Out of the Darkness-Part One

"What Dreams May Come"

The morning fog muffled the sound of the waves rolling into shore.  Gray velvet wrapped the beach and only the occasional cry of a sleepy gull, annoyed at being disturbed, broke through. The smell of cold rock and sand, salt mist tingling against his face…  Long years had passed since the last time he'd set foot on these beaches.

Duncan MacLeod wiped the condensation from his face with the sleeve of his windbreaker.  He was cold and, for a moment, he thought about returning to the rented car for his long coat.  The short jacket he’d been driving in let too much of the wind chill his legs.  His loneliness let too much of his pain chill his heart.

He’d stopped on impulse, a familiar sign at the crossroad reminding him of the small inn he and Tessa visited during their early years together.  She'd walked miles with him.  Their footprints shone down the beach behind him through the afternoons, on into the moonlit nights.  He could hear her laughing, feel her hands on his arm as she tried to get him to put shells around the top of the sandcastle they'd built at the rocky end of the beach.

They'd wound up wrestling like puppies, until both of them were laughing so hard they had to stop for breath.  She'd looked up at him, her eyes shining, sand in her hair, her blouse pulled awry, "I love you, Duncan."

"I love you, too, sweetheart."  He'd been startled into joy at her words.  They'd come back to his home in Seacouver, no commitment offered or made, and then in one golden, sunlit moment, she had given him the priceless gift of her love.

The inn had become another special place for them.  Like Paris, like the antique shop she'd remodeled, the inn was a place where they played.

The play had stopped; her loving heart stopped by bullets from the gun of a drug addict.  Everything had changed.  It seemed that from that moment, kneeling there on the asphalt, holding her lifeless body against his heart, his life had grown darker.  The darkness threatened to drag him under, killing that part of him that had lived in the sunlight of Tessa's smile.

The months following Tessa's death had been hard for him. The boy, Richie, had died too. Suddenly forced into his own Immortality, Richie'd needed him.  Duncan tried to put his own pain aside, to be a teacher just as Connor had been his teacher.  The appearance of Annie Devlin a few months later had shocked him.  Richie had no fear and that in itself frightened Duncan.  He didn't want to lose the boy, too.  How do you train a youngster who'd never faced a battle?  Richie survived by using his talents for charming people.  He could handle himself in an ordinary fistfight but not in an Immortal battle with someone who'd spent several generations wielding a sword.

He'd sent Richie away after he took his first head.  That was the right thing to do. He should never have welcomed the boy back.  That had set the stage for Richie's death and that loss was still an aching emptiness in his heart.

Voices whispered out of the fog at him, Ann saying, "I want to go home..." His father, fear of the demon making it a shout, " Yer no my son!"...  Sean Burns, "I can't help you without my head"...  Kalas, snide, "Stay noble, MacLeod, it's what you're good at..."

The cacophony swelled around him making the peaceful beach a battleground for all the dead enemies, all the lost friends and lovers...  He sank to his knees, the pain too much, too hard to live with.

He must have dozed off.  Hugh Fitzcairn's laugh rang in his ears.  "That bull had a talent, MacLeod.  I don't think I've seen anything so funny in the last hundred years."

They were walking along the Quay in Paris, laughing about a golf game.  Then with dizzying suddenness, it was Methos he was talking to, his back slamming against the truck, hearing him gloating about killing "thousands, ten thousands…"

"We're through!"

Methos' voice was low, frighteningly intense. "No we're not, MacLeod.  You have too much potential.  I'm not through with you yet."

"What the hell are you talking about, old man?  I'm certainly through with you."

"No, Mac.  We are just beginning."  Methos' eyes were that odd amber-green…  glaring at him.  "I wish you hadn't been with Cassandra that day.  I planned to tell you about Kronos, but with her there, you wouldn't have listened to me anyway.  She'd marked you as her own."

"What do you mean?"

"What do you remember about the first time you met her?"

Duncan tried to remember that long ago day.  "There was a wolf killing our sheep.  My cousin, Robert and I were hunting it.  I laid a snare and suddenly the wolf was there… The wolf came at me… The next thing I knew… "

Methos waited, then, "Well?"

MacLeod blushed, "I woke up lying on big four-poster bed.  There was a wolf skin there, glass eyes gleaming at me.  It scared the hell out of me."

"Yes, and then?"

The memories were shaded, unclear.  "I remember how high the bed seemed.  It smelled sweet… like flowers…"

Methos' voice was soft, hypnotic.  "How old were you, Duncan?"

"I was…thirteen."

"Had you ever been with a woman?"

The question startled him.  "Methos, I was thirteen years old.  I'd barely kissed girls, let alone anything else."

The nagging voice kept at him. "What happened after you woke up?"

"I … I don't remember…"

"Yes, you do."

"Methos, if I remembered, I'd say so."

"She didn't want you to remember.  All she wanted you to remember was that you felt good when you were with her.  You remember how her hair smelled and the jasmine and rose she perfumed her clothes with."

He nodded, the memory clear.  "Yes… There was mint, too.  And there were lilacs in a jug on the table."

Methos nodded at him. "There's more."

