into the bathroom. Methos was afraid Duncan was going to be sick, but sighed in relief when he saw Duncan come back out with Richie's glove clutched in his hand once again. Setting the glove carefully on the bedside table, as if it was a fragile, living thing, Duncan took off his robe and crawled into the bed, letting Methos drape an extra comforter over him.

"I can't get warm," he muttered and burrowed deeper into the blankets. Methos turned off the light and watched him shiver for a moment before making a decision. Slipping out of his sweater and jeans, he climbed into the bed behind Duncan and wrapped his body around his friend, trying to share his warmth. It didn't take long for the shivering to stop, and Duncan was pulled into a deep sleep by the herbs Methos had added to his tea.

Once he was sure Duncan was asleep, Methos crawled out of the bed and poured himself another glass of Scotch, downing it quickly and pouring another. He sat down on the couch where he could watch Duncan sleep, and finally let go of the emotions that had been welling up in him since he'd found Duncan kneeling over Richie's body. He sat and cried silently for the death of a young Immortal, but mostly he cried for what had become of his strong Scottish warrior-- a man he had once thought could never be beaten.

Duncan woke up in a cold sweat from nightmares once, but Methos calmed him down and gave him more tea with a significantly stronger dose of the sedative herbs. It seemed to do the trick and Duncan managed to sleep soundly for about 13 hours. Methos tried to catch a few hours of sleep on the couch, but he couldn't relax enough to really sleep, so he got up and began reading through Jason Landry's journal.

What he found was fascinating. Much of the mythology and history involved he knew, but Landry had compiled an impressive mass of information and pulled seemingly divergent threads of myth or rumor together into a coherent whole. Methos thought the man must have been a genius at jigsaw puzzles-- making connections that most people would miss. From a purely intellectual point of view, he found the puzzle compelling, but he couldn't enjoy it because one of the pieces of the puzzle was far too personal.

Methos was cynical and pragmatic by nature. He didn't believe in magic and mysticism for the most part, and he knew from personal experience that myth was extremely unreliable. He was not a believer by nature-- despite his brief desperate desire to believe in the power of the Methuselah Stone-- and things had to be proven for him to believe in them. Despite his five-thousand years, he should have known that just because he hadn't seen something did not mean it didn't exist. He chastised himself for becoming that arrogant. He shouldn't have been so quick to dismiss what MacLeod was experiencing.

He still wasn't sure what was going on. And he still wasn't sure that he believed that a demon was walking the streets of Paris and that only Duncan MacLeod could defeat it. What he did know was that something was happening, and Duncan was at the center of it. That wasn't too hard to believe-- Methos had always believed that Duncan had the mark of destiny on him. Methos himself had chosen this warrior as a champion, why was it so hard to believe that other forces hadn't done the same thing?

There was one thing that Methos knew without a doubt-- a credo by which he lived. Knowledge is power. And by learning everything he could about this myth, he would be that much closer to being able to help Duncan. With that in mind, Methos set himself a task and went to work.

After he had made his way through the journal, making notes as he went along, he got on the Internet and started looking up anything he could find on Landry, Zoroastrianism, millennium myths, and anything else that seemed to relate. He called Joe once to give him some search parameters in the Chronicles and to see what he had found, but other than that he spent the whole afternoon at his computer, all the while keeping a close eye on Duncan as he slept.

A little after six that evening, Methos looked up from the screen to find Duncan watching him silently from the bed. He had no idea how long Duncan had been awake, but the silence and the dark look in his eyes alarmed Methos.

"Hey," Methos said, smiling. "How do you feel?"

Duncan sat up slowly, never taking his dark eyes off of Methos. "Like I've been drugged," he answered coldly, the accusation clear in his tone. "What time is it?"

"You've slept about 13 hours," Methos answered, closing up his pen and getting up from the desk. He'd known Duncan would be angry about this, but he wouldn't have slept otherwise. "Sorry about that. You needed the sleep."

"I don't recall ever making you my nursemaid." Duncan got out of bed, pulling on the discarded robe and headed for the bathroom.

"There are some clean sweats hanging on the towel rack," Methos said, ignoring the comment. "You want some dinner?"

Duncan didn't answer, he just closed the door quietly behind him. At least, Methos thought, he cares enough to be angry. That was an improvement from the night before when he'd been completely despondent. With a sigh, Methos pulled out a sauce pan and began to heat up some soup. He didn't think Duncan would be up for anything heavier than that yet.

When Duncan finally came out, he was dressed in Methos' sweats and a t-shirt. Both items were considerably snugger on the more-solid Highlander, but they would suffice, and Methos was glad to see that Duncan hadn't seemed to take it into his mind to leave yet. That was a good sign, he hoped. He didn't have a clue as to how he would have kept Duncan here if he didn't choose to stay.

Duncan wandered over to the window and twisted the blinds open to look outside. He stood and stared silently at the snow which was falling again. It had stopped early that morning and had only begun again a few hours ago. The late Spring cold front was expected to dump about seven or eight inches of snow on Paris before it let up, and the whole city was quiet and still under its grip. Methos left Duncan to his brooding, and continued to stir the soup and cut up some bread to go with it. When Duncan finally spoke, the sound of his voice startled Methos.

"What were you working so intently on?" Duncan asked, indicating the papers and flickering computer screen on Methos' desk.

"Research," Methos answered, turning the flame down on the soup to simmer. He crossed the room and picked up the journal from the desk. "I've been trying to track down information on this myth. It's pretty interesting. The Zoroastrians believed that...."

"Methos," Duncan interrupted him in a dark serious voice. He had turned back to look out the window, but his tone of voice was intent. "I want you to do something for me."

"What's that?" he asked, dropping the book and moving around to the front of the desk to face Duncan.

"I want you to take my head," he whispered, still not looking up at Methos.

"Stop it, Mac," Methos said, angrily.

"If you won't do it, I can always go out and find someone who will, but I'd rather it be you."

Duncan looked up at Methos to show him how serious he was about the request, but before he knew what was happening, Methos had planted his fist in Duncan's face. He was knocked back by the force of the blow and he landed on the floor up against the end of the bed. Shocked, he reached up and touched the blood which was already flowing out of his broken nose.

"You think that's the way to honor Richie?" Methos asked angrily, standing over Duncan. "You think you did a bad thing, so you should just offer up your head and that will fix everything? It's not that easy, MacLeod, and you don't get to make it that simple. You have to live with this, just like the rest of us. If you want to make Richie's death mean something, then you fight this. You've only lost a battle. You find a way to win the war and then Richie's death will have meaning. If you forfeit your head, it means nothing-- the life you've lived means nothing. There is no victory in dying, MacLeod. I won't help you surrender and I won't be your judge. That's your role, not mine."

Duncan blinked up at Methos, surprised by his angry outburst. He had expected the ancient Immortal's refusal, and he'd expected him to be angry. But he never would have expected the punch, or the speech.

"Methos, I..."

