My first response to “Archangel”was total disbelief.  They (TPTB) couldn't really do this, could they? Now, mind you, it wasn't so much that they'd killed off Richie.  He was way too young to be interesting to me, except as a plot device. But, MacLeod, who fascinated me and had gone through so much, was put in the middle of the one situation that could, conceivably, send him off the rails.
 
“Avatar” and “Armageddon”, didn’t really resolve the problems created in “Archangel”. The real world problems of availability, etc., resulted in something that was close to, "and then the little boy woke up."
 
Solution?  Write it yourself, Merrie.
 
So, I did. {Demons in the Darkness and In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning}  But I'd added a person to the mix and I really wanted to see if the trio of characters I'd grown to love could handle this alone.  Methos would never have run, leaving MacLeod to face this devastating loss alone. He and Joe would have found a way.  So they did.

The whirlwinds caused by the Quickening were barely settling as Joe Dawson and Adam Pierson/Methos reached the  kneeling form of Duncan MacLeod. The still, headless body beside him  shocked them, horrified them.

 They heard MacLeod, his voice tremulous... frightened, call softly, "Richie?"
 
There was no other sound.
 
Methos moved closer, saw MacLeod react to his Presence, despair in every line of his body as he lifted the katana to the older Immortal.
 
"Absolutely not!" Methos responded, his denial sharp, pain knifing into his soul. He turned away from the agony on MacLeod’s face.
 
MacLeod choked out, "Take it...”
 
Methos could say nothing. The scene in front of him was too impossible for his usual caustic words. He watched as MacLeod lowered the sword, letting it fall to the ground beside the body of the young man, the boy he'd raised... and killed. He stripped off one of Richie's gloves, murmuring something. Then, walked... stumbled away from the two silent men.
 
Methos turned at the sound of Dawson’s hoarse sob. He gathered Joe to him, torn between the needs of his two friends. MacLeod was in no condition to be wandering the streets of Paris, but he couldn’t leave Joe to deal with this alone…
 
Methos called, "MacLeod."  There was no answer. Sounds that could have been words, or weeping, tore at them, then, all sound faded into the enveloping fog. The late night wind blew gaping holes in the mists but there was no one in sight.
 

The oldest Immortal held Dawson, putting  aside his own feelings in the face of the mortal's needs. For once, he felt every one of his 5,000 years.

Joe's sobs seemed to come from all around them, echoing against the night. Methos peered into the shadows. Was there someone there or just trash blowing with the wind?  Where had MacLeod gone?  Why, gods above, why, had he killed the boy?

 Methos had no idea how long he'd stood there, holding Joe in his arms.  The Watcher was finally quiet. He had no tears left.
 
"Joe, we've got to get Ryan's body out of here." Methos released his friend and walked away, his urgent voice on the cell phone the only human sound in that hollow place under the racetrack grandstands.
 

He could see Dawson sit down awkwardly on the concrete beside the body of the young Immortal.

Dawson reached out to touch the boy. Somehow, trying to offer comfort, knowing it didn't matter.  He stretched to reach the head, laying there against the trailing crepe paper decorations. He took off his long scarf and folded it, laying the head on it. Joe brushed the blond hair back from the boy's brow. He closed the startling blue eyes. Gently, he brought the material over the still features.

 Methos gave instructions to the Watcher clean-up squad and hung up. Nothing else could be done here. Dawson’s tears were too late for the youngster he'd seen grow from a street kid with a talent for thievery, to bright, ambitious Immortal. MacLeod's son in all but blood. Blood. There was so much of it.
 
Methos gently touched Joe’s shoulder. "Come on, Joe. We need to go."
 
"I'll stay. It's all I can do . . . "
 
The Immortal sighed. "Joe, this won't help Richie."
 
Joe looked up at Methos. "I can't just leave him here, alone in the dark."
 
"MacLeod's alone in the dark too, suicidal and alone.  We've got to find him." Methos took Joe's arm. "We have to find Mac before someone else does."
 
Joe was still for a minute, then wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "You’re always trying to protect him.” He gestured at the body, “You still think he’s too important to lose?"
 
Methos was silent.
 
Joe looked the man, seeing the worry in his face. He sighed, "You're right, I guess we do have to find him.  We need… I need to understand…." He nodded agreement. "OK.  We go on."
 
"Yeah. Joe, where would he go?"
 
"Darius's church, Tessa's grave . . . St. Julian's is more likely"
 
"That's where he went after the Dark Quickening. OK, come on. Need a hand?"
 
Joe touched the scarf wrapped bundle. The smoky voice was low, “I’ll remember you, Rich.  I’ll remember.”
 
Methos took his arm, helping him to his feet.
 
"We'll find MacLeod, Joseph. And we'll find out why this happened." Methos quietly picked up the ivory hilted katana and Richie's rapier and led the way through the deserted concession stands to the car. He settled Joe in the passenger seat and opened the trunk.
 

Methos wiped the katana’s blade clean on one of his old T-shirts. "He'll want it back. He's got to want it back . . . " He wrapped the swords in a sweater, trying to do what needed to be done. Staying too busy to see the Quickening's lightening flash through the deserted building . . .  MacLeod,  kneeling there, holding the katana up to him, mutely asking for death.  Smelling the blood. He hated the smell of blood.

He closed the trunk and got into the car with Joe. They drove off, the last of the mists swirling behind them.

The next few hours blurred into one mass of pain.  The Watchers picked up Ryan's body and took it to a nearby mortuary.  Joe made the funeral arrangements,

“The boy took a bullet for me, Methos.  Seems like I should have been able to do something more than this… “

“The only thing we can do for Richie now, is to find MacLeod.”
 
“I’m trying, Methos. I’ve called in favors from half the Watchers in Paris, trying to find Duncan MacLeod.  The priests at St. Julian’s are watching for him…”
 
Methos nodded and left.  He was staying at the barge, hoping MacLeod would come back. Days went by but there was no sign of him. Methos left the cemetery in the middle of Richie's memorial service when he caught the buzz of an Immortal nearby. Like a ghost, the Presence vanished before he could get close enough to identify it.
 

Joe and Methos talked about the possibilities, speculated on the reasons for MacLeod's madness. Other than the Dark Quickening, MacLeod had been an honorable man.

"Boy scout", they called him.  What had he seen that night?  What could have made him take the boy's head?

The Landry journal lay on Duncan’s desk and Methos started going through it, hoping to find answers.
 
Dawson's pain and guilt became part of his music, reshaped into songs of loss and loneliness.  He spent more time in the club, weary of both the worlds of Immortals and Watchers.
 
Methos continued to examine the Landry  journal.  He remained skeptical about "demons", but the phone call from Richie still bothered him.  The volume on MacLeod's phone had been loud enough to hear someone on the other end.  He'd picked out the words, Joe and Horton, but the dial tone had come on as Joe picked up the phone. That had been real enough.  
 
They followed up on every hint of an Immortal in the area around Paris, but Methos had to admit there was no reason to believe MacLeod was still there.
 
He hadn't surfaced in Seacouver, either.  Joe'd even called Rachel, in Glenfinnen, but she had seen nothing.  She promised to watch for Duncan. 
 
“Dead end, Methos.” Joe hung up, rubbing his eyes. 
 

Methos laid a comforting hand on Dawson’s shoulder. Joe looked so tired. Days had stretched into weeks and, for all they knew, Mac had been taken by some other Immortal and no one would ever know how he died. 

Joe’s need for some kind of closure was strong.  He missed the tall Immortal who’d been so much more than an assignment.

Methos was sure MacLeod was alive.  "Ever since the Horseman, there's been sort of a link between us.  I'd know if he... died."
 
Joe looked at him.  "Methos, you've always struck me as too pragmatic to be delusional.  Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod, is dead.  I just wish we knew what happened.  It hurts."
 
Methos didn't argue that point.  It did hurt.  What hurt most was the fact that he'd let the Highlander get under his skin that much.  If he dared to be honest, even with himself, it hurt that he'd never told the other man how much he cared about him... how much he loved him.  Oh, wonderful.  Something more to regret.  Just what he needed.
 
That would have to be fixed.  To do that, he'd have to find MacLeod.  They'd covered all the obvious places, already.  Now, Methos started another search.  He visited every antique dealer in Paris. He'd even gone into the tunnels under the Paris Opera, but there was no sign of MacLeod.
 
Reluctantly, Methos became a morning person, walking the streets at dawn, watching for a tall, long haired man running in the parks or sipping coffee in the little cafes.  Several times, he picked up on Immortals, but none of them were the man he was so desperately seeking.  He was forced into more than one fight. Some of the Immortals he "ran into" took his presence as an invitation to the deadly dance and refused to walk away.

After one, way too visible Quickening, Dawson came down to the barge in a fierce temper,  "Damn it, Methos.  You've avoided fights for years.  Keep this up and the Watchers are going to spot you and your cover is going to be blown to hell."
 
Methos poured Joe a drink and took a long pull at his own beer. "I've been careful, Joe.  I've managed to keep my face in shadow.  Remember, I know what most of the Watchers and their Immortals look like.  I'm not taking any unnecessary chances.  I never do."
 Methos
Joe snorted, "Your definitions of 'unnecessary chances' must have changed.  You’re gonna get killed if you keep this up."
 
Methos just glared at him. "He's alive, Dawson. He's still alive."
 
Joe swallowed half the drink, his worry about the older man clear on his face. "You know Mac wouldn’t want you to risk yourself for him."
 
Methos just shrugged, “I’m not planning on dying, for him or anyone else,” and continued searching.
 
The Immortal he met this time was taller and considerably heavier than he was.  He couldn't seem to move fast enough and the fight went on much too long.  He was tiring.  Suddenly, there was another Presence, an all too familiar one. 
 
The other Immortal was distracted by it, too, just for a moment, but that moment was all Methos needed.  His opponent's head struck the ground and rolled away from his feet.  As the Quickening began, he caught sight of a dark haired man, standing immobile at the entrance to one of the sewers.  The lightnings blasted around Methos and the man fell, curling into a ball against the dirty stone wall.
 

 Methos dragged himself to his feet as the Quickening ended, sudden hope filling him as certainly as the Quickening had done.

It was MacLeod. He moved closer, but the man on the ground seemed frozen to the spot.  His eyes were still closed against the lightnings of the Quickening.  Methos reached out to help him up.  MacLeod flinched. 

"Mac, it's Adam.  Come on.  We've been looking for you."

 MacLeod’s only movements shifted his shivering body further back against the wall.  Methos tried, again, to take his hand.  At the touch, Mac’s eyes opened, but they were bare of anything like recognition. MacLeod smelled of the sewers, of old sweat and sorrows, his beautiful hair matted and filthy, his clothes stained and torn.
 
