The first two Maggie Stories, "Demons in the Darkness", and "In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning" lead into this story and since there are sections that refer to them, you might want to read them first. They are also archived at the Highlander Quill Club Library and Seventh Dimension. 

Thanks are due, as always to the Beta Brigade-Nichole, Cheryl and Brandy.  A special "thank you" to the Lady Maygra who was kind enough to look at the first draft of the first story and didn't faint.  Her critique made me start all over again and resulted in something that more closely resembled a story.

Joan of Arc has always fascinated me. To me she seemed the 15th Century incarnation of the ancient Warrior Goddesses and the woman behind the Church sanctioned myths didn't match the skirted, longhaired images I saw in so many churches. In doing research for my non-Highlander novel, I found wonderful images, information about Jean Dunois and the others who loved her, hated her and eventually, killed her. Here, I've taken very few liberties with the facts, other than putting Methos in Orleans.

I'd class this as Adult for sex (m/f) and violence.

Feedback is, as always, appreciated.

Merrie Gail
August '99

Hoards of people bustled through Charles de Gaulle International Airport. Maggie stuffed the papers for "One sword, antique, for display or sale", back in her travel case.  Her business with customs completed, she took advantage of the confusion to duck into the nearest rest room and change clothes. For a small fee, she rented one of the bathrooms with a full tub and settled in to soak the travel weariness out of her bones. Feeling a little more like a human being, she finished by adding a dark brown rinse to hide her strawberry blond hair. It would make her harder to identify, if the stalker had followed her to France.

Magdalene Frost-Dawson-MacLeod-Pierson took a long look at the woman in the mirror. She looked fortyish, medium height and weight. She stood, her shoulders back, a very ordinary woman. Exactly. She brushed her hair dry, applied a careful amount of make-up to make her skin tones match her hair and took her time choosing clothes.

She hoped she’d gotten away clean, but that was no reason to take stupid chances. She pulled on dark jeans and a heavy silk shirt, easy to move in, if it came to a fight. The swing style coat went on next, and she stretched to find a good balance for the weight of the custom forged Aettartangi blade she used, when necessary. Unfortunately, her Immortality meant it could be necessary at any time.

Her luggage, except for the travel case that carried her sword, went in a locker. If Methos and Duncan MacLeod were in Paris, she'd come back for them. If not, they were safer here and easier to pick up when she left.

She needed to get into Paris and to someplace other than a hotel, where she could get computer access. The stalker had come frighteningly close. In the rush from San Francisco she'd left things behind. Irritating. Conceivably dangerous. Metro to Paris or surface shuttle? The shuttle was there first.

An hour later, she settled into a student’s cubicle in the old library near the Quay de Tornelle. The misty rain blew in as people wandered in and out of the library. The musty smell of old leather and books was friendly and she took a moment to enjoy it. Now, to get information. The old codes Methos set up as a back door into the Watcher’s database still worked.

She flipped through pictures. No, the man who’d been stalking her in San Francisco wasn’t there. Idly checking accesses, she spotted a combination that was familiar. It took a moment, but she recognized it as one of Mac’s passwords. She checked the log file. He was in Paris, at least, the phone code was.

Immortals seemed to clustering in the vicinity. Lots of them in and out of the city. Perhaps she ought to go on to Orleans. Yes, she would. She could check everything out from her office there. The trace from the database was local. She needed to try to talk to her husbands. There were things she needed to say, apologies that needed to be made. Was it too late? She’d said cruel, hateful things to both men. For her own peace of mind, she needed to make amends. Methos and MacLeod had done nothing to deserve her hatred. Time to apologize, time to try and explain.

Government records were fairly easy to get into. Tax data indicated that the barge had been sold four years ago. Not too surprising. Methos wasn’t all that fond of water. Mac hadn't rented or bought a place under any of the names she knew about. Owner of record on "Shakespeare and Company" was Michael Pierson.

She needed to rent a car and find a place to stay. Le Coq Rouge was still listed as a bed and breakfast on the road to Orleans. She’d stayed there before and it was probably safer than staying here for the night. The old French farmhouse took few guests in the winter, but the food was good and the feather beds warm. She still felt as though she was still in harm’s way. Maybe a premonition, maybe paranoia. "Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you, Maggie," came the thought.

Maybe it was silly, but she could almost feel them nearby...
 

October 2008 - Le Coq Rouge

He arrived at Le Coq Rouge as the winter sun touched the old farmhouse with gold and amber. Automatically, he checked the area for battleground. The old apple orchard was leafless at this time of year and the owners had modernized the place, even added a wide parking lot off to the rear of the farmhouse. If he had been followed...

The owners greeted him as an old and valued patron. He asked for the small room off the old kitchen with its own entrance, just for safety's sake. They invited him to join them for dinner. The food was wonderful. Afterwards, he made his excuses, saying he was tired. The room was so familiar. Big windows looked out over the parking area and orchard. The huge claw footed tub and old style bidet almost filled the bathroom with its awkward shower, stuck in the corner like an afterthought. A wickerwork shelf held clean towels.

The big four-poster bed was pilled high with pillows. He reached out to touch the featherbed; half-expecting Methos to reach a long-fingered hand out to him. No. Not right now. He didn't want to think about Methos yet. The loss was too painful.

Ten years... Ten years ago Maggie had disappeared. Joe was dead. Everything started coming apart ... He and Methos had tried to go on, but even loving each other hadn't stopped the pain. Six years ago, Methos had vanished, too. The note had said, "We hurt the ones we love. I need to heal and so do you. Stay alive, MacLeod." There’d been no signature.

The linen sheets smelled of lavender, the fireplace warmed the room and he felt almost at peace. Duncan MacLeod needed the rest. The last few years had been spent searching, traveling further than he had for a century but vain. He hadn’t found Methos. He'd followed leads across Tibet, Russia, the Middle East and large parts of Europe but every hint had faded out.

He’d come back to France with some vague idea of finding another barge or perhaps returning to the manor house they'd bought so many years ago, before Joe died. He’d sublet a flat in Paris for a month to give himself time to work his way through the firewalls of the Watcher's database, to try to find his family. The personnel files had only the Orleans address for Mrs. Dawson. Payroll showed Joe's pension checks still being deposited to a local bank but there was no other activity on the account. The Chronicles listed a new Immortal, possibly Adam Pierson, former Watcher, as a student of Duncan MacLeod's. The information was years old and nothing in newer records sounded like Methos.

Dawson House, the home they'd created there in the countryside near Orleans, would give him some peace. Certainly Paris hadn't. He'd sensed Immortals all around and he'd been forced into fights he didn't want, but couldn't walk away from. The fights had been brutal; the Quickenings darkly colored with rage. He'd stopped at the inn, suddenly afraid to continue on, afraid that the madness in Paris might follow him.

Another challenger had caught him just as he was leaving. The Quickening still unsettled MacLeod. Duncan fought, but never inflicted pain for the sake of hurting. McGuire had delighted in sadism, torturing both mortals and Immortals for his own pleasure.

Tomorrow... Tomorrow, he would go on to Dawson House. Maybe returning there, a place with so many happy memories would help him banish McGuire to the darkness he deserved.

MacLeod had been alone before. Self-sufficiency had to be part of an Immortal's life. But this time, the loneliness was worse, somehow. The years after his first death and banishment had been hard. He’d never been alone before, without the warmth of his mother and the hard strength of his father. He’d been used to the role of the beloved son, part of the extended family with old Tom telling tales and his cousins daring him to risk himself and teasing him when he won.

He'd been so lost. It seemed to him that the loss of Debra Campbell set a pattern for every other woman in his life. Eventually, he'd let himself love again, only to lose his loves time after time. Then he'd met Tessa. For 13 years he'd had the joy of her company. Richie'd made them a family.  For just that short while, he'd played papa. Thirteen years ended with a drug addict’s bullet and Tessa was dead. Only a few years later Richie died, caught in a terrifying battle between MacLeod and an ancient evil. He had come close to losing that battle, and he'd had to wall off part of his heart to keep from drowning in the pain.

Joseph had broken through the walls first, bringing Methos and then, Maggie, with him. Their friendship had become love without giving him a chance to escape it. The contrast between the year at Dawson House with the four of them remodeling, playing, loving each other and this emptiness was too much. They had been so happy, Maggie and Joseph, Methos and MacLeod. He had a family, a clan again. They'd worked hard, loved deeply and he missed them with an aching, bruising grief that refused to either heal or go away.
 

October 2008 - Shakespeare and Company Bookstore

"Why," Methos wondered, "do I bother coming back to France?" Of course, the bookstore's still here and 'Michael Pierson', nephew of the late ‘Adam Pierson’, was its owner.