Suddenly, he was standing there in the trees beside the spring.  He could smell the grass stems he'd crushed coming into the grove.  The water gurgled and splashed into the basin below the little waterfall.  He could hear someone singing…  Then there was a warm darkness, like velvet and the scent of jasmine and violets.

"She seduced you.  At least, I didn't stoop to that."

"No!  That's not what happened." Duncan tried to escape the dream.  Methos was lying.  He had to be lying.

Methos' voice was quieter now, sad. "I am not lying to you, Duncan.  I knew when I saw her with you that she'd taken your innocence.  She was no better than the rest of us.  She knew what you would become and decided that she could best assure her own survival by having you in reserve.  It wasn't that she couldn't fight.  She was good enough and the Voice gave her a weapon against most of us."

"No…  She wouldn't do that… You don't understand."

The voice was rueful, "Oh, I understand.  She became a dream, a fantasy you carried with you from that day on."

"You're wrong."

"No, MacLeod.  You see what you want to see.  You always have."

"No!"

"No." he repeated, waking on the lonely beach.  That damn dream again.  It tormented his sleep…  Now he wasn't safe from it during the day.  There was warmth against his face... the sun was beginning to make headway against the fog.  His pocket watch was in the car, but he knew he’d been huddled there by the rocks for several hours.

His original intent had been to go to his island, but the Watchers knew about it.  He hated the prying eyes, constant reminder that he was observed, his battles noted, tallied like some obscene sport.  He didn’t need anything to remind him how close to death he and all his kind lived.

Death.   O’Rourke had offered it to him.  The end of all the pain, all the decisions about life and death had been held out to him, a gift, a gift of life to Amanda and Joe…  Death had robbed him of that.  Methos had leveled a field he no longer wanted to play on.  Methos had insisted that he live.

Methos. Methos was gone when he came back from putting Amanda in a cab.  Somehow, he hoped Methos would stay.

Why had Methos insisted that he live?  Didn’t he understand how much living hurt?  He had no real reason to continue.  The Game sickened him.  Hadn't there been enough killing?  Wasn't there enough blood on his hands and on his soul?

Amanda was gone again.  She would always flit in and out of his life, never settling anywhere for long.  Joe was a mortal.  Connor had hidden himself away in the Highlands, seldom even heard from. The mortals died.  Too many of his Immortal friends died.  They all died.  There was no one else he loved… no one left to love him.

The sun was painting the clouds with rose and palest gold.  In moments, it cleared the rest of the fog and the clouds lost their colors.  The seabirds were feeding, soaring and darting through the air, across the sand.  Occasional sounds reached him from the road.  Sandpipers skittered along the edges of the waves. Nothing human walked the beach.

He leaned back against the rocks.  He felt hollow.  The pain seemed overwhelming.  The turmoil in his soul would never end.  He was so tired, and finally, he let the rhythm of the waves lull him back into sleep.

He was talking to Fitz again and he could feel the warmth of the Italian sun against the yellow-gold walls of Verona… Then Methos was back, his maniacal laugh echoing against the wall of the city…"It was because I liked it."

"We're through!"

Methos sneered at him. "No we're not, MacLeod, not yet."

"What the hell are you talking about, you bastard?  I don't ever want to talk to you again."

"Ah no, Mac.  It's not that easy. I planned to tell you about Kronos, but with her there, you wouldn't have listened to me anyway.  You were hers."

"What do you mean?"

"What do you remember about the first time you met her?"

"I told you what happened; all I can remember."

Methos' voice was soft, hypnotic.  "How old were you, Duncan?"

"I was…thirteen."

"What happened after you woke up?"

"I … I don't remember…"

"Yes, you do."

"Methos, if I remembered, I'd say so."

Methos patted his shoulder. "She won't let you remember."

His head ached. "No…  She wouldn't … You don't understand."

The voice was rueful, "Oh, I understand.  She became a dream, a fantasy you carried with you from that day on."

"You're wrong."

"No, MacLeod.  You see what you want to see.  You always have."

"No!"

The cold woke him.  He was shaking with the panic the dream always induced.  He kept trying to explain but Methos wouldn't listen.  He hadn't really been sleeping…  For the last month now, the dream had haunted him; coming to him, binding him, unable to break free, held by the magic of Methos' voice.

The darkness around him mirrored the way he felt.  There was no place he really wanted to go.  The other dream he’d had, of Fitz as an angel, telling him that he had made a difference, seemed like the worst sort of fantasy.  He had killed O’Rourke.  One more ghost to find him in the night…

The blackness wrapped itself around him.  It would be so easy to just walk out there, to let the water take him…  Peace… he could stay hidden for a while.  The voices, the ghosts wouldn’t be able to reach him.  It wouldn’t do any good, of course.  As long as his head was still attached, he’d just come back.

Slowly, he walked back to the rented car.

He drove on up the coast past several little towns, the houses small, needing repair.  The lumber mills had closed or cut back production drastically.  He passed weed filled yards and rusty cars.  There was an old roadhouse coming up.  It had a few weather-beaten tourist cabins behind it. He was really tired.  Maybe taking a couple of days to rest would help him break out of this cycle of pain and sleeplessness. He could almost hear Methos say, “Well, you accept the past, and move on.”

