by

Rosemary

There came a time when you just had to cut your losses and go on with life. When you had your legs blasted out from under you before you reached twenty, that was a lesson you learned early. Joe Dawson knew he had more faith and optimism than any ten men put together, but there came a time when even the most positive of thinkers had to face the facts as they were and accept what could not be changed.

And what could not be changed was the fact that Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod, the Immortal he’d watched and idolized these past twenty-one years, the man who’d been one of his closest friends these past six years, was not coming back. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but Joe was realist enough to face facts. Mac wasn’t coming back anymore than poor Ritchie was.

He was partially at fault for that. He was Mac’s Watcher. It had been his job to be standing on the bridge beside Ryan’s Watcher when MacLeod had been abducted. But he’d grown too damn complacent over the past five years. He’d known Mac’s schedule for the day – estate auction in the morning, an afternoon workout at the Paris dojo the Highlander frequented, back to the barge for a couple of hours, then dinner with Methos and him at six. Joe hadn’t seen any reason to be standing around an icy dock that afternoon when MacLeod would bring him up to date on any developments that night, so Dawson had taken care of his own business instead…and Mac had disappeared off the face of the Earth. If he’d just been there, he could have trailed the car in which Mac had been kidnapped. He wouldn’t have interfered with the Game himself, but if he’d known where MacLeod was taken, he could have told Methos and let Mac’s lover handle it, but…he’d shirked off on the job and Duncan MacLeod had paid for it. With his life, in all probability; although, Methos still insisted that Mac wasn’t dead.

Which brought Dawson to his latest dilemma – Methos.

Dawson sat in his car, staring up at the barge through the pouring rain, almost afraid to go inside. MacLeod was lost, after more than eight months, Joe had no choice but to accept that. What was becoming clearer with each passing day was the fact that he was losing Methos as well. And he didn’t have a clue as to what he could do to halt the downward plunge.

Those first few awful days after Mac had been taken, Methos had seemed to be coping all right. Hell, Methos had been more than all right. The ancient Immortal had pulled himself together and shaken off the fugue that had clouded him since Longford’s challenge. It had been Joe himself who’d been the basket case then. He never would have made it through Ritchie’s funeral if Methos hadn’t been there by his side, holding him up, promising him that they would get Duncan back. That promise was the only thing that had gotten Joe through Ritchie’s burial. They’d get Mac back, and the bastard who’d caused all this would pay - it had become almost a mantra during those days.

But as the days turned into weeks, and still no call came, Methos had changed. The man who had been Joe’s emotional rock seemed to…not crumble, but just drift further and further away, into madness, Joe was beginning to suspect.

The ancient Immortal wasn’t eating. What was even more alarming was that he wasn’t drinking, either, at least not alcohol. For the past month or so, the only liquid to pass Methos’ lips had been water. Methos seemed to have sworn off sleep until Mac’s return as well. Every waking hour that Methos had was dedicated to finding Duncan MacLeod. The only sleep he seemed to get were those fleeting minutes when Methos’ drained body would insist on rest and he’d drift off in the middle of a conversation. Joe was worried sick over it, and he had no idea how to affect a change. He’d thought Mac had been bad when he obsessed on something, but Methos could write a whole new volume on stubbornness.

At least Methos wasn’t risking life and limb combing the city anymore. Dawson didn’t think Methos could win a challenge with a three-year-old these days; the man was so exhausted. The two months Methos had been canvassing Paris and its environs inch by inch, stopping to investigate every Immortal signature he encountered, had been among the longest weeks of Dawson’s life. It had come to swords twice when Methos was poking around other Immortals’ territory, and both times Joe’s friend had been damn lucky to keep his head. Quitting that suicidal plan was the only argument Joe had won so far, and it was only the reminder that if Methos were to lose one of these inevitable, imbecilic challenges that there would be no one left to search for MacLeod that had convinced Methos to abandon the plan.

Though what Methos was doing now…

Shaking his head, Joe gathered together his walking sticks and the fragrant plastic bags containing dinner, opened the car door and braved the elements. So much for the perfect fall day they’d been predicting on this morning’s weather report. He couldn’t think of anything more dismal than a rainy Halloween. He supposed he should be grateful it was rain. Winter seemed to be setting in early this year. Another few degrees colder and this water would be snow.

The downpour hit him like a cold shower, drenching his head and clothes the second he pulled himself from his vehicle. An umbrella would have helped, of course, but there was no way he could handle his walking sticks, their dinner and an umbrella, so he sheltered the food bags as best as possible and made his slow way to the barge’s gangplank. Even if it hadn’t been so slippery, he wouldn’t have been moving much quicker. This cold dampness made his stumps ache like a son-of-a-bitch.

After a cursory knock on the barge’s door, Joe pushed his way in. He knew better than to wait for an invitation.

Shaking off the water, he put his bags down and removed his coat. A sweet scent in the air tickled his dripping nostrils as soon as he was inside. Incense. Yesterday the place had smelt like a church from the frankincense Methos was burning. This evening…Joe thought it might be sage.

Taking a deep, bracing breath, he started for the stairs.

If Mac returned tomorrow, it was doubtful if he’d recognize his own home. The barge looked like the outcome of a violent struggle between a library and dungeon and dragons movie set. Piles of huge ancient tomes littered the entire place. The dusty old books were bad enough in themselves, but the occult paraphernalia scattered amongst them gave Dawson the creeps. Jars of herbs and less savory things lined the galley’s counter. They glistened under the light of the candelabras and dozens of votive lights. Those flickering candles and hearth fire were the only source of illumination in the cavernous barge.

Which was probably just as well, considering the new décor. The enormous crystal ball in the center of the coffee table seemed to eat the light, rather than refract it. The Celtic ribbonwork on the wooden base that supported it would have been attractive under normal circumstances, but there was just something about that ponderous crystal above it that overwhelmed its beauty. Joe didn’t know what Methos was doing with the thing, but it felt…dangerous, which was utterly absurd. Joe knew it was only a hunk of stone.

The silver bowl that was half filled with water beside it had the same kind of haunting presence about it, as did many of the other strange objects Methos had scattered about MacLeod’s normally mundane abode. Joe couldn’t help but take inventory of the new additions, just to see if anything else had been added.

He thought that the stack of little twigs of various bark shadings at the far end of the coffee table might be new, but the hide pouch with the small, round, mysterious petroglyph- decorated gray stones spilling out of it had definitely been here yesterday. The most unusual additions to the barge’s ensemble were an ancient, smoky mirror that was set up beside the hearth on a heavy-duty easel, a tiny harp with wire strings that were black as soot and a long cloak made of black feathers that was resting on the corner of the couch, as though recently discarded.

Joe didn’t know what the answer to finding Mac was – providing Mac were still alive to be found – but he sure as hell didn’t think it was this.

He didn’t see Methos at first glance. Joe hoped that he was finally getting some rest. Sighing at the desperation that had motivated his normally skeptical, academic friend to resort to all this occult crap, Joe started down the stairs.

He was halfway to the dining room table when he noticed Methos sitting there. He almost jumped out of his skin at the shock of it. He’d been looking straight in that direction and not seen the Immortal, but Methos was sitting right there in plain sight, wearing a no longer white Henley and rumpled looking blue jeans.

Joe paused, trying to figure out what his friend was doing. Methos was bent over the table with his left arm held straight out in front of him. Methos seemed to be dangling something at the end of a string over a piece of paper on the table. A few steps closer, and Joe was able to see that the paper on the table was a map and that a small pebble was tied to the end of the string. Joe saw that the pebble was swirling in a manner that appeared to be entirely unrelated to Methos’ hold on it, which seemed to be quite still. Joe watched the tiny white stone spiral, a chill that had nothing to do with his drenched state stealing over him as he recognized how completely unnatural the stone’s movement was.

The pebble lowered to the paper, finally touching down. When it did, Methos peered at the map for a long moment before releasing a disappointed sounding sigh.

“No luck, huh?” Joe asked.

Methos jerked straight up in his chair, his purple-bagged eyes staring over at Dawson as though Joe had just manifested on the spot. It was clear that the ancient Immortal had had no hint that Dawson had arrived, which was not good survival-wise.

“Joe,” Methos breathed, sinking back into his chair.

“What’s up with the cat toy?” Joe gestured towards the string dangling from Methos left hand. Methos’ right was busy at the moment massaging the no doubt strained muscle’s of his left arm’s biceps. God only knew how long he’d been holding that thing out like that.

Joe took heart from the fact that his head wasn’t instantly bitten off. There were days when he couldn’t say hello right.

“It’s called dowsing,” Methos answered, giving up on the arm rubbing and just slumping back in his chair with his head tilted over the back, staring up at the ceiling.

Without asking permission, Joe steadied his stance beside the book-crowded dining table and started to clear some space on the tabletop.

“So what’s it s’pposed ta do?” Dawson questioned, figuring it was best to keep his friend talking.

Apparently, he hadn’t hidden his feelings on the weird stuff Methos had been doing well enough. When Methos replied, he sounded almost his droll self, as if even he understood how bizarre this was.

“Theoretically, the string is supposed to circle over the spot where the missing article is and lead me to it,” Methos informed.

“It didn’t work?” Joe tried for sincerity, but it was beyond him. All this stuff was scaring the hell out of him. Methos was the realist in their group. The ancient Immortal was always the first to perceive an unpleasant truth, always the one with the most prosaic, sometimes-ruthless arguments. To see this logical man driven by desperation into charlatanry hurt almost as much as losing Mac had.

Methos’ slumped shoulders shrugged. “Oh, it worked.”

“But?”