"No," Methos interrupted him, "save it. I don't want to hear it." He sat down on the bed and rubbed his face, trying to get control of his temper. He didn't lose it very often, and he hadn't intended to lose it with Duncan. But his words had hit a nerve, and dredged up a painful memory at the same time.

"Are you alright?" he finally asked, watching Duncan wiping the blood from his nose and upper lip onto Methos' t-shirt.

"It'll heal," Duncan answered dryly. "You wanna tell me why you did that?"

"I needed to get your attention," he shrugged. "You're so bloody dense sometimes, it takes drastic measures."

"I'm getting a little tired of your drastic measures, Methos," Duncan said, remembering a lesson at the end of his own sword in the dojo and a bullet in his back, as being among such measures.

"Well, I'm getting a little tired of your denseness," Methos retorted. They sat in silence for a few minutes, neither of them wanting to give an inch. Finally Methos sighed and leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees, and began to speak.

"There was a woman named Abigail. She'd been Immortal for about 50 years when I met her. She had watched her family grow old and die, her teacher had lost his head, and she'd lost the will to survive. She hated the Game... didn't want any part of it. I fell in love with her, and I tried to teach her how to enjoy living but the grief was too much for her. She begged me to take her head, to end what was torment for her and what was joy for me-- life. I refused, I tried to talk her out of it, I tried to find a way to convince her otherwise, but she kept insisting. She used that same damn line on me-- that's why I punched you."

"I'm sorry, Methos."

"No your not," Methos said quickly. He took a deep breath and then went on. "I gave in. I took her head, and it was the most painful Quickening I've ever taken. In fact, it was the last one I'd taken until Kristin. I realized later that it was a mistake-- I shouldn't have done it. She needed to learn to live with her grief, not be released from it. I was her friend, I had no right to help her give in to despair."

Methos got up and went back to the desk, sorting through some of the papers he'd been reading through. Duncan sat where he was on the floor, staring down at his hands.

"I'm just so tired of it, Methos," he said quietly. "I can't do this anymore."

"We're all tired of it, Mac. And I can tell you right now that it doesn't get any easier as you get older, but killing yourself is no answer. And it's not who you are. Abigail was a coward-- you, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, are not," he said pointing at Duncan. "I'm sorry about Richie, but he would not want you to kill yourself over this... and you know that better than I do."

Duncan stayed on the floor, but he turned back toward the window, resting his head in his hands. Methos watched him for a minute and then went back into the kitchen to check on his soup. After a few minutes, Duncan got up and went back into the bathroom, and Methos heard him turn on the sink to clean the blood off his face. He figured that, short of trying to behead himself with a razor blade, he could do little harm to himself in there. He served himself some soup, grabbed a beer, and went back to what he'd been doing at the desk.

Duncan splashed his face with cold water, washing off the blood, then looked up into the mirror above the sink. He was surprised to find a stranger staring back at him. Somehow in the last several days he had lost himself, and he wasn't sure that he wanted to be found.

"Killing yourself is no answer. And it's not who you are. Abigail was a coward-- you, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, are not."

Methos was partially right-- getting himself killed was no answer. It was the easy way out, and Richie deserved more than that. He deserved to carry this pain the rest of his life-- maybe that would come close to atoning for what he'd done.

But Methos was also wrong-- Duncan MacLeod was a coward. At least the Duncan MacLeod that was staring back at him in the mirror. This Duncan MacLeod wanted nothing to do with battling evil. This Duncan MacLeod was simply exhausted and terrified and wanted nothing to do with any of this nonsense.

"Maybe you are the chosen one," he heard Richie's voice in his mind, which was followed by Landry's frantic words.

"You've got to stop him MacLeod. You alone. God help you, you're the only one who can."

"Why?" Duncan asked his mirror-self. "Why me? This is ridiculous."

"You're blessed and you're cursed," the hermit's prophecy came back to him as if it were yesterday. "When your time comes you must be prepared to face an evil greater than you've imagined."

"An evil one will come to vanquish all before him. Only a Highland child, born on the winter solstice, who has seen both darkness and light can stop him."

"NO!" he told the voices. He didn't want the responsibility. He hadn't asked for this ludicrous prophecy, and he had no desire to be a chosen one or a champion of good.

"Champion of good," he spat sarcastically.

He couldn't figure out how he could possibly be chosen for such a role. All he seemed to do the past several years was destroy the people around him. Tessa, Charlie, and even Joe had been through hell and back because of their friendship. He'd lost so many of his closest friends-- Fitzcairn, Mae-Ling, and Darius-- he shied away from counting the old friends who'd died by his own hand.

But it was a particular one that he carried on his heart like a fresh wound-- Sean Burns. It was his death that seemed most to taunt him when he imagined himself a champion or force of good. Sean's death had had no meaning-- it had been simply an act of greed and power. He'd done it because he could-- just like all of the things he'd done under the Dark Quickening. Most of the time he was able to push those things away as something that had been done by someone else-- he hadn't been in his right mind-- but deep down he knew the truth. The evil that had consumed him and done those things was a part of him and sometimes he could still feel it lurking in the back of his mind, laying in wait.

He wondered briefly if maybe there was no demon, no ghosts of Horton and Kronos following him around, haunting him. Maybe it was his own evil coming back, turning himself against those he cared the most about, trying to consume him by making him kill those he loved. He shook off that thought easily-- whatever was happening to him was external, not internal. He wasn't sure of much at the moment-- this he was pretty sure of. But the fact that the evil inside him wasn't the cause of recent events did nothing to change the fact that it existed.

How can that evil exist inside someone chosen to defeat evil, he questioned. Intellectually, he knew the answer to that. It took someone who had truly experienced evil to be able to recognize it and fight it. But it didn't change the fact that Duncan felt unworthy.

"I've already proven that," he whispered, seeing Richie's lifeless body at his feet again. Richie had shown such unerring faith in Duncan, and despite all that Duncan had done to him in the last few years he'd stayed loyal to the very end. Now he was dead because of it-- because Duncan had been too weak to beat the demon.

"Maybe you don't have a choice," he heard Richie tell him, followed by other insistent voices.

"In five thousand years, MacLeod, you were the best I'd seen."

"You are the best man I know. You make people better. People like me who didn't give a damn about anything in their whole lives until you came along with your big brown eyes and your boy scout rules."

"I know you. I know your goodness and I know your strength."

It didn't matter. It made no difference what others thought of him. He was sick and tired of being that Duncan MacLeod. Tired of feeling responsible for everyone around him, tired of caring about honor and integrity, and tired of being a judge, tired of being strong. Prophecy or no prophecy, clan chieftain or no-- he didn't want any of it anymore. He wanted no part of that Duncan MacLeod and his role in the Game.

Running his hands through his hair, Duncan looked at himself in the mirror again and wondered if he could get rid of this stranger that stared back at him.

He wanted to be someone else for a change. Give all this nonsense up and relax in the sun somewhere-- be anonymous and forget about prophecies, and battles, and swords, and the Game. Maybe he could convince Methos to go with him-- he smiled thinking that he probably wouldn't have to twist the old man's arm. Methos had raised doing nothing to an art form.