“Come on, Mac.  We need to get out of here before somebody sees you. Take my hand, Mac.  I can't carry you. I can help you but you've got to try..."  There was no response.
 
Focusing on the need to get MacLeod to safety, Methos pulled him to his feet, urging him along. It seemed to take forever to get him to the truck.  Methos took off his coat and wrapped it around Duncan, hoping the heavy coat's warmth would stop the other man's trembling. Methos settled the quiet man in the front seat and belted him in, “OK, Mac.  We’ll be home in just a few minutes.” 
 
There was no sound from Mac as Methos got the truck started and drove to the barge.  He managed to guide the passive man into the bathroom.  In the light, he could see for the first time, what the last three weeks had done to him.  The thin, dirty man standing with his head down in front of Duncan's mirror looked nothing like the beautiful athletic man Methos knew.
 

Methos tried to get the filthy sweater and jeans off, but gave up and used his short blade to cut them loose from MacLeod’s body. He stuffed the rags into the trash and pushed Mac into the shower.  He stood there a moment, then shrugged off his own clothes and followed. 

It took three shampooings to clean all the muck out of MacLeod's hair. Methos scrubbed him, then found a straight razor. Shaving him was easier once his heavy beard was wet.

Methos managed to wrap a towel around him and dry him off. It was painful to look at MacLeod. Every rib showed, his natural grace completely gone.
 
He dried Mac's hair, as well as he could, and maneuvered him into a chair.  Methos felt as though he was dealing with a life sized doll.  MacLeod sat perfectly still, his eyes were closed again. There was no response as Methos tried to get a comb through his hair.  The thick mane was too tangled.  Even an extra dose of creme rinse didn't help.  Finally, he gave up and grabbed the scissors from Mac's desk for barber service.
 
"You are not going to be happy with me, Mac, but it will grow back.  Just come back and I give you permission to yell all you want.  You have to be alive to do it."
 
Methos got him into clean briefs and a T-shirt and put him to bed. MacLeod didn’t move. His breathing deepened and evened out.  “Sleeping?”  
 

He called Joe.  "I've found him.  He looks like hell, thin. Not eating, as near as I can tell.  I got him cleaned up.”  Methos stretched, trying to work kinks out of his neck and shoulders.  Exhaustion and fear made his voice rough.

“I think he's sleeping now.  I need some food in here, Joe.  I can't go out.   There's no telling what might happen if I leave him alone."

 "Well, you said he was alive... “ There was a hesitation, “Methos, I can get you guys food.  Anything in particular you want?"
 
"You know what he likes.  Get oranges and stuff.  Maybe some pasta.  I'm fresh out of ideas, Joe."
 
"I'll be over in about an hour.  I'll get soup makings.  He may not be able to get much else down right away."
 
They hung up and Methos went back to watch over the quiet figure.
 
There was no expression on MacLeod’s face, it looked more like a mask. As he came closer, Mac’s whole body reacted, contorted, pain and fear shifting across his face.  "Mac, it's just me, Methos.  You're home.  You're safe, Mac."
 
He heard a car pull up.  Quickly, he grabbed his sword.  It was probably Joe, but...  He went up on deck. 
 
"You want to lend a hand here, Adam?" Joe called out.
 
"Sure, Joe." Methos ducked inside long enough to slide his sword back inside his coat and joined Joe on the gangplank. He took two of the string bags from the Watcher and hauled them into the barge's kitchen, then went back to help with the rest of the loot.
 
"Bought out the market, did you?"
 
"You didn’t give me too many clues as to what he’d eat."
 
Methos nodded.  "Thanks, Joe.  I didn't know what else to do."
 
"Wait till he wakes up. We'll see what he needs, then.  I haven't reported that he's alive yet."
 
"Just as well.  He’s in no shape to take on a challenge at this point."
 
Joe made his way over to the bed.  "You're right about him looking like hell.  He does.  You cut his hair?"
 
"Couldn't get a comb through it.  It'll grow, Joe.  Don't look at me like that."
 
"He's gonna be pissed..."
 
"Wouldn't be the first time..." Methos went into the kitchen and started putting things away.  Joe had brought beer, too.
 
Joe started digging through the cupboards.  "Where's his stock pot?"
 
"No idea."
 
"Ha, here it is."
 
Joe took out his prize and started working.  He melted butter in the tall pot, chopped onions and celery and added them to the butter.  Within minutes, the fragrance filled the barge.  Joe rinsed the chicken and added it and seasonings to the vegetables.  Once the chicken browned, he added water and white wine, and covered the stock pot.  He looked over to see Methos watching him. "What's the matter?"
 
"I guess I didn't think about you cooking..."
 
"Hell, you cook.  Mac’s a gourmet cook .  Most bachelors have a nodding acquaintance with stoves, you know."
 
Methos drank the rest of the beer and got a drink for Joe and another beer for himself.  They settled in front of the fire. Joe took a good hard look at him.  The eldest Immortal wasn't doing too well himself.  "You were challenged, again, weren't you?"
 
"Yeah."
 
"You OK?"
 
"I won." He tried to ignore the worry on Joe's face. "Close out Paolo Segovia's chronicle. Jerk... “  He turned to look anxiously at Duncan’s still form. “I'm worried about MacLeod.  I'm not even sure he knows where he is.  From the muck on his clothes, he’s been down in the sewers. He didn't know me."
 
"You think he's been down there the whole time?"
 
Methos shook his head.  "No idea, Joe.  He seemed to be drawn to my Quickening.  Then, he just froze. He doesn’t move unless I move him."
 
Joe went over to the computer.  "Let me do some checking, he isn’t the first Immortal to have emotional problems.  It's really a wonder any of you are sane.”  Joe waited for the modem to connect.  “It probably won't hurt for the two of us to stick around until he's back to normal."
 
Methos shook his head, "Normal?  Joe, he didn't know me.  He doesn't respond to his name, or anything else. Does the word ‘catatonia’ mean anything to you?" For a  moment, he sounded hopeless.
 
"He just needs some time… "  Joe suddenly put his head down on his arms.  "We’re gonna lose both of 'em...  Richie dead and Mac..."

 Methos straightened up, his resolve strong again, "We are not going to let that happen," snapped the Eldest.  "I mean it, Joe.  We have to bring him back, find out what in hell happened.  I'm not going to lose him.  Not now, not ever."
 
Joe looked up at him.  "Methos, I know you’re trying to protect him, but what can we do?  Even if you can help him, if he remembers killing Richie..."
 
"I wouldn't kill him then and I won't let him die, now."
 
There was a low moan from the bed.  MacLeod was sitting up, his eyes open, but there was no recognition in them.  He lay back, his hands holding his head as though it was coming apart.
 
Methos was at his side in a moment.  "Mac, Duncan, talk to me, what's wrong?"
 
The man looked at him. No... through him.  Methos snapped his fingers.  MacLeod's head turned toward the sound, but his eyes were still blank.  Methos moved his hand into Mac's line of sight.  Still nothing.
 
"He's acting like he can't see you."
 
"Hysterical blindness?  Duncan?  Duncan?" He could feel a cold panic starting.  He fought to maintain his control.
 
Joe's face was getting whiter by the moment.  "No response, Methos.  What do we do?"
 
Methos looked at the man who had been his greatest hope for the Gathering, the one to take the prize.  His eyes were blank, unseeing.  MacLeod didn't respond to their voices, either.  He seemed to shrink into himself, his body curling into a fetal ball.  The proud Highland warrior was nowhere to be seen in the beaten figure on the bed.
 
"We wait.  I don't know how this happened, or why, but we'll keep him safe...  He'll come out of it."
 
"Methos, you gonna stay with him 24 hours a day?  You gonna take challenges for him? He certainly can't protect himself like this.  I'll stay as long as I can, but..."
 
Methos  thought about it.  "I'll take him back to Seacouver.  His island is Holy Ground.  We'll stay there for a while."
 
"How're you going to get him back there?  He's not exactly fit to travel."
 
"I'll...  Wait a minute, Joe." 
 
Joe watched as Methos reverted to the strategist of the Four Horseman, a fiendish gleam in his eye. "We can kill two birds with one stone.  I'm going to ship his 'body' back to the island.  That way, you can tell the Watchers he's dead and no one will bother us for a while."
 
"How will you do that?" Joe waited, suddenly hoping there really was an answer.
 
"You'll see."
 
"OK. Methos, I'll bite. Just what the hell are you planning?"
 
"Well… I'm going to get drummed out of the Watchers for interfering.  Son-of-a-bitch killed my friend, MacLeod.  I killed him.  No Quickening, since I'm just a slightly batty Watcher researcher.  I accompany Mac's body back to the States and retire to his island."
 
"You're more than slightly batty.  The Watchers would haul you in front of a Tribunal and hand you a death sentence for that."
 
"No, there's no real reason to kill me.  I'm not well.  I've spent the last three weeks looking for my friend.  You've tried to talk me out of it, but I wouldn't listen."
 
"So?"
 
"Let's see.  The bastard I killed this morning....  I didn't see his Watcher anywhere close.  Unless he got a picture of me, we can say he killed Mac and I took him out while he was still recovering from Mac's Quickening. 
 
"Mac and Segovia had a history. Mac almost took his head while he was fighting Napoleon.  Segovia disappeared. That just might work."
 
"Yes.  The beauty of it is, I don't have to look good.  Can't you just hear the Watchers, 'poor Pierson, went crazy after MacLeod died.'  Between the two of us, we can confuse Segovia's Watcher, if we have to.  Then, when you're ready, you can decide you want to return to the States.  By then, he’ll be functioning again."
 
"I still think this is crazy."
 
"Maybe so, but that doesn't mean it won't work."

Two days later he and Joe had all the arrangements made. They’d discussed ways and means for hours. Methos could see no other way to get MacLeod safely back to the island.  If MacLeod was dead, neither Immortals or Watchers would be looking for him, but the method... "Damn!" He didn't want to cause more pain than he had to, but he couldn't risk Duncan reviving on the plane.
 
If they were lucky, Duncan would be all right when he revived.  He refused to think about the alternatives. He looked through MacLeod’s kitchen knives.  The boning knife was already sharp, but Methos spent another half hour honing it to an edge fine enough to split hairs.  He took it back to the bathroom. Methos stripped down to his shorts. The man in the mirror looked like death warmed over.  “Funny, Methos.  Very funny.”
 
“Get on with it.” Back in the bedroom, he sat beside MacLeod’s quiet form. He raised Duncan's head and made him swallow the carefully doctored coffee. Then, Methos waited, watching as the massive dose of Nembutal hit.  His black humor muttered on the edge of hysteria. "A watched Duncan never dies," and he shivered in a room suddenly ice cold.
 
