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.