“I’ve combed that area five times this month, Joe. It’s nothing but warehouses and abandoned factories. Every time I try dowsing for him…it stops at the same place, but there’s nothing there,” Methos rubbed his hand through his shaggy hair, sending the uncombed locks into complete disarray. Joe supposed he was lucky his distracted friend remembered to shower a couple of times a week. Haircuts had apparently gone the way of sleep. Methos’ disheveled hair was down past his shoulders. Were he not so pasty and hollow-eyed, the longer hair might have been attractive, but given Methos’ run down condition, it only seemed to accentuate how thin his face had become.

Joe took a deep breath. Knowing the trouble he was buying into, he hesitated voicing his next words. He could see the poor guy in front of him was hanging onto his sanity by an even thinner string than the one Methos held in his hand. Methos was living in hope, focusing every bit of his energy on recovering Mac. Part of Joe said it was cruel to rip that last, pathetic hope away, but…friends didn’t keep their mouths shut when the people they cared about were eating their hearts out over a hopeless cause. “Did you ever think that maybe you were in the right place?”

“Joe, I told you. I’ve been there. I felt nothing…”

“Maybe there’s nothing to feel,” Joe gently countered. “If Mac is dead and buried--”

“He’s alive,” Methos insisted in the same inarguable tone he used whenever he made that same statement.

Normally, Joe let the discussion drop here. He wasn’t into kicking a man when he was down – and he had never seen any man this down, not even himself in those horrible months after Nam before he’d dedicated his life to being a Watcher. But…he couldn’t allow his friend to go on this way, either. One way or another, this had to stop, before Methos went totally off the deep end; though, looking at the paraphernalia around him, Joe couldn’t help but wonder how much further Methos had to go before he bottomed out. So, gathering his resolve around him, Joe pressed, “You told me yourself that an Immortal can’t feel a friend’s death unless it’s part of the Game. If mortals killed Mac--”

“He’s not dead,” Methos sounded more tired than hysterical, for all that there was a core of steel behind the assertion.

“How do you know that?” Joe demanded, beyond frustration with this implacable, illogical stand.

This was the place where Methos usually clammed up and refused to say another word, but the exhausted man in front of Joe didn’t seem to have the strength for such stonewalling. After a deep breath, Methos softly offered, “I know he’s not dead because I see him, every damn night.”

“See him…” Joe echoed, really scared now.

Those red-rimmed eyes that hadn’t seen sleep in God knew how many days locked with his own. Joe had seen a lot of pain in his years. The stuff Mac dealt with alone was often more than Dawson cared to contemplate, but the depth of raw agony in Methos’ eyes was terrifying. Just looking into it hurt Joe physically. He couldn’t imagine what it felt like to bear it.

“Yes, see him. He’s not dead. He’s…buried alive, I think.” Now that Methos had at last broached the topic, he didn’t seem able to stop, for he continued with, “He’s in a completely dark, enclosed space. He can’t see anything. He can’t move. He can barely breathe. He wakes up and he dies…revives and dies…over and over again, on an almost daily basis. For months, he was screaming my name…but now…he’s just quiet…”

The heavy book Joe was in the process of transferring to a nearby chair dropped from his hands to the floor, making a huge crash in the sudden silence. Joe’s stomach lurched within him at the horrible picture Methos’ words had painted.

Mac buried somewhere, screaming in agony…it wasn’t an image he even wanted to contemplate. Better his friend were dead than that…and, it just couldn’t be true. Methos had really lost it.

This was far worse than Dawson had thought. This wasn’t encroaching madness. This was full-blown insanity…and Joe hadn’t a clue what he could do to help. Maybe if Sean Byrnes were still alive, Dawson might have violated what few portions of his Watchers’ Oath remained and approached the wise Immortal for help with Methos, but with Sean dead, Joe didn’t know whom to turn to. A mortal shrink would lock Methos away for the parts of the Immortal’s story that were true. This other stuff….

“I knew you wouldn’t believe me,” Methos said quietly, sounding totally lucid and sane for a raving lunatic.

“No, I…” Dawson stammered, trying to cover. The only thing he did know for sure was that it was best to keep Methos talking, no matter how wild the stuff he was saying was.

“Joe, don’t try to con a con artist. Do you think I don’t know how crazy it sounds? Why do you think I didn’t tell you for so long? It’s okay. You don’t have to believe me,” Methos sounded himself. Totally dispirited, but himself.

His basic honesty winning out, Joe found himself questioning subjects that his better sense was insisting that he veer clear of, “You tellin’ me that you’ve suddenly developed some kinda clairvoyance where MacLeod is concerned?”

Methos sighed. He gave a slow shake of his head, but held Dawson’s gaze as he answered, “Not suddenly developed. I suppose you’d call it…reclaimed. You’ve met people who have the sight. Joe, I know you’re not a superstitious man, but you’ve seen the scientific studies that support the existence of such…sensitivity.”

“Yeah, I guess I have. I just never saw anything to indicate that you had those kinda abilities,” Joe laid it on the line, praying that this man who had carried a sword for five millennia would not react violently to having his psychosis questioned.

To his shock and relief, Methos just calmly replied, “No, I don’t suppose you have.”

“So, you’d have to understand where this would be…a little hard to believe,” Joe continued, almost wishing that Methos were flipping out like most whackos did when their delusions were challenged. But the exhausted man in front of him was simply staring at him with something like compassion in his gaze, acting way too much like the totally rational Methos he had known for almost fifteen years now for Joe to stay frightened of him.

“Yes…I understand, Joe. Don’t worry about it.” Seeming more hurt than angry, Methos’ attention settled on the dinner bags Joe had settled on an empty chair. “Is that dinner I smell?”

Without another word on the previous subject, Methos preceded to clear his map away and make room across from him for Joe to sit.

“I’m going to owe you a fortune by the time all this is over,” Methos commented, sounding so matter-of-fact about the all over, finding MacLeod bit that Joe almost believed it himself. “You’ve been feeding me for eight months now. Hold on, I’ll get some plates.”

Joe watched his seemingly rational companion cross to the nearby galley and quickly take the dinner plates and cutlery Dawson had left in the draining board after he’d washed them last night back to the table.

“What did Maurice make for us tonight?” Methos questioned.

Joe could tell from Methos’ expression that his friend wasn’t really hungry, but was feigning interest to humor him. And once again, it was right there in Joe’s face that Methos was acting too normal for a legitimately crazy person, which led Joe to wonder how sane Methos had been before all this began. After all, how sane could anyone be who had led the kind of life this man had and seen so much loss?

“Lamb stew,” Dawson answered, quickly opening up his sacks and sorting out their meals before Methos’ attention jumped back to his obsessive search. His friend needed food and rest more than anything right now. Joe knew he was being patronized, but if it got some nourishment into his grief-stricken friend, he was willing to put up with it. Who knew, maybe some solid food would ground Methos.

He surreptitiously watched as the ancient Immortal forced himself to choke down half a plate of the thick soup. When it became clear that Methos was just playing with his meal now instead of eating it, Joe casually revived their former conversation. “You always struck me as a rational, scientific man. How can someone who claims to have studied with Socrates waste his time with this kinda mumbo-jumbo?”

Methos slowly raised his gaze from the potato he was dismantling with a fork. Something almost…sagacious entered his expression as he softly answered, “I am a scientific man, Joe. There was a time when what I’m doing here was a science…and I excelled at it.”

Seeing how calm Methos was, Joe poked at the basic logic faults in his response by carefully asking, “So why’d ya give it up if it worked so good?”

“For the same reason men like Jim Coltec had to abandon their belief systems. Christianity was conquering the world. Those who wouldn’t or couldn’t convert died horrible deaths and…I wanted to live. I saw the way the world was going and did what I’ve always done to survive – changed with the times. That didn’t invalidate any of my former knowledge. It was just easier to go with the flow and embrace science. The two approaches aren’t contradictory, no matter what you might think.”

“So if it usta work for you, why can’t you get it to now?” Joe questioned, trying to get his deluded friend to see sense. Methos was smart enough to know that it didn’t work because it was all chicanery.

Once again, there was no censure for his obvious doubt, though the resigned cast that came over Methos’ thin features almost made Joe think he’d voiced the disparaging thought aloud.

“It’s hard to explain. I was never…a true adept. My…teacher always complained that I had a great deal of natural talent, but no true discipline. And I need that discipline now, Joe. Most of what I’m doing requires a level of constant practice that most schedules don’t allow. The mystery grows in silence, and modern life just doesn’t have a lot of that. Also, an intensely close relationship with the natural world around you is a prerequisite to most of what I’m doing and I simply do not have that level of familiarity anymore.”

“What do you mean by familiarity? You’ve lived in Paris on and off for centuries. Who could be more familiar with this city than you?” Dawson asked, intrigued in spite of himself. Methos wasn’t babbling like some half-cracked psychic trying to sell their wares to the credulous. The explanation had a twisted kind of sense to it.

“It’s not that kind of familiarity. There are…” Methos seemed to search for the correct words before continuing with, “…energies that flow through the natural world that these arts tap into--”

“We talkin’ spirits here?” Joe interjected, trying not to mock out of hand.

Methos’ weary sigh told him how totally he’d failed, “To some degree, but beyond the mystical, there are physical energies that flow in set patterns through this planet. Most holy ground is situated above these natural power sources…”

“Which is why Immortals can’t kill on it?” Joe asked, worried that what Methos was saying was beginning to make true sense. He knew the gaes against killing on holy ground. It had never made sense to him why an Immortal could safely take a head in one site, but should he move one inch onto sacred ground and commit that same act, all hell would break loose. Wasn’t that true magic at work, Dawson wondered, not liking the direction his thoughts were taking.

Every now and then Joe had to give himself a mental shake and remind himself of the facts of this weird life he led. He was here speaking to a five thousand year old man, the oldest Immortal. Methos’ very nature would seem magical to most people. In the thousands of years there had been Watchers, not one of them had ever witnessed an Immortal birth. These beings just appeared fully formed as if spat out from fairyland. They lived only so long as they kept their heads attached to their shoulders, and when they were beheaded, the energy that was released was fully capable of killing a mortal if that person were unfortunate enough to get in the way of the Quickening. By any normal human standards, Methos’ biology was the stuff of fantasy.