Accept it.  Accept that he was a killer.  Accept the fact that he was a danger to people he loved because he might kill them as he’d killed Sean Burns and Richie.  Accept the fact that he was a danger to them because they could be hurt to get at him.

He signed the card as Joe Ryan and took his key.  There was no tub, just a small shower.  He cleaned up, shaving off three days worth of stubble.  The flannel shirt and jeans let him blend in with the other men in the café.  He ordered a hamburger and coffee, ate and walked back to the end cabin.

The cabin was dark.  He put on the light and pulled a book out his duffel bag.  The used bookstore he'd stopped in had a ton of old science fiction.  He'd picked up a couple of old favorites, too tired to read something new.  "The Green Hills of Earth" was in good condition and he settled into the old armchair by the window to try to read.

MacLeod hadn't realized how very tired he was.  The familiar words began to run together.  He fought off sleep as long as he could but then his eyes closed and he slipped into the dream before he was really aware of it.

Once again he and Fitz teased about the golf game…  Then the voice changed and Methos was snarling at him, "I killed thousands, ten thousands…"

He could feel the total destruction of their friendship tear through him again. "We're through!"

The arrogant voice snapped at him, "Oh no we're not, MacLeod.  You have too much potential.  I'm not through with you yet."

"What the hell are you talking about, old man?  I'm certainly through with you."

Methos smirked at him; his long fingered hands reaching out to touch Mac's cheek. "No, Mac.  We are just beginning."

The terrible progression continued.  Methos sneering that he could remember, if he wanted to.  The accusations against Cassandra…

"No, MacLeod.  You see what you want to see.  You always have."

"No!"

His own shout woke him.  He could still feel Methos' hand caressing his cheek.  The touch frightened him somehow.  Darkness gathered in the corners of the room.  He could hear footsteps and then quieter sounds almost as though a great white wolf was padding off into the starless night.

MacLeod got up.  His heart was still racing.  No point in lying there.  He pulled on a pair of heavy sweats and stuffed his wallet in a fanny pack.  He needed to go for a run.  Run off the adrenaline. Maybe he’d be tired enough to sleep too deeply to dream.
 
 

He stood for a moment outside the door of the tiny tourist cabin.  The building was shabby, an old place. The last coat of paint showed soft gray in the light from his doorway.  Maybe he could stay in this place for a few days.  Maybe the Game would leave him alone for just a little while.

He took his time stretching.  He had to stay strong.  There was no telling what his Quickening would do to someone else.

He started off at a slow jog.

Two days later, MacLeod finished cleaning the roadhouse patio and piled the dead leaves and other debris into heavy plastic bags to haul away.  Ellen would be pleased with the progress of the clean up.  He liked the Widow Reynolds.  She was fighting an uphill battle to keep the roadhouse and tourist court open in the face of the hotel chains and a steadily declining income.

She was a medium short, medium plump blond woman in her early 50's with a soup kettle that always had a serving for someone who was hungry and a rude comment for people who didn't try to help themselves.

Ellen Reynolds presided over the old restaurant like the lady of the manor.  Her late husband believed in lending a hand wherever he could.  A fire set off by a young fool from a nearby city who hadn't believed in using the stone circles for cooking had killed the volunteer fireman.

She'd offered to charge off 'Joe's' meals in return for his hard work.  He'd declined the offer saying he didn't need the money.  He'd heard her makes the same offer to a number of the other men, but most of them simply ignored her.  They came in, drank and played cards, yarned.  They were lumbermen.  Their jobs had defined them and they weren't willing or able to learn something new.

He'd seen that reaction.  He could easily have fallen into the same mind-set.  He really didn't have to work.  Carefully plotted out financial arrangements would keep him solvent for generations.  But, like Connor, he needed to work at something.

He could see Ellen slicing down a generous portion of roast beef for her lunch crowd.  She raised her eyebrows at him and pointed to the platter.  He smiled and nodded at her.  She had been trying to clean up from a late spring storm when he came back from a run and offered to help.

She came out of the restaurant kitchen with the sandwich and a cold bottle of beer.  "Done a nice job, Joe.  Looks more like a house and less like a shack every day."  She handed him the lunch and sat down on one of the big sawn log rounds with a second beer.

"Do you have any paint, Ellen?  We'll have dry weather for a couple of days and the place would be the better for it."

The woman looked thoughtful for a moment.  "Seems to me I've got a couple of five gallon cans out in the garage.  Mike was always gonna paint.  Never did, of course.  Fishin' was a lot more important…  Let me take a look.  You sure you want to do this.  You don't have to, you know."

"It needs done.  It's good to keep busy."

"Idle hands, Momma used to say…  Never have much time for idle hands myself, 'tween the restaurant and keeping up with the cabins.  Used to be, I could get some of the youngsters from the high school to help a couple of hours.  Here lately, the kids go off to work in Seattle or college as soon as they can.  They don't come back, either.  Soon, only the geezers and ne'er-do-wells will be left."

He nodded.  The sandwich tasted good and he was surprised to find he'd been really hungry.  Duncan took a long glugging pull at the beer, emptying the bottle.  He thanked Ellen and hefted the bag of tree limbs and trash to his shoulders.  Her truck was at the end of the drive and he dumped the load off into the bed of the old Ford.  One more load and he could take the junk off to the dump.