"I hear Bora-Bora's nice this time of year," he remembered Methos saying once.

Yeah, he thought, a beach, some good beer, and Methos. It sounded like the perfect medicine for what ailed him.

Just be someone else for awhile.

Grabbing a pair of scissors out of the basket which sat on the back of Methos' toilet, Duncan's plan began to take shape in his mind. Reaching up, he gathered his hair back into it's ponytail and decisively cut it off. Tossing the handful of dark hair into the trash can, he smiled and started to trim off the long sides which were left. He worked quickly, not really caring much for neatness or style-- he just wanted to get rid of it. His hands were determined and sure, believing that if he just changed how he looked, he could change who he was and then he could go on about his life and forget about this entire prophecy and his role in it. Let the forces of good choose someone else as their champion for a change. He was tired of fighting, and more than anything, he was tired of winning.

When it was done, Duncan ran his hands through the short hair and stared at himself in the mirror again. He expected to see the stranger again-- but all he saw was Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod-- accusing him of cowardice.

"Idiot!" he yelled at the reflection and tossed the scissors in the sink. He sat down on the toilet and put his head in his hands, no longer able to look at that accusing face. It may have been his own likeness, but it felt like his father-- Ian MacLeod looking at him with anger and disappointment at the weakness he saw in his son.

"You do not have the pleasure of choosing duty, son. It will choose you. You will be Chieftain one day, and it will be your duty to protect the Clan. It is your destiny-- who you are, who you will become.   Duncan remembered the words of his father clearly. He'd said those words to him when he explained why Duncan could not marry Debra Campbell.  "Duty must take precedence over your own happiness."

Duncan laughed bitterly at the irony that he should put so much importance in the words of a man who had cast him out of the Clan as a demon-- who had denied Duncan his home and his family. But he did. His four-hundred years of existence had been predicated on the things Ian had taught him-- the man Ian had raised him to be.

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he heard the taunting voice of Methos clearly in his head, chastising him for his code of honor.

"It's who I am," he had answered the ancient Immortal, sure of it at the time.

"Well, someone had to be," Methos had answered.

"Yeah, someone had to be," Duncan sighed. Methos was right-- running away was not something that Duncan MacLeod did. He seemed to be stuck with this demon, and this prophecy whether he liked it or not, and duty dictated that he face it.

Standing up, Duncan ran his hands through his short hair again and winced at the mess he'd made in the mirror. He was surprised to find that the face in the mirror was no longer a stranger-- just himself staring back with exhaustion, pain, and a certain amount of resignation. He was ready to accept what fate had brought him to. But it was another voice-- that of Brian Cullen-- that rose unbidden in his mind, threatening to send him cowering into the corner once more.

"Don't ever be the best, MacLeod. Everyone wants a shot at the best. God help you if you lose your nerve and they keep coming."

"You're too important to lose," Methos' voice in his head countered, giving him the strength to banish Brian's words. "You are not alone."

As he splashed his face with water once again and dried it off, he wondered if Methos had any idea how much his simple faith in MacLeod got him through. Maybe he'd have to tell him one of these days.

"There's soup on the stove," Methos said without looking up from his work when he heard Duncan finally come out of the bathroom. He was intent on trying to translate an etching that Landry had put in his journal.

"Thanks," Duncan said and spooned some soup out for himself, then went to sit on the couch.

"There's also beer in the fridge if you..." Methos' words died on his tongue when he looked up and saw the change in Duncan. He was even more surprised at the half-smirk he got from Duncan at the reaction.

"Bloody hell," he breathed, standing up and walking over to get a better look at the new haircut. "Lose something in the bathroom?" he asked.

"I had an urge," Duncan shrugged and continued eating his soup.

"Apparently," Methos said and sat down in the chair opposite him. "So you thought it was time for a new image? Or maybe," Methos leaned forward, looking at Duncan intently, "you thought if you changed how you look, you could run away from who you are."

Duncan's head snapped up. He really hated the ancient Immortal's ability to read him like a book. It was unnerving, and extremely irritating at times.

"It won't work you know," Methos said, sitting back and taking a drink of his beer. "You are not Samson-- you're strength lies not in your ponytail."

"I know that," Duncan snapped. He set the soup bowl aside and sighed. "I knew it as soon as I did it."

"Well, I like it anyway. It was time for a new look."

"I made a pretty good mess of it though," Duncan said, running his hands through the uneven hair.

"I can fix it for you. I was a barber once," Methos answered getting up and heading for the kitchen. "Beer?" Duncan nodded and Methos opened both bottles and brought one back to Duncan.

"When?" Duncan asked, taking the offered bottle.

"It was the 1880's I believe-- Colorado territory. I cut hair and pulled teeth." He ran his hand through Duncan's hair, trying to get an idea of how much trimming it would need. "I'm sure I can't do much more damage than you've already done."

Duncan shook his head, wondering not for the first time exactly how many professions his friend had learned in five-thousand years. "All right," he nodded and took a long drink of beer.

Methos got Duncan set up in his desk chair with a towel around his shoulders to catch the hairs as he tried to clean up what Duncan had done to his own hair. Both men were strangely silent as Methos worked, the soft sound of the scissors the only thing to break the almost reverent silence that fell over the apartment. There was something sacred about the simple task-- Methos was shaken by the intimacy of it. He wasn't sure what made him feel that way. Perhaps it was because he felt he was taking part in a transition in Duncan's life-- a strange rite of passage.

Several days earlier Methos wouldn't have guessed he would ever be allowed such intimacy again in Duncan's presence, but suddenly he was doing something that felt more intimate than anything he and Duncan had done when they were lovers. He was grateful for the moment, even in the midst of the turmoil which had prompted the haircut. He appreciated the fleeting intimacy for what it was, and so he remained silent as he worked slowly and carefully at his task.

When he had done all he could to clean up the mess Duncan made, he ran his fingers through Duncan's now-short hair, brushing out the loose pieces. He wrapped up the hair in the towel and tossed it onto the counter then moved around in front of Duncan.

"Not too bad," Methos quipped breaking the silence. He reached out to run his fingers through the short hair at Duncan's temple. "Of course, I think you did this just because you wanted to be like me," he joked, wanting to dispel the intensity.

"Maybe I do," Duncan said softly, grabbing Methos' wrist.

"What?" Methos asked, trying to keep up with the turns that Duncan's mind was taking. "Be like me? You wouldn't make a very good cynical bastard."

"No," Duncan said, not releasing the hold he had on Methos' wrist, "your courage."

"Mac, what are you talking about?"

"Your courage to survive. Methos, how do you do it? How do go on, century after century, carrying your ghosts with you?" Duncan pleaded. "I don't think I have the strength to do that anymore. I'm afraid."

Duncan's words ended in a whisper that Methos almost didn't catch. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, knowing how much it had cost Duncan to make such an admission.

