Part 1: The Fire Sermon

With lightning and agony, thus ends the Game. The victor falls to his knees, gently lays his broadsword on the bedrock and sobs for the pain of it. All he has known for centuries, all he can remember for five thousand years, drains into the thirsty rock with the blood of his final opponent.

Thus ends the Game, with a grief-filled sob and only the April thunder to witness its passing.

Methos feels no different as he bows his head over his opponent, his friend. He senses no Prize. Shaking with the force to snap bones, he slumps his weary shoulders, and salty tears dry against his cheeks. Around him, the towers of rock rumble in a shock wave and the brittle brush surrenders silently to the wind. But he sees the body before him and nothing more. He grasps the callused hand in his own.

"I'm sorry ..." he rasps, the words catching in his parched throat.

He touches his forehead to the cold fingers in tribute before taking his sword in both hands, using it as a crutch as he struggles to his feet. Slowly, strength returns to his legs and he can stand without support. He sheathes his sword and pulls the katana from where it is jammed into a crack in the rock. The hot wind ruffles his hair and whips the shredded remains of his shirt around his body, but he does not notice. He reverses the sword, grasps the hilt between his palms and bows so deeply that the katana's tip scrapes the ground.

"Soraidh, Donnchaidh MacLeóid," he whispers in ancient Gaelic. Farewell, Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod. May you find peace.

Then he turns and stumbles away, leaving the body to nature and the thunder, mourning softly in the distance.

Three weeks later, he picks open the back door of Joe's after closing time and slips inside. Joe looks up from the cash register, where he is counting the night's earnings, and his hands abruptly stop sifting through the money. He blinks, as though to clear his eyes of this hallucination, but the lean figure does not vanish. Joe's mouth works silently as Methos approaches the bar and drops heavily onto a stool.

"Close your mouth, Joe, or you'll start catching flies," Methos says dully.

"You're alive," Joe breathes. He braces his hips against the counter and leans over, examining Methos with wide eyes. "Every Watcher in the world is searching for the winner, and it's been you all along."

"You noticed." Methos props his elbows on the bartop and slouches forward. "Can I have a beer?"

Joe blinks. "Um, yeah. Yeah, sure, buddy."

As Joe becomes the barkeeper, filling two tall glasses from the tap, Methos allows his gaze to wander. So many memories here, of good times and bad. Over there, the table where MacLeod joined him after killing Byron, and on a shelf behind the counter, the glass Joe reserved for MacLeod's use.

Even in death, the Highlander's presence weighs heavily on this place, in every booth and neon light, which is why Methos has returned. He knows his faint sense of honor won't allow him to run from his grief or from his duty to share the story with MacLeod's former Watcher. What Joe does afterward is up to him: Throw Methos out of the bar, nod wisely and say he understands or simply transcribe the tale for future generations. Maybe Joe would even try to kill him. In any case, his reaction doesn't matter. Nothing Joe could do or say would change a thing.

Methos takes the beer with thanks and savors a long drink, swishing the nectar across his tongue before swallowing. With a contented sigh, he closes his eyes and enjoys a moment of serenity.

Then Joe's voice cuts the silence. "I tried calling you, and when you never answered I assumed you were dead. Where have you been?"

Methos shrugs. "Places no one goes."

"Do any of those places have names?" Joe presses, but Methos' only answer is an amused smile. With annoyance Joe says, "Come on, Methos, you didn't come here to throw riddles at me. You did it, didn't you."

Methos eyes flicker.

"You won the Prize," Joe prompts.

"There is no Prize." Methos takes another drink. "There never was."

Joe shakes his head, disbelief clear in his expression. He sits on a stool behind the counter. "Well, ain't that a bitch. You survive since the Bronze Age, and you don't get a damn thing."

"You're wrong, Joe."

"What do you mean?" His eyebrows furrow.

"I get to live."

"Oh, yeah. I forgot that part," Joe says with a soft chuckle. "You get to live for eternity."

"Or until the world ends. Whichever comes first."

Joe lifts his glass in a toast. "To a long life. May you enjoy your victory."