Later, he stood under the shower letting the heat soothe him.  The water felt good against muscles that ached and were taking more time than usual to heal.  He probably needed to get more sleep.  Going off running in the dark hours of the morning wasn't smart either.  Methos would really rag on him for that.

Methos again.  Wasn't the old bastard ever going to leave him alone?

He dried off with the thin old towel and pulled on pair of sweat pants.  It was dark already and he really didn't want to listen to the men griping in the restaurant.  Ellen's sheriff friend would be there too.  Charley was very protective of the widow and Mac didn't want Joe Ryan to be too noticeable.

He grabbed his sweatshirt and the katana and walked down to the beach.  The lights from the road and the scattered beachfront stores didn't reach down this stretch.  He made sure there were no people around and began working through various kata.  Time slipped past.

The wind blowing his damp sweatshirt against his rapidly cooling skin brought him out of the self induced trance.  With luck, he wouldn't dream.  He walked back to the tiny cabin and showered again.

He stretched out on the bed.  He should have gone up for dinner but was too tired to eat.  He could get up early in the morning.  Ellen would be making flapjacks and biscuits.  He drifted off to sleep tasting the biscuits and honey on his tongue.

Someone was kissing him and he pushed back gently to see who it was.

"Methos?"

Methos smiled at him.

"What's going on?"

"You're miserable aren't you?"

"Why would you care?" He pulled back from the other man.

"I do care, MacLeod.  You know that, too."

"No, don't care." MacLeod pushed him away,  "You'll be the next one I kill.  I don't want that."

"I'm not in danger."

"Yes, you are.  I hate what you did, what you were."

"Yes."

Mac looked at him, tears in his eyes, "You should have told me."

"You're probably right," Methos shrugged.  "But I didn't and it really doesn't matter.  You still would have believed anything Cassandra told you."

"I loved her."

Methos' hand was on his arm, "No, you were enchanted by her."

"Why do you keep insisting she would do that?"

"Because until you face that reality you will be caught by her again.  She's the reason you couldn't deal with Kristin."

"And, of course, you could."

Methos' voice was cold. "I did." He sighed, "You still haven't learned to survive."

MacLeod turned away from the older man. "I don't want to survive…"

The other voice was softer, gentler, now. "You must survive."

"Why should I, Methos?  What the hell is the point?"

Dark, intense, the voice continued, "You have to."

"But why?"

"You’re the one who will take the Prize."

Mac shook his head; "I don’t want the damnable Prize.  No one knows what it is.  Whatever it is it can’t be worth all the killing, all the death…"

Methos touched his face, gently, lovingly; "You will carry all of us with you."

He brushed the hand away. "I don’t want to carry you with me.  I want…"

"You want me to love you.  Dangerous desire, Duncan.  Really dangerous.  I can’t be everything to you."

"I don’t want you to be everything to me.  I just want you to…"

He woke, trying to untangle himself from the thin sheets.  Trying to untangle his thoughts from the dream.  Methos again.  What was this with Methos?

“You want me to love you…" The echo came from his dream.  Was he that starved for…  affection?  Why was Methos haunting his dreams?

There was someone outside, walking around the building.  For a moment MacLeod thought it was an Immortal and wondered if he really had sensed Methos.  Quietly, he went out the door and tried to locate the intruder.

The sounds faded and he became aware of Ellen standing at the corner of the building.  He quietly walked over to her.  "I thought I heard a noise back there, but it's gone now."

She sighed.  "I'm going to go ahead and sell.  It isn't worth the hassle."

He took her arm. "What hassle?"

"One of the chains wants the property.  I'd sell it to 'em, but Mike's grave is here and I don't want to move it."

He walked her back to the house and declined her offer of coffee.  He couldn't get back to sleep and read until morning

The next couple of days were quiet. Painting the cabins for her, he could almost see Methos standing there as he had when they'd painted Anne's house.  He could hear the wry voice, saying, "I didn't get to be 5,000 years old by caring for anyone but myself…"

"Sure, old man.  That's why you came after me and shot O'Rourk."  Who are you, Methos?  He could hear laughter… "An enigma wrapped in a mystery tied with a paradox…"

"Damn it", he swore.  "Leave me alone.  Just leave me alone."

He gardened and painted, ran and worked out, returning each night to the cabin hoping that this night, he wouldn't dream.  But each night the vivid fight with Methos returned and the echo, "You want me to love you…" haunted both his dreams and his waking hours.

The presence of another Immortal woke him.  "Methos?"  He grabbed sweats and the katana and closed the door behind him.

Disappointment, or some other emotion he didn't want to look at too closely, washed through him.  It wasn't Methos.  His eyes adapted quickly to the darkness.  He tied the drawstring of the pants and began moving toward the other man.  Whoever it was, he wasn't a woodsman.  MacLeod could hear him stumbling over tree roots.  There was a sizable clearing ahead.  He could smell gasoline.  Arson?   MacLeod didn't want to kill again but if it came to that, he knew he would do whatever he needed to do to keep Ellen safe.

The footsteps had stopped.  There was enough moonlight breaking through the clouds to make out the heavy set opponent.

"Well, well, I didn't really think there'd be a bonus on this job, but here you are."

"I don't think so.  You can leave the area and keep your head."