For the first time in way too many months, Joe began to doubt his own stand on this. Who was he to question Methos? This man had lived longer and forgotten more about history and the nature of the universe than science understood today. Joe thought his friend was going crazy, but if he told any of his non-Watcher friends about Methos’ Immortality, they’d think him just as cracked. So, maybe he needed to cut his friend a little slack and at least attempt to support him. God knew, Joe had rarely seen a man more in need of solace.

“Yes. The Quickening causes a temporary short in those energy lines that, as we know from Vesuvius, can be quite catastrophic,” Methos answered his question about Immortals killing on holy ground.

“I still don’t get why you can’t tap into these energies anymore,” Joe admitted after a brief, uncomfortable silence.

Something in his approach must have changed because the wariness left Methos’ tired features almost entirely. Seeming a little shy, Methos offered, “It’s like…turning your back on a friend. The longer the estrangement lasts, the harder it is to reestablish contact. When Myrddid was killed, I packed all this stuff up and…forgot everything he ever tried to teach me. Now, that I have a need, I’m turning to it again and…”

“And…” Joe encouraged, uneasy. Methos was too much his usual self right now to blow off everything he was saying. Joe knew truth when he heard it, and Methos seriously believed every word he was saying.

“As ever, the fault is not in the system, but in the practitioner. I am too desperate to focus most of the time and…”

“Yes?” this time, there was no judgment in Dawson’s tone. He just wanted to hear the rest.

“I’m too…skeptical. I’ve dealt with the hard sciences too long. You get immediate, clear-cut results there, and so much of these arts are…open to interpretation. I get fragments instead of the whole picture, riddles instead of answers and…I just don’t have the time to unravel it all. Every minute I sit here trying to figure these arcane messages out, Duncan is lying somewhere dying of thirst and hunger…”

Joe dropped his spoon to his bowl and reached across the table to grip Methos’ forearm. He didn’t know what to say that could possibly help, but he couldn’t let Methos torment himself this way. “You’re not to blame for this. You’re doing everything you can to help him.”

“It’s…not enough, Joe. It’s never enough,” Methos’ rasped out, his bloodshot eyes swimming with liquid.

Joe felt his own fill in sympathy. Losing Mac had hurt him more than anything he could remember, including the loss of his legs, but it had totally destroyed Methos. This Immortal, who had survived all that history could throw at him, was crumbling before Joe’s eyes – because of a broken heart. Joe gave the muscular forearm a squeeze and softly corrected, “It was enough for Duncan MacLeod and will be again when we find him.”

“You think he’s dead,” Methos reminded.

“I’ve been wrong before,” Joe said. “Come on. Eat some more. When you’re done, we’ll take a drive out to wherever your pebble told you we should go and have a look around.”

Hearing his own words, he couldn’t help but think, welcome to insanity.

“You’ll come with me?” Rarely had he seen Methos so shocked. There was a very young and childlike quality to the exhausted Immortal’s surprise, as though it had never occurred to Methos that he had the right to ask for back up.

“Yeah, I’ll come. If you chow down,” he qualified, seeing the means of getting some more food into his way too slender companion. Joe still thought this kind of search a useless effort, but…he wasn’t doing it for Mac.

“Thank you, Joseph,” Methos said with embarrassing gratitude and took another spoonful of stew.

“Nothin’ to thank me for,” Joe shrugged.

His own dinner finished, Joe stared around the candlelit barge. Most of the stuff Methos had brought in was self-explanatory, but a few of the new additions still puzzled him.

“What’s with the feathered robe?” Dawson asked.

“Myrddid used to wear it when he was…working. He said it helped him focus,” Methos explained.

“It do anything for you?”

The wry lift of Methos’ left eyebrow was totally his old friend. “It made me perspire.”

“Shouldn’t those feathers have rotted by now?” Joe questioned once he realized how old that garment must be.

“The one thing I’ve learned to do well in my life is preserve for posterity. Besides,” and here something like uneasiness entered Methos’ attitude, “Myrddid’s belongings don’t seem to be aging at the same rate most of my other stuff is.”

“What do you mean they’re not aging?” Joe asked, a shiver running through him. He really didn’t need to hear this on Halloween night.

“Even my best preserved pieces show their age. Wood gets brittle. The moisture in feathers and fabrics make them rot over the ages, but…these were perfect when I opened them up. It was like time had stopped for them. I swear I could still smell Myrddid in the robe,” Methos quietly offered, his expression seeming to say that he didn’t have much hope of being believed.

Joe swallowed his instinctive ‘That’s not possible.’ That was a given. Right now, he was working at comforting. Sanity could come later.

When he made no reply, Methos offered, “And the harp was in tune.”

“Now I know you’re pullin’ my chain,” Joe said, unable to keep quiet at that. He was a musician. He mightn’t know diddly about the lifespan of feathers, but the one thing he knew more about than Duncan MacLeod was stringed instruments. “Harps don’t stay in tune for more than twenty minutes under the best of circumstances. I used to date a harpist. Retuning was the bane of her existence.”

Methos gave a shrug. “It was and still is in tune. The only thing I couldn’t find among my…teacher’s possessions was Myrddid’s tuning key.”

Joe pulled himself out of his seat and cautiously approached the tiny harp that was resting on the end of the couch. Switching both walking sticks to his left hand, he cautiously ran his right index finger down the twenty-four harp strings. They rang with bell-like clarity in perfect scales.

More weirded out than he cared to admit, Joe snatched his hand back as though burnt.

Turning his back to the ancient instrument, he retreated to the table. “What’s it doin’ here, anyway? The other occult stuff, I understand, but a harp…?”

Methos finished chewing the food in his mouth, swallowed, then said in a perfectly reasonable tone, “That harp is the most dangerous thing in the barge right now…and I’m including the swords and my revolver in that estimation.”

“Dangerous…” Joe shook his head. “What’re you gonna do with it – play an enemy to sleep?”

Methos was quiet for a long moment before answering. “Joe, I know you’re not going to believe this, but I’ve seen that harp turn the tide of battle. I’ve seen it call up thunderstorms on a perfectly sunny day.”

Ridiculous as the claims were, Joe didn’t even try to refute them. He could see Methos fully believed what he was saying, and, who knew what Methos had seen? If this harp had belonged to Merlin the magician, anything was possible. A man didn’t become that kind of legend without something to stoke the myths. A good military strategist or someone who’d watched the weather patterns in an area as long as an Immortal could would have more than sufficient abilities to hoodwink the masses. Methos was a prosaic cynic nowadays, but there was no telling what he’d been like a couple of thousand years ago. Disbelievers didn’t usually hang with mystics, much less claim them as their teachers, anymore than gurus suffered cynics. Whatever Merlin had been, it was clear that Methos had bought into the man’s rap hook, line and sinker.

But that Methos was as dead as Merlin. Joe couldn’t accept that the Methos he knew today would still believe that a few pieces of wood and metal strings could have the kind of magical powers he was suggesting. “And you think it still can do that?”

“Oh, it can still do it, in the hands of the right man,” Methos answered, irony heavy in his cultured voice.

“Come on, Methos. Work with me here. I’m tryin’ta take you serious, but how can you expect me to accept that a musical instrument can….”

“It’s not a musical instrument. It’s a…” Methos seemed to search for a word for almost a full minute before he tagged on a dissatisfied sounding, “…Druid’s harp.”

“You’re gonna tell me how that makes a difference, right?” Joe demanded with a forced smile.

“Myrddid played this harp for close to a thousand years, Joe. All the rest of the stuff here were the tools and trappings of his trade, but the harp…it was the focus of his power. He could kill or heal with a song; call the rains or winds to do his bidding; bind a man’s will, soul or heart to him or another…some of the greatest…” Again Methos paused as if to search his vocabulary before settling on another inefficient definition, “…spells this world has seen were worked through this harp, and the harp remembers.”

“The harp remembers,” Joe repeated, not even trying to mask his cynicism.

“It was used to transmute will into reality. It is sensitive, receptive and…eager to be of use again.”

“Are you listening to yourself?” Joe questioned.

“I told you that you wouldn’t believe me,” Methos reminded.

“How can I? This is like a fairytale….”

“And where do you think they came from, Joe? This harp is no child’s tale. It is a dangerous weapon and a force to be reckoned with in its own right,” Methos countered. “I hadn’t the nerve to touch the strings until this morning and…”

“And?” Joe pressed.

“Look outside. You walked in through the results. Your pants are still dripping, even as we speak,” the truly terrifying part was that Methos was not joking.

“You’re seriously tellin’ me that you think you’re responsible for the weather?” Joe needed to hear it to believe it.

Methos gave another of those unenthusiastic shrugs and answered, “It seemed a harmless enough experiment.”

“How can you believe something like that? This is the twentieth century, not the dark ages!” And yet, even as he spoke, Joe remembered this morning’s predictions for a perfectly clear day.

“The world isn’t that different now. Take my word for it.”

“I can’t. You want me to believe, you’re gonna have to prove it to me and if you can’t prove it, I want you to promise me that you’ll put all this stuff back from wherever the hell you got it and we’ll try something else. Together,” Joe added that last because he sure as hell wasn’t leaving his friend to devolve into anything crazier than this. He knew he’d been lucky here. There had been religions in the past that had required blood sacrifices for this kind of thing.

“This isn’t a game, Joe. I can’t do parlor tricks on demand,” Methos wearily refused.

“I’m not asking you for any tricks,” Joe responded. “Just somethin’ to convince me that it isn’t time to call the guys with the butterfly nets and the padded rooms, ‘cause to tell you the truth, my friend, you are scarin’ the hell outta me here.”

Methos’ eyes narrowed to slits, no small feat considering how puffy they were. “Put up or shut up, hmmm?”