Duncan convulsed, his body trying to throw off the drug.  Methos held him, willing him to give in to the medication. He could feel Duncan struggling to breathe, the broad shoulders twisting against Methos' hold.  "Please, Duncan, don't fight me.  It's the only way to keep you safe... "
 
Finally... Duncan’s body was still, his chest barely rising as the drug slowed his breathing, the energy of his Quickening barely perceptible.  Joe would be here soon and he had to be finished with this before the Watcher arrived.  He kissed the broad forehead.  “I’ll be here when you wake, Duncan. The gods grant you healing…"
 
He took a deep breath and pulled Duncan's arm around his shoulder.  Getting the larger man into the shower was an awkward, miserable mess.  "Remind me, next time I kill you, I need to get you into the bathroom, first."  Finally, MacLeod lay against the far wall of the shower. Methos could see a weak pulse beating in his throat.  He needed to finish it now.
 
Methos picked up the boning knife.  The marks of the sharpening steel caught the light.  He stood there gathering his courage in his cold hands, willing them to stop trembling.  Then swiftly, firmly, he cut deeply, with a surgeon’s skill, into the side of MacLeod's neck, across the jugular.  Dark venous blood flowed in a copper scented river down MacLeod's shoulder.   Methos turned on the water.  The icy spray rinsed the ugly scarlet stream away from Duncan and into the drain.  Long minutes passed.  Methos watched his pulse slow, then stop, too little blood left, now, to sustain the heart.  The thick metallic smell sickened him.
 
He let the water take the last of the blood from the body, trying to remember that this was only a temporary death.  Mac's skin was icy, his face skull-like. Methos shivered. That face was going to haunt his dreams. He had no other choice. Bled out, MacLeod should stay dead through the flight, and, he hoped, until they were safely on the island. He shivered and hurled the knife through the open porthole into the river.  “I buy you a new one, Mac. Promise.”
 
Joe came over to help with the nitrogen tank. He shuddered at the gaping wound in MacLeod’s neck. Quietly, he helped dress the body in a tuxedo.  He handed Methos a length of the MacLeod tartan to lay over the corpse. Methos artfully draped a white satin scarf letting enough of the wound show to look as though the head had been severed. Methos took the katana and placed the broad, square hands on the hilt of the sword.  For a moment, other faces flashed in his memories, folding other cold hands over silent hearts.  He was shaking, forcing himself back to the here and now.  This is temporary, temporary.  He repeated it to himself, a mantra to keep the fear away.
 
Joe was looking pale, ill, by the time they finished.  "This is a little too real, Methos."
 
"We have some skeptical people to convince.  I don't want any slip-ups.  All three of us are vulnerable right now."
 
The hearse pulled up and Methos closed the coffin, making sure that the seals were in place.  He released the nitrogen into the casket.  This, too, would cut the chance that MacLeod would revive before they were safe. He certainly didn't want Mac waking in the coffin.  It had happened to him. Not an experience he wanted to repeat, or have Mac share.
 
At the airport freight terminal, Joe handed Adam/Methos the papers to get MacLeod's coffin through customs.  He left Methos to board the plane alone and went back to Watcher Headquarters. He spent a lot of time putting the bogus report together.  By the time he finished, he was red eyed and shaking. No one who ran into him had any doubt about Duncan MacLeod's death.
Methos tried to sleep on the flight but every time his eyes closed he saw the damn boning knife and Mac's blood, pouring  over his hands.  He fought the nausea, busying himself with figures. He estimated it would take 20 to 24 hours for Mac's body to regenerate enough blood volume to trigger heart function.  It might be an additional couple of hours before his breathing began.  Even with direct flights and good connections, he was cutting it close.  If everything went off on time...
 
He had the Concord’s steward bring him a steady parade of the totally inadequately small bottles of scotch the airline stocked. The steward was more than a little worried about the tall slender man huddled in the window seat.  "He's taking a friend home to be buried," the senior steward told him.  "The man who came to the airport with him said it was very unexpected."
 
The plane began its descent as they approached San Francisco. Methos swallowed another scotch, wrapping Adam Pierson around himself again.
 
The transfer went quickly and the flight to Seacouver was on time.
 
Adam Pierson didn't look at all well as he met Joe's assistant bartender.  He shook hands with Mike and the driver and got into the rented hearse.
 
Mike sat in the back, leaning over to talk to Adam, "I've got a raft waiting to take you to the island, just like Joe said you wanted."
 
Methos just nodded, afraid to say anything.  Panic and tears lay too close under the still surface.
 
Mike called Joe, later, to report. "God, Joe, he really looked terrible. It was getting dark when we got there. The guy I rented the raft from helped us get the coffin moved to the grave site and then Adam just lost it.  He screamed at us to go away, he'd bury MacLeod himself.  I tried to help, but he threw a rock at me and told me to get out.  He was sitting there, all alone and crying like a lost kid.  Joe, I think he's gone crazy."
 
"Could you see anything from the boat going back?"
 
"There wasn't much light left.  I heard the coffin bang against the side of the grave and him sobbing.  He'd started to fill it in before we got too far away to see."
 
"I'll give him some time to grieve, then see if I can get him some help.  Thanks, Mike.  I wish I could have been there for him..."
 
"The way he was acting, well, I don't think he'd have let you help, either."
Methos waited until full dark before he removed the tarp he'd thrown over MacLeod's coffin and opened it.  The last of the nitrogen dissipated.  Gently, he lifted Duncan's body out and used the tartan as a sling to help carry the larger man back to the cabin.  He want back after the katana and then shoved the coffin in and filled the grave completely.  He built a small cairn of stones at the head of the grave, returned to Mac's cabin and showered.  MacLeod's body lay there on the big bed.  His features were relaxed, no pain showed on his face.  Just for a moment, Methos wanted to leave him undisturbed, at peace for a while.  But there was no peace for any of them, not this side of the Gathering.
 
He stood there, looking around the cabin, Mac’s refuge. He remembered the big main room and the two smaller bedrooms. Nothing had changed since his last visit.  MacLeod had offered him a quiet couple of days after Alexa’s death.  Among other things, they’d talked about Warren Corcorane.  Corcorane’s murder of his student had upset MacLeod badly and Methos was surprised when MacLeod left him alive.
 
“He’ll have to live with it, Methos.  I can’t take his head.  I don’t think it was deliberate…”
 
“I agree, he has to live with it.  It may not be easy…”
 
The conversation haunted him, fate, sending out an early warning?
 
Reluctantly, he got MacLeod out of the tux, pulling a pair of sweat pants on him, laying a warm woolen blanket over him.  The killing wound had healed, but his skin was cold. There was no breath in the lungs, no pulse.  He built a fire in the main room’s fireplace and waited for MacLeod to revive.
 
The stress of the last few months caught up with him and he dozed off, waking at the sound of MacLeod gasping, breathing, again.
 
"Duncan, it's Methos. Everything's OK, you're safe.  We're on your island."
 
Still, no response from the man on the bed.  His eyes were open, but there was no recognition. Methos reached out, wanting to touch, to comfort him but finally gave up. He put out the lantern and lay down on the other side of the wide bed, wrapping himself in a spare blanket.  His last waking thought was the awful fear that he'd only delayed Duncan MacLeod's final death.
The early morning sun woke him.  He unrolled himself from the blanket and got up. Mac hadn't moved at all.  His eyes were closed.  Methos hoped he was asleep, but realized there was no way, for him, to differentiate sleep from a catatonic state.
 
He took a fast shower and started some coffee.  He took a mug over to the bed and sipped at it, trying to decide what to do next. Duncan's eyes opened and, for a moment, Methos thought he saw a reaction.  When he moved his hand in front of them, though... nothing. 
 
Wishing he had better news, he accessed a secure e-mail account to let Joe know that they were on Mac's island and Mac was alive again.  Nothing else had changed.
Methos spent the morning checking the available supplies in the cabin.  MacLeod kept it pretty well stocked, but he needed a few things, fresh fruit, vegetables...  beer. The small phone book in the desk had the number of the mainland store Mac had used last year. He called, ordering food for an extended stay. 
 
Jim Thompson, the owner, sounded strained, not knowing exactly what to say, "We just heard about Mr. MacLeod's death, Dr. Pierson.  He was a good man.  I think his family's been around here for over a hundred years."
 
"He loved it here. That's why I brought him... home."  There was a catch in Methos' voice.  "I need to get supplies. His cousin, Sean, may come by for a while.  I talked to him in Paris and he invited me to stay on. Duncan left the land to him. Whatever he usually ordered is fine."  Methos stopped for a moment.  "Add an assortment of the local micro-brews too, if you will."  Methos gave Thompson his credit card information and hung up.   
 
"Well, you're covered if anyone sees you walking around, Mac.  I just hope 'Sean' shows up here for a visit."  He put some of MacLeod's CDs on the small stereo.  Once or twice Mac seemed to move in time to the music.  There wasn’t even that much reaction to Methos’ voice.  He might just as well have been talking to a stone figure. 
 
Finally, he guided Duncan into the shower and bathed him.  Gently, he washed the man's sweat soaked hair.  "We need to get you back to your normal weight, youngster.  You're positively skinny.  It doesn't look all that good on you."  He kept talking to Duncan, praying to all the divinities he'd ever known that there would be some kind of response.   He wrapped the taller man in one of his heavy terry cloth robes and got him back into bed. 
 
Methos heated some canned soup and managed to get a cup of it down MacLeod. He found some applesauce, too.  By the time he finished wiping Duncan's chin, the younger man’s eyes were closed and he appeared to sleep. 
 
Methos got a fire started in the main room and settled on the couch with his laptop.  He connected his modem and had finished answering Joe's e-mail when a sound from Mac’s bedroom interrupted.
 
"Mac? What's the matter?"
 
MacLeod's eyes were wide.  He struck out at something.  Sweat was pouring off him and Methos could smell his fear.  Quietly, he moved to MacLeod's side.  He touched his shoulder.  MacLeod went absolutely still.  "Duncan..."  He sat down beside the shivering man. He drew Duncan closer, rubbing his back, trying to ease the fear.  He held Duncan against his shoulder talking quietly to him until he stopped trembling.  It was nearly an hour before MacLeod's body relaxed into sleep.  Methos got a washcloth and bathed Duncan's face.  He managed to get the larger man under the blankets and, finally, let sleep take him, too. 
For the next three weeks, Methos tried to keep to a routine.  He fed Mac and guided him into the flat cleared area behind the cabin to walk.  Duncan moved, if Methos led him, but stopped dead if Methos let go of his hand.  He massaged Mac's arms and legs, determined that Mac's body would be healthy when he returned to normal.

He kept himself focused, not allowing the feel of the long muscles in MacLeod’s back and strong thighs stir the responses running just below the surface.  Each night, he fought his own desires and needs, carefully settling Duncan on one side of the bed and rolling up in a separate blanket as far on the other side as possible.  He talked to Duncan, but he'd pretty much given up expecting a response.
 