"Fat chance, boy.  Haven't had a decent Quickening for months now.  'Bout time, I'd say."

"Your option."

The other immortal brought out a sword about the same length as the MacLeod claymore. "So, you got a name, boy?"

"Duncan MacLeod."

"Ha.  MacLeod's dead.  Tangled with a guy named Kalas a couple of years ago."

"Kalas is dead.  I'm not."

His laugh was a sneer, "Well, I always thought that rep of yours was a lot of hop anyway.  Come on, let's see what you've got, boy."

"You do have a name of some kind, don't you?"

"Erik Redmond, Erik the Red some folks call me.  I kinda like that, too.  And you're gonna be red all over by the time I take your head."

"I don't think so."  Mac moved closer to the bigger man, bringing the katana up in garde.

"Well, you know what the rule is, 'There can be only one!'"

The bigger man's speed was greater than MacLeod anticipated and it took longer than usual to analyze the fighting style he used.  He had a hack and slash way of going at things, but he steadied down to fight in a more classic style when he realized Mac wasn't going to be stampeded.

The ground was fairly even, but the fir needles underfoot made it slippery.  Erik got a deep cut across his back swinging too far to defend and then slid under Mac's guard to slash up and hard into his side.  The wound bled freely and Mac knew he was going to have to finish the fight, and fast.

He turned to favor the injured side and saw an opening in the other man's defense.  The katana sang through the air and Erik's head rolled against the fallen tree trunk behind him.

MacLeod could feel the gathering energies and braced himself to accept the Quickening.  As he felt the first questing fingers of the mist, he saw Ellen, wide eyed, standing by the trees at the side of the clearing with a shotgun in her hand.

"Stay back!" he shouted.  MacLeod could just barely see her, watching, staring as the lightnings gathered force, pounding him into the ground.

Erik was older than MacLeod realized.  He screamed in pain as six hundred years of violence and fury poured over him.  The Quickening triggered small fires all around him and the gasoline cans were between them and the cabins.  The dry needles and grass caught and spread toward the buildings.22

He struggled to his feet as the last remnants of the energy grounded through him. He had to get Ellen out of the firestorm.  She had backed against a tree; the heavy gun still pointed in the direction of the dead man.

"Go back."  He staggered toward her, his breath loud in his own ears.  "If those gas cans blow the whole place is going up in flames."

She cringed, terrified eyes barely focusing as he came closer.  He took the gun from her hands and quickly went back to the headless body.  It took only a moment to bring the head close and fire the shotgun at its neck.  His fingerprints would be on the gun and if Ellen could keep her wits about her, they'd both get out of this OK.

The flames were spreading.  He dropped the gun.  "Ellen, come on.  We've got to move."  She nodded but seemed glued to the spot.  Mac took her arm and pulled her back toward the buildings.  He got them past the gas cans moments before the first one exploded.  The burning fuel ignited the walls of the last two cabins.  He let go of Ellen to grab the garden hose he'd used to wash down the patio earlier.  Flames were licking hungrily at the shingled roofs.  He sprayed the house thoroughly concentrating on keeping it too wet to burn.

He spared a glance for her, as she seemed to shake herself awake and scrambled to the other side of the building, following his lead and turning on the other hose.  They could hear sirens as the volunteer brigade arrived with help.

Hours later, Ellen sat, drinking another cup of coffee and shivering. MacLeod kept an eye on her.  She was probably wondering what she'd gotten herself into.  She had given the fire marshal and Charley Ross, the local sheriff, a reasonably accurate account of the evening, and left it to him to discuss the body in the burned out clearing.

"Mrs. Reynolds told me she'd heard somebody wandering around back there the other night, so when I thought I heard someone, I went back to get her shotgun. The man had a lighted torch. I shot him.  Ellen came out to see what the noise was and we tried to save what we could of the property."

The house was still full of smoke and Duncan could see that Ellen wasn't up to dealing with the clean up.  He offered to take her up the road to another motel for the night and Ross agreed.  "Yeah, she needs to get some rest.  I'm sorry she didn't say anything about the prowler.  Maybe we could have picked him up before he torched the place…"

"She values her independence."

The sheriff laughed, "Oh, don't I know it. Mike and I both wanted to marry her.  Better man won."

"And now?" said Mac, looking over at her.

Suddenly Charley was shy. "Well, I've kinda let her know, "Barkis is willin".  Maybe she'll notice."

"Maybe you should say something."

The sandy haired man looked sharply at MacLeod.  "Seemed to me, you were movin' in that direction."

Mac sighed, "No.  No, she's a fine woman, but I'm not… I'm just not ready to settle down."

Charley clapped him on the shoulder, "Well, that's OK, Joe.  Ellen's a reliable witness as far as we're concerned.  She says you were working for her and it was self-defense. You come back tomorrow.  We should have the statements ready by then. We'll get 'em signed and you'll be free to take off."

Mac nodded.  Take off.  Go away and leave the lady to the man who had cared for her for so long.  Well, that was for the best.

He made his way to his car and stuffed the katana in the trunk with his duffel bag. Smoke had smeared the windshield and he took a few moments to clean it.  His body was still reacting to the Quickening and he couldn't stop to take care of it just now.  He retied the filthy sweatpants hoping the folds would cover the problem until he had the privacy to take care of it.