"Then take mine," Methos answered simply. He knelt down in front of Duncan so he could look him in the eye. "I told you once before, you are not alone. Take whatever strength you need from me-- I'm here. And I know you don't want to hear this right now, but Richie is with you too. Draw on his courage, and on his faith in you."

Methos watched the pain cross Duncan's face at the mention of his student, and wished once again that he could ease that pain somehow.

"I don't deserve that faith," Duncan said, turning his face away from Methos in shame.

"Yes.  You.  Do." Methos reached up with his free hand and turned Duncan's face back to him. "MacLeod, you have a goodness of heart, a strength of character, and a purity of purpose that I've seen only a few times in 5000 years-- and only once in an Immortal."

"Don't do that, Methos." Duncan pulled back from Methos' hand and released the older man's wrist. "Don't turn me into some kind of mythical hero. You said yourself... I'm not perfect."

"No," Methos answered in exasperation, "but it is your willingness to battle those imperfections everyday that makes you who you are. It is that same arrogance and narrow-minded stubbornness that drives us all crazy, which also makes us love you."

"Methos?!" Duncan gasped, keying in on one word in the speech. He reached out to Methos, but the contact was quickly waved off.

"No, that's not what this is about. This is about you, and who you are-- who you are destined to be. Don't give up on us now. Please."

Duncan looked down into the face of his friend and was astounded by the depth of faith he saw in those golden eyes. He held on to the intensity of the gaze, taking strength from them. Held in that gaze he was able to find and grasp onto a thread of strength deep within himself. He still wasn't sure that he deserved such devotion, but like any drowning man, he was determined to grasp whatever lifeline he was offered.

"I'll try, Methos," he promised. "I'll try," he repeated softly and reached out to cup the side of Methos' head, caressing a cheek with his thumb.

"That's all I ask, Mac. That's all anyone is asking of you."

Methos took a deep breath and pulled away from Duncan's hand. He scrubbed at his face with his hands, trying to release the tension that had been caused by such close contact. Duncan stood up and squeezed Methos' shoulder as he moved away.

"Do you have a sweater I could borrow?" Duncan asked, walking into the bathroom to check his hair in the mirror.

"Sure." Methos grabbed a heavy gray wool sweater from a closet and handed it to Duncan as he came out of the bathroom. Duncan pulled it on and looked around the room.

"What about a coat? I seem to have lost mine." Duncan noticed the look of shock that crossed Methos' face as he realized what Duncan was doing. "Don't worry, Methos, I'm just going for a walk. I promise not to go out and get myself killed. I just need some time to think."

Methos nodded, understanding the need for space and some time alone. It did little to lessen his fear of MacLeod leaving, but he knew he couldn't object. He grabbed his larger black trench-coat from the closet and handed it to Duncan, along with a scarf. He watched Duncan bundle up and leave silently, biting his tongue against urging Duncan to take his sword with him. He knew Duncan would be fine-- he had promised. And Duncan MacLeod never broke a promise, he assured himself.

Methos was jerked awake by the sound of someone knocking on his door. He groaned as he sat up from where he'd fallen asleep, curled up on the couch with Landry's journal in his lap. He stretched out the kinks in his back and was surprised to see that it was daylight outside. He was alarmed that Duncan had never returned and he knew for a certainty that whoever was at the door was not Duncan MacLeod. Sighing, he went and opened the door to find Joe about to knock again.

"Morning Joe," he said, stepping back to let the mortal in. "What time is it?" he mumbled, rubbing at his face.

"Eight thirty," Joe answered and dropped the bag he was carrying onto the couch. "Were you asleep?"

"Yeah, I must have dropped off about four a.m., I think. Coffee?"

"Sure," Joe answered and followed him to the kitchen. "Where's Mac?"

"I wish I knew, Joe," Methos answered, exhaustion clear in his voice.

Joe wondered what Methos had been through with Duncan. He had a pretty good idea of how deep Methos' feelings for Duncan ran, and he knew that the ancient Immortal was committed to protecting Duncan-- even if from himself. But based on the last time he'd seen Duncan, he wasn't sure if that was possible.

"He left last night-- needed to be alone and work some things out. I thought he'd be back by now." Methos started some coffee brewing and put a kettle on for his own tea.

"Well he hasn't been back to the barge. I've had someone watching it since yesterday, and I was over there earlier."

"I didn't think he would." Methos leaned against the counter on his elbows and looked at Joe, who'd placed himself on one of the stools opposite him. "He's not ready to deal with those memories-- he won't even touch his own sword."

"What?" Joe asked, alarmed. "He's out there without a sword?"

"Calm down, Joe," Methos said, turning back to the stove. "He's perfectly capable of defending himself without it, and he gave me his word that he wasn't going to go out and get himself killed."

"I hope so, Methos," Joe sighed. "I really hope so." He wondered which one of them Methos was trying to convince. They sat in silence for several minutes as Methos poured coffee for Joe and fixed his own cup of tea.

"You don't think he's losing it do you?" Joe finally asked, somewhat afraid of the answer.

"He's not in great shape right now, but no," Methos said with certainty, "he's not insane."

"I'm not sure that makes me feel any better. Then you believe in this myth? That Mac is a chosen warrior, supposed to battle this millennium demon?" he asked incredulously.

"I don't know," Methos rubbed his eyes. "What I know is that something is happening... it's centered around MacLeod... and it's trying to systematically destroy him. I know that he's good and strong and never would have willingly killed Richie. The kid's death has nearly destroyed him."

"Is he going to be okay?"

"He was doing better when he left here last night," Methos answered, but Joe could hear the unspoken words in the sentence, or so I thought. He could see the deep lines of worry in Methos' usually unreadable face, and knew the old Immortal was more scared than he was letting on.

"He's not dead, Joe," Methos said, catching the concern on the mortal's face. "I'd know if he was."

"Are you ever going to tell me what happened between you two in Bordeaux?" Joe asked, once again curious at such comments. He only had sketchy reports, but he knew that something had happened-- something profound that had left his two friends connected in a way that they hadn't been before.

"Probably not, Joe," Methos answered simply. He took a deep breath and changed the direction of the conversation to something more comfortable. "Did you find anything in the records?"

"Not a lot," Joe shook his head. "But I did figure out how Landry knew about Mac. It was pretty obvious actually." Joe got off the stool and went over to the bag he'd brought with him, pulling out a folder and bringing it back to the counter.

"He was a Watcher?" Methos asked, guessing at Joe's meaning.

"No, but his grandfather was," Joe said, showing Methos a computer printout, "MacLeod's Watcher, in fact. It was a maternal grandfather-- that's why I didn't recognize the name. My guess is that, despite his vows, he passed down stories about Duncan MacLeod."

"Family lore about a Scottish warrior who battles the forces of evil? Sounds plausible," Methos nodded, reading over the bio on Landry's grandfather. "Probably what sparked Landry's interest in myths and legends in the first place."

"That's what I figure. Pretty powerful stuff for a kid to hear," Joe chuckled. "I haven't found anything on the hermit. We had no idea that Mac had taken a Quickening before Connor found him. Maybe I can get more info from Mac to help narrow the search."