Something woke him.  A warm weight rested on his shoulder.  There was a choked sound,  like a child trying not to cry.  "I'm here, Duncan.  You're safe.  I'm with you."
 
Methos reached one arm around MacLeod, gently patting his back.  His shoulder was wet.  "I'm here, Duncan.  I'm here."
 
Gradually, the sounds stopped, giving way to the even breathing of sleep.  Methos tried to turn. He cursed to himself. Duncan's weight against his thigh had caused a monumental hard-on.  He didn't want to wake him, but he had to move before he gave in to temptation.
 
He untangled himself, finally, and moved the sleeping man back to his own side of the bed.  Methos put his pillows against MacLeod's body to keep him from rolling.
 
The cabin was cold.  Methos left the bed to add wood to the fire.  He worked by touch and scent, adding the rough pine, oak and smoother birch logs to the embers.  The oak would burn slower, probably holding till morning.
 
The sweet, sharp smell of the pine and the dry, acrid scented smoke of the oak were making his eyes water, at least he told himself that.
 
Duncan was quiet now, laying on his side, curled against Methos' pillows.  One arm stretched toward the place where Methos slept. The firelight shone through the bedroom door, making his skin glow.  The shadows made him a creature of flame and ember, their flickering creating the illusion that he was awake.
 
Methos stood beside the bed watching him.  "How long do I hope, Duncan?  How long do I tell Joe you'll come out of this. How long do I keep you alive because I can't stand to lose you.  Should I let you go?..."
 
Suddenly, all the pain and despair of the weeks since Richie’s death caught up with him.  He couldn't stop the tears, the aching. He'd held it all in, forcing himself to hold on.  First for Joe, then, because someone had to take care of Duncan.
 
The floor was still icy beneath his feet. He knelt beside the bed.  He put his arms around Duncan, drawing him into a close embrace.  "I wish I'd told you...  Now, you'll never know.  I guess I couldn't risk your anger, your disgust." Methos eased him back against the pillows. A gentle hand caressed the sleeper’s cheek. "I've loved you for so long, almost since the moment you walked into my apartment." He turned back to the fire, watching the flames dance against the night.  "Maybe... maybe I just couldn't risk you loving me."
 
He pulled the duvet over Duncan's shoulders.  "Is it fair to let your nightmares go on?  I don't want your head...  I want you to live.   But, this isn't living, is it?"
 
He sat by the bed watching Duncan breathe.  The choices he’d made haunted him.  The thought that MacLeod might never get well frightened him.  Would he have to end this by taking MacLeod’s head?  “No!  I’ll wait, Duncan.  We’ll hear from Joe soon.  Maybe he’s got new data.”  He took Duncan’s hand, holding on, perhaps trying to feed his own strength into the younger man.  The crackling song of the flames and the wind in the trees around the cabin finally lulled him to sleep.
He woke hearing the sound of a motor coming in to the old boathouse and dock where Mac kept his canoe and the dinghy.
 
There was no sense of an Immortal approaching and the island was Holy Ground… He pulled on jeans and headed to the dock.  The grass was still wet with dew and he found himself wishing he'd put on his boots.  He wasn’t really surprised to see Joe waving as the supply boat brought him to MacLeod's dock and tied up.  Methos went to help the store's clerk unload his purchases.
 
Joe pulled himself up to the pilings and managed to get his bags on the rickety boards that led to solid ground.  "Sorry it took so long, Adam.  I needed to tie things up and had to wait while they processed my retirement."
 
The clerk waved goodbye and headed back to the mainland.  Joe swung one of his suitcases toward Methos and grabbed the smaller one himself.  Methos took it and they slowly started back up to the cabin.
 
"You retired?"
 
"No reason to stay, without Mac.  I stayed on because he asked me to.” Joe's voice was gentle, "No changes?"
 
"None," came the flat answer.
 
Joe examined his friend, noting the tired eyes, strain lines around his mouth. "You haven't been sleeping, Methos."
 
Methos set the bag down inside the door.  "He has nightmares...  I hold him ... talk to him. It  seems to calm him.  The dreams stop... for a while.."
 
"Maybe I can help sit up with him."
 
"Thanks, Joe."
 
"Methos, I care about him, too. I know you love him. He knows it, too."
 
"Yeah, maybe that's why he's doing such a wonderful imitation of a vegetable."
 
The mortal grabbed his shoulder, pulling him around, face to face.  "Methos!  Damn it, you listen to me.  This isn't your fault. 
 
Methos stood there for a moment, his head bowed.  "Isn't it, Joe?  I kept telling him there was no demon.  I kept whittling away at his self confidence, leaving it to the kid to try to help him."  The Eldest turned away from Joe.
 
"Methos," Joe took his arm, not letting him pull away, holding him, to comfort  him as Methos had comforted him the night Richie died.
 
Methos let himself be drawn against Joe’s burly chest.  He choked back the tears. "You know, I checked the phone records, Joe.  There was a call.  It came from a pay phone on the Quay, on the way out to the old race track.  We did see another car sitting there.  I remembered it, but it wasn't there when we left...  There was something going on but I was so sure I was right... I didn't have enough faith in him to sit down and listen."
 
"We both deserve some raking over the coals, but for God's sake, man, he wasn't blaming you.  He said himself that the whole thing sounded crazy..."
 
Methos pulled away from his friend and looked over at the body on the bed. "He's afraid of something, something he's trying to fight in his dreams.  Somehow, I have to break through to him.  I have to find a way to bring him out of this..."
 
Joe shook him, "Listen to me, Methos.  We will do what we can to help him, both of us will.  You don't get exclusive rights on this guilt thing.  I was the one telling him he was losing it."  The mortal looked over at the bed.  "If he was right, this thing caused Richie's death because it figured that would stop Mac."
 
Methos nodded, "Yeah. Mac really loved the kid. Killing a student... Our students... they’re as close as we get to children.
 
"Richie still felt like Mac was his father. Nothing ever really changed that."
 
Methos rubbed his eyes, "I'm so tired I can't think straight, but I’m fairly sure it isn’t the only reason he's like this."
 
"You get some rest, Methos. I'll keep an eye on him. We'll figure it out, later."
 
There was a deep sigh from the slender man.  He straightened up, patting Joe's arm. "Between the two of us, we've convinced everyone he's dead.  It had to be, but that also means it's up to us to handle this. Joe, can you stay with him for a couple of hours?  I really need to get away from here.  I can't seem to think."
 
"Sure. I've got no pressing engagements.  I'd like to go in to Seacouver next week to check on the bar, but even that can wait, if it needs to."
 
"Thanks, Joe." Methos looked out toward the dock.  "I need to bring the supplies in, too.  I'll do it when I get back."
 
"The guy at the store said something about Mac's cousin, Sean."
 
"Well, I wanted MacLeod covered, if somebody did see him.  And, when he's better, it gives him an easy shift to a new identity."
 
"Bright boy.  I know this has been rough for you, Methos. Mike’s really worried about you.  He's sure you've gone off the deep end."
 
That drew a wry smile from Methos.  "Most of it was for his benefit.  Once Mike and the driver left, I calmed down.  In the dark, with all the trees, no one could see anything.  His body was too cold for infra-red to pick it up.  Moving him was fairly simple and I just haven't taken him out in front of the cabin.
 
They got coffee and sat down at Mac's table. Joe looked around the cabin.  Morning light coming through the windows caught flowering herbs in containers, all around the room. He caught the scents of lavender and rosemary, lemon balm, too.  "Smells good in here."
 
"Yeah, old fashioned form of aromatherapy, I guess, trying to heal the spirit.  Some of the plants look like they've been growing here for generations."  Methos put his coffee down.  "I usually get him up and dressed about this time.  I play music for him...  He seems to hear it, he just doesn't respond to voices." 
 
Methos went back to Mac’s bedroom and Joe watched as the former "Horseman" gently coaxed his charge to the table and fed him.   Then, he settled the Highlander in the big leather chair with a shawl to keep off the morning's chill.
 
He looked at Joe, “Want some breakfast?”
 
“Sure, if it isn’t any trouble…”
 
Methos laughed, a brittle, harsh sound in the quiet morning.  “It’ll be a nice change.  At least you can talk to me while we’re eating.”
 
Joe watched as the older man put together pancakes and bacon, made another pot of coffee and finally settled across from Joe to eat.  They discussed the Watchers and Joe putting the barge in storage.  The conversations started and stopped, one or both of the men looking at MacLeod, hoping to hear him join in, but there was no sound from the third man.  He never moved.
 
"I'll put together some sandwiches, then, if you'll stay with him..."
 
"No problem, Methos.  You need a break."
Methos climbed up the hills behind the cabin.  Sunlight was warm on his face.  The ancient trees seemed like old friends as he dropped his backpack and settled himself with his back against a rock.  He opened his pack, grabbing a cold beer.  The first sharp, bitter taste felt good sliding down his parched throat.  The condensation on the bottle made him look at his hands.
 
He'd cut MacLeod's throat with those hands. Mac's blood had darkened them, spattered his body.  Could he do it again?  Could he take the head of a man he cared about?  "Hell, at least be honest with yourself in your own mind, a man you love." He looked around the clearing.
 
Mac had brought him up here.  They'd been in Seacouver, after Alexa’s death.  Before Cassandra and the Horseman had blasted their way back into his life.  The rock circle where they'd built their fire was still there. Even the winter rains hadn't cleared all the ash and charred logs from it.
 
He stretched out on the heavy mat of  pine and fir needles.  They smelled sweet and he remembered the sparring session they'd had.  Mac had nailed him and his response had been to roll over, half under his conqueror.  Mac had laughed and the sheer exuberance of the moment had become a treasure to hold close.
 
The warmth and the beer relaxed him and moments later, he was asleep.
 
The shrill scream of an eagle, annoyed at the invasion of his territory, woke him.  He looked around, the angle of the sun telling him it was late afternoon.  How had that happened?  He needed to plan, to figure out what to do next.  He could hear the voice of his worse self... "Why do anything?  Eventually, MacLeod will either come out of it or someone will drag him off Holy Ground and kill him.  Why should you care?  He didn't even question whether you lied about enjoying the killing.  He certainly didn't consider your feelings about Byron."
 
"That isn't fair...  Mac couldn't allow Byron to kill again."
 
"Maybe, you should just put him out of your misery...  You could have his Quickening-even if you can't have him."
 
"And what if there is a demon, an Ahriman, and MacLeod really is the Champion?  What happens to the rest of us without him?"
 
Reluctantly, Methos started back to the cabin.  He had to shake loose of this fogged mood he'd been in and start doing something constructive about the situation.
 
He could hear Joe's guitar as he came in behind the house. 
 
