by C.L. Finn
Three weeks after Revelations:
"I told you I would not forgive betrayal."
Smooth, soft laughter followed the voice's pronouncement. A dark cold room, and the sharp metal of chains cutting into his wrists were all he knew besides the voice-- there was no escape. Funny, that in the midst of the pain and terror, he was detached enough to note that the scene looked almost comically like a Hollywood set.
Finally, the voice emerged from out of the darkness to reveal his face. Kronos. He walked forward, that distinctive sociopathic glint in his eye-- the one that was a strange hybrid of dangerous threat and harmless leer. His sword swung loosely with a practiced recklessness at his side as he approached.
"You know the price of betrayal, don't you brother?" he asked.
Methos bowed his head, not wanting to make eye contact with his accuser. But Kronos would not allow him the comfort. He reached out and grabbed Methos by the jaw, forcing him to look up.
"God, you really have gone soft," Kronos said, disgust dripping from his tone. He let go, trailing his hand lightly down Methos' neck before stepping back and raising his sword.
"It's time, brother. We are here to punish your betrayal."
"We?" Methos managed to croak out, though he knew exactly who it would be. As if on cue, four other figures stepped out of the shadows. The other two Horsemen came first, Silas and Caspian. Then Cassandra stepped forward, strangely still wielding Silas' axe. The fourth figure moved forward last, as if he had not wanted to step out of the shadow and reveal himself, but he had no choice-- the scene had to be played out. Duncan MacLeod stepped forward, placing himself consciously between Cassandra and the other Horsemen, as if to protect her still.
"I thought I should have the honor," Kronos said, bringing his sword up to rest at Methos' neck. Methos tried to flinch away, but the metal shackles held him firmly in place.
"But your dear friend here," Kronos said with sarcasm and pointed to MacLeod, "has some strange notions about fairness, so we drew straws." Kronos chuckled and then shrugged and stepped back, taking his sword with him.
Methos breathed a sigh of relief, until MacLeod stepped forward and raised his katana. The sharp, delicately curved blade caressed Methos' neck, like Duncan himself had done so many times.
"I won the draw," his beloved Highlander said coldly, then pulled the sword back and with a flick of the wrist, brought it down with force, easily severing Methos' head from his body.
Duncan lurched up out of his bed, gasping for air. It took him a few seconds to orient himself, unsure of whether he was standing in the shadows of a dark dungeon, or laying in his own bed on the barge. His heart was pounding in his chest and his body was covered in a cold-sweat. Trying to shake off the panic, he got up and went to pour himself a Scotch.
As the sweat cooled on his body, Duncan shivered in the cold winter air. Desperately wishing for warmth, he fed some logs into the old stove and stoked the dying fire, then curled up on the couch in front of it.
The nightmares had been fairly regular since Duncan left Bordeaux two weeks earlier. That didn't really surprise him-- everything that had happened with Methos was enough to cause nightmares, and taking the Quickenings of powerful Immortals always seemed to result in a period of night terrors while his subconscious fought to integrate the new presence. He was having these types of dreams-- the ones he would expect. But there were also others, like the one he'd just had.
These were terrifying in their intensity and pain-- but also in the fact that Duncan always felt outside the dream. He had the feeling of being separate-- an eavesdropper. It was extremely unsettling. It was almost as if he were having someone else's nightmares. Though he couldn't really believe it were true, he would swear they belonged to Methos.
Whatever it was, he just wanted it to stop. He was exhausted and half afraid to sleep most of the time. He considered briefly going to find Methos, but quickly discarded the idea. He just wasn't ready to face him-- the man he'd called friend, the man he'd invited into his life, his bed, and if he were very honest with himself, his heart. That's what hurt the most-- he had thought he knew Methos. He believed him to be a good man, despite his cynical, irritating nature. But that vision of him had been obscured by the picture presented to Duncan by Cassandra, and then shattered by Methos' own words in the parking lot outside his apartment.
The events that had unfolded after that day left Duncan with two competing visions of who Methos really was. On the one hand, he had seen a cold, manipulative, Machiavellian Methos, who had positioned himself to survive no matter who came out on top. But on the other hand, there was his friend, a man who had been confronted by a past he'd rather forget, who was terrified by the return of Kronos and its implications, who had put his own life on the line to save Cassandra, to insure Duncan could find and defeat Kronos and possibly save millions of people, and who had helped destroy men he had once called Brothers. On the other hand, it had been Methos who brought the Horsemen back together in the first place.
