Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
-- T.S. Eliot, "The Waste Land"

Part 2: A Game of Chess

A moment of peace, when worries seem thousands of miles away, is more precious than all the gold in El Dorado. Such moments burn themselves into the memory. After names fade and battles fall into forgetfulness, those rare, perfect instants last lifetimes.

So thought Methos as he sat across the chessboard from MacLeod, who absently rubbed his chin while considering his next move. The dim lamps in this motel room radiated the perfect amount of light. The clock radio crooned soothing tunes. The beer even tasted better. They sat on the rough carpet between their beds and played chess with a set of plastic pieces as the world continued without them for a short while, in these final few hours of their friendship.

MacLeod shifted his queen across the board, taking out one of Methos' rooks. With a satisfied smile barely curling the corners of his mouth, MacLeod leaned against a bed and folded his hands across his stomach.

Methos examined the board. "You're good at this," he said.

"I ought to be." MacLeod's smile widened. "I've had a few centuries of practice."

"Well, I've had a few millennia of practice," Methos shot back. He studied the board intently.

MacLeod snorted. "Like you played chess in the Bronze Age."

"Technicalities, MacLeod."

Methos moved a piece, slouched back with a contented sigh and sipped from his beer. A Beethoven piano concerto drifted from the radio -- number two, Methos thought -- and he slowly tapped his fingers against the bottle in time with the music. If only this night could last forever.

"Good move," MacLeod admitted grudgingly, and Methos chuckled. MacLeod muttered under his breath, too quietly for Methos to understand, and rubbed a hand over his eyes.

"Don't tell me you're already tired," Methos teased. "It's only ..." He strained his neck to read the clock radio. "... ten o'clock. The day's hardly begun."

"Only because you wake up at the crack of noon. If I didn't know better, I'd sometimes think you were a vampire."

Methos smiled and laughed softly. "Oh, I am going to miss this."

MacLeod glanced up from the board. "Miss what?"

"The intellectual sparring over drinks. The chess. I'm going to miss it all."

MacLeod shook his head in mock disapproval. "Getting a bit sentimental, aren't you?"

For his answer, Methos merely shrugged and took another drink. They sat quietly for a few minutes, Methos relaxing against a bedpost and MacLeod staring thoughtfully at the pieces. Finally, the Scot lifted his only remaining bishop and slowly set it on another square, exactly as Methos expected. With hardly a pause, he countered the move.

"I think," he said lightly, "that I've figured out how to win the Game."

He watched the Scot's reaction closely and grinned as MacLeod's eyebrows rose almost to his hairline. It was such fun, Methos thought, to spring these revelations on his friends at the most unexpected times. It added to the mystery of his personality.

"And are you going to share this insight?" MacLeod asked intently.

"Are you going to make your move?" Methos nodded toward the board, his eyes dancing with amusement.

MacLeod's expression transformed from surprise to annoyance, and Methos' grin widened. Goading the serious Scot was too easy and much too enjoyable.

"Methos ..." MacLeod's voice dripped with unspoken warnings.

"Just make your move," Methos prompted, "and I'll tell you."

MacLeod obeyed quickly, taking the bait Methos had set for him. He looked up expectantly. "Well?" he said.

Erasing his smile with effort, Methos switched into lecture mode, the tone he had used in the classroom. Except, he mused, he had never given a lecture in a motel room over a game of chess and a six pack of beer.

"The winner," he began, "won't be the best fighter."

"Yeah, right," MacLeod muttered. "That's why we've all been perfecting our swordplay for centuries."

"No, I mean it." Methos said earnestly. "Even the best swordsmen are being defeated, and it's because they can't resist the Pull. They attack in rage, with their emotions and not their brains, and they get their heads lopped off by those who outthink them." He paused to move his queen to capture the enemy bishop. "The winner, MacLeod, will not be the strongest or the quickest but the smartest. The one who can keep his head the longest, figuratively speaking of course."

MacLeod moved another piece. "So you're saying that the winner will be the one who can keep the Pull at bay."