Ellen got into the passenger seat quietly.  She closed her eyes and appeared to be asleep.

He drove them up the road and signed them into a double room.  Ellen's smile seemed forced but she said nothing as he made the arrangements.  The clerk told him there was a small shop a little further up that had sport clothes.  Mac checked on their hours and asked for a wake-up call.  "We got a laundry here if you wanna wash the stuff you got on, Mister."

Mac nodded and the clerk changed a twenty for him and handed him a couple of worn terry-cloth robes.  "We rent 'em out for the folks who think they want to go swimming.  Least, they do 'til they find out how cold the water really is."

MacLeod went back to their room and handed her a robe and a clean T-shirt from his duffel.  He waited for her to come out of the small bathroom getting out of his own sweaty, smoky clothes.  He grabbed clean sweats. Looking at the clothes he'd been wearing he sighed and threw them into the trash.  Washing wouldn't help.

He took the sword and his cleaning kit from the duffel, looking up at the sudden gasp from the woman. Ellen was standing there in the doorway, wrapped in the too large robe with her hair in a towel.  He took one look at her and went over to the mini-bar.  Brandy for her and a scotch for him were poured and brought back to the couch.  "Come sit down, Ellen."

She was trembling and she wouldn't meet his eyes. Her voice was so quiet he wasn't sure he'd heard her. "Are you going to kill me now?"

"What?"

She gestured at the sword, her voice barely a whisper. "Are you going to… kill me now."

He reached out for her hand.  "God, no.  Oh, Ellen, you can't believe that."

She shrank back into the sofa.  "You killed him.  I'm a witness… I did tell Charley it was self-defense."

He sat down abruptly.  "I never meant to frighten you." How could she think he was anything but a murderer?  He'd never meant for another mortal to get caught in the hideous web of the Game.  Somehow he had to reassure her.  He took her freezing fingers in his hands to warm them.  "No, Ellen.  I'm not going to harm you.  You're a brave, wonderful woman and that's the last thing I'd want to do.  Please believe me."

Finally, she met his eyes.  "I'm trying to."

"First, you're going to drink that brandy to warm you up and then you're going to bed.  I'm sorry you were frightened."

She took a long sip at the glass.  "I saw two men with swords…  you killed him."  As frightened as she was, she wasn't willing to let it go. "Help me understand."

"Go to bed, Ellen.  It's late.  We can talk in the morning."

She shook her head.  "I'm not ready to go to sleep."  She finished her drink and went over to the mini-bar.  "I'm going to have another drink.  You go ahead and get your shower."

He just nodded picked up the pajama bottoms from his duffel, and went on into the bath.  The door locked, he turned the water on as hot as he could get it and scrubbed the smoke out of his hair and skin. The Quickening energy was still a problem. Finally, he shrugged and took a firm hold on his cock and brought himself off as fast as he could.  He didn't want to go back with a raging hard-on.  Ellen was skittish enough but he didn't think she'd noticed the bulge in his sweat pants.

He dried off, dressed and came back out feeling a lot more presentable.  Ellen hadn't moved from the corner of the couch, a now empty glass by her side.

"Not sleepy?"

"Oh, I'm tired.  I don't think I've ever been this tired.  But, I'd like some answers before morning comes and I decide all this' been a dream."

He sat down at the other end of the couch.  The small blond was watching him as though expecting him to attack.

"I'll tell you what I can."

"First things first… who the hell are you?"

"Who do you think I am?"  She didn't seem as frightened.  Her eyes met his and there was a flash of something more like anger in them.

"Don't play games with me. It's way too late and I'm too tired. You told the other man, Erik something or other, that your name was 'Duncan MacLeod'.  Is it?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"So, why tell me that your name was Joe Ryan?"

MacLeod shrugged. "I didn't want anyone to know I was in the area, I guess."

"Are there warrants out?"

"Warrants?  Oh, no." He almost laughed and relaxed slightly. "No one's looking for me."

He smiled at her and she sat back against the cushions. "Well, that's a point in your favor.  Why the swords?  What did he mean, 'There can be only one.'?"

"One survivor, that's all."

"The swords?"

He sighed, "Ellen, it really is late and I need some sleep."

She looked at him as though evaluating all the contradictions.  MacLeod colored a bit under her examination.  Finally she nodded, satisfied for the moment.  "All right."  Her voice was still quiet, but firm and her hands no longer shook.  "You were so willing to help me.  Mike always said I was a good judge of character."

He took her small hand in his.  "I'm not going to harm you.  I'm sorry you saw me kill him, but the fight… was an old family feud.  It had nothing to do with you."

"I want to believe you, to trust you.  You're a lot like Mike."

"High praise coming from you, Ellen."  He rubbed his aching eyes.

"I don't want to make you angry, but Joe… Duncan, there are a lot more questions."

He stood up, stretching to ease tight muscles. "In the morning, please?"

He reached out to help her to her feet.  Carefully he guided her over and tucked her into the queen-sized bed.

He was almost back to the couch when he heard her call softly to him.  "Joe…  I really don't want to be alone right now.  This is an awfully big bed.  If I promised not to take advantage of you, would you please come back and sleep beside me?"