Joe saw Mac react, twisting against the chair as Methos' Quickening came in range. Then, he lapsed back into the fugue state. Dawson put aside the guitar as Methos came in.
 
"Hey, Methos.  I unpacked while you were out communing with nature.  I thought you might want to take another look at Landry's journal. I brought Mac's laptop, too. If he found out anything, it's probably here."
 
"Thanks, Joe, I should have thought of it."
 
"You've had a lot on your mind."  Joe pulled the big leather bound book out of his briefcase and put it on the table beside Mac's laptop.
 
"We can work on it in the morning, Joe.  You've had a long trip and I'm too tired to think. All I want is something to eat and some down time."

Joe looked as though he wanted to argue, but he stopped.  Methos did look tired.  Maybe, it would be better to tackle it in the morning.
Joe was wakened in the darkness by the sound of someone crying.  He got up and went to the door of the guest room. The cabin was dark.  The sounds were coming from the bedroom on the other side of the main room, Duncan’s bedroom. He slowly made his way to the half opened door.  Methos was leaning back against the headboard of the bed, Duncan in his arms.  The sobs were coming from MacLeod, then he could hear Methos talking. 
 

"We are home, Duncan.  The cabin is warm and you are safe.  You don't need to fight or worry, I'll take care of you.  We'll be safe here, Duncan.  Nobody blames you for killing Richie.  He didn’t really have much chance at the prize… It isn't as though he really meant anything to you."

The voice went on, "You really weren't cut out to be a teacher. We'll just stay here. No mean Immortals coming after you.  No sneaky Watchers spying on you.  Only Adam, who wants to take care of you...  You can trust Adam, Duncan. Adam's the only one you can trust.  Adam loves Duncan.  Adam will keep you safe from people who want you to be a warrior.  All you have to do is stay safe in your own little world and let Adam take care of you."
 

Joe listened, but he found it hard to believe what he was hearing.  Gradually, the sobs quieted and the droning voice was still.  Joe quietly went back to his room.  He wrote down as much as he could remember of that impossible monologue. 

What he’d heard didn’t match anything he knew about Methos.  He was chilled, as much by the oily sound of Methos’ voice as by what he’d said. The flat, cold tone wasn’t the man he’d been calling friend for the last ten years. What was going on?

Joe spent the morning watching Methos.  He seemed perfectly normal when he was away from MacLeod, but there was an odd look to him the minute he touched the Highlander.  He looked possessive, lecherous, evil... 
 
Dawson felt as though an icicle had dropped down his spine.  "Ahriman...?" 
 
After lunch, he took his notes and beckoned Methos away from his quiet charge.  "Let's take a walk, my friend.  I need the exercise and you've been cooped up all day."
 
Methos locked the doors.  Not that he really thought Duncan was going to go anywhere...
 
They started up the trail to the grove.  Joe moved slowly, but steadily, unwilling to say anything until they arrived at the foot of the huge oak that dominated the clearing. 
 
Joe sat on a broad stump. "How are you feeling, Methos?"
 
Methos eyed his friend, "What's this all about, Joe?  You didn't haul yourself all the way up here to check on my health."
 
"No, not exactly." Joe said, hesitantly.
 
"Then, what?"
 
"Do you remember getting up with Mac last night?"
 
"No... I thought he slept through... " Methos took one look at Joe's face and whispered, "What happened?"
 
Joe motioned to Methos to sit down. He pulled his notebook out of a jacket pocket and handed it to Methos.
 
Methos looked through the papers, his face growing pale as he finished reading Joe's conclusions.  "You think it followed us here?"
 
"I think, somehow, Mac is hosting it right now.  I'm not sure how, but it's influencing  you. I wondered when you didn't grab the Landry journal when I brought it in, not your usual behavior. Then, last night... It seems to get worse when you're touching him."
 
"I really said those things... " Methos put his head in his hands.  "There's no telling how much damage I've done to him, Joe."
 
"I don't think it's anything that can't be undone.  You remembered talking to him before.  I think you relaxed your guard. Your own pain opened this up."
 
"I keep thinking I should just take his head.  He's in such pain, the nightmares... I just..."
 
"Methos, now that you know about it, it may not be able to work on you."
 
Methos looked up at the sky.  There were heavy clouds forming to the east of them.  Storm coming in.  It would be so easy to just leave.  Joe could get a nurse in.  There was enough money to handle it.  He could get away to Bora Bora.... 
 
Joe touched his shoulder.  "No, Methos.  I know that look. You are not going to take off.  We know what's going on now and we can't let it win."
 
Methos was trying to still the rising panic. His own iron will finally anchored him again. "I won't run out on you, Joe. I can't run out on him, either."
 
They left the grove, arriving at the cabin just as the storm hit.  They moved MacLeod into his bed and Joe went in the guest room to nap.  He'd keep an eye on MacLeod during the night.  Methos built up the fire and then picked up the journals.  The door to Mac’s bedroom was open so he could keep an eye on him but he didn't go near MacLeod.
 
Methos was vaguely aware of the thunder rolling over the cabin.  It faded as he became more absorbed in his work.  Some time later, he stretched and got up to get a beer.  He checked to be sure MacLeod was all right. A familiar figure in black leather arraigned itself on the edge of the coffee table.  "Kronos..."
 Ahriman as Kronos
"Nice to know you haven't forgotten me, brother."
 
"Wrong.  Kronos is dead, Ahriman.  You're not welcome"


 "Kronos can live again.  Or perhaps, you'd prefer Alexa."

 
"No, necrophilia has no appeal for me."
 
 "Well, what about this," Kronos' image faded and MacLeod's eyes opened.  He smiled invitingly at Methos and patted the bed. 

He purred.  "Come on, Methos.   You wanted to make love to me, to fuck me into insensibility, you said.  All your dreams can come true."
 
Methos took one involuntary step toward the doorway. Fury gathered in his gut and he fought to master the rage. "Puppets and dolls don't do anything for me. Get out, Ahriman."
 
"You could take his head. Ah, but if you kill the Champion, you leave the field to me.  Have you looked at the news lately?"
 
"I've never been particularly concerned with the rest of the world."
 
"Ah yes, the ultimate survivor.  We'll talk again, brother."  Mac's body slumped back against the pillows, a thin tendril of blood snaked down his chin, where he'd bitten his lip. 
 
"Joe, Joe!" Methos held on to the edge of the table.
 
Joe came in from the guest room, rubbing his eyes.  "What's the matter?"
 
Methos' voice was choked, "Check on MacLeod.  He's hurt."
 
Joe looked surprised, "You didn't..."
 
"No, Ahriman... he took over.  His lip..."
 
Joe looked at the cut, wiped away the blood. "It isn’t healing. Is the damn thing gaining strength?."
 
"I think it's just given up hiding since we know about anyway.  It showed up as Kronos, then animated MacLeod.” He paused, “We need to check on the news.  I haven't bothered to even look at it in weeks."
 
They pulled a portable TV out of the pantry.  Methos hooked it up to the small satellite dish in the shed. 
 
The news wasn't good.  The Middle East was filled with warring factions, each one swearing that it was right and the others were spawn of the devil.  Villages were being destroyed and plague followed the survivors as water supplies were deliberately contaminated.  India and Pakistan were threatening each other with nuclear devices and China was testing missiles.  Famine was killing people in Africa and South America, strikes were growing violent in America and Japan.  Everywhere dissension had deteriorated  into a lust for destruction.
 
"Ahriman?"
 
"We can't ignore the possibility, Joe."
 
Joe turned off the set, sick to his stomach at what they’d seen.  Methos didn’t look a whole lot better.  They came back to the living room and Methos raided MacLeod’s liquor cabinet for drinks.
 
Joe looked at the journal.  "Any hints yet?"
 
Methos sipped at his drink, ordering his thoughts. "Landry quoted one of the sages as saying "Never will I renounce the good mind." We need to think this through. Ahriman is a master of illusion.  We have to get behind the smoke and mirrors."
 
"It seems to be holding Mac captive in his own body, somehow."
 
"I don't know.  If it is, there are some old techniques..   I’ve got a couple of ideas, Joe.  I'm going to use the guest room for an hour or two.  If I don't come out after two, come get me.  Be careful, Joe.  It animated his body before and I can't guarantee it won't again."
 
Joe worked on his journal entries for a while.  He checked on MacLeod, but there was no change.  He brought his guitar in and settled back in the chair beside Mac’s bed. The room chilled around him and he looked up to see his late brother-in law sitting on the edge of the bed.
 
"Hello, Joseph.  Long time no see."
 Ahriman as Horton
Joe glared at the figure, "You're not James any more than you're Kronos.  What do you want, Ahriman?"
 
It shrugged, "Well, it's a convenient form to use.  Methos won't react to it, he doesn't know me.  Kronos works better for him.  I think he's still a little afraid of Kronos.  What do you think, Joe?"
 
"I asked what you wanted?"
 
"Oh, just to select an appropriate gift for you.  I am generous with my friends, you know."
 
"I'm sure as hell no ‘friend’ of yours, Ahriman.  We'll find a way to beat you."
 
James Horton’s doppelganger smiled, sure of its victory, "Unlikely, Joseph.  Your Champion seems indisposed.  He is the only one, you know.  You could do rather well as my agent, Joseph.  You could have anything you wanted... be an Immortal yourself.  How would you like that, Joseph?"
 
"You can go fuck yourself, Ahriman."
 
"Well,” it drawled, “If Immortality isn't to your taste, what about having your legs back, Joseph?  You could quit sitting on the sidelines while somebody like MacLeod gets all the pretty women, and get a few of your own.  You're still young enough to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh, Joe.  How about it?”
 
It gestured and suddenly Joe was standing.  There was no pressure on his thighs, no binding harness…  He was free.
 
For a long, long moment, Joseph Dawson stood on his own two legs and remembered… running along the beach with his dog…  catching a long pass and racing to the goal posts… holding Betsy against …
 
Joe's anger flared.  This bastard knew all the buttons to push.  "No!  I'm not leaving MacLeod to you and I'm not going to be your pawn."
 
"Bad choice, Joseph.”
 
Joe crashed to the floor and the dead weight of the prosthetics returned. 
 
“Think about it, Joseph. We'll talk again soon... " The figure vanished.
 

Methos came in from the guest room at the noise, took one look as Joe struggled back to his feet, and brought him a double shot of scotch.  He went back to get another one for himself.  "Bad?"

 
"Immortality or my legs back...."
 
"Bastard."
 
Joe swallowed most of the drink, "Find anything?"
 
"Enough to know we're going to need some help.  There are a couple of anthropologists I need to talk to.  I may have to contact some of the Zoroastrian congregations in Iran.  They might have some of the pre-reformation stuff.  They've pretty much gone underground since Islam came to be the official religion."
 