His eyes flashing excitement, Methos leaned forward. "Exactly. The battle isn't between immortals but within each of us. It's like a game of chess: You win by using your brain." He moved a rook. "Check."

"And what if you're wrong?" MacLeod asked as moved his king.

"Then I lose my head, but I'm not wrong." Methos shifted his queen across the board. "Checkmate."

MacLeod blinked. He looked at the board and traced his finger over the plastic pieces. With a sigh, he collapsed heavily against the side of a bed.

"I thought I had you that time."

Methos shrugged as he reset the pieces. "You would have won if you hadn't let me distract you."

MacLeod stared at him for a moment in disbelief before his broad shoulders begin to shake in silent laughter. "So, all that about the Gathering was just to keep me from winning?"

"No," Methos said. "All that was the truth. Your distraction was simply a bonus." He smiled at MacLeod's exasperation. "I'll give you a chance to get me back. It's only fair."

With a slight frown, MacLeod's eyes flickered to the clock. He hesitated for a moment before answering. "All right. One more game, but that's it. We have to get on the road tomorrow, and at least one of us has to be awake enough to drive." Then to himself, he muttered, "We've been here too long already."

"Your move then," Methos said.

As MacLeod's hand reached for a pawn, a high-pitched trill echoed through the room. His fingers froze inches above the board. Methos saw MacLeod catch his breath as his powerful shoulders tensed. Although the Scot seemed relaxed, Methos realized the peace was barely held in check, an illusion about to be shattered, especially if MacLeod reacted so dramatically to such a familiar sound. With trepidation, Methos reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out his cell phone.

He glanced at the caller ID display before thumbing the receive button. "Joe," he said. "How's it going?"

At Methos' words, MacLeod shot him a rueful look, stood and began pacing the small room. Methos watched his friend with concern. The fragile equilibrium was broken, and the Scot once again was fighting the rage. The ease with which MacLeod had succumbed reminded Methos of the delicacy of their situation.

"It's good to talk to you again." Joe's voice crackled through the earpiece. "Do you have MacLeod with you?"

"He's here," Methos confirmed. "I'm surprised the Watcher network hasn't already informed you of that."

"The Watcher network is in chaos," Joe said scornfully. "You'd think that for the time of the Gathering, when they're most needed, they'd have a plan to cover all their bases. But no. With immortals darting all over creation and losing their heads left and right, the so-called Watchers can't keep up."

Methos half-smiled at Joe's obvious irritation as his eyes followed MacLeod. The Scot had started breathing exercises in the corner, wedged between a bed and the wall.

"That's interesting, Joe," Methos said, "but it's not why you called."

"No. Actually I need to talk to Mac. Can you put him on for me?"

Panic momentarily flared in Methos' chest, but he quickly banished the feeling. Why should he fear a simple conversation between MacLeod and his Watcher? Joe probably only wanted to collect information for the chronicles, anyway.

He held out the phone toward MacLeod. "Joe wants to talk to you."

After taking one last deep breath, MacLeod reluctantly approached Methos, still sprawled on the floor, and took the phone. Methos almost pitied the uneasiness in the brown eyes.

"Joe," he said hoarsely. He glanced at Methos. "Yeah, we're OK. ... We're in-- In northern Europe. ... Yeah. So what's up?"

As he listened, his ear pressed to the receiver, MacLeod's expression suddenly changed from mild panic to shock. Then his eyes begin to water. He dropped onto the edge of a bed, and his powerful back slumped in defeat.

"How did it happen?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. He nodded and tightened his lips into a thin line as a tear dripped down his cheek. "Thanks for letting me know, Joe. ... Bye."

In the background, the radio began to pipe a ballet selection, smooth and gentle, but the music still seemed too loud. Methos flipped off the radio and sat beside his dejected friend, not uttering a word. He ached to know what Joe had said, but it was up to MacLeod to begin this conversation.