It was unlikely anyone would recognize the blond young man with the aristocratic carriage and the expensive suit as the lanky ex-Watcher. A risk? Certainly, everything was a risk. Seeing MacLeod again was also a risk. For the last few weeks, he'd been sure MacLeod was nearby. Of course, he knew the Highlander was alive. The link forged in the fires of the double Quickening was always there, a whisper in the back of his awareness.

Admitting he loved MacLeod had been a risk, too. Could he open that particular door again? Would MacLeod even want to talk to him?

Pain was something to be avoided at, almost, all cost. He’d run away from Mac. Run, because he was afraid. To be honest, terrified, that he was getting dependent on someone beside himself. He hated getting too close, needing someone, needing Duncan. He'd always known he would lose Joe. Mortals died. Then Maggie disappeared, his Mags, gone without a word. Suddenly, the only family he'd had in a century was gone. Would MacLeod vanish next?

So, he left first. It hadn't worked. Wandering through the South Pacific had been boring; Shanghai was too loud. Australia looked more promising. After all, a hundred years had passed since his last sojourn.

The Outback held his interest for several years. He felt a kinship with the aboriginal people. He, too, was displaced, his own time hidden, forgotten except in dreams. 'Adam Ryan' became a grad student, again. He talked to any of the shamans willing to see him and he collected their stories of the Dream Time. He’d even published his thesis and an article on them. The article brought a teaching offer but he declined, and the wanderlust took him again.

Tibet had been less peaceful than he remembered it and he'd had more than the usual difficulty getting out of the country. He stopped in Seacouver. He still found the Pacific Northwest beautiful, but MacLeod wasn't on his island or anywhere else in Seacouver. He needed to find MacLeod and his Mags. He missed them. The intensity of that need surprised him. Perhaps, this time it was stronger than his fear

He stopped at the antique shop on the off chance Maggie'd returned, but her manager, Bev Winter, had purchased the shop and hadn't seen her for several years. He handed her a card with a local phone number. She took it, but she had a few questions of her own, questions Methos really didn't want to answer. Answering them meant remembering, and even now, he shied away from that winter day and remembered tears.

"Dr. Pierson, what happened to Joe? Maggie never was willing to tell me. My husband and I knew he'd died, but..."

He turned away from her, the helpless, sick feeling coming over him again. "He was ill. He died in Paris. He is sorely missed. There really isn't anything else to say." He started for the door, "If you do hear from Maggie, would you ask her to give me a call?"

"If she ever comes back. She wouldn't talk about him. I just wanted to help but when I asked where you and Duncan were, she froze. I know she went to Quebec for a while. I got a couple of post-cards."

"Thank you, Mrs. Winters. I’ll call again." Methos left.

San Francisco was next. He felt another Immortal was following him; evasive action was needed. A small salon in the Castro District gave him blond hair and Hart, Shafner and Marx still did English tailoring to order on an elegant suit. A very liberal tip got the alterations done fast and Adam Ryan disappeared. He hit one of his caches for expensive but well used leather suitcases and papers, checked into the Hilton and spent the next week setting up an alternate identity. Michael Pierson returned to London and then took the Chunnel to Paris.

Somehow, he always found himself back in Paris. Funny, he wasn't fond of the French, not since the 15th Century, but he came back often. This time, there seemed to be a number of young, hungry, Immortals looking for fights. Too much. Time to fall back on a time honored strategy and hole up someplace safe.

Dawson House tugged at him. He'd go on to the old manor house outside of Orleans. All of them loved it. It was even possible that Maggie and MacLeod were headed there.

Methos checked out of the expensive hotel Michael Pierson had chosen. He stopped to change into less pristine clothing and rented an older, less distinctive car. Paris wasn't safe. Dawson House kept nudging at him. The security features alone made it attractive. It was the logical place to meet, if they were in the area.
 

Maggie

This was stupid, really stupid. Why hadn't she noticed the car following her from Paris? She parked at the far end of the inn's lot near the apple orchard and switched off the rented car. Letting herself be hunted on a dark, rainy night was not bright. No way around it now. The other car, its headlights off, had parked at the far end of the lot. She drew her sword and waited for the pug-ugly to come closer to the orchard.

She heard his footsteps and took up a position with the street lamp behind her. She shrugged off her coat and took the gilded hilt of the sword with an appeal to the Goddess to guide her hand. It would be a shame to die now. Her dear ones were not that far away.

He was bigger and had longer arms. His rapier shredded her sleeves and bloodied her shoulder but the damage to her body healed fast. He grew over confidant. After all, he was fighting a woman. The rain made footing chancy and he over-reached himself. Maggie struck exactly as she'd been taught and the head rolled across the asphalt, bumping wetly against the tire of a parked car.

The storm's natural thunder and lightning blended with the slashing energies of the Quickening, pounding her into the ground. Finally, it finished and she lay there for long minutes, soaking wet and supremely grateful to be alive.

She started walking toward her car. A change of clothes before she went in to register was probably a good idea.... She passed the back doors of the inn and stopped, as another presence brushed her awareness like the touch of a much-loved hand. "Mac?" In the lighted window, she saw Duncan stand, reaching for the katana. She almost ran to the door, thunder blanketing the sound of her knock.
 

Duncan

The lightning startled Duncan MacLeod out of the memories. A momentary shimmer, just at the edges of his perception let him know he'd been right to worry about being followed. He stood and reached for his katana as the full presence of an Immortal touched him. He started for the door.

He opened it to a bloody, bedraggled figure. Female, too short to be Amanda, wet hair, dark in the lights from the parking lot. Strong hands held an elegant Damascus steel Aettartangi sword close to her breast. The sword wasn’t familiar, the Celtic knot work wedding band was. It matched his. Incredible or not, it was¼ "Maggie?"

"Uh, I was just in the neighborhood..." She tried to smile, suddenly unsure of her welcome.

"Maggie, get inside, there's someone out there..." He pulled her into the room and stepped outside the door. The storm filled the air with the ozone scent of electricity.

Mac walked out, sword ready. Quickly, he searched through the area. There were two cars in the lot other than his and the headless body half hidden under leaves in the orchard was no one he recognized. He stuffed the wallet into a pocket and went back to the room.

Still uneasy, he looked around once more before closing the door and pulling the heavy lace curtains closed. There was an edge to his voice, "Is there someone with you? Methos? Are you being followed?"

She sighed and put her sword on the cedar chest at the foot of the bed. "No, no, not any more and… I’m the Immortal, Duncan."

He took another look, carefully assessing the woman who had been his lover 10 years earlier. The fine bone structure that gave her the look of an elegant cat hadn't changed. The clear Irish cream complexion still had a few freckles. Other than the tattered clothes, she looked fine. That sword was no practice blade. "How can you be? I would have known..."

"Cassandra caught my presence in a ritual. Her theory was that I was older and had so much training in shielding and the psychic arts that I shielded automatically. Witches use the Circle to focus and confine the energy. Perhaps a pre-Immortal's Quickening is easier to hide that way."

"Even in bed with another Immortal?"

There was a wry laugh, "Or two. Cassandra wasn't sure of the reasons. We'd discussed it for months and she still wasn't sure...."

"Maggie...", he stepped toward her.

She backed away, "I’m a mess, Duncan. Could I take a shower? Then, we can talk."

MacLeod nodded, torn between needing to hold her and the fear that she’d run from him again. "The bath's over there."

"I won't be long."

She stripped off the blood stained jeans and shirt, grimacing at the slashes in the silk. He watched her walk, unselfconsciously, to the bath. The double shock of seeing her again and this new fact, that she was an Immortal, threw him badly. Suddenly the years slipped away and he was back at the manor house.

Maggie called him, a nervous edge in her voice, " Joe is due back from New Orleans today isn't he? Has he called you?"

"No, m'lady. He probably got hooked into a discussion about the top 10 Blues artists of all time and missed his flight. I'll be in shortly and we'll check, OK?"

"OK, love. I’ll settle down."

She hung up, and he finished trimming the last row. He wiped down his pruning shears and scissors with an oily rag and put the tools in the old shed. The little spring gurgled down the hillside behind the vineyard and the water tasted wonderful.  He took a moment to wipe off some of the dust and sticky sap.  Up to the house for a shower and dinner sounded like a good idea.

Things were starting to come together. He could see real progress in the vineyard and was feeling very satisfied about having a real home with his chosen family.

They'd been at the house for almost a year, now, and most of the interior work was finished. They hadn’t changed the exterior of the house. It had been cleaned, repaired and restored to its mid-nineteenth century glory. The second floor had become five carefully designed suites, to give each of them some privacy when they needed it and space for visiting friends.

Most of their time was spent in the huge ‘everything’ room at the back of the first floor. It opened onto the gardens and the kitchen. The formal living room and dining room were beautiful and filled with prized antiques from both his and Maggie’s collections, but somehow, when they all were home, they were gathered in front of the big stone fireplace in the room off the kitchen. It was furnished with big leather couches, overstuffed chairs and tables to use for snacks or their laptops. He’d bought a one of the new dimensional media setups, but all of them preferred music or conversation to the satellite offerings.