Stop it MacLeod, that's more hands than you have. Duncan had been around and around with these arguments for days now.
The problem was that all of the events that had unfolded, all of Methos' actions could be interpreted both ways. He was either a manipulative killer or a friend-- if only MacLeod could figure out which one.
"You know I never know when you're kidding," Duncan had said to him once after a particularly snide suggestion.
"All a part of my charm," Methos had answered in his enigmatic way.
Well the enigma had lost its charm.
Several months earlier, Duncan had taken a huge chance and added his heart to the things that he had entrusted Methos with. The months they'd spent as lovers had been wonderful and despite everything else, Duncan desperately missed Methos' presence in his life.
God, he was just so tired of the questions swirling around in his head. Gulping down the rest of the Scotch he'd poured, Duncan rubbed his eyes and lay back on the couch, dozing off as he stared into the fire.
Three weeks earlier:
Two heads fell at once, and then there was silence.
Everything in the submarine base was held suspended in time as it waited for the power about to be unleashed. Duncan turned, seeking out the man he'd once called friend, the man who'd once been his lover. Methos, however, was lost inside himself, seemingly unaware that he wasn't alone. Thoughts were soon lost as the life-force of the dead Horsemen rose up and wrapped themselves around the victorious combatants, seeking a new home.
Duncan felt the sadistic darkness of Kronos' soul crawl over his skin, making him feel dirty and cold to the bone, then the world around him exploded and his body was caught in the maelstrom of the Quickening. As his body fought against the power assaulting him, his mind fought against the memories, thoughts, and emotions that made up the man he had killed.
But somewhere in the middle of Kronos' darkness, he felt the touch of another presence, just as violent, but gentler somehow. It was a single note against the dark, complex symphony of Kronos' essence. Duncan's mind gravitated toward it, called by its simplicity. Once he'd touched it, he knew that there was more there than the one note. He felt anger, shock, and an overwhelming sense of betrayal by a beloved brother. Even as he felt himself being pulled into it, the power shifted again and he felt the single note consumed by something greater.
That something greater was a siren song-- both dark and light, simple and complex at the same time, and very, very deep. Like a magnetic pole, he felt himself drawn into its fathomless depths. Frightened of its power, yet unable to resist its song, he allowed himself to fall, giving himself over to it. In the middle of the electricity that battered at his physical form, and the souls that fought for attention in his mind, he found a place of depth and quiet strength that left him gasping for want of it. The place was also awash in sorrow and pain, guilt and fear, and as was his nature he reached out to soothe the soul it housed.
Suddenly, he was being pulled back into himself, the last of the Quickening sucked into his body, the voices inside him stilling at last. He collapsed and once again sought out the figure of his friend, feeling a deep emptiness at the loss of that connection, and needing answers to what he had felt. The questions were pushed away by the sound of painful, wracking sobs.
"I killed Silas!" Methos cried out as he fought to catch his breath. Then, even more painfully, "I liked Silas!"
Footsteps on the metal stairs, and he looked up to see Cassandra pick up Silas' axe and head for Methos' prone form.
"Now I'm supposed to forgive you!?" she screamed, all her hatred focused on the prone figure of the man she blamed for her pain. She raised the axe over Methos, and Duncan was alarmed to realize that Methos was either unaware of her, or didn't care.
"Cassandra!" he yelled, stopping her in mid air.
"You want him to live?" she asked, incredulous.
"Yes," he answered with bone deep certainty, "I want him to live."
Disgusted by his certainty, she raised the axe again, unwilling to give up her opportunity for vengeance.
"Cassandra!" Duncan yelled again, putting all the force of a Clan Chieftain into his voice. "I want him to live," he commanded, broaching no argument.
He might have wavered under the hatred of her stare, but for the painful gasping that had given way to sorrowful sobs by the object of their stand-off. Knowing she had lost, Cassandra dropped the axe and left the way she had come, in a cloud of bitter hatred.
Duncan wanted to go to Methos and soothe the painful sobs, but somehow he knew it was no longer his place. He had given up that right when he condemned Methos for his past. He knew, in his heart, that he was just as much a cause of the outpouring of pain as Silas, or Kronos. So, he did the only thing he knew how to do-- he stood guard-- a silent sentinel over Methos' grief.