"Yeah," Methos said thoughtfully. "It's a shot in the dark though. You know as well as I do that those Chronicles aren't complete."

"True," Joe acceded, " but we can always try. And Mac might remember something that could help."

"Well," Methos said, straightening up suddenly with a small smile, "you can ask him yourself."

Joe recognized the look right away, and wondered if Methos had any idea of how much relief transformed his face as he walked over to the front door. It was as if he'd just let out a breath he'd been holding for quite some time. He watched Methos open the door and wait for Duncan to appear.

"It's about damn time," Methos said, stepping back to let him in.

"I gave you my word, didn't I?" Duncan said with a smile and handed Methos a paper bag. "I brought breakfast."

Methos took the bag and was assaulted by the delicious smell of fresh croissants. He watched as Duncan stiffened suddenly when he noticed they were not alone.

"Joseph," Duncan said, acknowledging his friend and Watcher.

"Hi Mac," Joe said. "How are you doing?"

"Richie's dead," Duncan said shortly, tossing his coat down on the couch. "How should I be doing?"

"Mac," Methos said softly. Duncan looked at the older Immortal and took a deep breath, then turned back to Joe.

"I'm sorry, Joe. That was uncalled for." It wasn't that he was angry at Joe. He simply wasn't prepared for company, and Joe was a walking reminder of Richie. Methos had created a safe-haven from the immediate pain of what he'd done, and Joe seemed to open that wound afresh. But he had no reason to take his own turmoil out on Joe.

"It's no problem," Joe said, shrugging it off. Not wanting to be sociable, Duncan wandered over to the window where he'd spent so much time staring outside the day before.

Methos took the croissants that Duncan bought and put them out on a plate near Joe, nibbling on one himself.

"Joe's been doing some research," he said, loudly enough for Duncan to hear, "but he needs some more information on the hermit. Anything you can remember."

"I don't really know anything more," Duncan said, without turning around. "He spoke with a Scottish accent, but I'm pretty sure he wasn't originally from Scotland. That's about all I know. I'm sorry."

"S'alright," Joe said, finishing off his coffee. "We'll just keep looking." Joe fidgeted with his cup for a moment, trying to work up the courage to bring up the next subject. "Uh, Mac? There are some other decisions you need to make."

Duncan turned around to face Joe, curious at his tone.

"It's Richie." Joe faltered when he saw Duncan tense up, his face showing all of the pain he must be feeling over the boy's death. "We've got his body over at the mortuary, and all the paper work is being taken care of. But you need to make some decisions on arrangements."

"No," Duncan said, shaking his head sadly. "I can't. You do it, Joe. I trust your instincts... Richie would too."

"Okay, Mac." Joe had anticipated this response, but the faith in him meant a lot. "I've already arranged to have him buried near Tessa. I figured that's what he'd want."

Duncan smiled sadly and turned back to the window.

"Umm, there's one more thing. I have Richie's sword. Do you want it back or should I bury him with it?"

"I don't want it, you decide," Duncan said, not turning back around. The room was silent for a moment, until Duncan turned back around quickly. "No, wait. I don't want his sword buried with him. It wasn't a part of him like it is us," he said, looking at Methos. "He hated the Game, and he tried to put it down once. You keep it, Joe. I think Richie would like you to have it."

"That makes sense to me," Methos said.

"Well, I need to get to it then," Joe said, levering himself off the bar stool. "I'll check in with you later. Oh," he said, stopping at the couch. "I brought you some clothes from the barge and your coat from the track. And your car is parked back at the barge."

"Thanks," Duncan said, coming across the room to shake Joe's hand. "I appreciate it." It was obvious that Duncan meant more than just the bag of clothes-- he was thanking Joe for doing the things that he wasn't strong enough to take care of at the moment.

"Not a problem, Mac. Just take care of yourself, will ya?"

Duncan nodded and moved away as Methos saw Joe out the door. He sunk down into the couch with a sigh, wondering if he could ever stop feeling this exhausted. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the couch. After a few minutes he felt the couch shift slightly and he looked up to see Methos sitting on the arm holding a plate with croissants on it in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

"Here," Methos said, holding out the items. "You need to eat."

Duncan took both, but set the plate aside in favor of the coffee.

"So, what were you doing out there all night?" Methos asked conversationally.

"This is going to sound strange, but I was talking to Richie." Duncan looked down into his coffee, suddenly finding it more interesting than looking at Methos' concerned face. The last thing he needed was for Methos to decide he really was insane.

"And did you and Richie come to any conclusions?" Methos asked with a smile.

Duncan released a deep breath he hadn't known he was holding and looked up at Methos. God, he didn't know where all this support came from, but he was thankful for it.

Duncan nodded. "That I want to fight this thing. I owe it to Richie, and to myself. But," he hesitated, looking back down at his coffee, "I can't do it alone. I need your help, Methos."

"Then you've got it."

Duncan put down the text he'd been reading and rubbed his eyes. He'd reached his limit on reading about the mythical battle between good and evil-- no matter how relevant the subject had become to his life. He and Methos had spent the day combing through Landry's journal, then cross-referencing it with whatever they could find on-line, in Methos' own library, or in the information Joe had come up with at Watcher headquarters. But now he'd begun to think they'd reached a point of diminishing returns-- they weren't getting any new answers. He knew a little more about the myth, about the battle to come, but he still knew very little about his own role in the grand scheme of things. He was still far from knowing how to defeat this evil being and banish his own demons in the process.

The metal stairs rattled and Duncan looked up to see Methos coming down from the small loft that he used as a sort of library/storage space. He had a book in his hand and never looked up from whatever he was engrossed in as he came down the stairs, crossed to the fridge, pulled out a beer and sat down at the counter. Duncan smiled, recognizing the part of Methos that he'd first known as Adam Pierson. He continued to watch his friend, wishing there was a way to unravel all the layers that had been revealed to him over the past two years, and those that hadn't and probably never would be. He doubted he'd ever come to really understand this complex, ancient man.

He watched Methos set the book down and take a long pull on his beer, then reach over to jot some notes down on a pad that was piled among the books and papers spread out over the bar. He ran his fingers through the short dark hair, which was already pointed in several different directions from the unconscious habit. His long, lean body was folded over the bar stool so comfortably that it looked like it had been built for him alone-- Duncan was always amazed at that ability to become one with his furniture. Methos' bare foot tapped out a tune heard only in the older Immortal's head as he was lost in his research.

Duncan remembered being surprised when he realized that the thin frame Methos usually kept hidden under baggy sweaters and heavy coats was actually quite powerful and efficient-- not an inch was wasted on anything not needed to fight. The white t-shirt and worn jeans that he wore now were unlike his usual camouflage. Those graceful muscles were more apparent now as they flexed and moved as Methos searched for a certain sheet of paper in his pile. The play of those muscles evoked other, less-prosaic, memories of that body. Duncan was far too familiar with the curves and hollows still hidden beneath the spare clothing.