Methos had helped with the painting and such, but when an opportunity to assist with a new, very promising dig on the island of Crete, he'd accepted. The lure of a cache of papyrus dating back nearly 5,000 years was just too much for him. "Who knows, possibly one of my diaries..."

MacLeod felt no need to halt the roars of laughter. "Methos, every time something gets dug up in the Mediterranean, you're sure they've found something of yours. I seem to remember some early Greek artifacts... Turned out to be chamber pots, didn't they?"

Well... You were the only one who knew for sure. And, that's because I told you..."

Maggie came over to hug him. "Its OK, Methos. We love you, anyway. Honest."

He was due back soon, too, and MacLeod would have all of his family around him again. The thought delighted him.

The sun was bright and he was still hot and sweaty. Maggie met him at the edge of the garden with a cold beer. "You were reading my mind."

He got a wry grin for that. "It’s not that hard, MacLeod. You get finished with the vineyard?"

"Of course, madam chatelaine. Roses are next."

"I'm so glad you're around. I love roses, hate thorns."

"And, is that the only reason you like having me around?"

She looked up at him, her grin widening, "Well... there might be a couple of other ones... Let's see, you're a great teacher, an excellent dancer...."

Mac started laughing and picked her up, kissing her on the nose and working his way down. "Methos and Joe love me."

"I do too, Highlander. I do, too."

The digital phone on his belt rang. He put Maggie down and answered. "MacLeod." He reset the phone to speaker.

"It's Joe, Mac." The gruff voice of their musician partner sounded tired. "I'm staying an extra day. Couple of things I haven't had time to check on yet. OK?"

"You're just trying to get out of gardening duty."

Maggie could hear Joe's laugh, "Yeah, hate getting dirt under my fingernails. I'll give you a call after noon tomorrow, your time. Should know how long I need to stay by then."

Maggie spoke up, "Joe, don't be gone too long. I don't know if I can hold off this barbarian much longer."

"Hold him off?" He laughed, "You been drinking, Lady?"

"OK, love. But still, come on home. I like being in the middle."

"Me, too, Maggie. Look, take care of each other. It shouldn't be more than 2 days at the most."

Mac said, "Joe, if you see any of the wrought iron shops, check on a gazebo. Maggie was talking about finding one and a lot of fine ironwork comes from that area."

"Will do, Mac. Blessed be, Woman."

Maggie answered, her voice gentle, "And you, Man."

They heard the click as the connection broke from his end. The two of them walked back up to the house for dinner.

Maggie was sketching plans for a kitchen garden, mostly herbs, when he looked up. He switched off the machine and handed her the latest e-mail from Methos. "He's having a wonderful time. Says he'll be back in a month or so. The dig is bringing up some really fine pieces as well as the papyrus."

Maggie read it through. "Sounds like he's feeling a little guilty about enjoying himself so much."

They talked about the plans for the house all through dinner. Mac had picked up the building permits for Joe's studio and taken advantage of his absence to move the materials to the lot. Mac had the construction people coming in to start in the morning and it looked as though they'd have the structure up for Joe’s birthday.

He looked over the fabric swatches and paneling samples she'd located and they fussed about colors and textures over dessert and coffee.

They put the news on for a while, then Maggie gave up with a muttered rude comment about French politics and turned on the local classical music station. She switched on her own computer to check e-mail and take care of some notes on a couple of antique pieces she was assessing for one of the nearby shops.

Mac looked up from his desk at her laugh, "Want to share that?"

"Methos." She started laughing again and he walked over to stand behind her, patting her shoulder.

She pointed to the e-mail note, "He's found a small cedar casket with jewelry in it. He wants to have some of it copied, including a heavy gold armlet for you." She looked up at him, trying not to giggle. "Sometimes, I think he'd really like to drape you in gems and keep you as his houri."

MacLeod laughed, "It might be fun for a while, but I’m not good at being submissive for very long. We always disagree about who gets to be on the bottom."

"Civilization isn't always his long suit."

They called it a night and went up to the third floor. The entire floor had been remodeled into their huge master bedroom and bath. He opened the tall French doors to the starlight and lit a fire in the old fireplace. They settled themselves in the four-poster bed MacLeod had designed for the four of them. Maggie snuggled against Duncan and kissed him goodnight.

He felt a little lonely in the big bed without the rest of their family. He curled himself around her burying his face in her hair. He could smell the citrus shampoo she used and the perfume she wore. Her hips were warm against his belly and he could feel his manhood rising to the occasion. She turned to kiss the line of his jaw. Gently, he gathered her close.

She smoothed back the dark hair, the gesture sensual and caring. "You are such a beautiful man, Duncan."

They made love slowly, deliberately. Kisses set the fire in them and their hands spread the flames along his shoulders, her belly... She moaned at the feel of his tongue on her nipples, teasing. She returned the favor, nibbling, flickering over his like summer heat lightning. He moved down to lick and nibble at her navel and belly. Then, returned to her warm, full lips.

He loved the softness of her, the contrast with Methos’ harder muscles and Joe’s lavishly furred chest. She opened herself to him, welcoming the thrust that seated him deeply into her body. They moved together as though they were dancing. He felt the heat of her center grow, feeding his own need. He held her hips, allowing him to move deeply into her. They were both still for a moment, then the orgasm caught them. The energy almost felt like a Quickening, shimmering through them.

Then, the quiet after the storm came to them. She murmured, "Thank you, love." and curled, catlike against him, asleep in minutes, her face buried in Joe's pillow. He held her, loving the warmth of her and the generous souls of his brother-husbands. The family they'd created was strong and loving. Methos said it was because they'd chosen each other. True enough, they had chosen each other. He missed sleeping with Methos draped over his shoulder. "Come home soon, old man," he murmured into the link. Methos would at least get the warmth he felt for his missing lover¼ He fell asleep with his head next to hers on Joe’s pillow.

"I'm going to get started on those roses," he said, on his way out the door. "The construction crew is due in about an hour. I shouldn't be much longer than that. Can you get them started?"

"Sure. Mac, have you got the phone with you?"

"Always. Anything wrong?"

Her face was troubled, and he could hear the worry in her voice. "No. Just ... wanting my Bear back, I guess. He said he'd call and let us know how long he'd be gone."

Mac nodded and headed for the tangled mass of rose bushes around the front of the old manor house.

The crew stopped for lunch and Maggie brought sandwiches and beer out to share with MacLeod. Sharra followed her, sprawling in a sunspot and dozing in the warmth.  They watched the workman, comfortable with each other without any need to talk. Mac mentally checked off the repairs to the kitchen and garden of the 150-year-old house feeling very satisfied with the amount of work accomplished.

The phone's ring was loud in the quiet garden. "MacLeod," he answered.

"Mac? It’s Joe. I'm going to need to stay here a little longer." He paused, then the raspy voice continued, "Some nonsense about liquor permits. Probably, take a week at most. Can you let Maggie know?"

"She's right here, Joe." He switched it to speaker.

"Hi Joseph-love. So, when are you coming home?"

"I told Mac, I need to check a couple of things, liquor permits, stuff like that."

She looked concerned. "I thought you'd applied for them months ago."

He hesitated a moment, "Yeah... They ¼ haven't come through yet. Can't really set an opening date 'til I have 'em. I won't be any longer than I have to be. Promise."

Her worry was clear on her face and she tried to keep Joe on the line. "Joe, do you want me to come to Louisiana? I can be down there tomorrow evening."

"No! No, Maggie. I know how much you hate muggy weather and the humidity here is murder. I'll be home in a few days, a week at most. See you then. Blessed be, Woman."

"Blessed be, Man." They heard the click as he ended the call. Maggie turned to him, "Mac, there's something... Oh, nuts. I just want him to come home. That's all it is." She glared at the phone, and went back to the house.

Maggie came out to the garden to find MacLeod. Her face tight with unshed tears. "Mac, there’s something wrong. Joseph is… he doesn’t feel right." She caught the expression on his face, the one that meant - "Caution, woman doing female things"- and stared him down.

"Don’t look at me in that tone of voice. I can’t explain. He went downstairs to his suite early last night. I followed him. He said, he was tired, so I just curled up against him. I woke when he got up; I could hear him in the bathroom, cussing at something. When I asked him if everything was OK, he yelled that he was fine and he didn't need a nursemaid, he could get himself out of bed and dressed.

"Mac, has he said anything to you?"

Duncan thought about it. "He shies away every time I get close. I was on the phone so much yesterday… "

Maggie sat on the bench, "I thought he might be having a bad time with phantom pain again, or the trip hadn’t gone well.... I went to get him some coffee but when I brought it in, he glared at me and told me to get out and leave him alone, he didn't need me hovering."