Finally, after several minutes, MacLeod twisted to meet Methos' concerned gaze. The pain that shrouded his eyes stabbed deeply into Methos, and the older immortal laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Connor is dead," MacLeod choked out. "Amanda, too."

Methos shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry, MacLeod. I know how much they meant to you."

MacLeod nodded curtly, fresh tears wetting his face.

"How did it happen?" Methos asked gently.

"Connor they don't know about. All Joe said is that his head washed up on the bank of the Mississippi River a few days ago. Amanda--" His voice caught, and he paused to take a deep breath. "Amanda's friend Nick challenged Steven Keane and lost. When Amanda heard, she tracked Keane down. He was better."

Methos breathed out softly. He'd never met Connor, but he'd miss Amanda. The little vixen's crazy antics had banished the monotony of immortality, if only for a little while. Now she was gone, like so many others who should have lived.

For a moment, Methos indulged in a wave of bittersweet grief, letting a few tears blur his own eyes. But beneath the sharp emptiness of loss, as his composure wavered, his felt the Pull at the edge of his mind. It pricked him like a needle, begging him to surrender to the rage, to forget the pain and confusion of reality and just let go. It would be so easy to let go.

Methos shook himself and firmly pushed the temptation to a secluded corner of his mind. If he was feeling the tantalizing offer of insanity, what must MacLeod be going through? Methos stood and edged away from the bed. Better safe than headless.

Then, without warning, MacLeod's hand tightened around the phone, and he threw it against the wall with an despairing yell. The phone cracked open and fell to the floor in pieces. Methos' jaw dropped as MacLeod inexplicably returned to his deceiving state of stillness.

"MacLeod!" he blurted out finally. "That was my only phone!"

Without moving, his head bowed and hands folded carefully in his lap, MacLeod quietly said, "Get out."

Methos shook his head. "I know you want to be alone, but I don't think splitting up--"

"GET OUT!" MacLeod surged to his feet and stood stiffly, his fists balled and his eyes blazing. Then he calmed his voice, but the tension remained. "Please. Methos. Leave."

Without another word, Methos retrieved his coat and door key, and swept from the room. He knew that tone, the one that emerged only when the honorable Scot was barely controlling his anger. He knew it was safer to simply disappear.

But how would MacLeod cope by himself, after the deaths of his teacher and longtime lover, when the Pull of the Gathering offered such an easy release? After all he'd done to keep MacLeod sane, would he lose the battle now?

Maybe it didn't matter, Methos thought as he shrugged into his duster and smoothed the collar along his neck. Perhaps this partnership had outlived its benefits. Perhaps it was growing too risky for them both. How long before one tried to take the other's head, especially if MacLeod surrendered to the Pull? No, when he surrenders, Methos thought. Along this course, disaster is inevitable.

With resignation, Methos crossed the poorly lit parking lot, jumped a low chain-link fence and headed into the city. His breath clouded in the frigid air, and he buried his hands deep in his coat pockets as he wandered, no destination in mind.

He passed occasional stray souls: a homeless man asleep by an overflowing trash bin, a group of sullen teenagers smoking on a corner. Yet the scene seemed dead and silent. No birds chirped, and no tires squealed on the rough asphalt. All he heard was the soft scrape of the wind whipping a crumbled newspaper across the abandoned street.

The farther Methos walked, the more the silence weighed on him. He could sense something strange in the air, an electrical charge, as though the city itself was in waiting. But waiting for what? As Methos had learned lifetimes ago, such magical anticipation, although beautiful, also heralded danger. His hand wrapped around the handle of the gun in his pocket.

As he passed the yawning mouth of an alley, the presence hit him, and his grasp shifted from his gun to the hilt of his Ivanhoe. Acting on instinct, he slipped into the alley and shrunk behind a dumpster to wait. Staccato footsteps echoed through the alley and then stopped. He heard the unmistakable dry hiss of a blade being unsheathed.

"I know you're in there, Methos." Hatred saturated the voice, one Methos knew all too well. "Hiding won't make me go away."