“If you want to put it that way.” Seeing neither protest nor assent in those unreadable, haggard features, Joe began to relax. Perhaps this lunacy would end now. One glance at the rain gushing over the nearest porthole was enough to make it clear that the storm had no intention of passing anytime soon.

To his consternation, Methos released a deep breath and nodded. “All right. I’ll prove it, but, remember, you asked for it.”

With growing apprehension, Joe watched the ancient Immortal rise from his chair. Methos sidetracked to the kitchen to wash his hands with soap and water…something that he hadn’t done to his clothes in some time from the looks of them. Then Methos walked over to the couch, sat down and picked the small, dark wood harp up from its corner. He rested it against his chest and positioned his fingers on the strings. For a minute Methos simply held the harp in place, sitting there with his eyes closed so long that Dawson began to think that he’d fallen asleep again. Despite the closed eyes, Methos’ expression was anything but tranquil. There was a tension there that was completely inexplicable.

Joe was puzzled. He’d known this man long enough to recognize fear in Methos when he saw it and that was what he was reading beneath his friend’s outer control. A few deep breaths and Methos seemed to make a conscious effort to shake off the emotion. Without opening his eyes, his long, sinuous fingers began to fly over the strings.

The sounds that emerged were…enchanting. Joe Dawson could find no other words for it. He was a musician. He knew good music when he heard it, but this was something more. The song was as simple as the instrument it was played upon. The tune wasn’t more than a dozen notes, repeated over and over again in the same haunting refrain. It should have been dull and repetitive. If Joe had played it on his guitar, the piece would have just laid there, but every time Methos played it, the reverberations seemed to deepen, the song growing in power and volume – which was blatantly impossible on an instrument that simple. There were no sharping levers on this harp, no amps. Sitting fifteen feet away as he was, Joe shouldn’t have been able to hear Methos’ song as anything more than soft background music. But the tones of that nondescript instrument filled the cavernous barge like a symphony orchestra would have, growing in power. The bass strings seemed to vibrate through Dawson’s very bones as Methos plucked them, while the high strings…they shivered through him like a fever, making his blood dance and his heart pound as though he were on the verge of orgasm.

The music was exhilarating and terrifying all at once. Listening to it, Joe had a visceral understanding of Methos’ earlier fear. He didn’t know what the hell was going on here, but Methos was right. This wasn’t about entertainment or music. The very air seemed to be vibrating with energy, the way it would before the lightning bolts of a Quickening took an Immortal.

Methos’ fingers flew in an almost blinding blur. He played that same song for over fifteen minutes straight, and, even though Joe wanted to tell him to stop whatever he was doing, he couldn’t get his vocal chords to work. He was as frozen in place as if the music had turned him to stone, so focused was he on its bewitching tones.

Without altering the notes, the energy raised by the eerie tune seemed to reach some type of crescendo. Dawson heard a boom outside that sounded like thunder, followed by a blinding lightning flash on the other side of the portholes and then…absolute silence as the harp stopped playing.

All Joe could hear was the wild racing of his heart and the harsh sounds of their breathing.

He looked over at Methos. His friend looked limp and drained. His gaze kept moving to the nearest porthole…no rain, no lightning. Even from his seat Joe could see a stunning sunset turning the retreating clouds to a brilliant blend of purple, orange and pink.

His blood seemed to solidify in his veins as his sluggish mind apprehended what those rapidly moving cloudbanks meant. Everything inside Dawson wanted to refute the conclusion he was drawing, but his honesty wouldn’t let him. A cold sweat broke out all over him as he struggled with this new version of reality, a reality where thunderstorms could be invoked and dispersed with a harp song…and a man killed or healed by the will of the person plucking those strings. It was a similar crisis to the one he’d undergone in Nam thirty-some-odd years ago when Ian Bancroft had first told him about Immortals, a situation where everything he’d ever learned insisted that what he was being told couldn’t possibly be true, except he had seen it with his own eyes – there in Nam when Andy Cord rose up from the dead and carried him eighteen miles to a MASH unit and now when another man he’d known just as well changed the weather to suit his mood. In truth, one was no stranger an occurrence than the other. It was what it said about the world as Dawson knew it that was hard to handle.

“Proof enough?” Methos asked into that thrumming silence.

“Christ…” was all Joe could manage as he gaped at Methos. In his scruffy jeans, stained white shirt and shaggy hair, the ancient Immortal looked like a kid at one of those RenFaire Festivals as he sat there cradling that tiny harp to his chest…a kid who’d just changed the weather….

“Easy,” Methos was at his side in an instant, steadying Joe as the room reeled around him.

Without a word, Dawson sagged into the chair Methos thrust under him. Feeling totally out of it, he just stared up at the lines of exhaustion that were etched in Methos’ angular face as his friend bent over him to matter-of-factly take his pulse.

“You’re okay,” Methos breathed out a relieved sigh. “I think it’s just shock…and exhaustion. When was the last time you slept, Joe?”

“More recently than the last time you did,” Joe rallied, dragging his wrist back from Methos’ hand. “I’m all right, okay? Stop fussing.”

Still crouching so that their eyes were level, Methos retreated a few steps and rested his butt on the corner of the coffee table – the only unoccupied space on it at the moment. The move was graceful as a cat’s. Methos never even checked the space before trusting his weight to it, Joe noted.

Dawson stared at the man before him, feeling as though he were seeing him for the very first time, which in a way, he was. There was an unsettling sense of déjà vu to the scene. Methos was wearing that same uncertain expression he’d sported the first time he’d come to see Joe three months after Kronos died at Bordeaux, like Methos wasn’t sure of his welcome and was expecting the worst.

“I’m sorry,” Methos said after a quiet moment in which they simply appraised each other.

“What for?” Joe asked, trying for cool. He was shaken, more shaken than he should be. Even as he tried to process and deal with what he’d just witnessed, there was a part of him wondering where it ended. He’d been interacting with Immortals for so long that the sheer magic of their existence had become muted in his mind. Joe had come to view them as a different breed of humans, the rules that governed their existence strange, but as clearly defined as those of his own. But what he’d just seen…his drinking buddy had just tampered with the weather. Even the expanded reality of a Watcher wasn’t sophisticated enough to handle that in stride. The rules of the universe as he knew it were forever changed again. If Methos could manifest a storm and disperse it with a song, could he do all that other stuff wizards were reputed to do as well? Methos had already stated that what he did could heal or kill. Joe couldn’t help but wonder what else was possible. Was every piece of fiction going to turn out to be fact?

“Losing my patience. I shouldn’t have done that,” Methos said, his bloodshot gaze moving almost nervously to the nearest porthole as though he, too, were freaked out by what he’d just wrought.

“Why not? If you can--”

Quite out of character, Methos cut him off, “There is much I can do, Joe. That doesn’t mean I should.”

“Huh? This is incredible. Why wouldn’t you wanta…if you can do something like that, how could you just walk away from it? I don’t get it. Most people would give their right arm to be ableta--”

“Able to – what? Change the world to suit one’s whimsy? Force one’s will upon those too weak to defend themselves? I’ve been there and done that, Joe. I know how I respond to absolute power,” Methos reminded.

“Then why’d ya learn in the first place if you didn’t want to use that kinda power?” Joe asked, just not getting this.

“Why did Duncan follow Darius’ teachings? Someone older and far wiser was trying to make the world a better place.”

“So what changed that?” Dawson asked, still confused.

“Darius’ sword at the gates of Paris,” Methos replied, the blanking of his features telling Joe how much that loss still hurt his friend. His confusion must have been obvious for Methos continued in a softer tone, “I didn’t have his wisdom, Joe. If I’d continued along this path without his goodness to guide me, the results would have been catastrophic.”

“But you’re using his teachings now to find Mac?” Joe questioned.

“As much as I dare.”

“If you can call up a rainstorm…couldn’t you just call Mac back to you the same way?” Joe suggested. He wasn’t sure how this magic stuff worked, but it seemed the most obvious approach. It certainly beat the cat toy Methos was playing with when he’d walked in tonight.

“I considered that,” Methos answered. His gaze moved to the harp that was now resting safely in the corner of the couch and skittered quickly away again. If Joe didn’t know better, he’d swear that Methos was uncomfortable having the harp in the same room with him.

“So, why don’t you--”

“Because I’m not sure what I’d call to me, Joe,” Methos snapped. Standing suddenly, Methos moved to the galley. Joe watched as his friend stopped at the sink for a tall glass of tap water, which he instantly drank down.

“What do you mean you don’t know what you’d call to you?” Joe asked, trying to keep his imagination in check.

“Fast fixes are dangerous, Joe. I’ve seen what happens when desperation overrules common sense.”

“What are you talking about? If you can get MacLeod back….”

Methos sighed. “When I was studying with Myrddid, he had another apprentice. His name was Averlin. Averlin had grown up with one of the king’s champions, a warrior named Gareth. Even though they followed totally different paths, Gareth and Averlin maintained their friendship, despite the problems it caused them both at court. Gareth fell in battle one day, but his body wasn’t recovered after the fray. Averlin was…he was broken by the loss, Joe. He couldn’t accept that Gareth was dead and would never return --” Methos broke off and gave a humorless laugh, “Sounds familiar – doesn’t it? At any rate, the weeks passed and Gareth never came home. Finally, unable to bear the loss a second longer, Averlin took his harp, violated Myrddid’s direct command and did precisely what you suggested - he called Gareth back to him.”

Joe knew there had to be more to this. “So what went wrong? Didn’t Gareth return?”

“Oh, he returned all right. At dawn the next morning Gareth showed up at the castle gate. He was glowing with good health and humor, joking about how he’d gotten lost in the woods for nearly a month. He’d never looked better. The entire court was ecstatic, with three notable exceptions.”

“Those were?” Joe asked.

“Myrddid, myself, and Averlin.”

“But…why?”