He took her into his arms, brushing the bright curls back from her face, "Maggie, all of us have bad days. Jet lag, lots of things... Let's just give him some room. He'll be back to normal in a day or two."

Maggie hugged him back, "It bothers me Mac. He’s been jet-lagged before. He didn’t act like this." She got up to go back to the house, "Would you keep an eye on him, please?"

He nodded.

For two days, Mac watched Joe and started to worry himself. Joe didn’t usually snarl at people, but he was curt and snappish with them, the housekeeper… not at all like him. Maggie was growing quiet, afraid to say much of anything to him and he was sleeping alone in his room on the second floor instead of the big master bedroom on the third.

MacLeod caught up with him as he returned from the Paris club, "Hey, Joe. You’ve been so busy we haven’t had a chance to talk. Got a minute?"

Joe wouldn’t meet his eyes. "Can’t it wait till morning, Mac? I’m beat."

"Well, I wanted to go over the panels for the studio… There are so many different styles of soundproofing... "

"I’ll go over it with you tomorrow, Mac. OK?"

Mac put a hand on Joe’s arm. He pulled away. "Just leave me alone, Mac. Stomach’s been giving me hell. Must’ve picked up some bug in the Big Easy."

"Joseph, if there’s a problem…"

"Mac, for God’s sake, let it be. I got food poisoning at some greasy burger joint and you and Maggie want to make a Federal case out of it."

He walked away from MacLeod, heading for his rooms on the second floor.

When Methos made his usual Sunday call home, Mac told him about it, adding, "Maggie’s right. There’s something wrong. She’s tried to talk to him, I have, too, but he’s not cooperating."

"He’s always the one trying to get us to talk," came the wry comment, "Do you want me to come home?"

"Methos, he's known you longer than he’s known me. Maybe he’d talk to you."

"On my way."

"Wanted to have a couple of the artifacts tested and I like the facilities better here, Joe. Wanted to see you guys, too. Gotten too attached, I guess..."

"Sounds like you've been busy."

Methos looked at his watch, "Little early to leave for the Club?"

Joe looked irritated at the question. "Auditioning another new group. If they're any good, I may have them take a set tonight."

"We'll come by and check, OK?"

Joe shrugged, "Suit yourself. Gotta go."

They watched as he made his way out to the car. Mac noting a new slowness in his walk, a change in the way he held his shoulders.

Maggie came into the kitchen with a basket of lavender as they were settling in with coffee. "Oh, Methos, thank you!"

She hung on to him, trying not to cry. Methos held her for a moment. He looked over at Duncan, "Easy, Mags. You’re both right. How long has he been ill?"

Mac looked at him, quietly adding up the things he'd seen, but hadn’t quite coordinated for the last few days.

Maggie told them about finding the new medications in Joe's bag. "He said he'd been having a little more pain than usual and didn't want me to know. He's lying to me, Methos."

"We’ll talk to him in the morning, Mags. We need to find out what’s going on."

He motioned them over to the table, clearing his throat, fussing at his collar. "OK, I guess I should have said something when I first realized there was something wrong." He turned to Maggie, "I didn’t, still don’t, want to admit that there’s anything wrong, I didn’t want to worry you. I should have said something, though, I could have saved you guys a lot of money."

Methos took a sip of coffee, "Well, of course, that’s our only reason for being out here at the crack of dawn. We’re going to be really pissed that we spent all this money and you’re going to go off and die and leave us sitting here with a studio nobody can use."

Maggie went white as a sheet. Mac was more used to Methos’ tactics, but even he was surprised. Joe was stunned. Then, he looked at Methos again, and started laughing. "I can always trust you to get to the heart of the matter, can’t I?" Joe took a deep breath, bracing himself, "All right, I have a type of bone cancer that has not responded to any of the treatments. The docs give me an estimate of 6 months to a year. I’m angry about it, but I’ll try to stop taking it out on my wife and my co-husbands. Anything else?" He stopped, waiting for them to respond.

They were all quiet for a long moment. The silence grew, Joe looking almost relieved that the bomb had been dropped. Then, Mac spoke up, "How can we help, Joe? What can we do?"

"Well, for one thing, you can all promise not to act like I’m dead already." His voice seemed stronger, now that the worst was over, "There are a couple of things I’d like to do, with my family, if possible, places I’d like to see."

Methos moved to his side. "We can take you where ever you’d like to go. The Scot has more money than good sense and I’m not exactly broke. We can finish the studio."

"Finish, not furnish. Maybe Maggie can use it as a temple when the weather is bad." He smiled sadly at her: "I’d haunt it if I could..."

Maggie put her arms around him, her voice was shaking, "I love you, Joseph. We need to talk about this."

He took her hands, shaking his head. "Maggie, please listen to me. I've had this out with the docs already. They've done all they can. I won't spend whatever time I have left hooked up to machines. I've seen too much of that. I am not willing to be a guinea pig or a pincushion. Lady, mine, I want to spend my time with you and my brothers. Let it be... please."

MacLeod watched as she struggled to accept what Joe had said. Could Maggie understand? Mac did. Joe had to make his own choices, no matter how she felt. This decision wasn’t going to be easy for her to accept. The latent nurse in her wanted, needed, to do something.

Finally, she spoke, "You are my Beloved. You have the right to choose for yourself." She looked into his eyes, "Joe, you can change your mind, too, please remember that. End of discussion."

Joe kissed her and MacLeod and Methos stood close. "Your life, Joe. Your choices. We’re here." Methos said quietly.

They decided on a round the world trip. MacLeod proposed, "We can start in Glenfinnen. Autumn is a wonderful time of year in the Highlands. You loved it when we were there before and we won’t have to find Methos this time."

The filthy look he got from his lover sent the rest of them into giggles for half an hour.

They traveled to Greece and the island of Santorini. Methos told them about the explosion that wiped out most of the island and they sailed around it in a boat that looked almost old enough to have carried Ulysses. The older Immortal’s voice caught as he talked, remembering Alexa and how much he’d wanted her to live. MacLeod had an arm around him in a moment, comforting him. They spent a week in Athens, saw the Parthenon and the beauty of the Greek past.

Crete was next and Methos, Dr. Adam Pierson, introduced them to the archeologists conducting ‘his’ dig. Joe watched them bring up pieces of a graceful wine jar and took pictures of the elegant wall paintings. They ate in a small café, enjoying the local food and wines, though Methos drew the line at retsina. "Awful stuff, MacLeod. Trust me, this is not a taste sensation you need."
 

Maggie liked it and refused to agree with him. MacLeod just laughed at him, "No stomach for the solid stuff, old man? I’ve had it before and this is smoothness itself compared to the stuff they made in the 18^th Century."

They’d fussed and teased and drank until the place closed. Then went back to the bed and breakfast and made love until dawn.

Mac took them to Japan and introduced them to Midori Koto, descendant of the Samurai, Hideo Koto, whose sword he carried. They visited Hideo's carefully tended grave and the gardens. Joe loved the place and Midori welcomed them, encouraging them to extend their visit. Joe wanted to visit Mount Fujiama. Standing there, with the sunset streaking the mountain with rose and gold, Maggie looked out toward the peak, "Space and the twelve clean winds are here..."

"Heinlein?" Methos looked up at her, ‘Assignment in Eternity’, isn’t it? I always wondered if he knew about us..."

They visited the elegant bathhouses and traveled around the islands, watching the pearl divers, sampling different foods and treasuring every moment.

They arrived in Paris on a cold bright autumn day. Duncan lit a fire to warm the barge. He and Methos went off to shop for food. Maggie stayed behind to help Joe get settled. The medications were less effective, now. He tired more quickly. They were staying on the barge for a day or two, then back to Dawson House.

Mac played chef, and the seafood and pasta dinner had been wonderful. Methos brought a chocolate torte and they'd been relaxing in front of the fire with dessert and coffee, making plans for Mac's birthday and the holiday celebrations, when the two Immortals suddenly went on the alert.

They talked quietly for a moment, then Duncan pulled on his coat and started down the gangplank, checking the katana as he went. He was met under the bridge by the Immortal they’d sensed. The man gave a ridiculous bow and started off down the nearest alley.

The Immortal led MacLeod to an old warehouse along the river.

Mac wasn’t adverse to a spar, but wasn’t eager to kill. "We don’t have to do this. I’m not headhunting."

"No? I am. Derek Dunbar," He bowed again, "And, I know who you are."

"That does save time."

He shrugged out of his coat. The other man was nervous. It showed in the slight shakiness of the blade and the unbalanced way he stood. MacLeod simply waited. The lighting was poor and there was a lot of trash on the floor.

The attack was vigorous, aggressive, but not terribly skilled. "You know, we can still call this off. Or let it go to first blood. I don’t want to kill you."