Methos clinks his glass against Joe's, producing a hollow sound, and sips his beer. Victory, Joe calls it, and he the victor. Or is that victim? Is this a Prize or a punishment, confined to the hell of eternal boredom as friends die, civilizations fade and everything crumbles into nothing. I will show you fear in a handful of dust. Perhaps that is what I face, Methos thinks. Perhaps my waste land is only beginning.

Joe sets his glass on the counter and shifts on his stool, his eyes darting between his drink and Methos' face. With a calming breath, he asks the question Methos can see burning in his eyes.

"MacLeod," he says quietly. "Were you there when he died?"

Methos nods. "I was there."

"You killed the bastard who did it, right?"

"Not exactly," Methos says, grimacing.

"What happened, then?"

"It's a long story, Joe. Are you sure you want to hear it?"

"I have all night. Start talking."

So Methos closes his eyes and visualizes the scene, so fresh in his perfect memory. The barge, Paris in the frigid month of February, and MacLeod, sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor with his katana laid across his knees.

Methos begins the tale.

Sleet pattered against the shoulders of his black duster and transformed the quay into a sheet of ice. He saw the barge dimly through the steady fall, still and majestic in the winter waters.

Thanks to the vigilant Watcher network, he knew MacLeod was here. The Scot apparently hadn't left the barge for two days. He'd taken three heads in a week and then had vanished inside, stubbornly refusing to answer his phone or the door.

That MacLeod had chosen the barge as his refuge was troubling. In this fickle season, most owners had berthed their watercrafts in protected places, but MacLeod was exposing his precious barge to all passing ice floats and heavy storms. It made Methos worry even more for his friend's state of mind.

The familiar presence washed over Methos as he approached the barge, heightening his senses and setting every nerve tingling. He loosened his sword in its sheath under his coat, just in case, and knocked solidly on the barge door. No answer.

Methos knocked again, and with no response, he turned the knob and pushed open the door onto a barren landscape. A few candles, a bed, a low table and two sitting pillows were all the furnishings inside. A neat stack of firewood laid near the stove, which had died to smoldering embers. MacLeod, still as a Buddha, sat cross-legged on the floor, his eyes closed and his hand tightening around the hilt of the katana across his knees.

As Methos shut the door and sauntered down the stairs, MacLeod slowly opened his eyes to stare at his uninvited guest. In his expression, Methos recognized violence, rage and none of the calm that MacLeod obviously was trying to achieve. The expression startled Methos, and he felt a surge of panic. Had MacLeod succumbed to the Pull of the Gathering that easily?

To hide his unease, Methos forced a smile and opened his long arms wide as if to say, Well, here I am.

MacLeod only closed his eyes again and resumed his deep, even breathing. Still, Methos noted the taut lines of his muscles, the sweat beading on his forehead. The tense form could rise at any moment, he realized, fluidly moving into an attack before he could draw his sword. He had to determine quickly how much the Gathering had affected his friend.

Methos licked his dry lips and discreetly edged away from the agitated MacLeod. "You aren't answering your phone," he said casually. "Joe was worried."

"So why didn't he come himself?" MacLeod asked, his eyes still shuttered.

"His daughter's assignment put her into a coma, and Joe hasn't left her hospital bed for two days. But he wanted me to make sure you were OK."

"And that's why you're here? Because of Joe?"

"Partially. I was worried, too."

"I can take care of myself," MacLeod said with a hint of annoyance. "I don't need a baby-sitter."

With a slow, even pace, Methos circled behind him. MacLeod's hand still flexed around the katana's hilt in a manner that set Methos on guard. How to defuse this situation? he mused. Just keep talking. Remind him of who he is. Prove you pose no threat.

"Are you so sure about that?" He completed his circuit of the room and leaned against a far wall. "These are unusual and dangerous times. I think you know that."

"What do you mean?" MacLeod looked up at him.

Methos rolled his eyes. "Come on, MacLeod. Surely you've guessed what's happening."

"Why don't you enlighten me."

He hesitated only for a moment before answering. "Three weeks ago, the Watcher Council did a tally of immortals. There were about five thousand."

MacLeod's eyes widened. "That's it? Just five thousand of us left?"