“At first I thought Myrddid angry because Averlin violated his orders,” Methos said. “Once Gareth came back, our master met with him once, then took to his chambers and avoided everyone.”

“And why were you unhappy?” Joe questioned.

“Gareth was mortal when he rode out to battle on that fatal day, but the Gareth that returned at Averlin’s bidding…I could sense him, Joe. Not the same way I would another Immortal or even a latent Immortal, but there was something in his presence that…wasn’t right,” Methos explained.

“How is that possible?” Joe asked.

Methos shrugged. “I didn’t know. All I knew was he wasn’t the same Gareth whom I used to go drinking with. Something was subtlely off. The man who returned to us laughed with Gareth’s laugh, had all of Gareth’s mannerisms, but there was still something alien about him. Averlin felt that difference far more acutely than ever I did. He avoided his old friend like the plague…and Gareth never made any attempts to lessen the distance. Averlin stopped his studies with Myrddid soon after Gareth’s return.”

“Did you ever find out what changed Gareth?”

“When he eventually emerged from his tower, I asked Myrddid why I found Gareth so different since his return,” Methos’ smile was soft and strangely exacerbated. “Myrddid would have done Socrates proud. All he said was, ‘You find Gareth different because the soul who sups with us is not Gareth.’”

“That was all he said?” Joe questioned.

Methos gave a slow nod. “My next question was, of course, where Gareth was, if this wasn’t him. To which Myrddid replied, ‘Dead in his grave.’”

“And when you asked who this Gareth ringer was?” Joe cut to the chase, telling himself that the shiver that passed through him had more to do with his damp clothing than the eerie anecdote Methos was relating.

“All Myrddid did was shrug and say, ‘One of the Sidhe in all probability.’”

“The what?” Joe blinked.

“The beings that the fairy stories were based on.”

Dawson bit back his knee-jerk, get real response. Trying to say it without a smile, he asked, “You’re tellin’ me you’ve met fairies?”

Methos sighed. “I don’t know what that thing was that Averlin called up, but it wasn’t Gareth. It…gave me the creeps, if you must know. I tried to talk to it, but it avoided me the same way it did Averlin and Myrddid.”

“So did you expose the imposter?” Joe asked.

“I wanted to, but Myrddid wouldn’t let me.”

“What?” Joe gaped. “Why not?”

“For the same reason Darius would have kept silent. Myrddid said that its kind were fading, that the poor thing was desperate for a foothold in this realm. He insisted that the creature was no threat to us and reminded me that it wasn’t so different than we Immortals were, hiding among mortals, concealing our natures. So…I followed my master’s bidding and did nothing,” Methos said.

“And what happened?” Joe questioned, expecting to hear that the doppelganger had killed everyone in their beds one night.

“Nothing, immediately,” Methos answered. “A year to the day that Gareth had been lost in battle, we found Averlin dead by his own hand.”

“And the other Gareth?” Joe asked, prepared for anything.

Methos’ response was almost anti-climatic, “Gone, like a wind. The sentries never opened the gates for him. Gareth just vanished from the keep like the morning dew.”

“I don’t get it,” Joe admitted, creeped out by the tale.

“Neither did I, but…it taught me a lesson, Joe. Intent and focus are everything in these arts. When you aren’t specific…unexpected things happen. I’m not going to make Averlin’s mistake.”

“So what are you goin’ta do?” Joe asked.

“Go search Arronville again and then--”

They both jumped as the phone blared. It had been so long since the barge’s phone rang that they both stared at each other as if they’d never heard the sound before.

“It’s probably just Amanda,” Joe said. Amanda, the Vallicourts, Kit, Grace, Marcus and a host of the Highlander’s other friends had been tying up the barge’s phone so much those first few months after the abduction that Inspector Lebrun had asked Methos to request that they limit their inquiries. But as the months passed and MacLeod never surfaced, the calls dropped off. Lebrun had removed his bug at the end of April and by July, the barge’s phone hardly rang at all as Mac’s other Immortal friends dealt with their loss and moved on. Nowadays, only Amanda called with any regularity, and as far as Joe knew, it had been a good six weeks since Methos or he had heard from her.

“You’re right. She’s about due,” Methos agreed, rising wearily from the coffee table to answer the phone, which was over at Mac’s desk, sharing its space with three foot-high piles of dusty books.

“You want me to talk to her?” Dawson offered. In some ways, this was the worst part, having to tell the people who cared about Mac over and over again that there had been no word.

“No, it’s okay, Joe. I’ll handle it,” Methos gave a tired smile and picked up the receiver.

Looking at him, Joe didn’t think his friend could handle much more. He wished that he could talk Methos out of their trip up north, but knew better. It had meant so much to the other man that he’d have some company on his search that Joe didn’t have the heart to disappoint him. At least it had stopped raining, Joe thought, shaking his head at the incredible turn the night had taken.

“Hello. Duncan MacLeod’s residence,” Methos answered, his sleek voice sounding very much like a paid service in its professionalism. “Can I help you?”

His attention drifting, Joe looked back at the harp on the couch end. He was tempted to pick it up and fiddle with it, but he knew that would only upset Methos…and violate the unspoken trust Methos had given him. Joe didn’t need to have it spelt out to him how deep a secret the confidence Methos had shared with him was. Perhaps the deepest honor of all was the fact that Methos hadn’t even asked for his silence. So, instead of satisfying his curiosity and meddling with matters best left untouched, he just sat there and stared at the instrument, trying to resign its unremarkable appearance with its truly amazing abilities.

His peripheral vision caught sight of Methos suddenly stiffening, the Immortal’s body seeming to turn to stone as he voiced a tense, “Yes.” A long pause followed in which Methos just listened before he spoke again, “Yes, I know the place. I’ll need some assurance that the article is…intact.”

Joe’s heart caught in his throat as he interpreted what those strained words meant. The article in question had to be MacLeod. Methos had to be speaking to the kidnappers. After eight, goddamn months the bastards finally got around to calling them. Joe’s fury was seconded only to his concern over what shape Mac would be in after so long a captivity.

“I see,” Methos said after another brief interval. “No, I still want it back. I’ll be there in an hour. Yes, I’ll come alone.”

Another kind of man would have made a threat at that point – hell, Duncan MacLeod would have made one – but Methos merely hung up the phone. The ancient Immortal just stood there bent over the desk for the longest time. Finally, Methos straightened and murmured, “And so it begins.”

“That was them,” Joe said as Methos turned back towards the living room. There was no need to specify what them. That was the only call that had been on either of their minds since February.

Methos nodded.

“Who is this sick bastard?” Joe demanded. “What kind of monster makes people wait eight months before contacting them? He did say he who he was – didn’t he?” Joe checked.

“He didn’t have to give his name,” Methos said. “It was Alexander Longford.”

“What? He’s had Mac all this time?” Dawson couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“So he claims,” Methos replied, sounding totally dead. “I have no reason to doubt his word.”

“But…I’ve kept tabs on both him and Cassandra this entire year. He hasn’t been to the Continent once since February, let alone France. I’ve gotten daily reports, Methos. I swear, the bastard’s been nowhere near Paris since he faced you in January! His Watcher filed a report this morning that Longford flew over here on company business, but…it’s the first time since January.”

“It’s all right, Joe. There’s no way his Watcher could have known. A man with his financial empire doesn’t need to dirty his hands personally. All it would take was a single phone call or email and the details would be arranged,” Methos said.

“So what are you gonna do?”

Methos shrugged. “Meet him, of course. I’ll keep my promise to you, Joe. No matter what it takes, I’ll get Duncan back alive.”

Joe couldn’t help but ask, “D-did you speak to Mac?”

Methos gave a slow, negative shake of his head, “Longford said he was indisposed at the moment.”

A chill passed through Joe at the quaint wording, “What the hell do you think that means? You-you think he’s still alive?”

“He’s alive,” Methos answered, without any trace of doubt. “He’s…probably not in any condition to come to the phone at the moment.”

Abruptly recalling what Methos had told him about seeing Mac buried alive, Joe bit his lip to keep in his next comment. Methos was going out of his way to spare his feelings. There was no reason he should make it any harder on the poor guy.

Methos continued with, “Don’t worry, Joe. Our kind are hard to kill. If he’s alive, he will heal. Duncan MacLeod is the most resilient spirit I’ve ever met. I have to go now.”

“I’m going with you,” Joe insisted in a tone that would brook no argument.

“I’m sorry; that’s not possible. I said alone. I…won’t take any chances with his life. Even for you,” Methos took a deep breath. Joe could see the man framing his next line, choosing each word with extreme care. “If by chance I don’t bring Duncan back tonight, may I ask a favor of you?”

Everything in Joe rebelled at what was being requested of him. Mac was his friend. He had every right to be there. But the desperate need in that exhausted face made him hold his tongue. Methos was stretched so thin at the moment that he didn’t look like he could deal with another conflict.

“Name it,” Dawson said.

The absolute relief in those strained features made him glad he’d chosen to go gently.

“There’s a map on the table over there. Go to the place with the ink star on it. There’s a green warehouse there by the name of Montefiore. Duncan will be there. I – I need to know that you’ll take care of him for me, Joe.”

Joe swallowed hard, his throat so tight he could hardly breathe.

“You’ve got my word on that,” Dawson promised.

His hard-etched features going very soft, Methos replied, “I never needed a promise, Joe. Your word’s always been good here.”

It was like the man was unconsciously rubbing salt on an open wound, for they were both painfully aware that the reverse wasn’t always true. For the longest time after Bordeaux, even after Mac and Methos became involved, Joe had required concrete proof from this man.

“Methos…”

“You’ve been a good friend to both Duncan and me, Joe. Live and grow stronger.”

“This…sounds like goodbye,” Joe choked out.

To his complete despair, Methos didn’t even attempt to snow him. “It might be. I’m…not as good as I was last year and…I won’t do anything to endanger his life. Duncan MacLeod is not going to die because of me.”