He turned. "Take advantage of me…" He laughed softly, "I thought it was the other way around."

"Taking advantage?  You had ample opportunity.  I know I'm an older woman… "

He laughed, "No, you're not.  We'll talk in the morning, Ellen.  Trust me, one more time."

"I trust you.  You're a good man… dangerous, but somehow, not to me."

"I've already been a danger to you."  He eased under the blankets.  She turned toward him and he put his arms around her.  He could smell the shampoo and the lavender soap.  She settled against him, her head on his shoulder.  Moments later, they were both asleep.

Sunlight warmed his face, waking him.  MacLeod started to stretch, stopping suddenly as he realized that there was someone else in the bed.  Ellen had curled up on her side and at some point he'd spooned himself around her.  He started to ease himself out of the bed.  His body had noticed his companion and the resulting erection was fairly painful.  He managed to get into the bathroom, muttering about Quickenings and hormones, and take care of it before it embarrassed either of them.

He was drying off when he realized that his dreams had not included Methos.  No accusing, frightening comments.  He'd simply slept, curled against Ellen's comforting warmth.  Maybe the dreams had just been a product of his loneliness

There were a number of things that had to be taken care of today.  He called the dojo, and the law firm that handled his real estate investments.  Ellen’s property would get a good price and the transaction couldn’t be traced back to him.

He walked to the restaurant and brought back a tray, breakfast for both of them and he poured coffee in one of the mugs and took it over to the bed.  Ellen was still sound asleep.  The T-shirt was big on her and he couldn't help noticing the amount of pale, creamy skin showing against the dark bedspread.  He called her name quietly. "Ellen.  You ready to get up?"

She turned toward his voice, "Joe?  I mean, Duncan…  What time is it?"

He looked at the alarm clock. "Nearly ten. We're meeting a real estate agent at two this afternoon.  Charley can meet us for dinner if you like.  I know he'd be willing to bring you back.

“Whoa.  I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I can handle my own…" She stopped suddenly, “Duncan…  You promised to explain.”

He turned away from her. "It's kind of complicated."

Ellen grabbed her robe, accepting the coffee. "I've already figured that it isn't simple.  We talking about aliens, UFO's or have I lost my mind?"

He almost laughed.  "No aliens…  What do you remember?"

"I got up smelling gasoline.  I saw you go into the woods and when I caught up with you the other man was taunting you…  then there was something about there being only one.  Then the two of you were fighting.  A 'family feud', you said. Then that lightning, it was awful and scary and somehow, beautiful."

He sighed.  She had seen the whole thing.  Damn. He hadn't told many people over the years.  He poured more coffee and took it over to the window.  It was raining.  "It's a long story…  as I said, complicated…"

 For a long moment he was tempted to tell her everything.  She was bright and compassionate.  She might be able to accept him.  Tessa had understood his loneliness. But Anne hadn't been able to deal with the killing.  He was so tired of hiding.  So tired of lying to people he cared about.

Then he remembered Charley Ross, waiting patiently for her to remember that he loved her.  No.  It wouldn't be fair.  Give her some story she could believe and let her go back to the man who cared so much for her.  It was time he moved on anyway, Sheriff Ross would agree on that.  Then too, Eric probably had a Watcher lurking there somewhere.

"Family feud… years ago I killed a man named Kalas.  It was a fair fight, no questions as far as the law was concerned, but this man, Eric…  He would have avenged Kalas.  I didn't have a choice."

"No, it didn't look as though you did.  Thank you for telling me.  I won't say anything to Charley."  She stopped to drink some of the coffee.  "You don't talk much about yourself."

"Not much to say, Ellen.  You saw the fight. You were afraid and I didn't want you to be afraid of me.  I guess I just wanted someone to know…to remember…"

She looked at him, taking in the stress, the awful loneliness. "You're going away aren't you?"

He turned away from her, knowing that he couldn't stay.  Her sheriff was waiting for her. "Charley's waiting for you. You'll be cherished.  You deserve that."

She reached over to take his hand.  "So do you."

He took the offered hand.  Ellen seemed like a lifeline, a caring, loving woman.  It would be wonderful to be just an ordinary man, to have an ordinary life...  The nagging voice of his dreams whispered, "But you aren't an ordinary man."

He hugged her, "Look, you get showered.  There are a couple of shops up the road.  I'll pick up a few things to tide us over."

After he left, Ellen called the sheriff's office.  Charley had no problem with the delay.  "Lady, you need a vacation anyway.  Come in tomorrow, if your new boyfriend will bring you back…  I'll see you then."

"Thanks, Charley." She was quiet for a moment, thinking about the man who'd been there, waiting for her to pay attention.  "Charley, he's not my boyfriend.  Joe's taking me over to talk to that broker.  May have a buyer."

"Good.  You've been workin' too damn hard since Mike died.  You get all you can and get yourself some nice place in town."

Her throat tightened at the affection in Charley's voice.  "Still looking out for me?"

Charley's telltale harumph came through, clearly.  "Just letting you know 'Barkis is still willin'"."

"Meet us for dinner, Charley?"

"You sure you want to do this, Lady?"

"Joe said to invite you and yes, I want to do this."