"You're buying into this idea that it's an ancient Zoroastrian demon?"
 
"I'm not buying into anything.  There is an "Ahriman" in the old pantheon.  He's the opposite of Ahrura-Mazda, the god of light.  I don't know much more about it.  We need to get information and fast, Joe.  I didn't like what I saw on the news."
 
Methos sent e-mails to specialists in linguistics, religion  and philosophy for information on Middle Eastern religious traditions in the 1500 years before the "Common Era". 
 
The responses started coming in, the most promising, from a Paul Davis, assistant professor of Anthropology at the University of Washington.  Methos downloaded articles and lists of resources, looking more hopeful than he had in days. 
Joe stayed with MacLeod that night. He did what he could to make Mac comfortable. There was no sound from him through the darkness.
 
Methos came out about dawn and headed in to make coffee.  Joe followed him, "Not a peep out of him all night."
 
Methos went in and showered after they finished their coffee and Joe went back to MacLeod’s bedside.  He lifted the guitar into his lap and started to play, an old song that seemed to fit the way he was feeling, “It’s Probably Me”.
 
Mac's face seemed to change slightly, not awake, but looking more aware.  Joe ran through the song again. He bridged through a number of other songs, choosing ones that he'd heard Mac or Methos play on the music system at the bar.  Mac did respond slightly, but didn't look at him.
 
Methos came in toweling his hair, "He hears it. Me too, I forget how good you are on the ax.”  He changed clothes and wandered back to his computer.

Later that afternoon, Joe came into the room.  "Well, Methos.  What have you got?"
 
Methos looked tired.  His eyes were red from staring at the screen of the laptop.  He pointed to the stack of printouts, "I'm still checking the data.  The idea of the Avatar keeps recurring.  He's the Champion, he is willing to give his life for the good of his people.  He has godlike qualities..."
 
"The Bounteous Immortals...  I remember reading about them in college."
 
"Yeah, the data from Landry's journal correlates with the stuff from Davis.  It looks as though there is something to our friend, Ahriman, after all."
 
"I'll get some lunch started, Methos, and get him settled for the afternoon.  It looks like we're gonna be at this for a while."
 
Methos barely looked up.  He was hunting for answers and he was letting nothing distract him.
 
Moments later, Joe looked up as Methos went out the kitchen door.  He could hear Methos banging around in the big storage shed.  Finally, he gave up on food and went out to see what the hell Methos was doing. 
 
Methos had Mac's crate of jewelry supplies open. He'd set up the crucible on a gas ring, and started a smelting fire under it. Several battered sterling forks and knives were melting down. 
 
"What are you doing?"
 
Methos looked up, "Putting up a roadblock, I hope."
 
"A roadblock?"
 
"There were a couple of talismans in Dr. Davis' materials.  I think I can remember enough about silver working to make them."
 
"I know Mac made jewelry.  There was a bracelet he made, years ago, for Debra Campbell..."
 
"It was a respectable profession.  I was good at it.  Made the mistake of being too wealthy and got killed for it."
 
The silver had melted into a puddle, shimmering in the bottom of the heavy clay fixture.  Flares showed where impurities were burning off.  Carefully, Methos lifted the crucible and poured the liquid silver into a small round mold.  He let it cool enough to hold its shape, then turned it out on the jewelers anvil.  Joe watched, fascinated, as Methos repeated the process again and once more.  He used a small drill to hole the discs, then set jump rings in them.  As the disks cooled, he took out a set of engraving tools, meticulously recreating one of the drawings he’d printed out.  The finished images of a youth holding a great bull, his dagger raised to administer the sacrificial blow, were attached to sterling silver chains. One went around his own neck and he offered another to Joe.
 
"Sure, if you think it'll help."
 
"It should."
 
"That isn't exactly an answer..."
 
Methos shrugged, "Best I can do."
 
Joe put it on, sliding it under his collar. "OK, let's get the other one on Mac."
 
They went back to MacLeod’s room.  Joe lifted Duncan’s head while Methos smoothed back MacLeod's short dark hair and placed the chain and medallion around the Highlander's neck.  "Mac, this is an image of Mithra, the Champion who destroyed Ahriman's power in the old myths. If you are being held under some… influence, this should help."
 
Methos barely touched the quiet figure's shoulder.  Then he turned,  "Joe, I have a couple of other things I want to follow up on.  I'll be out in a bit." He vanished into the other bedroom.
 
Joe fed the Highlander.  He was beginning to look more himself.  The solid muscle structure that Joe remembered was being restored by the careful feeding and exercise schedule they kept. 
 
He started to play, more to amuse himself than for any other reason.  The voice was so quiet, he almost didn't hear it.
 
"Joseph, please...   Don't know how long....able to talk..."
 
"Mac?  Methos, get your ass in here!"
 
The door slammed back as Methos ran to him.  "Methos!  It's Mac, he's back."
 
The Eldest cautiously moved to the side of the bed.  He could see the stress in Mac's throat and the pain in his face as he forced words out.  Was this really Mac or another game of Ahriman’s?
 
"Ahriman gone ... need ... get out...  blow... up the cabin..."
 
"How do you know?"
 
"'S gloating.  You ... only real.... enemies ... has,  only ones who believe...  Get out, please..."  His head fell back, sweat breaking on his face and neck as he fought the demon for possession of his own body.
 
Methos got a backpack, dumped the laptops and Landry's journal into it and handed it to Joe.  "Get up to the grove.  If this is for real, we may not have much time. I'll bring him along.”  He helped Joe fasten the straps
 
Joe started up the path as Methos called out after him, “I'll come back here and tear the place apart.  Maybe it had to leave Mac to get rid of us.  Hurry, Joe, I want the two of you safe."
 
Joe reached the grove with Methos following, half dragging MacLeod.  They were all breathless by the time they got to the trees.  Methos got Mac into the shade and handed Joe a bottle of water.  "Keep an eye on him.  I need to go back and see what the hell is going on."
 
Methos scrambled back down the trail.  Joe looked around uneasily, "Hope he gets back fast.  We're not set up for camping. This isn't exactly the Ritz..."
 
Mac's eyes were open, watching the eagle and his mate hunting overhead. Joe held the water bottle for MacLeod to drink. "Mac, you hearing me now?”
 
The eyes turned to him.
 
"Wanna try the old one blink for yes, two blinks for no, game?"
 
MacLeod's face relaxed slightly, his eyes closed, then opened again.
 
"Do you know where you are?"
 
One blink.
 
"Have you known all along?"
 
One blink.
 
"Do you remember Methos finding you?"
 
One blink
 
Joe hesitated, but he had to know, "Did you hear any of what we said on the barge?  The plan to get you here?"
 
One blink.
 
Joe’s heart sank, remembering the details of the plan. "God, Mac, I'm sorry.  We had to get you out of there, fast, without exposing either Methos or you to any more danger."
 
One blink.
 
"I wish there’d been another way…"
 
Mac strained to get words out, "'s OK....  Unnerstan..."
 
Suddenly, there was a booming explosion and splinters of wood and aluminum from Mac's boats were falling like an obscene rain around them.
 
Methos came through the trees, brushing cedar and leaves out of his hair.  "The cabin is fine and the dock needed to be replaced anyway.  I'm not sure what the Watchers will make of it, though."
 
Joe nodded, "I'd better call them so they don't send a rescue party in here for me."
 
The voice was strained, "Methos..."
 
Methos took the exhausted Highlander’s hand.  "I'm here, Mac.  Just had a small disposal problem.  As I said, the cabin's fine.  Your boat house, on the other hand...  Propane is a bit… volatile.”
 
He sat down beside MacLeod, "Well, one good thing, you no longer have to convince us that Ahriman exists and there's no question of our helping you, any way we can, to win this battle with it. Let's get back to the cabin, Joe.  We need to make plans."
 
Mac still needed help from Methos, but he was moving. All of them were quiet on the way back.  Methos fixed a plate of sandwiches and heated some soup for them. MacLeod managed soup and half a sandwich with a little assistance.  He leaned back in the chair, his face and body showing his exhaustion.  Joe and Methos finished their share of the soup and sandwiches and Joe went into the guest room to get his cell phone.
 
Joe came out of the guest room, "I called Mike.  He's getting somebody out here to pick me up.  We need to replace the boat and the canoe, and we have to explain the explosion or we're gonna to have cops all over the place.  I'll get pictures and, Methos, this is going to be all your fault.  You didn't know how to use the propane heater in the boathouse.  I'll take care of the insurance adjuster and we'll get it rebuilt later. OK, Mac?"
 
MacLeod barely moved his head, but the "yes" was clear.
 
Joe retrieved his camera to take pictures of the damage.  Methos brought out beers for them and they settled in to wait for Joe's transportation.
Joe spent the next two days talking with Mac's lawyers and the insurance people.  He'd held a power of attorney since MacLeod faced Kalas. Mac had given him access to several of his bank accounts at the same time, “just in case.”  Joe finished the paper work and set up arrangements for the repairs. He bought a boat to be delivered in a day or so. Finally, his errands for MacLeod were completed and he stopped at the bar to check on his own problems.
 
Mike looked up from the newspaper, "Well, it's about damn time you showed up.  Business is off, everybody keeps askin’ for you.  You gonna play tonight?"
 
"Yeah, I guess I'll stick around.  Adam seemed a little better, I think the explosion knocked some sense into him.  I'll call and let him know I'll be back tomorrow."
Methos hung up the phone.  "We're on our own for the evening again.  It seems Joe needs to put in some time at the bar."
 
Duncan nodded.  The last two days had seen unbelievable improvement in his coordination and mobility, but he was still quieter than usual.  Methos continued cooking, and Mac assisted.  They ate and settled in front of the fire.  They’d laid out all the printouts and the Landry journal between the two laptops. Methos cross-referenced the data he'd been able to find with MacLeod’s. He looked up to see MacLeod staring at him.  "You OK, Mac?"
 
"Yeah. Methos..."
 
"What do you need?"
 
MacLeod got up, and stood, looking out the window.  Softly, he spoke,  "To say thank you."
 
"You're welcome."
 
The quiet voice continued, "You and I never seem to get a break.  The Horsemen... Culloden...  Richie..."
 
"You're alive."
 
"Thanks to you."
 
"Mac, you managed to keep your head.  I think the shock of the Quickening I took that night was the thing that caused the catatonia."
 
"Ahriman caused it.  You managed to get me here, head intact, and sat with me through all those nights..." MacLeod was pacing slowly around the big room.  "I knew what was going on, you know.  Everything.  I listened to you two discussing the best way to kill me. I could smell the drug in the coffee."
 
Methos looked away from him.  His eyes filling with tears, tension in every line of the slim body.
 