Later, when the pain had all been poured out, Methos felt purged, empty of any more ability to mourn-- even at the moment to feel. He looked up for the first time to see the man he'd felt watching over him-- a man who always seemed to be watching over him.
Amazing.
He sat up and wiped at his face, pulling himself together, as he watched MacLeod descend from his sentry post. He stopped over Methos, but the ancient Immortal couldn't bring himself to meet Duncan's eyes. What they'd just gone through had been too intimate, too intense. He'd lost so much in the span of a few days, and now he felt violated. He felt as if he'd been ripped open, his carefully erected walls and battlements breached, leaving him raw and exhausted.
He took several deep breaths as he worked to rebuild that armor, to at least patch it up enough to survive the next minute, or day, or week. Beyond that, he couldn't even imagine.
"Are you okay?" that soft, deep voice asked, and he shivered from its effect.
He simply nodded in answer, running his hands through his short hair. He couldn't speak-- wasn't even sure he had a voice anymore. But somewhere inside of him, he felt his strength returning. Methos was still in there and he was busily pulling things back together.
"Methos, are you sure?" Duncan asked, reaching out a hand to him.
"Yeah," Methos rasped finally. "I will be." He took the offered hand and allowed Duncan to pull him to his feet and steady him as he swayed. He finally found the strength to look the Highlander in the eye and was surprised to find, not hate or pity, but simple concern. He felt a shy smile form itself on his face and was shocked when Duncan reached out and pulled him into a hug.
Neither of them said anything, there was nothing to say. It wasn't a reconciliation, or forgiveness. It was simply an affirmation that they were both still alive. It was Methos who finally pulled away, clearing his throat in embarrassment. Needing to put some distance between them, he looked around, grimacing at the large corpse near him. He retrieved his sword from near Silas' body and wiped the blade clean on his sleeve.
"What now?" Duncan asked, looking around at the damage.
"I've got to clean this place up and dispose of Kronos' toys."
"I'll help."
"No," Methos said, shaking his head. "This is something I need to do myself. Perhaps you should go after Cassandra."
"Cassandra can take care of herself," Duncan snapped, surprising both of them with his anger. But the Scot quickly shook it off, taking a deep breath. He looked carefully at Methos, as if gauging whether he really was okay or not, then finding what he was looking for, nodded decisively. "Okay. I'll leave you to it then, but I'll be at the hotel for a few more days if you need any help."
"Right," Methos said and then quickly turned and walked away.
Twenty-four hours later, Methos slumped into the garish metal chair that had been his place at Kronos' round-table of horror. He'd disposed of Silas and Kronos by weighting them down and dropping them into the deep channel of the submarine dock, then he'd killed all of the monkeys and burned them with the research and what was left of the virus. He still had to retrieve the vial at the dam, but he would do that when he left here. Now, he sat at the table and stared at the empty chairs around him, and at the three swords and one axe laying side by side on the table.
For the first time since Kronos had reappeared in Methos' life, he allowed himself to remember what it had been like. To feel what Kronos had wanted him to feel. He let the sheer adrenaline of power wash over him as he remember the days that they had ruled a large portion of the Earth.
And he remember other things too. He remember the gentle sweetness of a huge bear of a man named Silas, whose loyalty surpassed any he'd ever known. And he remembered the appetites of Caspian-- a man who reveled in his darker hungers with sheer abandon.
And he remembered Kronos. Not the Kronos who was desperately trying to recreate a lost time and place, but the Kronos he had first known. The Kronos who had shown him how intoxicating it could be to create terror and destruction. The only man who had ever truly been a match for Methos' mind, who could out scheme him, out manipulate him on occasion. A thousand years of mind games with the small man with violet eyes had been better than almost any sex Methos had ever had.
Almost.
Which brought him back to the present with a jarring force. That wasn't who he was anymore. He didn't ever want to be that person again. He had changed and put the Horsemen behind him. A line from the Bible kept flitting through his mind as he sat and stared at the grouped swords.
When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.
That was it-- Kronos had never really grown up. Silas was trapped forever on the edge of adulthood. And Caspian had been too mad to ever grow up. So, he alone-- Methos-- was their legacy. He was the one charged with the memory of who they had been, what they had meant to their time, and what they had destroyed.
Sometimes he really hated being cursed with a long memory.
