For the first time in six weeks, Duncan MacLeod was alone. Slowly he turned, letting his surroundings really register for the first time since leaving Paris.

His legs still ached from the effort to stay upright on the decks of the rusty tanker. Nausea and the problems regaining his sea legs had plagued him the whole time. He couldn’t even remember the name of the ship. He vaguely remembered driving to a port, Marseilles? The first ship took him to Spain. Then there was another through the Panama Cannel… and another… then the tanker needing an engineer for a run to Malaysia.

He’d come here, remembering stories of a monastery, a very old one. Holy ground and a place where he could rest, perhaps begin to deal with the pain, to seek redemption for the evil he’d done. They’d asked no questions, just led him to this quiet room and left him there to seek his own answers.

There was a small washstand in the corner of the room. Clumsily, he stripped off the filthy sweater and jeans. The water was cold and he was too tired to even think about shaving. In the morning, perhaps he could find one of the hot springs and really get clean. Clean of everything but the blood. The sudden memory hit him like a blow to the gut. His knees hit the ground and he wept again, the salt tears burning their way down his face.

“Oh, God, Rich… Why didn’t you at least fight me? Why didn’t you…” There was no answer from the silence around him. Nothing softly telling him that it was all a dream and the boy, the young man who had pledged to stand by him, was alive, not lying in a crumple of bloody clothing with a sword never raised to defend himself against the madness of his friend and teacher.

The room was cold. He shivered in the pale light of the butter lamp. He pulled a cleaner T-shirt and briefs from the duffle and got under the thin blanket, hoping that the dreams would leave him alone for one night. Just one night, one free of the sight of Richie’s body or Kronos and Horton circling him with Richie, the red eyed demon version of Richie… the one he thought he was striking… one night when Joe and Methos wouldn’t suddenly be there, looking on in horror as he offered his sword to Methos, begging for death as the only payment he could make for the death of his student… his son.

The racetrack was dark and he walked an endless path through the remains of old celebrations and shattered hopes. Voices whispered all around him and an escalator creaked into motion in front of him. He called again, “Richie? Where are you?”

A figure came out of the darkness toward him, Horton, then Kronos, sword raised again, to take his head. They twisted and turned around him and a third figure joined them… Richie! Voices taunted him and red eyes glowed in the faces of enemies he knew were dead and the image of a friend. Then all of them had swords, moving too fast for him to follow. He was cut, slashed before he could turn to meet the enemy. One of the figures fired a gun and his leg went out from under him. He fell, frantically trying to defend himself.

He woke, standing beside the narrow cot. All of them were gone… No, one of the shapes had returned,

“What are you doing, Mac?”

He looked up, the figure in front of him was wavering… a ghost?

“Richie?”

Thunder roared over the building. The image was gone.

He stood, shivering with the cold. There was still brandy in the bottle he’d bought in the small town where the tanker docked. He dug it out of his duffle. He was afraid to drink too much. The taunting ghosts multiplied and he was really too tired to cope with anything more tonight.

Darkness was all around him. It felt as though he was swimming in a sea of blood, choking and trying to get away from the copper and iron smell. His lashes were sticky with it and it stung as it splashed into his eyes. There was a break in the darkness ahead of him and he slowly moved toward it. There was a figure lying there, hard to see and very still. The light seemed to surround it. Suddenly he was beside it, beside Richie, his head still attached to his shoulders. He fell to his knees, sobbing with relief.

“Rich...you okay?”

For a moment all was silent, then the eyes opened, “Mac?”

“Are you all right?”

Richie moved arms and legs, getting to his feet, “Yeah. For a second there, I thought…. How'd you know it was really me?”

Mac shook his head, “I didn't… I didn't.”

He grabbed Richie by the shoulders, holding him tightly.

“Easy Mac, I can’t breathe.”

Mac released him, “Sorry… I had a horrible dream.”

“Me too, Mac. I dreamed you killed me.”

MacLeod woke up screaming.

~Fine~