"This morning," Methos continued, "that number had dropped to five hundred. You know what that means as well as I do."

MacLeod's voice dropped to an awed whisper. "The Gathering."

"And you've been in here like a sitting duck for two days. I'm surprised you're still alive."

Like the release of a tightly wound spring, MacLeod surged to his feet, his hand clenching the hilt of his katana. By force of will alone, Methos didn't reach for his own sword. That hostile reaction might explode this tension into a full-blown crisis.

MacLeod stepped toward him, but Methos remained still. "Is that why you're here, Methos? Have you come to challenge me?"

He snorted. "Of course not. Now put down your sword. I have a proposition for you."

He watched the play of emotion across MacLeod's face, transforming from anger to surprise to curiosity. Good, he thought. At least MacLeod is willing to listen. This is a good start.

"What are you proposing?" MacLeod asked warily.

"A partnership." MacLeod's face fell. Methos knew he had to talk fast to get the Scot to even consider his plan. "It's hell out there. I've been challenged more times in the past few weeks than in the past two hundred years. It's been easy so far, but the bad fighters are being weeded out."

MacLeod shook his head. "I'm not going to help you kill your opponents, Methos. That's against the rules."

He hesitantly set the katana on the table and went into the kitchen area to pour himself a cup of tea. Methos sighed in relief. With the immediate threat of attack removed, MacLeod finally seemed to have calmed a bit. Still, the Scot's eyes never left him.

"I don't want you to fight my battles. I never did," Methos patiently explained. "All I'm suggesting is that we stick together. There is safety in numbers."

MacLeod sipped his tea and settled onto a floor pillow. "Thanks, but no thanks."

"Why?" Methos pressed. "Don't you trust me?"

"It's not that. It's just ... I don't trust myself."

Methos nodded without surprise. "I can see that it's already getting to you. You're feeling the Pull of the Gathering. The aggression, the anger, the overwhelming urge to take someone's head."

"And you're not?" MacLeod asked frankly.

Methos shrugged. "I'm much older than you. I haven't felt it yet, and even when I do, I think I'll be able to control it." He knelt by MacLeod's side and dropped his voice to little more than a whisper. "You can control it, too. I can help you."

"You think so?" MacLeod voice was unbelieving. "You saw that I was ready to fight you just now." MacLeod looked away, not even able to meet the other man's bright eyes.

Methos noted the self-loathing in his voice, the tell-tale signs that betrayed his shame. Ah, yes, MacLeod's inability to control himself had wounded his pride. It gave Methos the perfect opening to show MacLeod exactly how strong he was.

"I don't think you can control it," he replied softly. "I know you can."

Then, with a deep breath, Methos took one of the greatest gambles of his life. He lifted the katana and offered it hilt-first to MacLeod, who accepted it gingerly. MacLeod's breath began to quicken.

"Do you feel the Pull now?" Methos asked, struggling to hide the fear in his voice. "Do you want to take my head? It'll never be easier than right now, MacLeod. So if you want me, do it."

MacLeod licked his lips and stiffly raised the sword, as though against his will. He teased the icy blade along Methos' neck, and his eyes narrowed in an internal battle for control.

The katana's razor-sharp edge pressed against Methos' skin, but he refused to flinch. He screwed shut his eyes and waited. His heart jackhammered in his chest. For one tense moment, he feared MacLeod would accept the offer, but then the pressure left his neck and he heard the katana crash into the far wall. He barely masked his relief as he met MacLeod's shocked gaze.

"Your honor won't let you kill me in cold blood," Methos breathed.

"That's a hell of a way to make a point." MacLeod stood and paced away from him, absently running a hand through his close-cropped hair. "Why do you even want to take the chance, Methos, when I could turn on you at any time?"

Oh, gods preserve me from stubborn, thick-skulled Scots, Methos thought. In a patient tone, he replied, "As I have told you before, MacLeod, you are too important to lose."

After a moment's hesitation, MacLeod tightened his lips into a thin line and nodded curtly. "All right, then," he said, his voice hoarse. "Partners."