"OK, Ellen.  Call me when you're ready to go and I'll meet you there."

She hung up as Duncan tapped at the door.  She opened it and stepped back to let him get the bags and boxes in the room.  He started opening things.  "Come see what we've got."

There were several silk shirts, cream, pale blue and a soft green.  A long graceful gray skirt and a matching sweater, two pair of jeans and a denim jacket were unwrapped and admired.  A smaller box held a pair of soft leather walking shoes.  A matching purse was tucked in the next box.  A fancy bag held several sleeveless nightgowns, panties, bras and pantyhose in the same shades as the shirts and a small case was filled with cosmetics.

"Go try them on, I was guestimating.  Then we'll get over to the real estate office."

"But, Joe… Duncan, I can't pay you back for these things, the shirts alone…"

He shook his head. "No, you can't.  They're a thank you for getting through all the dreck of the last couple of days.  The least I can do is to see that you don't have to lose everything because of me."

She took the clothes into the bathroom and closed the door.  He took another box from one of the tourist traps and dressed in the soft collared shirt, gray slacks and cardigan he'd purchased.  The sleeves were a bit short but it would do until he could access his own things at the dojo. It only took a few minutes to make him the perfect picture of a young businessman at an informal meeting with his financial advisor.  He moved his wallet from the smoke damaged jacket and put on the new loafers.  There was coffee left and he sat down on the end of the couch, knowing that it would probably take Ellen a bit longer to dress.

She surprised him by being ready shortly after he'd finished the coffee.  She turned so he could check.  He nodded approvingly. "You look wonderful."

"Anyone would look good in these, Duncan.  You have surprising taste in women's clothes. I really shouldn't accept…"

He patted her arm, "Nonsense, Ellen.  Tessa loved shopping and I spent a lot of time watching her whirl in and out of dressing rooms.  Nice to know I haven't lost my touch."

"Was she like you?"

He turned away for a moment.  "No."

"She died?"

"It should never have happened.  I sent her out to the car and a punk kid with drugs on his mind and a gun… killed her."

"Oh, Duncan, I'm sorry."

He was quiet for a minute, gathering himself, forcing the memories back to the past.  He had no time to deal with them now.

He helped her pack up the things she was taking with her.  As they left, he took a last look around.  Nothing remained to tell the management that they were anything other than two people who had been burned out and taken refuge for the night.
*******************************************************************
The real estate agent had all the facts and figures for them.  Ellen listened to her suggestions and made her choices.  Duncan had a couple of alternatives to give her better tax advantages, but for the most part was a silent presence.  They finished about 5 PM.

He guided her out to the truck.  "Any place you'd particularly like to go to for dinner?  My treat."

She laughed, "As long as it doesn't have anything to do with 'home cooking'…  Can I borrow your phone?"

He smiled and gave it to her.  Charley was delighted and agreed to meet them at Anthony's Home Port.

They had no reason to hurry.  The restaurant was lovely; the view of the lake and the food, excellent but Duncan seemed lost in his own world. Charley and Ellen ate and enjoyed each other's company trying to include Joe in the conversation.  He drank most of the wine he'd ordered with the meal and kept their waiter refilling his scotch.  Ellen patted his hand, "Duncan, you've been off somewhere all evening.  Did I miss something there at the Real Estate office?"

He straightened up and looked at her, really seeing the couple for the first time in hours.  "Sorry.  I guess I'm a lot more tired than I thought I was.  If the two of you will excuse me, I think I'll get a cab in to town.  See you in the morning?"

Charley spoke for both of them, "Sure thing, Joe.  I'll take Ellen home."

He sobered up walking out to the car and decided to go ahead and drive.  He parked in behind the dojo, collecting his travel bag and unlocking the freight door.

MacLeod opened the tall armoire and poured himself a scotch.  His apartment here on the top floor of the old dojo building in the commercial district was filled with expensive gadgets and antique pieces.  He'd chosen big comfortable leather couches and kept a lot of his books and duplicated his collection of Opera and Celtic music here…  There were older recordings too, carefully preserved in plastic jackets.  He looked at the artworks and the tapestry on the wall.  Home.

A second scotch followed the first.  The place seemed so empty.  He kept expecting Joe or Methos…  This was useless.  He changed into sweats and went down to the dojo to work out.

MacLeod worked through several of his routines.  He would go back to Ellen's place in the morning and sign his statement. If he was reading Charley right, she would be too busy to miss him.  Wistfully he almost hoped she would miss him.

He worked through the katas again. He would move on tomorrow.  He sighed, it would have been nice to settle for a while…

The movements became automatic, his mind drifting free.  The dreams were replaying against the darkness of the room.  He could hear Methos, insistent, "You see what you want to see."

Finally, he showered in the locker room before going back upstairs.  He pulled a pillow and blanket from the storage chest at the foot of his bed and stretched out on the couch.

He kept waking with the sound of Methos' voice demanding that he look at something.  Finally, he gave up trying to sleep and made himself some coffee.  He drank it, liberally dosed with brandy, looking out at the familiar skyline.
 
Where to now?  He didn't want to go back to Paris.  The Watchers would pick him up if he went to the island…  but maybe he could just travel on up the coast for a while. He dozed off in the big antique chair and knew nothing more until morning.