"There was no way I could let you know it was OK."  Mac stood by the window, the late afternoon sunlight touching his face with gold and scarlet shadows.  "When you pulled me into the shower, I could feel your heart beating against me.  It was almost…erotic, in some weird way. Then, you were holding me, steadying my head..."
 
He was having trouble getting the words out. "That blade was so cold." He swallowed, "I kept hoping you'd finish it quickly."
 
Methos response was strained, "I was afraid."
 
"I know.  I could feel the panic, like a wolf gnawing at you.”  He leaned his forehead against the cold glass. “You thought of everything. Except, it wanted me aware.  It wanted me to be afraid of you.  Fear feeds it."  He walked over to the liquor cabinet and took out a bottle of very old, single malt.  He poured drinks for both of them. He handed one to Methos and stood there for a minute.
 
"You almost made me laugh, though, muttering about getting me into the shower before you killed me the next time." He turned away. "It wouldn't let me laugh, either."
 
"I say stupid things when I'm nervous." The words were almost a sigh.
 
He put a hand out to touch Methos' arm, "But, you stayed.  You didn't run, you didn't give up.  I knew you cared about me.  I may be slow at times, but I'm not stupid."
 
"You're too important to lose."
 
"Important to who, Methos?  In the dark, I could hear you… “  He looked into Methos’ eyes, needing to say it all, afraid of the answers.  “You said you loved me.  Was it... is it true?"
 
Methos moved away from him, over in front of the fireplace.  He sat there, back pressed against the bricks.  The silence between the two men grew.  Finally, "Yes.  It's true, Duncan.  Every word of it is true, but you're under no obligation.  There are no strings."
 
Duncan came to him. "Methos, I love you."  He dropped to his knees in front of the older Immortal, resting his face against Methos' thigh.  Almost against his will, Methos reached out to stroke the short, dark hair, the heat of Duncan's face against his denim covered thigh, causing gut deep responses.
 
"Mac, this isn't a good idea."
 
MacLeod reached up to put one gentle finger against Methos' lips, "No, probably not.  But, I do love you.  I didn't think I had anything to offer a man who'd lived for 5,000 years." His voice faded out.
 
He looked up at Methos, "When we fought, when I thought you'd gone off with Kronos...  I was so hurt.  Then, when we were caught in the double Quickening...  I was finally sure that you did care. You tried to take on Keane, and I knew... I didn't want to lose you.  I... I knew I loved you. "  Duncan moved, sitting beside Methos, his hand caressing the elder's cheek. 
 
"Then, I killed Byron, and I just knew you would never, ever talk to me again."
 
Methos took his hand, kissing the palm.  "Mac, I knew you couldn't let him live.  I was afraid you'd feel the same way about me."
 
"But you'd changed!  He couldn't.  He wanted to die, Methos.  You....  You hated what you had been."  Enough words. 
 
He stood up, taking Methos hand. "Please."
 
Duncan led him to the big bed.  He sat down on the side of it and gently pulled Methos down beside him. For a moment, he sat quietly, his broad hands palm down on his knees,  not quite sure what to do next.
 
Methos was still, too. Was this just gratitude? If so, he didn't want any part of it.
 
MacLeod glanced at him, trying to read him. Gently, he reached over and lifted the hem of Methos' sweater, waiting for Methos to lift his arms.  Methos took a deep breath and let his arms come up and the younger man took the sweater off, leaving him in a snug-fitting T-shirt. The air felt cold against his arms, raising goose bumps. Methos could feel other things responding.  Duncan pulled the T-shirt off, too, smiling as the cold air teased bronze nipples, and the firelight gleamed on the medallion.. 
 
Slowly, MacLeod lifted Methos' chin into a kiss that started tentatively.  , but warmed as the soft lips parted, welcoming him.  MacLeod gently pushed him back to rest against the pillows.  He eased the waist button of Methos' jeans open, then, gently unbuttoned the rest. Methos lifted his hips to allow Duncan to slide them off.
 
Mac smiled, "Still not wearing anything under them?"
 
"Didn't have boxers when I grew up," came the strained answer as Methos tried to keep breathing. 
 
The first touch of Duncan's warm hand along his shaft caused a soft moan. Then, Duncan's hands and lips seemed to be everywhere.  His ears were teased and fingers left frayed nerves along his neck.  Duncan's tongue wandered over his lips, pushed gently into his mouth, tasting, caressing.
 
Methos couldn't think, couldn't do anything except yield his whole consciousness to Duncan's touch. He moaned, the sound low, vibrating against Duncan's mouth. Duncan's arms wrapped around him with such fierce heat that he felt he'd explode.
 
Duncan kissed him once more, then shifted enough to pull off his own jeans. He moved up beside his lover, embracing him, hardly able to believe Methos was in his arms.
 
Methos reached out to stroke the younger Immortal's face, then let his hand follow the line of Duncan's jaw and the golden neck, tracing the shape of the vein he'd slashed to keep his Beloved safe.  "You are so beautiful, Duncan.  So frighteningly.. beautiful."
 
Duncan kissed him again, moving back and laying beside him.  Methos slowly unbuttoned Duncan's shirt and took it off.  Then he kissed him, sucking his tongue gently.  He drew Duncan's lush lower lip into his mouth, biting, holding him.  His hands began to move across Duncan's chest, exploring, stroking the curves of the powerful muscles.  He lowered his head to touch Duncan's throat, to kiss the place he'd cut, to lick away the faint sheen of sweat. 
 
The effect was electric.  Duncan's hips thrust against the older Immortal rolling him to his side.  They lay silently for a moment, eyes locked.  Methos reached out to caress his lover's cock.  The velvet skin warmed to his touch.  He stroked the tangled curls beneath it, cupping Duncan's balls gently.  Duncan reacted again, arching into the touch. 
 
Methos smiled down at the younger man, "I've wanted to make love with you for a long time, Duncan." 
 
Methos paused, looking around the bed.  He opened the drawer of the bedside table to find a small bottle of almond oil.  He was aware of Duncan's eyes on him.  Slowly, he applied the oil to his lover's cock, then handed Duncan the bottle.  He turned, easing his buttocks up against Duncan's belly, waiting to see if the younger man was ready.
 
He could smell the oil warming from the touch of his lover's hands.  Then Duncan began rubbing his back, oiling the cleft between his cheeks, pressing into the ring of muscle at its base. One careful, gentle finger reached deeply inside him.  Methos was startled by the flood of emotion he felt as a second finger touched him.  He moaned, pressing back against the exploring hand. 
 
Duncan stopped moving as though afraid he'd hurt the older man.
 
"It's OK, Duncan, you're not hurting me.  Please... don't stop."
 
A kiss against his shoulder was his answer and the slow penetration of another finger.  Duncan's stretching fingers touched the prostate and sudden heat flushed Methos' skin.  Duncan withdrew his fingers and Methos felt the head of his lover's cock press against him.
 
Breathing deeply, Methos thrust back slowly, steadily, against Duncan's cock, impaling himself.  Duncan's responding thrust seated him deeply inside his lover.
 
They stayed still for a moment, then began a slow rocking motion.  Methos felt Duncan's heart beating against his back, his cock throbbing deep in Methos' belly.  Duncan reached around to stroke his peaked nipples and engorged cock.  He pulled Methos against his belly, feeling his lover's muscles tightening around his invading cock.  The growing heat was too much and he lunged against Methos again and again.  His movements became compulsive. He could feel himself reaching closer and closer to climax and stilled himself, waiting for Methos to be ready.   Methos surged against his hand, and their bodies spasmed, over the edge, against each other.
 
They stayed still, both of them feeling the need to stay connected.  Finally, Duncan kissed his lover's neck and gathered him into his arms.  He turned Methos so he could see his face.  His eyes were closed, the wondrous hazel green veiled.  His lashes were long and full, weighted with tears. Duncan gently kissed his eyes, tasting the salt, tasting the fears Methos kept hidden so much of the time.
 
The beauty of the line of his jaw, the graceful neck caught at Duncan's heart, "Artists used you as a model, didn't they? Apollo? Ganymede?"  He kissed his lover's eyelids, then the mouth again.  The assurance that his lover was alive and well let Methos feel safe enough to sleep, his breathing slowed.  Resting his cheek against his lover's shoulder, Duncan followed after him.
Methos wakened to the chill against his back.  MacLeod was gone.  Suddenly frightened, Methos grabbed his jeans and looked around the house.  His heartbeat slowed as he saw the paper taped to the coffee maker.
 
Methos,
Don't worry, I'm just going up to the grove for a while.  Join me

Yours,
Duncan
 
"Mine, is it?" Methos grinned. "Yes, I think I will join you."
 
He gathered sandwiches and some fruit, orange juice for Mac and a couple of beers for himself, and headed up the trail with the backpack.
 
He felt Mac's unique signature as he came around the trees.  MacLeod sat in full lotus under the majestic oak that dominated the grove.  Methos watched him for a moment.  He knew Duncan was aware of him, but he was still, completely motionless. 
 
Methos went over to sit beside him, his quiet joy that MacLeod was aware and loved him singing in his heart.  Effortlessly, he folded himself into lotus and began the breathing exercises.  The sun was warm and he moved easily into a light trance state.  He could feel Mac's aura, the life in him filling the empty places in his soul, melting the loneliness.
 
There was no time here, no worry about Ahriman or the rest of the world.  There were no Watchers, no one demanding the secrets of the ages.  The ancient oak sang with life and the song echoed in the two men sheltering beneath it.
 
A gentle hand on his arm brought him back to himself.  He stretched, feeling the first real relaxation he'd known since Kronos' return.  Mac put the food out between them and stayed there, kneeling in front of his lover. Methos could feel the younger man's eyes on him.  He returned the searching gaze.  "Is there something wrong, Mac?"
 
MacLeod blushed slightly, "No, just...  My mother called it 'storing up memories'.  Kind of like storing up food for the winter, I guess."
 
"For winter?"
 
"We both know this thing with Ahriman isn't finished.  If I am the Champion, I have to fight him.  I have to win..."  MacLeod's voice faded.  Methos could feel the tension in him.  "Methos... I don't know how to fight him."
 
In the years Methos had known the Highlander, he'd seen him angry, hurt, teasing and funny but never uncertain.  "Talk to me, Duncan."
 
Duncan hesitated, "I don't know what to say..."
 
Methos spoke quietly, but with total conviction. "If you are the Champion, there's something in you that can overcome Ahriman.  Think about it.  It made Joe and I think you were losing your mind. Finally, it tricked you into killing Richie because he wouldn't let you fight it alone."
 
MacLeod’s eyes closed, his features drawn.  "He was so loyal...  Even after Garrick and the Dark Quickening, he believed in me...  and I killed him."
 
Methos said, quietly, "You'll live with it, MacLeod, the way all of us live with those we kill."
 
"How, Methos?  How do we live with them? How do we deal with the ghosts that come back in the night to accuse us?"
 