With a sigh, Methos stood and tucked his own sword back into his coat, then gathered up the last three weapons and placed them in a large wooden crate.
"So, once again, I put away my childhood," he muttered as he sealed the crate and picked it up, setting it over his shoulder as he started up the stairs and away from this dark place. It was time to put the Horsemen finally behind him for good, and if he were really lucky, and the Gods took pity on him, maybe he could eventually salvage a bit of his friendship with MacLeod.
Three weeks later:
Methos was walking again. He'd been doing a lot of that in the past few weeks, especially in the middle of the night. He was tired of the nightmares, and he was trying to either dull them with alcohol or exhaust himself into sleeping through the night. So far, neither method was working. Of course, it didn't help that he wasn't only having to deal with his own nightmares.
It had taken him several nights of strange nightmares to figure out what was going on. Somehow that double Quickening had opened up a connection of some sort between himself and Duncan MacLeod. Consequently, to Methos' great annoyance, he was experiencing Duncan's nightmares, as well as his own. And so he drank, and he walked, and hoped that eventually they would fade enough to give him some peace.
His own nightmares weren't so bad-- they were full of old terrors and familiar pain. He could deal with his own demons, but it was the glimpse into MacLeod's unconscious that tore at his soul and fed his own nightmares, increasing their intensity.
At first his nightmares had been full of memories of the Horsemen, manifestations of his fear and guilt over their reappearance and subsequent deaths, and full of the pain of losing his friendship with MacLeod. But Duncan's nightmares had seeped into his own, showing Methos exactly how Duncan had begun to see him. Duncan's dreams were filled with visions of Methos as a killer and purveyor of pain and terror. Some of these visions were ridiculously exaggerated, some were incredibly naive, but others-- the worst ones-- were frighteningly accurate.
The most painful of Duncan's nightmares, to both Duncan and Methos, had the power to leave Methos shaking in terror and anguish for hours after he woke up. Methos knew this particular vision was the worst Duncan could imagine, but it was like a knife in Methos' heart because Duncan had taken his past and made it personal. The dream played out much the same each time-- the Horsemen, led by Kronos' savagery and Methos' cold efficiency, attacked the village of Glenfinnen. Duncan's family and Clan were murdered, the beautiful red-headed Debra Campbell carried off to serve Kronos, and Duncan himself made a slave to Methos in much the same way Cassandra had been. In this dream, Methos had become the worst monster Duncan could imagine.
Along with these dreams, were the typical kinds of dark visions that came to most Immortals after a powerful Quickening-- they were flashes and glimpses of the dead Immortal's consciousness as they fought against integration. Methos figured that it was from these that Duncan got a more accurate picture of who and what Methos had been-- they were memories of Kronos and Caspian.
And Silas.
Methos was sure Duncan had received parts of Silas' Quickening, because he, himself had received parts of Kronos. But that was not all he had shared with Duncan MacLeod in those few intense moments-- it had been something far more powerful and intimate.
And far more unsettling.
His walking had led him here-- to this bridge overlooking the Seine, overlooking the barge. This was not where he had intended to end up, but he knew the destination was inevitable. Methos leaned up against the marble railing and watched the smoke from Duncan's fireplace climb into the gray winter night. He felt like a fool, standing there mooning over a man who had rejected him-- who had been disgusted and angry when he'd heard about Methos' past.
"Did you kill all those people?" Duncan had demanded like a petulant child.
"Yes. Oh yes," he'd answered, angry and scared, wanting to lash out and hurt the man whose opinion meant so much.
"We're through." Just like that. It was over-- the friendship, the sex, the...
He shied away from completing the thought.
It hurt as much now as it had hurt then. After Duncan had pronounced them over and drove off, Methos had been forced to sit there in the car for nearly half an hour before he could get his shaking under control enough to drive a car. The only comfort he seemed to find was the lingering scent of Duncan on his sweater. It was a sweater he'd pilfered from the loft weeks ago, and in his panic after returning from his meeting with Kronos had thrown it on, needing the soft comfort of the too-big garment and it's owner's scent.
But it only offered enough comfort to help him calm down. Too many years of survival wouldn't let him give into self-pity now. He had Kronos to deal with. As he got his breathing under control a plan was already forming itself in his mind.