"But, I want to kill you."

MacLeod moved out of the way of Dunbar’s blade, his own beating it back easily and scoring the man’s ribs. "Why?"

"You have a reputation. I kill you and I have one, too."

MacLeod’s sword moved in lazy patterns, nicking Dunbar’s clothing. The young fool moved in again, angry now. The madder he got, the more his skills deteriorated and his sword was longer and heavier than he could easily handle. Who the hell had trained this one? Again, MacLeod pinked him, this time across the thigh.

Suddenly, he felt/heard Methos’ signature. Oh, no. Apparently, he’d followed and from the sound of the footsteps, he'd brought Joe and Maggie along. Damn Methos anyway. This young idiot was never going to back off if he had an audience. He tried once more to avoid killing his opponent. "You can always try again later."

"I’d rather do it now." The charge was hard and fast. MacLeod’s response was automatic and the head struck the concrete floor with a crunching thud as the nose and jaw were crushed by the impact.

MacLeod looked at his family, gathered there at the door. Methos looked relieved pleased that his lover was safe but aware of the Quickening and the pain to come. Maggie was pale, standing there between Joe and Methos. Joe examined him, then, satisfied that Mac was all right, took a look at his opponent, still keeping track of things for MacLeod’s Chronicle.

For a long moment, there was no sound, no motion. Then, the eerie flickering that signaled the Quickening started. The scent of ozone and burning wire flooded the big room, and the light bulbs began to explode as the Quickening gathered force. Mac's body was rigid, caught in the first strike of the lightning, his eyes closed against the pain. The galvanic response arched his back and his arms stretched to meet the lightnings.

Against the sound and fury of the Quickening he heard Maggie’s voice, sharp, and frightened. "Joe, Joseph, come back. You’ll be hurt. Joe!"

He opened his eyes to see Dawson, making his way across the concrete, slowly moving into the mist and lightnings of the Quickening. "I want to know what it is, Mac. I have to know¼"

MacLeod saw the lightning crackle through the mortal. He fought to get up, but the energy struck again, blasting him into the ground. Joe was caught by the backlash. He fell to his knees reaching out to MacLeod. The lightning and roaring whirlwind filled their ears, making it impossible for them to speak.

The clear, Immortal memory, gift and curse brought it all back so vividly. He could feel the lightning stabbing through his body and see Methos holding on to Maggie. He saw Joe lying there, his body shuddering as the forces hit mortal flesh. Maggie kept trying to pull away, to get to Joe, but by the time the Quickening faded, it was too late. The mortal was dead.

Maggie screamed at Methos, "How could you let him die?" She struck at him, fury and pain in every line of her body. "Why didn’t you help him? You knew it would kill him, why did you stop me? Get away from me, you bastard!"

She slapped him across the face, breaking his grip on her arms. She stumbled away from him, tears of rage warring with her nguish.

There was nothing else that Duncan could do for his mortal friend. He closed the unseeing gray eyes and gathered Joe into his lap. Methos stood alone pale as a ghost.

Duncan MacLeod, his own tears salt in his mouth, knelt on the cold, bloody floor, the strangled sounds of his weeping echoing Maggie’s sobs, loud in the sudden silence as he cradled his friend in his arms.

"We need to talk."

She nodded, "Yes." She pulled a pouch out of her bag and began cleaning and sharpening her blade.

He lowered the level in his glass. "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell Methos?"

She faced him, resolved to be honest with him. "Duncan... when Joe walked into that Quickening, I lost someone I'd loved for more years than I'd known either of you. At that moment, I didn’t want to think about my possible Immortality or anything except Joe. I hid for a year, just wandering with Sharra, trying understand why he'd left me that way."

Mac looked at her, seeing echoes of the pain he'd felt at the loss of his friend and brother. "Joe was more than my Watcher. I felt like I'd killed him. I needed... I guess I needed your absolution… You disappeared. Maggie, it's been 10 years."

She turned away, tears bright in her eyes. "I blamed you. If you hadn't been an Immortal, there would have been no fight, no Quickening... There was a skewed kind of logic to it." She shrugged her shoulders; "I couldn't be around you, either of you. Methos kept me from going to him, so I hated him even more. All the love I'd had for you was twisted, changed into something vile."

MacLeod nodded, "I understand, I guess... We looked for you, you know. Methos never stopped looking."

"I am sorry, Mac. I just couldn't face him. I went back to the States, sold the shop and just drifted for a while between Orleans and San Francisco." She stopped. The silence between them grew painful. Duncan got up and refilled her glass.

"Duncan," her voice was low, "Where is Methos?"

He turned away, his voice a harsh whisper. "He left me some years ago. He e-mails me once in a while."

"I thought the two of you would always be together..." She reached out to him, responding to the hurt in his voice.

"I wanted that, but he felt that together, we were too much of a target." His voice grew even quieter. "He was afraid he’d be used to get me, or I’d be used to get to him. That’s what he said."

She shook her head; "You didn’t believe him…"

Mac’s jaw clinched, "No."

"You could have gone to the house… I went back several times over the years. I know you didn’t sell it…."

"Joe left it to the three of us. Methos made sure he was the owner of record. It was Methos' little joke, I think, the Dawson Family Trust. He'd owned the property for over a hundred years."

"I know. Maybe he's there now."

"No." He looked at the fire, seeing faces in the flames. "Not for several years, I think. He was in Tibet again last month. I've never been sure why he goes there. It's more dangerous all the time."

"You were the anchor for him. Without you, he drifts from place to place."

He turned to look at her again, "How did it happen?"

"What?"

"Your Immortality."

She put the clean, shining blade down and paced back to the fireplace, then to the window. "I’d gone back to visit Cassandra several times. There was so much I could learn from her and she was finally willing to teach me. I remember celebrating Full Moon, Summer Solstice…she wanted to talk after we finished. She felt there was a strong possibility that I was a pre-Immortal.

"I went back to the States to do some checking and found my grandmother’s records. My parents had one child. She was less than a year old. Grandmother said I appeared to be about two. There was a note on a card pinned to my blanket. ‘Happy Birthday, Magdalene’. She took both of us and never said anything."

"After Joe died, I didn’t know what to do. I went back to Cassandra, again."

"You two had taught me to handle a sword, but depending on that skill to stay alive hadn’t even crossed my mind. I was fairly old to become an Immortal. Cassandra said I needed to make a choice, kill myself or wait, becoming less able to defend myself every mortal year. It had to be my decision. We talked about it for weeks. It seemed like the cruelest thing, to be an Immortal when Joe was dead."

She went back to the fireplace staring into the flames. The wood smoke smelled like the cottage in Scotland. She could feel the blade in her hands. The years drifted back…

"I choose the grove I'd been using for Full Moon celebrations. It was quiet there. Cassandra had it covered with the same illusion that hid her cottage. The only sound was the faint rustling of the leaves. I cast a Circle, and waited until I could get my breathing under control. Duncan, I don't think I've ever been so frightened in my life.

"Beside the great oak in the eastern quarter of the Circle, there was a boulder I'd used as an altar. It had a flat top and I laid my sword on top of it, bracing it against the tree. I used my belt to hold everything together. I stripped off my clothes and stuffed them into the backpack. No need to get blood on them and, if we were wrong, burying me would be easier if Cassandra didn't have to undress me first."

MacLeod put a hand on her shoulder, "Maggie, you could have come to us. We would have helped you."

"I wasn't ready to see you again, Mac. It had only been nine months since Joe's death." She took a mouthful of the brandy, trying to stay calm. "It was still a raw ache in me. Blaming you was wrong, but I did."

He pulled her into his arms, holding her close for a moment. "It’s OK, Maggie." He guided her over to sit on the bed. "Go on."

"There was nothing further I could do to prepare. I called to Her, "Mother, if you have given me this burden to bear, I will accept it. If Cassandra and I are wrong... Then, forgive me, may I journey to the Isles of the Blessed, and may Joseph and I be together again in that life or another. Cassandra has no blame for this, Lady Mother. It is my choice."

"I walked sunward to the west side of the grove. Then, I turned and ran against the sword. The pain took me by surprise and the smell of blood and my own gut was making me ill. The grove was darkening around me and my last conscious thought was that Cassandra wouldn't find me till morning."

Duncan took her in his arms. She was shaking with the force of the memory. "It's OK, love. I lived through it." She patted his cheek, "When I came back, there were stars overhead. It was past moonrise. The full moon had turned the grove into a web of shadows and silver light. I heard the soft calling of an owl and the padding steps of one of the nocturnal hunters.

"I'd fallen beside the tree. My sword had been knocked loose as I fell. I was cold now, the dew soaking and chilling me. I got to my feet. I had a bath wrap in my pack. I put it on and started back toward the cottage."