"Duncan, sometimes, we have to set aside the sorrow. Understand what happened. Accept what you did and learn what you can from it.”  Methos was quiet for a moment, his own ghosts gathering around him.  “You have to keep in mind that the living have precedence.”
 
Duncan nodded.  “You mean I can mourn Richie later, but now, I need to figure out how to fight Ahriman."  He leaned back against the massive tree. "There is something from the Qabalah...  The ultimate fight for the survival of humanity will take place in the soul of one person."
 
"You're the person?"
 
Mac sighed.  "I don't know that any of this is real.  Maybe... maybe, I'm in an asylum somewhere, talking to my shrink..."
 
Methos smiled, understanding his need for reassurance, "Mac...  Duncan, whatever else this is, it is real.  I'm not a shrink. Landry was real.  You have some of his books here.  Richie was real. So was his death, and yours."
 
"You believe me." The relief on MacLeod’s face was almost painful.
 
"I believe that something, let's call it Ahriman, has a vested interest in anarchy, chaos and destruction.  I believe that every civilization has myths of a hero who will defeat those forces to protect his people.  I don't know how logical it is, but heroes, Champions exist.  You exist."

 

"You'll help me?"

 
Methos stood, reaching out to take his arm.  "You were born a little late for the concept of a 'shield brother', but your katana came from a Samurai, and they had similar concepts.  'Sword brother' was the way I learned it.” 
 
MacLeod nodded and stood facing him, "I understand.  Clansman was our term."
 
Methos’ face was solemn, "To me, it means that I will be your brother, partner, your lover...  You will never be without a guard for your back.  And, if the day ever comes when you, truly, can live no longer, it will be your brother’s hand that sends you on into eternity."
 
He reached out to clasp MacLeod's arm, forearm to forearm.
 
"You are Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.  I say before all the gods remembered, you are my brother.  By all I hold dear, by air and fire, water and earth, by bread and salt, I swear oath.  I will stand your shield while I still breathe.  As my will, so shall it be."
 
Duncan looked at their hands, held in a warrior brother's grip.  He searched Methos' eyes.  "You are Methos and I claim you as Clansman and brother.  By food and fire shared, by all I cherish, by my father's sword and my mother's love, I will stand shield to you as long as life lasts.  …As my will, so shall it be."
 
Methos hugged him.  Brown eyes, suspiciously bright, met green-gold, full and overflowing with the emotions they'd stirred up.  "We can, we will defeat this thing."
 
MacLeod nodded,  "Together."  Impulsively, he kissed the older man and Methos’ arms closed around him. 
 
They sat there for a while, to finish eating, content to hold the moment, to be together.
 
Then, Methos leaned back against the tree.  "OK, to work, little brother. You said emotions, like fear, gave it strength.  Sounds like controlling them might help."
 
"That's the focus of some of the disciplines I've learned."
 
"Let's work through some of the forms...  Mirror?"
 
"OK, sensei."
 

Methos grinned at him and stretched, loosening his belt.  He started moving into the first steps of an elementary kata.  MacLeod followed him into the pattern. They started out slowly, MacLeod mirroring Methos' moves. 

Time ceased for them.  The trees gathered the sunlight and reflected it as a pale golden glow that suffused everything.  Methos could smell the grasses crushed by their steps. They stayed synchronized, moving from one level to the next, never hesitating.  They were reaching into the quiet stillness of the mind as well as the body.  The trance state deepened.

 Joe Dawson came slowly up the narrow trail from the house.  For a moment, he stood and watched the two men working through the deadly dances.  He found himself captivated by the strength of them, their total concentration.  Time seemed to stand still.  Unwilling to disturb them, he found his tree stump and settled down to watch and wait.
 
He watched, drawn into the moves, feeling muscles he no longer had moving, shifting as the dance continued.  The golden light enveloped him too, bringing the awareness of the coming battle.
 
Methos could see MacLeod, feel his moves as he felt his own.  The only reality was the grace and beauty of the man beside him.  Joe’s presence, different in substance than an Immortal’s, but strong and solid, was there, too.
 
MacLeod seemed to glow, the light in the grove growing brighter, surrounding the three of them.  There was nothing but the grove and the presence beside him. They were in a place outside of reality, between the world of the mundane and the spirit.  The steps continued.
 
Enemies.  Without even thinking, Methos shifted to stand back to back with his shield brother.  He could no longer see the grove clearly. He could feel Duncan’s presence and that was enough.  "I am here, Duncan.  I stand watch." 
 
It seemed to Joe that he was standing, a rifle in his hands, back to back with the Immortals.  The adrenaline flowed into him.  There were black clad men slipping in and out of the shadows around him.  He waited… watching.
 
The light kept changing around Methos.  He continued the forms, staying close to MacLeod's presence.  The golden fog around them grew thicker.  Now, MacLeod took over the lead.  There was something else moving there.  Methos couldn't really see it, but Duncan could. The movements continued, only the fatigue in his muscles offering a clue to the passage of time.
 
Methos could feel the Other... old and dark, shapeshifting in the mists, cold and evil. Duncan was moving against it, open handed.  Methos followed the moves, not quite understanding how the battle had become engaged, only knowing that it was.
 
Joe’s throat constricted as he realized MacLeod was fighting…  There was an odd, double effect, he watched from the tree stump, but it also seemed that he stood at the third point of the triangle with Duncan and Methos, facing outward, protecting his brothers’ backs.
 
There were images against the mist.  Methos caught a glimpse of Kronos lifting his sword against the Champion. Where was his sword.... ?
 
“No, Methos, my fight.”  Duncan’s voice was strong. “Methos… if it wins…”
 
“It won’t, Duncan.”
 
The voice echoed in his mind, “If… ”
 
“I will finish it, Duncan.  I promise, but you will win.”
 
He could almost feel  the soft caress of Duncan’s hand, hear Joe’s soft, “I’m in.”  Then, Duncan was moving against the Adversary, catching the blade between his hands, moving it out of his path. Again and again, the dark figure struck. Each time, the Champion's hands moved and the force of the blow was dissipated. Methos waited, automatically checking for any additional enemies, ready to join the battle at a word from his shield brother, guarding Duncan's back.
 
The evil was all around them.  Methos tried to remember that fear and anger fed it, tried to control his fear for Duncan and his anger at all his brother had suffered.  He could feel Duncan’s sadness at the loss of Richie, the soul shattering guilt that had allowed Ahriman to take control.
 
Joe’s own fears, that he would be old and alone, with his failing body were bitter in his mouth.  He gathered all his regrets, fears and forced himself to set them aside.
 
The battle went on.  It was growing darker.  Whether the sun was setting or the Adversary was winning, Methos couldn’t begin to guess.  He poured all his energy into the tenuous link between his lover and his own soul, sending his love and his certainty that Duncan could overcome Ahriman.
 
There were voices, needling, caustic voices.  Methos could feel the hate in them.  He reached into the depths of his own soul, gathering all the love, caring, joy and heartache he’d found with his lover. From Joseph, he gathered the man’s tremendous will, his love and sense of honor.  Somehow, he could feel that energy, shape it with loving hands into a bright lance. He stood, holding that love in his hands, a weapon for his lover to use, if he needed it.
 
Then, the trance broke. Duncan was there, hunkered down, facing something that changed shape constantly.  One moment it looked like Kronos, the next it was a basalt figure, a blood red gem on its forehead. Then it was a blond man...  Duncan said something to it, but he couldn't hear the words.
 
It screamed, "I am a part of you, now!" 
 
And the quiet answer came, "You always were."
 
The figures facing MacLeod melded, becoming a massive dark figure that seemed to grow, arching over them, threatening to overwhelm them. Mac stood, then.  The golden mist wrapped itself around him... he changed, the shadow of a scarlet Phrygian cap on his head.  A short red cloak blew back from his shoulders.  Methos hurled the lance to Duncan and he caught it, leaping to strike at the glowing gem in the figure's forehead. The lance shattered the stone...
 
Above them, the figure exploded outward in jagged shards of basalt, colors and jarring noise. Pictures from the past, waves of scarlet and burgundy spun around Joe and Methos. They rose and crashed in frames of stained glass, pounding them into the earth. Methos ran, terrified trying to escape the invaders. Slave markets rose and fell, he smelled his own fear, standing there, chains dragging at his wrists and ankles. His own despair and the screams of the beaten and dying echoed in his ears. Plague-racked cities rose out of the ground in shades of brown and gray, dust and decay all around him. His gorge rose at the stench of them.
 
He saw the Horsemen ride and the flames of burning villages engulfed him, stopping his breathing with their smoke. Memories…
 
He saw Culloden, men hacked apart, women and children screaming against the flames of their blazing homes.  Swords clashed and vengeance claimed him… Duncan's memories...  He felt Joe’s fear and panic as he realized that the metal beneath his feet was a land mine.  All the horrors of the past poured over him, a tsunami of terrors.
 
The swirling mists grew brighter, shifting into jewel tones of emerald and sapphire, topaz and ruby... the kaleidoscope spun around him. Once more, he saw MacLeod move toward him in Adam Pierson's apartment and he saw the look of wonder on his face, heard his own name as he had not heard it in centuries, spoken by a friend... one of his own kind.  He could feel Duncan's presence, the warmth of him. He was near…
 
Everything was all right, now. Duncan was safe.  The fear gave way to relief and quiet joy.
 
Methos slowly brought himself back to the here and now. Gradually, sight and sound returned to him.  Moonlight silvered the trees and recreated the world.  There was silence, broken only by the crickets and tree frogs, and the crackle of a fire in the rock lined pit. 
 
Methos looked at the fire.  Sitting on a tree stump, beside it was Joe Dawson.  He held out a cold bottle of beer to the older Immortal. “You look like you could use this.  I brought scotch, if you’d rather...”
 
“Thanks, Joe.  This is perfect.”  Methos looked at the other figure, touched by firelight and the rising moon. 
 
MacLeod smiled tiredly.  "I think we won."
 
"Now, if I can just figure out how to enter all this into your chronicle...  "
 
MacLeod shook his head, sadly, "No, Joe.  Duncan MacLeod is dead.  Let's leave him that way.  Methos and I both need some recovery time.  Then, maybe, Sean,  the cousin from Glenfinnan, can show up.  We can talk about it tomorrow."
 
Methos settled down next to his lover. "Is it over?"
 
"As much as it ever is, Methos. The battle is over, the war goes on...
 
Joe stretched to add more wood to the fire. They could hear the winds and night birds calling.
 

Methos reached one long arm to pull the younger man against his chest.  Duncan sighed and closed his eyes, no longer afraid of his dreams.  There, warmed by the fire a friend had built and held in the arms of his shield brother, the Champion slept with the stars shining down on him.

 

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