Methos picked up his bottle and took another long drink from his beer, then turned to look at Duncan, surprising the younger Immortal out of his rumination.

"Something I can help you with?" he asked, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

Embarrassed at being caught, Duncan ducked his head and suddenly became very interested in the fabric of Methos' couch. He should have known that his scrutiny hadn't gone unnoticed-- Methos was a master of knowing exactly what was going on around him while seeming to be in his own world.

"Tell me something, Methos," Duncan said seriously, ignoring the previous question.

"Sure," Methos answered, swiveling his stool around to face Duncan.

"What were you thinking when you bought this couch?" Duncan asked with a slight grin as he ran his hand over the faux leopard-print. His grin grew when greeted with a burst of surprised laughter.

"Are you mocking my couch, Highlander?" Methos asked.

"Nope," Duncan answered lightly, getting up off the couch. "I'm mocking your taste."

Methos grinned and put his hand to his chest as if he'd been wounded. It had been far too long since they had engaged in the easy insults and banter that had dominated their friendship from the beginning. It hadn't stopped entirely, but since the Horsemen reunited there had been a sharp edge to the insults-- something lying just beneath the surface that made both men hesitant to step over any invisible line. The exchange was even more surprising for coming in the midst of the grief which had enveloped Duncan.

Methos' grin softened into a fond smile as Duncan came to stand in front of him. "It's good to have you back, Mac."

"What would you say if I told you I'd missed you too, old man?" Duncan asked, moving closer, into the V of Methos' legs.

Methos reached out, placing his hand on Duncan's belly, sliding it around to his back and pulling him closer. "I'd say welcome home," he whispered just before Duncan's lips descended on his own.

The first kiss was soft, hesitant. There had been many apparent layers in their words, but each man was unsure enough to wonder if he had interpreted the other correctly. The answer having been found, the next kiss was deep, savage. The passion that had been bottled up inside both men for months exploded as hands and mouths explored frantically. Somehow, they made it across the room to stand next to Methos' bed before either was able to slow the pace.

It was Duncan who found a moment of clarity in the haze of physical need. He was euphoric at the reunion, but something nagged at his mind until it forced him to pay attention. There was more that needed to be said.

"Methos wait," he said, pulling away.

"You're kidding?" the older Immortal chuckled and went back to his assault on Duncan's neck.

"No," he tried more forcefully to push Methos away. "We need to talk."

"Not now, MacLeod," Methos groaned, one of his hands diving into Duncan's jeans to dissuade talking. Duncan swayed and moaned, but finally grabbed Methos' wrists.

"Yes. Now." The intensity in Duncan's voice and eyes captured Methos' attention. Duncan used his sudden stillness and the grip on his wrists to turn Methos around and force him to sit down on the edge of the bed, squatting down in front of him. "There's something I have to say-- something I need you to hear."

"Mac, you don't..." Methos began.

"Just keep your mouth shut for once and listen," Duncan cut in, the humor in his voice softening the words. Methos narrowed his eyes in challenge, but stayed silent, nodding his assent.

Duncan took a deep breath before he began and Methos tensed at the sudden seriousness, ready to bolt if need be.

"You asked me for something in that church in Bordeaux, and again under the bridge. It was something that I've been unable-- no, unwilling-- to give you. I was wrong, Methos. I'm sorry for that and I want to make it right."

Methos' eyes grew wider at the realization of what Duncan was saying.

"You asked me if I could accept your past. I have... I do. Past, present, and future. It shouldn't have taken me this long to say that, but as you are so fond of pointing out-- I am one bloody-stubborn Scot," he finished with a grin.

"I can't promise to ever really understand it," Duncan shook his head sadly, "but I accept your past as a part of who you are now."

Methos took a deep breath, realizing that he had been holding it. The tension in his body began to uncoil as he tried to take in what Duncan had just said. I accept you. Very simple words really. Since he hadn't thought he'd ever hear them, he'd convinced himself that hearing them wasn't really important. But it was-- they meant everything.

Looking down into Duncan's intent earth-brown eyes, Methos wondered at what point he'd lost so much control. This Scottish warrior had blown into his life and swept him up into the maelstrom that was his life leaving him helpless to resist the storm. Hurricane Duncan, he thought. So much power and raw beauty, but so much destruction left in it's wake. An irresistible force.

"Are you okay?" Duncan asked quietly, reaching up to touch the ancient Immortal's wet cheeks.

Methos couldn't find a voice, but he graced Duncan with a rare, open smile and nodded. Needing to give a more concrete answer, Methos reached out, threading his fingers into Duncan's now-short hair and pulled him into a fierce kiss that held gratitude and promise. Duncan chuckled against his lips and pushed the older man down onto the bed as he gathered the spare body to him.

The urgency of earlier was gone, leaving the two Immortals to re-explore the bodies they'd come to know almost as well as their own in the past. They made love slowly, reverently-- an act of worship and affirmation of the boundaries that had been crossed.

To say that it was intense would be an understatement. Whatever connection that had been opened between them during the double Quickening in Bordeaux was still there, creating a sort of empathic feedback loop. Each touch, each sensation, every shudder, was felt by both of them until it became nearly impossible to distinguish any separateness of being. It was true interdependence.

When it was over, after they had climbed a plateau and plunged into oblivion together, they lay in a familiar position. Methos was curled into Duncan's side, his head resting in the crook of Duncan's neck, legs tangled together, their bodies stuck together by sweat and other body fluids. He listened to the deep breaths of his lover as he tried to catch his own breath and idly played with the dark hair on Duncan's chest.

"Wow," he breathed when he was calm enough to speak. Duncan's chest rumbled beneath him as he chuckled, sending a shiver of aftershock through his body.

"You have a true talent for understatement, old man." He pulled Methos closer, rubbing his hand softly up and down Methos' spine. "What the hell was that?"

"No idea," Methos answered. "But a wise man once said, don't look a gift horse in the mouth."

They lapsed into silence for several minutes, each man lost in his own thoughts until Methos' strange sense of humor reared it's head. He couldn't stop himself from chuckling.

"This would really piss Kronos off," he said when Duncan looked at him curiously. The name made Duncan stiffen slightly, but the look of mirth on his lover's face made him relax.

"Excuse me?" he asked.

"To know that his death somehow precipitated the best sex I've had in my life," Methos explained. "He would not enjoy the irony."

Duncan stared at Methos for a second in surprise, but couldn't resist the twinkle in the hazel eyes and burst into laughter himself. They laughed together, in release as much as in amusement at Methos' observation. Duncan pulled Methos up for a lazy kiss and then lay back with a sigh, enjoying the easy feeling.

The feeling didn't last long as Duncan's thoughts turned back to the last several days. He felt suddenly guilty for having so much joy when Richie was laying in a Watcher morgue, unable to feel anything ever again. It was so unfair.