He stepped from the shadows and saw her. Darkness blanketed her long brown hair and hid the relentless venom in her eyes, but Methos would have known her anywhere. She smiled grimly and stalked toward him, her sword lowered so the tip pointed at his chest.

"Cassandra." Methos greeted her with a nod. "I was hoping someone would have taken your head by now."

She snorted. "Cut the pleasantries. I'm more interested in ... other things. MacLeod's not here to beg for your life this time, so we can finally end it."

"I don't want your head." Methos backed away. "We don't have to do this."

"Oh, I think we do." As she stepped forward, her boot heels clicked against the asphalt. "You're going to pay for what you did to me."

She continued toward him at a slow, deliberate pace, and Methos regretfully recognized how anger has distorted her lovely features. She looked nothing like the innocent woman who had captured his attention so many centuries ago. No, this harpy had ruined her beauty, a tragic loss he could not take responsibility for. What Cassandra had become, she had created herself.

"I settled my debt to you when I killed Silas," he said softly. "Let it go."

She laughed harshly. "I haven't been following you across half of Europe to 'let it go.' I haven't been waiting to get you away from MacLeod for two weeks just to let it go. I'm going to kill you, Methos, which is something I should have done a long time ago."

She lunged at him, holding her sword before her like a spear, but Methos effortlessly blocked the attack and stepped aside. Two weeks, he thought. That would mean she'd been following them since Paris. Two weeks ago, when ...

"The barge," he muttered, almost to himself. "You burned down the barge just to get at me."

"Don't be ridiculous. I would never do that to MacLeod. Although I saw the man who did."

"Who?"

"An immortal who called himself Warren Cochrane. I understand that he used to be MacLeod's friend, but he always had a weak mind. He was completely insane when I took his head on the quay, but you didn't see that, did you? You turned tail and ran like the coward you are!"

She advanced again, this time more intently. The clash of steel on steel reverberated through the alley. As Methos parried and backed away, he felt adrenaline surge through his lean form, adding to his strength. Yet with the excitement and the racing heart came something else. A sudden rage flooded his mind, and he was helpless to suppress it as he concentrated on staying alive.

Take her head, the rage whispered. Methos shook his head to clear the thought, but it repeated relentlessly as they circled and fought. Kill her. You have to kill her. It's what you do.

Kill, kill, kill, kill ...

With a brutal growl, he switched to the offensive and began to drive her back. The panic in her eyes delighted him as she realized she could not withstand his fury of blows. He cut beneath her desperate swings, immobilized her sword arm in his crushing grip and disarmed her.

Cassandra fell to her knees, but she held her head tall and without fear. Even now, he thought, with her neck on the executioner's block, she would not surrender her pride.

"End it, Methos." She tilted her chin to allow him a cleaner cut.

"You should have never come back," he said, and then swung. The beheading blow sliced neatly through her thick hair, leaving a halo of severed strands around her body as she fell.

As her head rolled away, the rage drained from Methos as though someone had pulled a plug. He knelt beside her, and as a muted glow rose from her body, he glided his hand over the severed hair. So soft. He remembered how he had loved to run his fingers through that thick mass long ago. He hadn't wanted this. He never had wanted to kill her. Why could she not have forgiven him and let it go?

He yelled as the first strike electrocuted his body. Then more lightning came, flashing about the alley, absorbing into metal dumpsters and crackling against concrete walls. The Quickening assaulted him for what seemed lifetimes, more powerful than any he had taken since Silas, and then slowly faded to nothing.

The street lamps flickered and went dark as Methos stood on weak legs and half-ran, half-stumbled from the alley. He ran from the body that the police soon would find and from the rage that had drained into the indifferent concrete. He ran, faster and harder, from his guilt and pain and the life of a Horseman that Cassandra had not allowed him to forget.

He ran until his throat burned, his breath rasped and his weary legs collapsed from under him. With an exhausted moan, he crawled into a niche against a crumbling brick building, curled up against the cold, unyielding wall and trembled until he slept.

End of part 2