"The waterfall was a pale mist against the dark rocks. I plunged into the pool below it, rinsing off the blood and dead leaves then scrubbed myself clean. Every nerve was alive. All my senses were clearer, sharper.

I could smell the lavender and verbena; there was a trace of fox and the powdery scent of the owl. The waterfall seemed to sing. I could hear each ripple in the water and a dozen insect sounds filled the air. The wind in the trees around the waterfall hummed to the hunters, and I could feel every heartbeat. The night was so alive around me."

She smiled at Duncan. "I dried off and put my clothes back on. For a long time, I just sat there in the moonlight and starshine, drinking in the sheer joy of being alive. I knew there would be pain, I'd seen enough of it in the lives of my Immortal friends, but for this moment, I knew your joy, too."

Duncan rubbed her shoulders, easing the tight knots. "I wish you had come back… "

"I needed time, Duncan. The hate was still there. Cassandra sent me on to Cerridwyn for further training, healing. She understood."

"She always did. How long were you with her?"

"Three years. She's a good teacher, Duncan. She helped me come to terms with Joe's death. Most of the nightmares stopped. I miss him, still, though."

He poured each of them another drink and paused for a moment, looking into the amber liquor in his glass. "Me too, Maggie. He was a brave man."

"Did you know he was going to do that, walk into the Quickening?"

Mac shook his head, "No. I think Methos might have had some idea. You know neither of us could have stopped him."

"I've taken heads, Mac. I've had the Quickenings raging over me, pinning me like an insect."

He got up and moved to her, blotting her tears with his sleeve. "I wish it had been different..."

She sighed and let herself be enveloped in his arms.

MacLeod looked so alone. She reached up to smooth his hair back. "It’s good to be with you, now." They stood there for a moment, the sense of ‘home’ strong for both of them.

He smiled, "How did you find me?"

She settled at the foot of the bed with the brandy. "I'd been in San Francisco. Bev bought the antique store and she called me saying Adam had been in, asking for me. I realized I had to talk to you, both of you. I still had the codes for the 'back door' Methos set up to the Watcher database. You'd used it a few days ago and there was a trace to a flat in Paris."

"But you came here?"

She nodded, "Somehow, I picked up another Immortal in San Francisco. I thought I'd lost him at the airport, but he caught up with me and followed me here. You know the rest."

There was a particularly nasty bolt of lightning and an almost instantaneous roll of thunder. MacLeod almost fell, grabbing the bedpost to stay upright, "Methos!"

Maggie heard/felt the scream, too, and reached for her sword as Mac turned and grabbed his coat and the katana. "Come on, he’s close by."

Mac, there are two of ‘em."

He didn’t waste time replying. They ran out into the storm, fear making their hearts pound.

The lightnings were thick around the end of the parking lot. They could see the pale shadow that was Methos, on the ground, splayed against the asphalt, the white mist holding him captive. The second man darted in as the mist dissipated, his sword raised to take Methos’ head. MacLeod was running, trying to beat the swing. He threw the katana trying to knock the other Immortal off balance.

Methos rolled out from under the downstroke, his own blade thrusting up into the belly of his attacker. He rose up on his knees, yanked the sword free and decapitated the other Immortal.

Mac reached him and picked up his katana, in case there were others, but neither of them could sense another of their kind in the area.

Methos went down again, the full force of the second Quickening blasting him against the dark ground.

MacLeod barely waited for the last of the storm before gathering the other man and lifting him to his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. "Get to my car. We’re leaving. Now!"

Maggie didn’t bother arguing with him. She collected the Ivanhoe sword Methos had dropped and followed him over to the new Land Rover. She got in the back seat and Mac laid Methos’ unconscious body in her lap. Mac slid into the driver’s seat and tossed her the phone. "Hit 3 on the speed dial then hold it till I’m on the road."

She obeyed, telling the voice at the other end to please hold. Mac reached back for the phone and gave instructions to the other party. He listened intently, then ended the call.

"Where to, Mac?"

"Orleans, but we’re going to mess up the trail a bit first."

Maggie held Methos close, realizing how much she’d missed him. He was freezing and she dug under the seat for a lap robe to wrap around him. The plaid looked familiar and she almost laughed as she recognized the MacLeod pattern.

Mac turned at the sound. "Rachel sent me a couple of them. She gets them from the wealthy side of the family at Castle Dunvegan."

She laughed, "You’ve got more money than god, Mac." She pulled Methos closer, trying to warm him with her own heat. "Duncan, he’s still out."

MacLeod was focused on driving. "He took two Quickenings in a row. All we can do right now is keep him warm. If he’s not back by the time, we get to the house¼ we’ll worry about it then."

She nodded and went on rubbing Methos’ long back muscles, hoping for some reaction.

They drove for hours. MacLeod took back roads, circling around to Paris and, when he was certain they weren’t being followed, turned back, headed for Orleans.

The phone rang, loud in the silence. Mac answered it, listened, then ended the call with a quiet, "Thank you." 

He looked in the rear view mirror. "Your car is on the way to the house. They’ll have food ready for us when we get there."

"You were expecting this."

"I was hoping he’d come back, someday. The house is better protected than the barge was and I wanted him to be safe." His voice was quiet, "I just wanted all of us to be safe."

There was a faint sigh from the body in her lap and she gently kissed his forehead. "Its OK, Methos. I’m here. So’s Duncan. We’re on the way to the Dawson House, love. Just rest..."

His eyes opened, he looked at her, and shivered. "Mon Dieu ¼" His hands gripped hers and there were tears in his eyes, "Jeanette," His voice was so soft she wasn’t sure she’d heard him right. He reached up to touch her face.

She smiled, afraid to try to talk.

MacLeod split his attention between the road and the rear view mirror, "We’ll be at the house in no time, Methos. Just relax."

Maggie saw the shock on his face. He tried to lift himself, but the Quickening rippled over him again and he was silent. Energies seemed to flare again and again. He convulsed against her, the muscles spasming hard enough to break bones.

"Mac, there's something wrong. There are lightnings flashing across his body..."

"Must be a trick of the light, car's moving, Maggie."

"Duncan MacLeod, I am bright enough to tell the difference between a street lights and a Quickening. How far away are we?"

"Sorry, Maggie. We're about 20 minutes away. Hang on to him, if you can. There's a shortcut."

Maggie braced Methos' head and shoulders against her breast. She tried to keep him from throwing himself against the ceiling and front seats of the car. The blue flashes sparked across his face and body, racking him with increasing convulsions. A jagged bolt jumped from his body to hers. She almost let go of him as the pain lanced through her. He arched again and went limp.

"Ah, gods, that hurt." She checked Methos’ vitals. "Duncan, he's dead again... I don't like this."

Mac was met at the door by an older man who greeted him warmly, helped them get Methos into Mac’s arms, then took the Rover around the back to the garage. "Come on, Maggie, let’s get him up stairs."

She looked all around, happy to be back at the old manor house. The elevator was working again and Mac leaned Methos against his shoulder as the quiet lift took them to the third floor of the house. The master suite was warm, a welcoming blaze flickering in the deep stone fireplace. The deep blue drapes she’d chosen years ago for the tall windows glowed in the lamplight.

MacLeod took Methos directly into the big bath, striping off his bloody clothes as he went.

Maggie put them in the plastic bag some kind soul had provided and followed them.

Mac muttered, "He hasn’t revived… That second Quickening was a nasty one."

Maggie helped him lift the still form into the warm bath. "No pulse?"

"No. I thought he was all right."

In the brighter lights of the bath, Methos was gray, looking like a week old corpse. Several of the wounds hadn’t healed and his eyes were fixed and dilated. "There’s no response to light, Mac. Let’s get him bathed and into something warm."

MacLeod washed Methos gently, knowing he couldn’t feel anything but reluctant to be rough with a body that looked so young, so vulnerable.

Maggie rubbed him dry and helped wrap him in a cotton bath sheet. They settled the down quilts around him and turned as Madame Snyder brought in a tray.

"I brought onion soup, Monsieur MacLeod. You and Madame Dawson looked cold. Is Monsieur Pierson ill, sir? I can call a doctor"

"No, he’ll be all right, Isabelle. He had a rough fight earlier."

"Ah, yes. The swords, Jacques has always said you and Monsieur Adam were very good, like the old days."

Maggie laughed, "See, Mac. I told you they were special."

Isabelle gave them an old fashioned bow and helped MacLeod set up the folding table.

She gave the tureen a last stir and turned to Maggie, "We found a copy of the Bast figure, just as you asked. Jacques installed it over Sharra’s little grave. Perhaps you would like to see it later?"

Maggie’s eyes closed for a moment. "Thank you, Isabelle. I was hoping you’d be able to do that. How’s your father’s book coming along?"

"He says it is almost finished. Dr. Pierson offered to proof read for him. It will please him to know all of you are home."