Methos felt the change in Duncan's body when his mood shifted. He'd been expecting it-- Duncan MacLeod was not one to let a chance to punish himself go by. He wondered not for the first time, why a man so passionate, so connected with life could be so unable to take happiness as it came. Guilt was a way of life with this one. Pain was something that he was unable to let go of for very long-- he held it close like a talisman. That propensity scared Methos, because he knew from experience that there was only so much one person could carry around before it became the instrument of his destruction.

Sighing, Methos pushed himself up to look at Duncan. "Listen to me, Duncan." He waited until he held the dark eyes attention. "I want you to live. Do you hear me? I want you to live."

Duncan's eyes widened at hearing his own words echoed back to him. He understood what Methos was trying to tell him. He remembered the wrenching sobs that had wracked the older man after killing Silas, remembered feeling the echo of that anguish in his own soul, and he remembered yelling at Cassandra, ordering not just her but Methos. He had reached into Methos' grief and asked him to choose life. Now Methos was doing the same.

Reaching out to cup Methos' face, Duncan smiled and nodded. "I intend to," he promised intently then covered Methos' lips with his own to seal the promise. The kiss deepened, ending only when both men required air.

"Good," Methos whispered and kissed a soft trail down Duncan's jaw to his neck then tucked himself back into Duncan's body. It took only a moment before his breathing deepened into that of sleep. Duncan smiled and planted a kiss on top of his friend's head and pulled the covers up over them, feeling the pull of sleep himself. It was the first real peace he'd felt since he'd met Jason Landry on the quay.

Duncan woke the next morning, stripes of sunlight criss-crossing the bed from the blinds. He was curled up against Methos' back, arms wrapped around him, legs tangled together, and the fingers of one hand interlaced with Methos' against his pale chest. He took a deep breath, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the body next to him in the cool air of the apartment. He inhaled the sweet, cool scent of Methos.

Smiling at the memories of the previous night, Duncan began to pull away, but Methos stirred and a small whimper escaped his lips.

"Shhh," Duncan said, kissing Methos softly on his temple. "It's early. Go back to sleep."

"Hmmhmm," Methos mumbled and pulled handfuls of the blanket up, tucking them under his chin and curling up on his side. It always bewildered Duncan how young Methos looked in his sleep-- so like the young age that he must have been at his first death. It was only when he was awake and Duncan could look into his eyes that 5000 years were hinted at.

Duncan climbed out of bed and went to peer out the window at the early morning sun. The sun was bright, and the snow was already beginning to melt. He wondered idly if it was a sign of hope, or if it signaled that the respite from this battle he was unwittingly embroiled in was over. Only time would tell what was to come. Duncan chuckled-- apparently Methos' fatalism was beginning to rub off on him.

Despite this new outlook, Duncan wasn't ready to leave the future completely up to fate. He had made a choice last night-- a choice to fight and not to let this demon-- or whatever it was-- win. He knew what he had to do-- where he had to go to get answers. And he also knew that Methos was not going to like it.

Methos stretched out and turned over, reaching for Duncan, seeking the heat of his body, only to come up empty. He turned back over and looked around the apartment, wondering where he'd gone until he heard the shower cut off in the bathroom. He sighed and lay back down, stretching his arms up over his head and yawning. He hadn't slept so well in months-- since the last time he'd slept in Duncan's arms in fact. Methos rubbed his face and grimaced at the thought-- why had he suddenly stopped listening to his own voice of caution?

Thoughts of doom and gloom seemed to vanish when Duncan walked out of the bathroom dressed only in a towel. It was hard to remember why this relationship was a bad idea when faced with such a view. He turned over on his side and propped himself up on one elbow.

"Good morning," Duncan's face lit up in a smile when he saw the older Immortal was awake. "Bout time you woke up, old man." Duncan sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned over to share a soft kiss.

"Come back to bed, my chieftain," Methos said, answering one endearment with another. He reached out and grabbed the edge of Duncan's towel.

"I'd love to, but I can't," Duncan said, giving him another quick kiss and then pulling away from his hands and standing up. He went over to the bag that Joe had brought and pulled out some jeans, underwear and a t-shirt. Methos watched him silently as he pulled his briefs and jeans on, then sat down to pull on some socks.

"You're leaving," Methos stated-- it wasn't a question.

"Yeah," Duncan said, nodding. "I have to." He went over and sat back down on the bed next to where Methos now sat cross-legged. "I need to get some answers, and I think there's one person who can give them to me."

"Who?" Methos asked.

"Cassandra. She's the only one who knows something about this prophecy... I need to find out how much more she knows."

"Cassandra?" Methos asked thoughtfully. Despite his personal history with the woman, he knew it was probably the best lead they had. "Alright," he said, nodding and moved to get out of bed. "Let me get dressed and I'll go with you."

"No," Duncan said, stopping him with a hand on his chest. "Think about this Methos... you going with me is a bad idea. I'm not exactly her favorite person anymore, but I have a much better chance of getting any answers from her if you're not around. And I don't want to have to worry about keeping her from trying to kill you."

"I'm not afraid of her," Methos protested.

"Yes, but I don't need the hassle... and I need to get answers. I can't do that with you there," Duncan said, tempering his words by tenderly exploring Methos' face with his fingers.

"Yeah," Methos relented with a chuckle, "I do tend to be a distraction."

"A pleasant one though," Duncan said with a grin, pushing Methos back down on the pillow and plundering his mouth with a deep, passionate kiss. The kiss evoked shared memories of pleasure from the previous night, and Methos reached up running his hands up Duncan's broad back, pulling him in closer. Duncan pulled away regretfully, giving him one more quick peck on his forehead before standing up.

"Get up and I'll make breakfast," he said, walking toward the kitchen as he pulled his t-shirt on.

Methos sighed and got up, pulling on the jeans that had been discarded next to his bed the night before. He found his t-shirt, which had been thrown onto a chair, and retreated to the bathroom. When he came back out, Duncan was spooning out some scrambled eggs. Methos took the plate and sat down at the counter silently. He watched Duncan pour some milk and sugar into a mug and stir them, and smiled when Duncan handed him the mug of tea. Except for the fact that Duncan was leaving soon, it was almost like the past four months had never happened.

The two men ate in silence, afraid to ruin the quiet intimacy of the breakfast, and even more afraid to discuss even the immediate future. When they were done, Duncan called Joe to get Cassandra's whereabouts and then called the airport to make a reservation for Scotland. It didn't really surprise Duncan that she had gone back there. Methos cleaned up the kitchen while Duncan packed up his things, keeping himself busy, but he watched the Highlander's movements carefully.

He watched him sit down and pull his boots on and stand to thread a belt through the loops on his jeans, watched him roll his clothes up and stuff them into the small duffel-bag that Joe had brought from the barge, watched him run a comb through his short hair, which he didn't seem to know what to do with. He smiled when he saw MacLeod pull on the heavy gray wool sweater that he'd borrowed from Methos the day before.

The fond smile faded when he watched the anguish on Duncan's face as he stood next to the bedside table, staring down at Richie's glove. He stood there for several minutes, as if trying to will himself to touch it. Finally, he took a deep breath and picked it up, stuffing it into one of his jean pockets. Then Duncan turned and looked around, as if checking to see that he hadn't forgotten anything. Methos cleared his voice and walked over to the desk.