“Get this through your thick head, you are not expendable! And you’re not to blame here!” Joe insisted. “Longford--”

His expression very tender, Methos interrupted, “I don’t really have time for this now, Joseph. With luck, I will see you again. But if I don’t, there’s a letter in the top drawer of Mac’s desk with my solicitor’s name and address on it. Please see that it gets to him.” Methos’ gaze strayed to the couch, “And, if it wouldn’t be too great an imposition, would you see that the harp and the rest of this stuff gets to Cassandra?”

Not knowing what else to say, Joe gave a mute nod. He could feel the heat of the tears coursing down his cheeks. Obviously, Methos’ estimation of his own ability to best anyone in a challenge concurred with Dawson’s own.

They stared at each other for a long moment, then Methos shocked him by leaning forward to plant a kiss in the center of his forehead.

“Goodbye, Joe, take care of yourself, my friend.”

Before Joe could find his voice, Methos had turned away. His guts twisting inside him, Dawson watched Methos retrieve MacLeod’s katana from where it had hung on the wall over the hearth since Valentine’s Day. Without another word, Methos hurried to the stairs, slipped Mac’s sword into his long black overcoat’s hidden sheath and left the barge.

Joe listened to those light footsteps cross the deck above and descend the gangplank. The Land Rover’s engine fired up, and then Methos was gone.

For good, in all probability.

Joe irritably wiped the tears from his face and just stood there, not knowing what to do. Ritchie, Mac…and now Methos, all gone from his life. Twenty years ago when he first joined the Watchers, he never would have thought that he’d know an Immortal personally, let alone come to consider them his closest friends. But, however it had happened, that was where he was right now. From the time he’d first taken the assignment, he’d had a special regard for the Highlander. Hell, who wouldn’t? The man was a living, breathing hero. And Adam Pierson…he’d hung with him when he’d thought the Researcher nothing but a college kid, now the oldest Immortal was like family to him…hell, they weren’t like family. They were family. Against their better judgment, Methos and he had been adopted into the Clan MacLeod.

The one thing watching Duncan MacLeod for the better part of his adult life had taught him was that a man didn’t sit safe when a Clansman was in danger.

Hobbling back to the dining table that was doubling as a sorcerer’s workbench, Joe Dawson stared down his honor. He’d given Methos his word that he wouldn’t interfere – no! – he had given his word that he would take care of Mac, the not-interfere part was an unspoken given. It was a technicality, Joe knew. But Methos had a couple of law degrees; he’d appreciate the distinction. And even if Methos didn’t cut him some slack, the only thing that truly mattered was that he survived.

The pain in his aching stumps momentarily daunted him, making Joe question how much help he could possibly be. The tattered remains of his Watcher’s Oath aside, it wasn’t like he could wade in there and take Longford on himself. Or could he?

Joe’s hand slipped into the pocket of his brown jacket, fingering the revolver he’d carried there since the night MacLeod had been abducted. He’d sworn that he was never going to stand an impotent witness again. If someone came for Methos the way they had Ritchie and Mac, they were going to have to go through him first.

But he couldn’t just go blundering into a challenge blind. He wasn’t fool enough to believe that he could sneak up on anyone unnoticed. If Longford saw him, there was every chance he’d kill Dawson, and if Methos also lost his challenge, there’d be no one there to help Mac – providing the Highlander was still alive. That was one promise Joe had no intention of breaking.

Inspiration coming out of the blue, Joe turned to Mac’s computer. His honor might have gone the way of the dodo bird, but he’d be goddamned if he’d lose another friend to this sadistic bastard. Pausing only long enough to cover all his bases, Joe bent over the keyboard once the software loaded and quickly composed his email.

**********************

Focus, he had to focus, Duncan’s life was depending upon him. As he paused at the top of the ramp above le Porte de Tournelle, waiting for a break in traffic, Methos took a deep breath and tried to compose his jangled nerves. But now that the moment he’d suffered eight long months for was upon him, he couldn’t stop shaking. One way or another, the wait would end tonight.

Finally, there was a lull in the flow of cars and he was able to pull out onto the main road. He’d been to Arronville so many times this year that his car practically knew the way itself. Methos couldn’t even count the number of times he’d searched the area around the Montefiore Warehouse. He still couldn’t imagine where Duncan was buried. He’d all but excavated the small copse of woods along the stream there and searched every inch of ground, both cement covered and earthen. Every time he went, he made sure he walked through the industrial areas as well, on the off chance MacLeod were buried in a cellar, but he’d never been to a place so free of Immortal signatures.

Only now did he begin to wonder if maybe he’d just timed his searches wrong. He usually went in daylight. If Mac were awake and screaming at night…it was entirely possible that MacLeod might have been dead in the daylight hours. Methos cursed his own stupidity. He was accustomed to thinking outside the box; why hadn’t he come at night even once? Or come more frequently?

Of course, MacLeod mightn’t have been held here at all. Longford might have had Mac interred somewhere else and exhumed him for tonight’s Halloween party, but…Methos didn’t doubt his own abilities that much. Every time he’d searched for Mac using the skills Myrddid had taught him he ended up in Arronville. Mac had been there. The Highlander might have been dead every time Methos visited the area, but he’d been there all along.

As his speeding Land Rover ate up the miles, Methos’ thoughts turned to the man who’d caused all this.

Alexander Longford…Twenty-five hundred years might have passed since the Macedonian ruled the world, but the man was obviously still a master strategist. Like all conquerors, Longford knew where to hit an enemy where it hurt the worst, and, Christ, was Methos hurting now.

Eight months. In the scheme of his life, it seemed an insignificant amount of time. If asked, Methos would have said that he could endure anything without breaking for that brief an interval, providing he lived. But now…no torture he had suffered in all those long years had prepared him for the nightly visions of Duncan MacLeod shrieking in his grave. His resiliency had been sapped away after the first three months. Now…he was living on nerves and willpower, stretched so thin he didn’t think he would ever recover, for, when all was said and done, this was his fault.

If it weren’t for Mac’s association with him, none of this would have happened to MacLeod. Ritchie would still be alive; Duncan would be above ground and healthy. As was so often the case, Methos felt that the only thing he’d brought the people he cared the most about was pain and suffering. For the very first time in his life, Methos didn’t think he could live with this kind of guilt, which was strange for a man who’d endured three-thousand years of Death’s sins on his conscience. But the nightmares Death had wrought were impersonal, visited upon strangers. Nothing had ever been more personal to Methos than the living Hell his lover was now enduring.

Even if by some miracle, Mac were to emerge untouched by this incident, Methos didn’t know if he could face his friend. How did you say sorry for 250 days of torture? How did you ask forgiveness for not rescuing MacLeod before his captor tired of the game and finally made contact? How could he ever make up for poor Ritchie Ryan?

He couldn’t, of course. Methos knew that, had known it from the second he’d seen Ryan’s headless body crumpled on the dock.

All he could do now was get Duncan to safety and deal with the fiend who had orchestrated this depravity. The feelings the very thought of Longford raised in him were the only hard things left intact inside him, and they were implacable. He’d keep his promise to Joe. Longford would pay for this. If Methos were too broken by these last eight months to rectify the mistake he’d made last January, then Death surely would.

Before he knew it, he was pulling up the pothole-ridden drive to the warehouse and factory district. There was little traffic down this road these days. Methos remembered a time when the canning factory and paper mill had been thriving businesses, but it had been decades since the buildings were used. The two factories and three warehouses huddled here amongst the overgrown woods just off the banks of the Seine were as forgotten as the men who had built them.

He pulled up beside a sleek new motorcycle that was painfully reminiscent of Ryan’s Kowasaki. Longford’s means of transportation pretty much cinched Methos’ theory that Mac had been here all along.

Methos paused as he stepped out of his car, gazing up at the half-moon overhead. The sky was clear and bright now. Each star stood out against its ebony background like rhinestones on black velvet. The sweet smell of rain was still strong in the air. A chill wind ripped at Methos’ face as he stared up at the blindingly bright orb, silently asking her blessing, not for himself, but for Mac’s sake.

The warehouse he was headed to was as dark as its neighbors. The silver moonlight picked out the faded white letters spelling out Montefiore on the cracked green paint of its nondescript front, tinting them with an eerie glow.

Methos was a hundred yards from the place and already he could feel the signature of an extremely powerful Immortal waiting inside. Longford was nearly as old as he was and had taken far more heads than Methos in the last two millennia, so he had a considerable presence. The deserted industrial park was practically vibrating from their combined signatures. Between them, they had over nine-thousand years of accumulated power. A headhunter would get a hard-on just being in the vicinity of this nondescript warehouse tonight.

Methos took a deep breath and closed his eyes, reaching out from the inside, searching for Mac. All he could feel at first was Longford. The Macedonian’s signature had all the force of a summer thunderstorm. Methos reached for Mac’s familiar crashing waves signature…and came up blank. All he could feel under Longford was a feeble Immortal thread that was so thin it was barely there…the kind of presence an Immortal might carry who’d expended most of his energy dying and reviving for eight months without sustenance ever once passing his lips.

Longford had much to answer for.

After slipping Mac’s katana out of his coat sheath, Methos patted his right pocket, comforted by the bulk of his revolver. His Bowie knife was a reassuring, lumpy weight on the lower right side of his overcoat now that the balancing sword had been removed. As prepared as he was likely to be after eight sleepless months, Methos threaded his way through the dried-out, dead weeds and the cracked cement of the delivery dock. The warehouse door opened soundlessly at his first push.

The inside was pretty much what he expected it to be – a dark cavern of shadows, dust and jagged streaks of silver moonlight filtering in from the broken, grimy windows. Those irregular patches of light were a distraction more than a help. There were abandoned crates stacked throughout the place. The insides had doubtless been looted years ago, but the containers remained, hunching like trolls in the darkness.