Methos awoke to the stink of smoke. For a moment, he lay in disorientation, surrounded in a thin brown fog, trying to remember what had happened. Then the night's occurrences rushed back. He jumped up from the floor pillows, grabbed his sword and groped half-blind through the noxious cloud.

"MacLeod!" He dropped to the floor where he could breathe more easily. "MacLeod, are you there?"

From the general direction of the bed, he heard cursing. MacLeod emerged through the fog a moment later. The Scot was dressed only in sweatpants, and he held his sword tight in his right hand.

Methos pulled up the neck of his T-shirt over his mouth as MacLeod knelt beside him. "Someone is smoking us out," he said.

"Then let's go greet them."

Methos breathed in sharply as he saw the Pull's savagery flare in MacLeod's eyes, and he sternly reminded himself that this time the rage was not directed at him. They kept low as they stalked toward the door. Although Methos stayed close behind, the swirling smoke obscured MacLeod, making him hardly more substantial than a ghost. They stepped around the dark stove, up the stairs and paused at the door. A flickering light glowed around the frame.

MacLeod set his hand on the knob and recoiled with a hiss. He glanced in alarm at his companion. A calculated part of Methos' brain noted that the pain had shocked MacLeod out of the Pull, and interesting bit of information he filed away for future use.

Methos pulled off his shirt, which left him in only his boxers, and wrapped it around his hand. He looked to his friend.

"Ready?"

MacLeod nodded and Methos cracked the door open. Outside, fire licked up ropes and wood and everything that would burn. Methos cursed softly, pulled on his T-shirt and raised his hand to protect his face from the heat. Here they were, in nothing but their skivvies, facing a burning barge and then, if they managed to get off the boat, an icy riverbank. Their opponent had planned the attack well, but there was always another way out.

"Into the river," Methos said. "Swim as far downstream as you can, and we'll meet on the opposite bank."

MacLeod nodded. "Right."

With one last telling look, the pair ventured into the fire, and Methos quickly shut the door behind them. Methos' bare feet seared with each step as he navigated through the blaze and closer to the railing, but he shut out the pain. He saw MacLeod dive into the river. As Methos hit the freezing water behind him, he finally felt another presence surge through his body. A strong one, at that.

Another time, perhaps, Methos silently told their mystery opponent. But tonight, there will be no battle.

"So you and Mac got away," Joe says.

The Watcher rests his arms on the table they have moved to in favor of the bar. Methos nods and leans back, wetting his dry throat with a swallow of beer. It's been a long time since he has spoken so much in one sitting or since he's had such an attentive audience. And he still has much more to tell.

"Did you find out who attacked you?" Joe asks intently.

"Not that night." Methos kicks his feet up on the table. "After I got on shore, I picked up some old, dirty blankets by the river, probably left there by a group of homeless. I wrapped up my feet, pulled the rest around my shoulders and went looking for MacLeod. I found him awhile later, sitting on the bank across from the barge."

"Was the barge ... OK?"

Methos shakes his head. "The firefighters had put out much of the fire, but too much damage had been done. It was a charred-out hulk, barely even a shadow of what it had been."

Joe sighs, and his shoulders droop. "I always liked that boat. I bet MacLeod didn't take it well."

"It took until sunrise to convince him that we had to leave. If I hadn't found him, he probably would have watched the wreck all day."

Methos closes his eyes and remembers MacLeod sitting on the icy bank, his arms wrapped around his chest and his bare feet dangling above the frozen water. He hadn't seemed to notice the frostbite eating at his body or Methos as he had wrapped moth-eaten blankets around him.

"A few hours later," Methos continues, "after we'd both warmed up and recovered from the night's ordeal, MacLeod closed out one of his Paris bank accounts, we bought a car and left town. We didn't have a plan. We headed into Germany and then turned east. And we kept fighting. With so few immortals left, you'd think our encounters would have lessened, but I took three heads, and Mac took four.

"I could tell that the Pull was getting stronger because I was starting to feel it and because our opponents always attacked in a rage. It made them easier to defeat, but MacLeod was having more and more difficulty maintaining his calm. He meditated every night for hours. About two weeks passed, and then in one night, everything changed."