"Do you want to take the journal?" he asked.

"No, you keep it," Duncan answered, shaking his head. "I have the stuff you translated for me, and if I need anything from it I'll call."

"Good, there's some things I'd like to follow up on." Methos dropped the journal back down on the desk and awkward silence filled the room again. "So," he said, trying to fill the silence, "you want me to drive you to the airport?"

"No," Duncan answered quickly. "I think it'd be easier all around if I go by myself."

"You're going to miss the service. Joe has it set up for tomorrow, and he said Amanda is coming in this afternoon." Methos handed Duncan his heavy leather coat and couldn't suppress a smile when he slipped the coat on and then unconsciously reached back to pull his ponytail out of the collar. Duncan caught himself and shrugged.

"It's going to take some getting used to," he said with a sheepish smile, then turned more serious. "I'm just not ready to deal with that yet, Methos. I couldn't handle the funeral... it's better that I leave."

"I understand," Methos nodded.

"And as for Amanda, do me a huge favor and don't tell her where I've gone," he said and sat down on the arm of the couch with a sigh. "She was really fond of Richie... this isn't going to be easy on her. Be there for her, will you?" he asked, looking shyly at Methos. "And for Joe."

"Of course, Mac," Methos answered intently. He moved closer and reached up to push a lock of Duncan's hair off his forehead. "And don't forget that I'm here for you."

"Methos, I'm going to be okay," Duncan assured him, pulling him close and wrapping his arms around the older Immortal's waist. "I gave you my word remember?"

"Yeah," Methos choked out a laugh past the lump in his throat, "and god forbid, you'd start adopting my moral code."

Duncan pulled back to look Methos in the eyes. "I hate to break it to you, but I don't buy that act for a minute." He grinned at the older Immortal and kissed him lightly on the tip of his nose.

"Damn, all this time, I thought I had you fooled," Methos joked, glad for the lighter mood. "Maybe it's time for acting lessons... I could..."

"Shut up, Methos," Duncan cut off his words with a kiss, pulling him in closer and plundering the ancient Immortal's mouth in a kiss meant to hold them until he returned.

When Methos finally pulled away, breathless, his eyes were transformed by the deep green they always seemed to take on when he was aroused. Duncan watched him fight for control and pull himself reluctantly from Duncan's arms, taking a step back.

"You better get out of here," Methos said with a wry smile. His eyes twinkled with the challenge-- a challenge that seriously tempted Duncan, but he took a deep breath and sighed, knowing he didn't really have a choice.

"Right," he answered and stood up, grabbing his duffel and heading toward the door.

"Mac, aren't you forgetting something?" Methos asked, pointing at the Katana, which lay on the mantle where Methos had placed it several days earlier. Duncan stared at it, and seemed to almost back away from the sword, then shook his head.

"I can't Methos. Not yet... I can't even bring myself to touch it." The hollow pleading in Duncan's voice nearly broke Methos' heart. He understood the fear and anguish, but he also knew there was no way he was going to let Duncan go out unarmed.

"Hang on, I have an idea," Methos said and ran up the stairs leading to his small loft. Duncan heard him open one of the old chests that sat in the corner and rummage around for something. A few minutes later, he loped back down the stairs, holding what looked like a sword wrapped in muslin.

"It's not going to be the exact same weight or grip as yours," Methos said, unwrapping the package, "but I think you can defend yourself with it," he finished a bit sarcastically, knowing full well that Duncan MacLeod could defend himself with most anything. He held out the gleaming Katana with a gold and ebony handle, a bit younger than his own by the look of it, but exquisite just the same.

"Methos, this is beautiful... I can't take it," Duncan said, reaching out to it just the same.

"Of course you can," Methos scoffed. "Or consider it a loan, until you're ready to reclaim yours. It was a gift from Mae-Ling... I think she'd approve. Besides, if you think I'm going to let you go see Cassandra without a sword, you really are insane."

Duncan chuckled, the serious moment broken by Methos' tone-- which reminded him eerily of Mary MacLeod. He reached out and took the sword with one hand, then pulled Methos into a hug with the other.

"God, you really have turned into a nursemaid," he joked, then kissed Methos tenderly on his neck. He pulled back slightly, keeping his hand on the back of Methos' neck and leaning in to touch their foreheads together. "Thank you, my friend," he whispered and then leaned in further to touch Methos' lips in a feather light kiss.

Before Methos could react, Duncan pulled away quickly and disappeared out the door. Methos wrapped his arms around his lean torso, shivering-- he wasn't sure if it was from the intensity of that tiny kiss, his fear for MacLeod, or the cold breeze that had rushed in when Duncan went out the door, leaving it open slightly. Methos pushed the door the rest of the way closed and turned to lean up against it. He stood silently, trying to hold onto the fading sense of the Highlander, but eventually it was gone. He slid down the door and wrapped his arms around his knees, feeling empty from the loss of that distinct presence-- so much a part of his own.

"Godspeed, Highlander," he prayed to the silent room, and wondered idly if he could survive the loss of his Scottish angel if MacLeod lost this battle. Shaking off his own melodramatic thoughts, Methos stood up and went to get dressed. He had things to take care of-- things that had to be done. He could do nothing for Duncan at the moment, but he could keep his promise and see to Joe and Amanda. Then he had other leads to follow up on-- answers to find.

"Hello."

"Hey old man, how's the City of Lights?"

"Cold and miserable. Where are you?"

"Heathrow Airport. I'm getting ready to board a flight to Malaysia."

"Malaysia!? Did you find Cassandra?"

"Yes. She didn't exactly roll out the welcome mat, but once I explained what was going on, she was cooperative. Seems the fate of the world is more important than her anger."

"Well, that's a surprise. Any answers?"

"Not really. She's sending me to a monastery there... says I might find the answers I need. We'll see."

"You want me to meet you there?"

"No. I think I really need to spend some time by myself. I have some mourning to do and some answers of my own to seek. And..."

"And what, Mac?"

"He used Richie against me, Methos. I don't want him to be able to use you too. I need to know that the real you is in Paris... or somewhere else far away from me. It's the only way I can fight this-- the only way I can have some peace. He can't use you against me if I know I can't hurt you. Do you understand?"

"Bloody hell, Mac.... yeah, I understand. I don't like it, but I understand. Just... just keep in touch with me, okay?"

"Of course. How was the..."

"The service was nice. I think you would have liked it. Joe's going back to Seacouver tomorrow... you should call him."

"I will. What about Amanda?"

"She left yesterday. I tried to help, but she's not very fond of me at the moment and she's really worried about you."

"I'd call her, but I don't want her around me for the same reasons. I'm just not safe for the people I love right now... not until I get some more answers... until I can find a way to protect you."

"I know, but you're not alone in this. I'll be here when you can."

"Thank god for that. My flight's just been called. I'll check in later. Methos?"

"I know, Mac."

"Right."

"See ya."

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