Methos weighed his options, and then boldly strolled down the center of the warehouse, allowing that other ancient Immortal signature to guide him to his destination. There was no point in subterfuge. It wasn’t like Immortals had any chance of sneaking up on each other.

He was halfway to the center when a sudden burst of light blinded him. Too vulnerable for comfort, his instincts had him sheltering in the thick shadows of the nearest crates before his mind could react.

“Welcome, Methullius,” Longford’s voice echoed through the warehouse.

It took a few seconds for Methos’ eyes to adjust to the light. When they did, he almost shut them against the sight that awaited him. He’d seen and done much worse in his time, but that was millennia ago when he’d had the stomach for these kinds of games. By contrast to his own misdeeds, this was actually mild, but…Duncan was a pawn in this game and that made everything too intense.

The light source proved to be the headlights on a rusting gold Ford LTD. Methos didn’t have to see the seared paint on it to know that it was the same vehicle Ritchie’s Watcher had seen Mac kidnapped in. After all, how many of those antique LTDs could be left in Paris?

The car lights spotlighted Longford against the pitch backdrop of the dark warehouse, turning his curls to molten gold and the gladius sword in his left hand to quicksilver. He was dressed in black jeans and jacket, so the rest of him blended into the background. He didn’t look as young or small, surrounded by all that darkness. It hid his barely pubescent form, turning Longford into some strange, almost other-worldly figure.

It wasn’t the image Alexander the Great presented that chilled Methos so. It was what Longford’s right hand was attached to that froze his blood. Over a hundred and twenty years had passed since he’d last faced Madame le Guillotine. Methos had hoped never to see one of the monstrous contraptions again, but there it stood, gleaming in ominous, well-oiled efficiency, with its latest victim bound to it, ready for the taking.

Methos stared at the insane tangle of filthy hair on the head sticking out of the stockade, his sense of horror churning his stomach. His brain was telling him that that motionless blob had to be MacLeod, but his heart and soul were screaming, No, please no! He couldn’t even see the face to tell if it were Duncan there. The hair falling over the sides of the wooden stockade and obscuring the features looked like crud-crusted dreadlocks.

Methos’ heart caught in his throat as he stared down at the guillotine’s intended victim. The brown lump looked more like a pile of manure than a human. There was so much dirt and filth on the pinned man that Methos couldn’t even determine what color his clothes had been. He was having the same problem with the prisoner’s flesh. Brown and black were all he could see, but there were places where fish-belly white streaks of skin showed through the obscene muck coating the man’s visible features, or what could be seen of them through the foul shock of his neglected hair. The matted length was darker than MacLeod’s, but if Mac’s hadn’t been washed in a number of months, it could be that black.

The prisoner might have been alive, but he was totally unmoving. His head hung slack at an angle, his neck painfully extended. And the rest of his body…Methos’ skin crawled as he took in the captive’s unnatural, twisted position. Instead of kneeling on the ground, the man’s knees were drawn up tight to his chest in an interrupted fetal position. It almost looked like the captive’s back couldn’t stretch. The man was literally dangling from his neck from the insidious device.

He’d never seen Mac that inanimate, even when sleeping. Duncan MacLeod wasn’t about stillness. Duncan was movement, passion and fire. MacLeod was everything that was good and bright in this world, a noble champion of justice. The Highlander knelt at no man’s feet and yet, there Mac lay like a marionette whose strings had been sliced.

Methos stared at the sadist that had cut those strings. After five-thousand years, Methos was a pretty good judge of character. He could tell by the look on Longford’s face how much the other Immortal would enjoy pulling that lever and beheading MacLeod right in front of him. They both knew that the fact that Methos had agreed to meet Longford at all tonight proved that MacLeod was too important to him.

Methos prayed to every god he knew that he’d be able to get both Mac and himself out of this alive, but the situation didn’t look promising. Madame le Guillotine had added a whole new twist to this horror show. Methos had fully expected MacLeod to be used as a pawn in this game, but somehow, he had never expected this. His ancient enemy was a warrior, not a criminal. Methos had anticipated finding Longford’s sword at Mac’s throat. A well-placed bullet would have dealt with that quite nicely, but were he to shoot Longford now, his fall would doubtless pull the guillotine’s lever and Mac would lose his head. No matter what it took, he was determined that Duncan MacLeod was not going to die because of him.

Methos swallowed hard as he recognized just what it was going to take to get his lover out of here alive.

“Come out. Don’t be shy, Methullius,” Longford called him by the name he’d used in Greece and Rome when Methos had spent decades avoiding his former victim.

There was no avoiding Longford now, nor any true desire to do so. Gazing down at that too-still lump trapped in Mdme. Le Guillotine’s deadly embrace, the Horseman inside Methos wanted to rip the Macedonian’s still-beating heart out of his chest with his bare hands and eat it.

Methos took a couple of steps out of the shadows. He knew it was a useless effort – Mac hadn’t so much as twitched since Methos had laid eyes on him. Still, he had to try, so he hesitantly called, “Duncan?”

There was no reaction, no movement. Were it not for the feeble Immortal signature Methos could still feel below Longford’s overwhelming one, he would have thought the man dead.

“What have you done to him?” Methos demanded, unable to take his eyes off the wreck that once had been Duncan MacLeod.

“Done?” Longford laughed. “I’ve done nothing – absolutely nothing.”

“What do you mean nothing! Look at him!”

Longford did as requested and gazed down at MacLeod. “It’s amazing the changes eight months in a car trunk will wreck on even the most arrogant man’s constitution – isn’t it?”

Methos flinched. Eight months in a car trunk…no water, no food, no light, no room to move…that explained the twisted spine and catatonic state. He’d seen men reduced to this strait before; though rarely an Immortal. Their kind didn’t survive long when rendered defenseless. For that matter, most of the mortals Methos had seen this bad off didn’t recover either.

The realist in Methos ruthlessly appraised the situation. An Immortal’s body might survive that kind of ordeal, but his mind wouldn’t, not intact. Methos had never known anybody trapped with oxygen for that long who made it back to sanity. The longest he’d heard of an Immortal surviving entombed like that was Nefritiri. She had lasted two thousand years in an Egyptian sarcophagus mainly because she hadn’t had sufficient oxygen to revive until the twentieth century grave robbers had broken the original seal on her vault. By contrast, Mac had been alive and conscious the entire time of his captivity. Dying and waking to die again had become the rhythm of his life. A man didn’t recover from something like that…ever.

“Do you still want him back, Methullius? There’s not much left of him,” Longford mocked.

“There’s enough,” Methos grated out.

“You know what I want from you,” Longford said.

Methos gave a slow nod, “To destroy me.” His gaze turned from those hateful blue eyes to the silent Immortal held captive on the guillotine. “You’ve already accomplished that.”

“Not entirely,” Longford shot back.

“In every way that matters. Move away from that switch, Longford. Let’s take this outside…like men,” Methos added the last bit as an afterthought. Such macho posturing hadn’t had any effect on him in years. He didn’t care if his opponents thought him a man or a sniveling coward. All he cared about was keeping his head. But, even though he didn’t practice that behavior anymore, he still understood the psychology of it enough to use it effectively.

“What would you know about fighting like a man?” the Macedonian spat.

“He is not part of what lies between us,” Methos tried to reason, terrified that Longford would pull that lever out of spite.

“He gave you succor. That alone damns him,” Longford shot back.

“What you’ve done to him is punishment enough for any crime…even my own. Leave him out of this and face me,” Methos challenged.

“No. No more challenges. Tonight is about punishment and revenge. I offer you the opportunity to reveal your true colors, Methullius. You get to decide whether he lives or dies. If MacLeod means that much to you, you can trade places with him…or run and allow him to die in your stead,” Longford spelt out the terms Methos had anticipated since he’d gotten that call on the barge.

“If you kill him, I will take your head while you’re down with the Quickening,” Methos promised, playing the only card he had left.

It was an impotent threat. They both knew if Duncan weren’t worth his head, he would never have come here.

“But MacLeod will be dead, and it will be your choice that dooms him. He was so damned sure that you weren’t the same man I knew, but I intend to prove it to you both that you’re still that same selfish, murdering bastard. Have you really changed, or was everything you told MacLeod just another lie? Go ahead and walk. Prove me right.”

“Does your head mean so little to you these days?” Methos questioned. “Step away from that lever and you have a chance of keeping your life.”

“If you kill me now, he dies. I don’t mind watching you squirm every time he crosses your mind for the rest of eternity,” Longford replied. “I offer you a simple trade – your life for his. What’s it going to be, Methullius?”

To his never-ending shame, Methos didn’t have a pat answer on his tongue. He’d spent the last five-thousand years fighting to keep his head on his shoulders. The idea of voluntarily forfeiting it was unthinkable, and, yet, he could see no other way clear here. If he didn’t go along with Longford, Mac would die. And if he did…

Every self-preservation instinct Methos owned was screaming for him to get out of here, to just turn and run. Even in the unlikely event that he could somehow get Mac away from Longford and keep his own head, Methos knew that the chances of bringing Mac back to the world of the living were slim to non-existent. It would be a mercy to take MacLeod’s head at this point.

But Methos’ entire life had been about beating the odds. He also knew how time could heal. Give it a century or two and even this might right itself. And, beyond that, it was Duncan MacLeod lying there. Methos had never had an attachment this strong…or inexplicable. This man had stood by him through revelations that would have damned him with anybody else. The acceptance Mac had given him meant everything to him. And now he was going to have to prove that.

Methos stared at the scenario before him, looking for a way to dispense Longford without killing Mac. Even if he could get his revolver out quickly enough to get off an accurate shot without Longford having time to react, there was every chance the instinctive jerk the body gave upon a bullet’s impact would convulse the hand on the guillotine’s lever. And if he aimed for the hand itself, the same thing would doubtless happen. Methos was well and truly behind the proverbial eight ball. He had two choices – run and live or agree to Longford’s deal.

