Duncan MacLeod moved silently through the stone corridors and rooms, devoid of light and life for more than fifty years, since the defeat of the Four Horsemen. He stepped carefully over fallen debris and mouse droppings, and he panned his flashlight around him, searching for ... what? He wasn't sure. Something had drawn him back to this place after five decades, a nagging feeling that the fight with the Horsemen had not truly been finished.

The flashlight blinked out, leaving MacLeod cursing quietly in the blackness. He shook it a couple of times to no avail and dug into his backpack for replacement batteries. After several minutes of fumbling in the dark, he installed them in the flashlight. It still refused to work.

Great, he thought. Here I am, trapped in the endless maze of the Horsemen's base camp with no light. This is just what I need.

He quickly did an inventory of his supplies: He had enough water and food in the pack slung across his back to last several days, so he probably could find his way out before dying of hunger or thirst. Yes, it was time to leave. Returning to the Horsemen camp probably was just some crazy, useless quest, anyway.

Before he could turn around, however, the feeling in the back of his mind, the itch that had brought him here, intensified to a maddening roar. He couldn't leave yet, it said. Not yet. He had to finish what he had come here to for. He had to go on.

So, sliding his hands along the wall, MacLeod blindly made his way forward. After what seemed hours of stumbling through the dark, a faint light filtered down the corridor. He wondered if he either was imagining things or had inadvertently discovered an exit. The light grew brighter with every step.

At the end of the corridor, he splashed down into a knee-deep pool that filled an enormous room with a ceiling so high he couldn't see it. In the center of the room, secured to the side of a large metal cage, burned a torch. Inside the cage, a dark figure moved weakly, At first, MacLeod mistook the figure for a large rodent, but as he drew closer, he felt an immortal presence.

She lay face down on the cage floor, her dark hair matted into a tangled, dirty mess. Her clothes were tattered and caked with blood. But MacLeod would have recognized her anywhere, in any state.

"Cassandra," he murmured.

She stirred and twisted to stare at him with wide, wild eyes. "You came," she whispered, her voice hoarse and weary. "I knew you'd come. I've been calling you for so long."

Who could do this to her? MacLeod moved around the cage to the locked door. He tugged on metal bars, which rattled noisily but did not budge.

Cassandra laughed harshly, which set her into a coughing fit. When she quieted, she faced MacLeod. "That will do you little good. I should know. I've spent many years trying to open that door."

"Then how do I get to you?" MacLeod asked.

"Key," she whispered. "You need the key."

"Where is it?"

She licked her cracked, bleeding lips. "He has it. You'll have to kill him to get it."

"Who is he, Cassandra? Who has done this to you?"

"Who do you think?" she spat. "Everyone who knows of this place is dead -- except for three."

MacLeod nodded. "You, me and ..."

He broke off as he felt an immortal approach. He reached across his back and grabbed hold of his sword hilt, protruding from his pack, but did not draw it. A tall figure slowly splashed toward the cage. The figure stopped halfway across the room, in the shadows, and stood silent for a few moments -- then he began to laugh.

Chills shivered up MacLeod's spine at the emotionless sound.

"Show yourself," MacLeod yelled. The immortal did not move. "Who are you?"

"Think for a moment, MacLeod, and maybe you'll answer that question without my help," the immortal answered. The voice sounded as familiar to MacLeod as his own -- and, yet, its unfamiliar coldness grated at him.

"Methos?" he asked.

"Give the man a cigar," the immortal answered.

"Methos, what's going on here?"

"I should think that would be obvious to a bright boy like you."

MacLeod circled the cage and approached his old friend. The 5,000-year- old immortal had hardly changed in the decades since they last had seen each other -- but something had happened to him. The innocence of Adam Pierson had been replaced by a cold indifference that set MacLeod on guard.

"How long has she been here?" MacLeod whispered.

Methos smiled, but there was no humor in the expression. "Since a couple of days after you obligingly took Kronos' head. I never did thank you properly for that, did I? He was probably my last real obstacle to winning the Game."

"All this time," MacLeod replied, his tone unbelieving, "and you didn't tell me. You've been hiding her here, torturing her for half a century? Why? This isn't like you, Methos."

Methos eyes glinted dangerously. "And what am I like, MacLeod? A reformed mass murderer?" He snorted. "Do you really think there is such a thing?"

"Methos, you're my friend," MacLeod said.