"It may be a while, Isabelle. He’s still not recovered…"

"Oh, there’s no hurry. Oh, Magdalene, we have a pair of Ragdoll cats, downstairs, David and Bathsheba. I think you would like them. The young male is very bright."

"Maybe later after things settle down a bit, Isabelle."

"Of course, now don’t let the soup get cold, Monsieur MacLeod. It will make you feel better." She took bag with the bloodstained clothes in it and closed the door quietly.

MacLeod looked at Maggie, "You’ve been back often?"

"I stayed for a few weeks at a time. I had a hard time being close to Joseph’s rooms, though. Then, I’d head for London or San Francisco…"

"Methos’ wanderlust is catching…"

Maggie started ladling the aromatic soup into the heavy earthenware bowls. She added the crusty bread and the cheese and slid them into the small toaster oven in the buttery. Moments later she brought them back to the table with the layer of toasted bread and cheese bubbling and fragrant. "Isabelle’s right. There’s nothing more warming than a good bowl of soup."

Mac started in on the soup, hungrier than he realized.

"Her family cared for the de Longueville lands for generations. I’m not sure how far back they go. They’re our Watchers, when we're here. Joe made sure they wouldn’t invade our privacy. There’s a note that you took a student, about 10 years ago and that he looked a lot like Adam Pierson. No further conclusions."

They finished the soup and got into the big bed, holding Methos between them, sitting up with him through the night, waiting for him to breathe, to heal. The quiet room lulled them to sleep.

The east windows of the big room were brightening as Maggie woke. Methos' legs lay across her lap. The increasing light showed MacLeod lying there beside her, Methos gathered in against his chest. There was still no further healing and Methos’ face was still cold.

She got up quietly and took care of morning things, starting coffee in the buttery and taking a fast shower. The reddish brown streaks against the pale porcelain sent shudders through her. She rinsed the tub down. The wardrobe still held clothes from her last visit. She pulled on a favorite pair of jeans and an old sweatshirt.

A sound from the bed startled her. Maggie hurried to them, but Methos was unchanged. Duncan was rubbing his hands and arms, choking back tears, "He just lays there, Maggie. He isn’t healing... Nothing."

"Maybe he just needs more time, Mac."

"It’s taking too long. Way too long."

"Is there anything else we should do?"

"Talk to him. Keep pushing at him to come back, hope, pray. I don't know."

Methos’ face looked so young, so fragile in its stillness. For hours, Mac held him, talking to him. The flashes of lightning still flickered feebly over his body. Slowly, the deep slashes closed, but there was still no heartbeat. The healing continued but so slowly…

Maggie sat with Methos while Mac went to talk with Jacques about the house and checked on Maggie’s car. She’d given Mac the keys to the airport locker. Jacques returned the rental car and collected her luggage for her. He’d been cautious returning to the house. MacLeod’s orders had been specific and Jacques’ loyalty to him, and Dr. Pierson, was older that any he had to the Watchers.

She spent the rest of the day putting things away, reacquainting herself with the house and avoiding Joe’s rooms. She came back to the master suite to find MacLeod half-dozing, his arms around Methos as though he could somehow pour his own strength into his lover.

"Mac, are you OK? You look almost as bad as he does."

He leaned his head back against the headboard of the old fashioned four-poster bed. The quiet, pained voice spoke softly, "I hoped we’d be able to talk. I don’t even know if he was coming back to me or if this was just a coincidence, his being at the inn."

Maggie settled herself next to him, one arm around him, one on Methos’ shoulder. "I’d say he was coming back, Duncan. The ‘Coq Rouge’ is really off the beaten path."

"But, I don’t know, for certain. I never know for certain with him. I love him, but there are times I don’t ‘like’ him. He always runs away…"

"He does love you."

"It was not knowing, Maggie. Not knowing where he was. How he was."

"You knew he was alive."

"Yes, but that wasn’t enough to stop the dreams. I woke in a complete panic, a thousand times dreaming he was dying somewhere."

MacLeod got up and stood over by the window. The weather had changed, rain was turning into snow. "I was so angry with him."

"Losing people is always hard for me, Maggie. I grew up belonging to a very tightly knit family. I never knew I was a foundling, Maggie. Then, in less than a day's time, I died and the man I'd called my father all my life banished me from the clan as a demon."

MacLeod’s eyes closed, Mac’s voice was raw, grating. "When you left, it was bad enough, but when he disappeared, I felt abandoned by everything we’d created. In that first year, after Methos left, I went back to Seacouver. I tried living on the island. The silence was terrible. I’d grown used to the feel of a family again, the sound of Joe’s guitar, your teasing and Methos loving me.

"You’d gone, hating me because Joe was dead." MacLeod’s face was drawn, his eyes closed against the memories. "Then, Methos vanished. Needing to heal, he said. I hadn’t done anything to him. I had no way to stop Joe. I felt guilty enough, and then he said he needed to heal. How had I hurt him? Why did he let me think I’d hurt him so badly he had to leave? That felt like a lie. He’d lied to me before, but after the Horsemen, I thought we were being honest with each other. I was being honest with him¼

"That winter, I was so alone. I wanted him so badly, needed the touch of his hand, to hear his voice, to hear a voice that loved me. It was my birthday, the winter solstice and there was no one to care if I lived or died… I went swimming, hoping the cold lake water would help me get some sort of focus." Mac’s voice dropped. His eyes were bright with tears. "The water was like ice and it soothed me, somehow. I swam out toward the center, trying to find my center. Trying to be part of something.

"I swam until I was so tired I couldn’t lift my arms. It was dark out, and all I could feel was pain. I let myself sink down into the water and let the cold take me. There was nothing I wanted to go back to, no one to welcome me home or sit by the fire with me. The blackness was all there was and I welcomed it.

"I stayed dead for weeks. And then, I would wake, trapped in the water plants and the bottom muck¼ and die again. Finally, I guess I thrashed around enough to break free and the next time I woke, I was on the beach." He was looking out the window, his voice a soft monotone. "I didn't want to go on alone. I took challenges, fought, almost hoping someone would take my head, anything to stop the pain… I think the only reason I’m still alive is that my body was too well trained to allow me to lose.

Maggie came over to stand beside him. Tentatively, she reached out to brush the tears away, "You’re here, now, Duncan. You’re home. We’re home."

"Am I?" The bleakness in the question tore at Maggie’s soul. He turned to look at her. "I think I understood why you left, Maggie. What I didn’t understand was Methos leaving without a word, except that damned note."

Maggie held him close, wanting to help, to do something to ease his pain and her own.

The silence grew around them, both of them wanting to find a way to make things right. Both of them unwilling to lose the family they'd just started to regain.

Maggie brought Duncan's face to hers, kissing him gently, "You are home." Maggie's voice was low, her own pain sharp. "I was wrong to leave you. I was wrong to blame you for something that Joe needed to do. I'd always understood his need to be independent. I forgot that for a time. I should have been willing to talk to you both. Maybe things would have been different¼"

"Maybe there is no solution, Maggie. Maybe¼." He turned on his heel to leave the room and the still figure on the bed.

Maggie caught his arm, holding him, insisting that he stay. She gathered him close, wiping away his tears. "It’s all right love. He won’t leave us."

He pulled from her. "No¼ He will leave, Maggie. He always does. Maybe I was wrong to come back."

"Duncan, I know how much his leaving hurt you. Joe and I watched you dance around each other for so long, waiting for you to admit how much you loved each other. Sometimes, I think Methos forgets how to love, how not to be afraid… " She took his face in her hands, insisting that he listen to her, "He’s not evil, not even bad. He’s afraid and when he’s afraid, he runs. Don’t let his fear make you run."

He kissed her, accepting the comfort she was offering. "I won’t run, Maggie. Help me? He hides behind the sarcasm and wise cracks and gets me angry enough that I lose track of what I’m trying to say. I know he’s doing it, but I let him do it anyway."

"He does it with everyone, Duncan. He always has, but he doesn’t need to do it with us."

"Maybe."

"Worth trying?"

"Yeah. Worth trying."

He hugged her, again and planted a quick kiss on her cheek. "All right, Maggie. I’ll keep an eye on him. You want to get us some sandwiches or something?"

She nodded and left the room. For a long time, Duncan stood there looking out the window at the sleeting rain. He shook off the lethargy and went over to Methos, checking on his progress.

Maggie brought up a tray and they ate quietly. Maggie had the sound system on with some of the quieter classical music she loved. Mac stayed by the bed, sipping at his Scotch, and waiting for some sign of life from his friend and lover.

Maggie had to get out of the house. With Methos improving, she could take a little time to deal with the aftermath of her own fight. She waited until Mac was through showering, then went out to look at the grounds.