Life beckoned to him. All he had to do was turn and run…and abandon Mac as he had Byron and every friend ever used as a hostage against him. Five-thousand years of not-risking his head was some pretty stiff conditioning to even try to overcome. But MacLeod had stepped beyond his stringent cultural conditioning for Methos’ sake. Now it was Methos’ turn to do the same.

Duncan MacLeod would not die for loving him. The Highlander would live to grow stronger. And when the Game finally ended, it would be Mac there to see the insane custom die out.

So, his head was forfeit. That was what it all boiled down to. The only thing he could hope to do at this point was wrangle a promise out of Longford to get Mac to Joe’s safekeeping, for, looking at the state Duncan was in, Methos didn’t think Joe would be able to handle moving him alone. Though how the Watcher would protect an incapacitated Immortal boggled the mind.

“Have you made up your mind yet? My hand is growing weary,” that cultured British voice pointed out.

Methos attempted to swallow, but his mouth was dry as sawdust.

“Will you promise to get MacLeod to my friend Joe Dawson on a barge moored at le Porte de Tournelle?” Methos rasped, every muscle in his body freezing in instinctive dread of dying after all these years.

“The bargain is his life. I am not a taxi service,” Longford denied.

Methos gazed down at Mac’s unconscious form. He knew if MacLeod were awake, Mac would be yelling for him to get the hell out of here. Self-sacrifice was such an integral part of his lover’s character that Mac would like nothing more than to die for a friend’s sake. It was not part of Methos’.

Even now, the pragmatist in him was demanding that he cut his losses and run. His death would do nothing to restore MacLeod. The Macedonian had effectively killed them both here. Longford knew as well as he did that MacLeod’s mental damage was such that he might never recover. Mac could very well spend the remainder of eternity an insensible invalid. Methos knew that Dawson would take care of MacLeod for as long as the mortal lived, but…Joe’s lifespan was that of a gerbil when compared to an Immortal. MacLeod could once again fall into this endless suffering of the cycle of rebirth and death…until a headhunter felt him and took his Quickening.

But…where there was life there was hope. Joe would come tomorrow and get Duncan out of here. That’s what he had to concentrate on now, not what would happen in the next few minutes. The letter that Methos had left for his solicitor would more than provide for both Joe and Mac for the next millennia or so – there was no sense keeping his rainy day, emergency resources when he’d have no more days.

Staring down at Mac, Methos couldn’t contain his fury, “Duncan MacLeod was the best of us, Alexander. He didn’t deserve this.”

“He bedded you knowing your crimes against humanity. A truly good and honorable man would have executed you,” Longford answered.

About to question Longford’s honor, Methos held his tongue. Venting his fury at this point would only get Mac killed. And, who knew, maybe Longford was right. Methos knew that were he anyone else, Mac would have taken his head last year during that Kronos business. It was only Mac’s feelings for him that had stayed his blade. Perhaps this was some form of cosmic justice, after all.

“Your time is up. What say you? Does he live or die? It matters not to me which course you choose, only that you make the decision.”

Biting back on his rage, Methos nodded. “All right. My life for his. You spare him and you can have my head.”

Longford actually seemed disappointed. After staring at him for a long moment, Longford ordered, “Drop you sword, coat and shirt on the floor in front of you.”

“My shirt?” Methos questioned.

“I know you too well to trust you, Methullius. There will be no surprises tonight. If you delay any longer, you can add your trousers to the pile as well.”

Cold already just at the thought of removing his coat in this freezing warehouse, Methos dropped his sword to the floor in front of him. He was simmering with too much rage to be afraid right now.

He’d been too distracted of late to do laundry, so he wasn’t wearing underwear. If Longford asked for his pants as well, he’d be meeting his death starkers and that was something he’d prefer to avoid. It had been more than a millennium since he’d knelt naked before a foe. He didn’t intend to die that way, if at all possible.

“Now what?” Methos demanded as his bare chest puckered into goose flesh. He was starting to shiver already, the cold somehow making his imminent demise that much more real to him.

“There are a pair of handcuffs on a crate about ten feet to your right,” Longford said. “Kindly retrieve them.”

Methos looked to his right and saw a silver flash in the center of the crate closest to the Ford’s headlights. Gulping, he crossed through the dust mote blizzard in the glaring spotlights of the car’s headlights and picked the metallic cuffs off the dusty wooden box. The handcuffs were law enforcement, regulation issue quality. There would be no getting out of them.

“Secure them to your right wrist please,” Longford instructed.

Recognizing that this was really going to be the end, Methos took a deep breath and did as ordered.

About to close them over his left wrist as well, Methos stopped dead at the interruption of, “Behind you, please.”

The Macedonian was really taking no chances, Methos acknowledged, and reluctantly reached behind himself to secure the second cuff, effectively eliminating his only hope of overcoming his opponent. He might have managed to win a scuffle with Longford with his hands in front of him, but with them tied behind him his entire balance would be off.

The icy metal against his wrists only increased his shuddering.

“Come,” Longford waved Methos towards him with the sword that would take his head. And still the Macedonian’s left hand firmly gripped the guillotine’s lever. Methos had trusted in his opponent’s honor, but as he slowly approached, he remembered all the times Death had played these games and taken the hostage’s life anyway, just to see the look on the defeated man’s face when his beloved died.

His nerves a jangled wreck, Methos was preternaturally conscious of his surroundings at the moment. Seeing everything as if for the first time, even though he knew it was his last, he took in the stark lighting, the dust motes that danced like stars suspended against the blackness behind them, and the stained, dull floorboards underfoot. Even these unremarkable sights were precious to him. He didn’t want to die; didn’t want his Quickening to go to this sadistic bastard. When Kalas had been hunting him, Methos had been able to bear the thought of dying because he’d chosen the man to whom he would give his Quickening, but to cede all that power to someone like Longford was almost a criminal act in itself.

But Methos had eliminated all his other options at this point. Even if he did decide to bolt, it was doubtful if he’d get very far. He was as committed to this course as it was possible to get.

When he got within ten feet of the guillotine, Methos almost gagged. The stench rising from the man pinned to the device literally brought tears to his eyes. He couldn’t understand how Longford could bear to stand that close for as long as he had. Mac smelt like a cross between a neglected outhouse and the most pungent homeless person.

It only made sense. MacLeod had been locked in a car trunk for eight months without access to hygienic facilities. Although Mac had probably taken in no sustenance since his abduction, his bladder and bowels would have voided repeatedly until empty. Just being this close to the source of the reek made his stomach lurch, and he’d been both Death and doctor.

Methos hadn’t smelt anything this bad since the last time Madame le Guillotine had been in vogue, when the proletariat had filled the Bastille with more nobility than Louis the Fourteenth had hosted at his grandiose balls.

“How far the mighty have fallen, hey?” Longford chuckled, correctly interpreting Methos’ horror at his lover’s state.

Methos had hoped that when he was closer, Mac might look up, that there would be some hint of recognition or even consciousness, but the Highlander’s head hung slack below the guillotine’s blade. Methos stared at the portions of Mac’s face visible through his filthy hair, needing to see his friend one last time, but…even though Mac’s right eye was visible and a bit of his cheek, there was no recognizing Duncan for the man he’d been. MacLeod’s long beard was nearly as unkempt and foul as the hair on his head; while the eye…there was so much muck from daily discharge around it that Methos knew it would take hours of soaking under hot towels to remove enough of the yellow and brown gunk from MacLeod’s cemented together eyelashes to allow the eyelids just to separate. He didn’t even want to think about how sensitive to light Mac would be for a while.

And all this had happened to Duncan because of him. It hurt so much to see this brave and honorable man reduced to this state that Methos almost welcomed death. This was one regret that he knew he couldn’t live with.

When Longford’s order of “Move it!” came, it was almost a relief.

“One moment,” Methos rasped, stepping up to where Mac’s head was secured to the guillotine. His hands bound behind him, Methos crouched down until his face was a couple of inches from that pungent rat’s nest of hair. Although the reek rising from the unconscious man still made him want to vomit as he leaned in close, Methos whispered, “Live and grow stronger, Highlander, and…forgive me…if you can.”

Although everything within him rebelled at the idea of getting any closer to that repugnant collection of bones and flesh that had once been the man he’d loved so dearly, Methos forced himself to bend the rest of the way and deposit a fast kiss to the matted head.

Wrong move, between his own exhaustion and the reek of raw excrement, Methos found his senses reeling as a wave of dizziness all but made him pass out.

“How touching,” Longford sneered.

That got him up but fast. Death ready to take Longford on with his very teeth, Methos straightened and glared at the perpetual adolescent before him. As he did so, a strange sense of virtue settled over him. Methos had spent over twenty-five centuries convinced that he and his brothers were the worst degenerates history had produced, but he’d finally met someone more depraved than Death, perhaps even worse than Kronos. For all their villainy, none of the Horsemen had ever inflicted this kind of malingering pain upon a person. They may have gleefully slaughtered and delighted in drinking their victims’ blood, but they had never walled one of their kind up and left him to suffer alone into eternal insanity like an Immortal Fortunado. Their victims had endured incredible cruelties, true enough, but there wasn’t a one of them that had died alone. And looking at MacLeod, Methos thought that there was something to be said for that.

“I suppose you want me on my knees,” Methos preempted the inevitable order, allowing his contempt to creep into his tone as he moved the last few feet closer. He might die today, but he would do so with dignity. It was his choice and perhaps even his honor to die so that Duncan MacLeod might live.

It was strange that at the moment of his death he would embrace the foolish notions he’d spent the last millennium scoffing at, but seeing how his calm was robbing Longford of all pleasure in this, Methos finally began to understand what motivated MacLeod. When you’d lost the battle and moral ground was the only thing you could hold, there was a certain sense of accomplishment, perhaps even pride, in knowing that your opponent h