The older immortal chuckled and stepped forward. MacLeod subconsciously retreated and reached over his shoulder to finger the hilt of his sword.

"Your friend," Methos growled, "was just as much a fantasy as Adam Pierson. I am not what I seemed. I am Death."

Methos walked casually around MacLeod and approached the cage. Cassandra whimpered and slunk to the opposite corner as Methos grabbed the bars and stared intently at his prisoner.

"You know who I am, witch," he whispered. "Do you really think he can beat me?"

MacLeod touched Methos lightly on his shoulder, but the immortal did not react. "Is this a Dark Quickening? I can help you if you let me. You know this is wrong."

Methos brushed off MacLeod's hand but still did not turn. "You really are a piece of work, MacLeod. You trust so easily, and that will be your fatal mistake.

"Let me explain something to you. I've seen more in five thousand years than you could ever comprehend. I've learned that time and space and morality -- especially morality -- are vast. It's like looking across a canyon that is infinitely deep and wide. Your principles and petty scruples mean nothing in such a world.

"Right and wrong, good and evil -- there is only a faint line between them. But once you've crossed that line, once you've chosen your side of the canyon, there's no going back."

MacLeod furrowed his brows in confusion. "What are you saying? Once a Horseman always a Horseman? I don't believe that."

Methos turned and smiled coldly. "I'm a very good actor. I fooled you. I fooled Kronos." He nodded toward the cage. "But I couldn't fool her."

"So you trapped her here, so she wouldn't tell your secret," MacLeod said.

"Now you're catching on," Methos replied.

"So why tell me?"

"We both know that only one of us will leave here alive, so it doesn't matter."

MacLeod drew his sword. "It's come to this then."

"As it was destined to, from the day you walked into my apartment."

"We don't have to do this," MacLeod said, almost pleading. "I still believe you can become the man you've pretended you were for hundreds of years. That goodness has to be in you somewhere. Let me help you find it."

Methos shook his head and drew his sword. "The road I'm on, only road I know."

MacLeod sighed and nodded sadly. "Good-bye then."

Methos attacked with a ferocity MacLeod had never glimpsed before in the immortal he had known, and he fell back beneath the precise, deadly blows. He quickly realized that all the times they had sparred, Methos had been holding back.

MacLeod found himself on the defensive, desperately fending off the expert attack without finding a chance to turn the tables. Then, Methos smoothly entered into an unfamiliar sequence of moves, and before MacLeod understood what was happening, Methos had sent his sword splashing into the water. He looked helplessly into the eyes of Death and did not flinch.

"Good-bye, MacLeod," Methos said softly.

He swung at the Highlander's neck, cleanly severing the head, and Cassandra wailed in loss. The Quickening came, and the force of it drove Methos to his knees, shouting in pain and ecstasy. Through the haze, he heard the screams and cries of Cassandra as she realized she'd lost her last chance at salvation.

The Quickening ended, and Methos pulled himself to his feet, using his sword as a crutch as he once again approached Cassandra's cage. She cried uncontrollably with her face pressed against the cold concrete floor of her eternal prison.

Beautiful, Methos thought.

"You chose a weak champion," he whispered. "Haven't you learned yet, witch, that I will be the One? You cannot beat me, but I can punish you until the day when we are the last two. On that day, you will die."

Recovering more of his strength, he retrieved a whip and chains from where they hung on a nearby wall and pulled a small, iron key from his pocket. Cassandra seemed not to notice.

"That day won't come for quite a while, though," he continued. "So, in the meantime, we will find other amusements."

He grinned maliciously. Oh, what a glorious day, he thought, for the beginning of the end of the world.

The end

Crossing a Canyon
written by Neil Osborne and 54-40
performed by 54-50

Sitting on the edge atop a canyon
I'm a piece of time too small to name
There's a sign that's hanging over me
Let me disappear and try again

I'm no prophet but I've seen things
When right and wrong become too close
In that moment of my greatness
I become afraid and watch it go

CHORUS
And the day is long
And the bridge is gone
And the river has washed away
The road I'm on
Only road I know

Everybody's got a problem
Something to do with self control
You gotta tell somebody if you got one
You can't pretend you didn't know

Staring out across the canyon
My eyes won't tell me what to see
If I let go I could be floating
From the river to the sea

CHORUS

If I let go I could be floating
From the river to the sea

CHORUS