But now, on this Paris bridge, with the threat to himself and MacLeod gone, he was giving in to that self-pity. Of course, that hadn't been the end of it. He'd taken a huge gamble on MacLeod, and had been blessed with enough of the Highlander's trust that his plan worked in the end. They'd fought side by side in a sense. And then that Quickening-- it gave him chills even now remembering the intimacy, the feel of Duncan MacLeod's soul reaching out and touching his. A distant touch of heather, and earth, and sun and warmth.
God, it had nearly shattered him.
By the time Methos sent word to Duncan to meet him at the small cemetary two days later, that intimacy had retreated. There was still too much distrust, hurt, and anger. After Methos buried the crate of weapons, laying to rest the last piece of the Horsemen, they'd talked. But the conversation had been polite, at best, filled with questions Methos really couldn't answer to Duncan's satisfaction, and didn't really want to try. So they'd parted-- gone their separate ways.
So what the hell was he doing here now?
He hated this. He was too weak to just walk away and put Duncan MacLeod behind him like so many others, but he was too scared to go down there and confront the man. Groaning at his own weakness, he slapped at the marble and pushed away from the railing. He had to get this over with if he was going to stay sane.
Squaring his shoulders, he tucked his hands into his coat pockets and made his way down the steps and under the bridge, into the shadows of a tunnel that held so much history between the two Immortals. He didn't get very far when he felt the distant song along his nerves that belonged only to Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. He ducked into a small alcove, hiding himself in the shadows. And he waited.
"Methos?" Duncan asked, walking into the shadows under the bridge a short while later.
"Hey Mac," Methos answered, stepping out of the little alcove.
"What are you doing? Is something wrong?"
"No," Methos chuckled at the ever-vigilant boy scout. "I was just out for a walk and ended up in the neighborhood."
"Walking at 4 o'clock in the morning?" Duncan asked suspiciously.
"Yeah, well," Methos snapped, "I've had trouble sleeping lately." He turned away, looking back out over the river. He could sense the Highlander trying to make a decision.
"Methos?" Duncan finally asked tentatively. "Have you been having strange nightmares?"
Methos snorted in laughter but didn't turn around. "Yeah, you could say that-- and let me just say that I don't appreciate them or their content."
"What's happening?" Duncan pleaded, walking up closer to Methos, causing the older Immortal to move away. He leaned back against the stone wall to mask the abrupt action, but Duncan hadn't missed it.
"What's going on is that you've managed to find a way to accuse me even in your sleep!"
"Methos, I haven't done anything intentionally," Duncan protested, then had to turn away from the anger on the older Immortal's face. "So," he said more softly, "it's true. I had a suspicion, but couldn't really believe it. We're somehow seeing each other's dreams. Why?"
"I don't know," Methos answered tiredly, rubbing his hand over his face. "Some sort of connection was opened up with that Quickening. I can't really get any kind of telepathic connection with you on a conscious level, but apparently that's not true subconsciously."
Duncan nodded thoughtfully. It explained a lot. "You also feel different-- I can distinguish your presence from others now. It's like... I'm more aware of you. So what do we do about this?"
"I don't think we have much choice in the matter-- unless one of us wants to give up his head."
Duncan ignored the joke pointedly. "There's got to be a way to make the dreams stop, Methos."
"You could try getting over yourself," Methos muttered under his breath.
"What?"
"Nothing." Methos turned to walk away, suddenly needing to put as much space as possible between himself and MacLeod. "They'll probably fade with time and some space. Maybe I'll get the hell out of this miserable city."
"Wait!" Duncan called to him and jogged to catch up with the ancient's long strides. "Methos, if you're looking for forgiveness..." Duncan stopped when Methos whirled around on him, fury coloring his normally pale face.
"Forgiveness?!" he yelled, pushing Duncan away with force. "I hate to break it to you Highlander," he began, starting to pace across the tunnel path. "Forgiveness is not yours to give. If you'd like to forgive me for lying when I said I didn't know Cassandra, or that I manipulated you into killing Kronos, then fine... but that's not what we're talking about is it?" He turned to look at Duncan and found the answer in his silence.
"Right. Well, my past is not available for your absolution. It is not your place to forgive me for the pain I caused Cassandra or her people, or anyone else from my past. That is their right, not yours. I don't want your forgiveness, and I will not be your own personal bogeyman!"
Duncan stepped back at the vehemence of Methos' words, feeling as though he'd been physically assaulted by the older man's anger.