The Snyders had apparently used her plans for herb gardens and restoration of the original maze. Close to the kitchen garden grew the scented plants she'd planned for sachets and potpourris. There was an abundance of lavender, and the sun-warmed plants gave off a fragrance that freshened her spirits. She stopped for a moment by the Bast Shrine that marked Sharra's grave. "Miss you, Little Fur."

MacLeod came up behind her. "You OK, Mags?"

"Please, Mac, don’t call me that. He’s the only one I ever let get away with it"

"Sorry, Maggie. He's looking better. I think he is hearing us. I asked Isabelle to sit with him. I think she’s reading from her father’s files, the book on the house. Apparently the Duke de Longueville was granted it in the 1400’s as a reward for his services to the French crown."

Maggie sat on a broad bench facing the house. "This house isn’t that old, but I remember Joe saying an Italian nobleman bought the property during the Second Empire and he’s the one who built this house."

"I think that was Methos," Mac settled beside her, looking out toward the vineyard he’d restored years earlier. "Property is always a good investment and he has places stashed away all over the world."

She laughed, "That does sound like him. I hope he wakes soon." She leaned back, rubbing her neck. "There was an ugliness to the fighting that night. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that many challenges going on at the same time."

Mac gently moved her hands away and started massaging her neck and shoulders. "Anything show up in the Watcher’s database yet?"

"Yes, they identified the man I killed, but he's credited to you. Emile Dupre, he was working as an enforcer for the local equivalent of the Mafia. Usually confined himself to new Immortals. I wasn't shielding."

"Anything else?"

"The man you killed, McGuire, is in your list. Nothing on Methos' fight yet. They apparently don’t have a Watcher on him." She rubbed her eyes. "There haven’t been many reports of Immortals taking sequential Quickenings. In most of the cases, they were taken by the second man before they could recover from the first Quickening."

"That’s not reassuring."

"You’re right. Let’s go up and see what Madame has managed for lunch."

"Suits."

Mac got up, lifting her with him, his arm around her, friendly, not demanding. She felt the strength of him like sun warmed granite beside her. He brushed her hair back, caressing her face.

They stood for a moment. Duncan gently lifted her chin and kissed her. "You're still shaking from your fight."

She returned the kiss and he savored the taste of her mouth against his. He drew her into his arms, holding her close. His hand stroked through the silky curls. "I'm glad you're back, Maggie. So glad..."

She pressed herself against him, welcoming his kisses on her neck and shoulders. He slid his hands up under the sweatshirt, lifting it off. He felt her shiver as the cool breeze touched her bare skin. He could feel the life in her, her warmth. His kisses grew more demanding and she leaned back letting him caress her breasts, feeling the nipples crinkling into hard points against his chest. He unfastened her jeans and slid them down her hips. Her pale cream skin glowed in the late afternoon sunlight. She reached for his shirt. MacLeod lifted his arms so she could pull it off, then unbuttoned his jeans.

He lifted her onto his bare thighs. His hands stroked her face, her back. Gently he drew a finger along the curve where her hip and thigh met. She arched her back at his touch and he let his thumb rub lightly against her clit. The soft moan urged him on and he felt himself harden against the wet warmth of her. He brushed the tips of his fingers against her nipples, feeling her press against his touch. His heart began to pound as her responses encouraged him. Her arms were around him, now, her mouth on his. He tasted the coffee and a hint of cinnamon as her tongue traced the curve of his lips and pushed past to touch his.

Duncan eased her forward, lifting her slightly and centering her over him. He entered her in one slow glide. She trembled as his cock throbbed against her clit. They held each-other close, waiting for a moment. Maggie tightened around him, drawing him deeper into her own heat. He thrust into her; his powerful arms held her close against his chest. The fierce energy she'd been holding in since the Quickening exploded into life and she moaned low against his mouth. His lips opened suckling her tongue, nipping along her chin, licking at her throat. She felt as though the Quickening’s fire followed his mouth. Her hands reached for his shoulders to brace herself against his driving force. Hungry mouths met and brought the deep fires to the surface. Movement became frantic, needy.

His mouth nuzzled her breasts, sucking the nipples into an aching hardness. Maggie felt him moving within her and sensed her own orgasm starting. The sudden clinching around his cock triggered his orgasm and they let the ripple of muscle and flooding warmth carry them along. Nothing else in the world mattered to either of them for a long moment.

His hands stroked gently along her cheek and chin. "It's been so long, Maggie, Magdalene... I'd almost forgotten what you look like with your face flushed and your hair flying."

"I've missed you, too, Duncan. Missed waking in the middle of that happy tangle..." She turned, looking back at the house. "I want Methos back, too, Duncan." She brushed a hand across his cheek; "I'll never forget Joseph. He lives on in my heart and my dreams. He loved you and Methos. I want to share that love again. I know things change, even for Immortals, but love is never really lost, is it?"

Duncan wrapped her in his arms. "You are loved, Magdalene." He kissed her eyelids and held her close for a moment. She rested her cheek against his heart, letting the solid sound of its beating anchor her in reality.

Reluctantly, they broke apart and collected their clothes. He helped her into the jeans and let her button his shirt. "Let's go check on our partner. Isabelle can bring us up some lunch."

They walked back to the house arm in arm.

Methos did look more alive. His color was pale but decidedly better. The wounds were completely closed and his heartbeat was stronger.

MacLeod settled himself against the headboard, bringing Methos' head against his shoulder. He was asleep in moments. Maggie busied herself putting things away and called Isabelle to take the tray. In the quiet room there was a sudden gasp for air. MacLeod was awake in an instant. "Come on, old man, talk to me. You've been lazing around while we do all the work."

Methos opened his eyes, looking around the room, his eyes not quite focused. Mac moved then, lifting him against the pillows and getting a glass of water for him. He held it to Methos' mouth, giving him a moment to take it. "Merci."

Mac took the glass away. Methos peered intently at him, "Mon Senieur, il n’est pas juste pour vous, d’être mon serviteur."

("My lord, it is not right that you should act as my servant")

Mac was startled, "Quelle êtes, Methos? Servant?"

"You wish me to use English? Of course, my lord." Methos shook his head as though trying to clear his vision. He looked around the room again, noticing the woman with her back to him. He continued, quietly, "Perhaps you should speak to me as 'Antonio', Jean. There are others here."

MacLeod followed his eyes, not quite understanding. "Is that the name you've been using?"

"Sire?"

He tried to see if Methos was teasing, "Your manners are better. Somebody decide to civilize you?"

Methos rubbed his eyes, "Only you, my lord. I am well enough now. Should we ride on to Chinon?"

Now Mac was worried, "No... We've been staying here."

Methos looked at the curtains, the furniture, surprise showing at the chairs, the lights in the room. "Where are we, Jean?"

"What? Methos, we’re in the home you sold to us. We bought it from you about ten years ago."

Shock flashed across Methos' face. He went still, "I do not own... Surely, I would remember such a transaction..."

Maggie came back to the bed, "Methos, what's the last thing you remember?"

He looked at her for a moment and his eyes grew wide, terrified. "My Lady... But you are ... dead." He turned to MacLeod, "You were there, Jean... we saw the fire..." His eyes filled with tears.

MacLeod took his hand, "Who are you seeing, Methos? This is Maggie. Look at her, Methos. She's alive..."

The man on the big bed closed his eyes. There was pain in every line of his body. "Of course, it cannot be. She was no Immortal, my lord. No matter how much I wished it. You¼ both of you are Immortals."

"Yes, Methos... I’m Immortal, too." Maggie moved up beside him. "Do you remember the house outside of Orleans, Dawson House?"

Plainly agitated, he looked at her, trying to understand. "Two Immortals, neither holding a weapon, neither acting as though you had in mind to challenge me. How is this possible? Who are you?"

Mac came closer, "Duncan, Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod. Honestly, Methos, you know me, we’ve been friends for years."

Maggie came to stand behind him, a hand on his shoulder. "Duncan. He really doesn’t know us."

Methos rubbed at his eyes again, frantically trying to clear his vision. "Where did you say we are?"

Duncan spoke softly, "This is the master bedroom of the house you built over a hundred years ago, Methos. We’ve come back here… we all three came back here a few days ago. You don’t remember me?"

"You… " They could see him forcing himself to slow his racing heart, to comprehend what they’d just told him. "For a moment, I thought you were Jean, Jean de Cani, my sworn lord. My friend."

"You thought you knew me, too, Methos. Who were you seeing?"

The words came quietly from the pale man on the bed. "My Lady du Lys, the Maid."

MacLeod sat beside him on the bed and took his hands. The long fingers twitched, afraid of the stranger whose face was so familiar. "Can you tell me what year is this?"

"My lord, forgive me… Duncan ... The last time I remember… You sent for me to attend … He called me to the trial, Jeanette's Rehabilitation. We were in Orleans, autumn of 1456?"

MacLeod looked at Methos, than at Maggie. "1456... but that was 500 years ago..."