"Then what is it you want from me?" he asked.
Methos paced another length of the tunnel, before seeming to run out of steam. A thought flashed across Duncan's mind that terrified him-- the possibility that Methos might answer "nothing". That Methos could simply walk away, that he no longer had a use for Duncan in his life, was a cold dread that settled in his gut. Pretty ironic fear from the man who'd only a month before pronounced them through. When Methos finally spoke, Duncan almost didn't hear his low voice spoken out to the river, not to Duncan himself.
"The only thing you can give," Methos whispered. "Acceptance."
"How can I accept something that I don't understand?" Duncan asked, sitting down on the curb, suddenly exhausted by the conversation.
"Mac," Methos began, turning around to face Duncan, and leaning back against the fence that blocked the entrance to the river. "I have never lied to you about who I am. I know I didn't sit down and tell you about the last five-thousand years of my life, but I didn't realize there was a litmus test to pass for your friendship."
"Methos, that's not fair!"
"Maybe not," Methos agreed. "But you're just as much to blame here as me. You got some kind of crazy idea in your head about who I am-- some grand romantic picture about who the oldest living Immortal should be. I'm sorry, Mac. My fault. I knew you were doing it and I never really tried to disavow you of the notion." Methos laughed and turned away. "Your pedestal is a pretty enticing place to be."
"But damnit, MacLeod," he said with more force, hitting the chain fence. "I never told you I was perfect... or even a good person. I'm a survivor, pure and simple. I am not Darius... or Sean Burns... or any other damn Immortal who resides in your pantheon. I won't apologize for your need for an idol."
"I never thought you were perfect, Methos," Duncan explained, shaking his head. "But what you were is a far cry from anything I ever imagined."
"Yes," Methos nodded, hoping he could lead Duncan to some understanding. "But it is also a far cry from who I am today. My past is a part of me. It's not only who I was, but it's a part of who I've become."
"I understand that, Methos," Duncan said, running his hands through his hair in frustration, "but I don't know how to reconcile the two. How can you be that monster and also be the man I've known for the past few years?"
"I guess that's a question you have to work out for yourself, MacLeod." Methos sat down on the curb opposite Duncan and hung his head forward, resting his elbows on his knees and waited in the silence for some kind of understanding to come. When it didn't, he knew he'd lost the battle for now. Time to throw in the towel.
But one last question might not hurt.
"You asked me once how I see you, remember?"
Duncan nodded absently. "After Claudia was killed."
"Right. What would you say if I asked you the same question now?"
Duncan looked over at Methos, surprised by the question. He honestly had no idea how to answer Methos-- everything was so jumbled up in his mind right now. His feelings for Methos, his revulsion for things Methos had done, his questions over what it all meant, were at war in his mind and at present he had no idea which side was winning. He did know, however, that it all boiled down to this question.
"I can't answer that right now, Methos. I just don't know who you are anymore."
"Yes, you do," Methos snapped. "I am your friend, your lover. I am the same man that I was several months ago when you invited me into your bed."
"It's not that simple."
"Actually, it is," Methos answered and sighed in exasperation. "You're just not ready to see that yet."
The two men sat in uncomfortable silence for several minutes. Methos watched a brightly lit party boat make its way home for the night, and Duncan just stared down at his hands. Once the boat had moved out of hearing range and it became clear that Duncan wasn't going to speak anytime soon, Methos made a decision. The conversation was over, and in all likelihood, so was the friendship. He stood up and wiped his palms off on his jeans.
"Well MacLeod," he began, "it's been grand. Take care of yourself." With that, he turned to walk out of the tunnel.
"Methos," Duncan stopped him, surprised at the abruptness. Methos looked back over his shoulder, but Duncan didn't know what to say. He wanted to stop Methos, tell him not to go. But nothing had changed-- he couldn't give Methos what he wanted-- acceptance of his past. So instead he simply asked, "What are you going to do now?"
Methos smiled sadly at the Scot and then continued walking out of the tunnel. "What I always do... live, grow stronger, fight another day."
"So, I'll see you around?" Duncan called, ashamed at the plea in his voice.
Methos paused and turned slightly to look back at Duncan with a raised eyebrow. It was at least an effort. Perhaps this wasn't quite the end he had imagined it to be.
"I'll be around," he promised and disappeared into the shadows at the other end of the tunnel.