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What the Thunder Said by Jennifer Campbell Methos, Joe Dawson, Duncan MacLeod and Cassandra belong to people with a lot more money than me. Probably a good thing, too, considering what I do to them in this story. LOL! Anyway, if you happen to be one of those Powers That Be, please don't sue me because all you'd get is some pocket change and my beanbag. Thank you to my wonderful betas, Atti, Tracey and JezT, and my final two checkers, MacXavier and Sue Ellen. And a special thanks to Farquarson, without whom this and many of my stories would have suffered. Thanks also to Dee and my family, who are the best cheerleaders I could ever ask for. All snippets of verse are from T.S. Eliot's "The Waste Land," the poem that inspired this story. Information on the city of Petra comes from National Geographic and the Web site kinghussein.gov. Warning: This is a story about the Gathering, which means that all immortals except one will die. If you don't like reading about major character deaths, then stop now. =============================== After the torchlight red on sweaty faces 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." End of part 1 =============================== Unreal City, 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. =============================== Methos pauses the narrative to compose himself. Even now, several weeks later, echoes of that night still haunt him. Cassandra had been a haven for powerful emotions, and her Quickening had coursed restlessly through his body for hours as he'd tried to reconcile his unconfrontational nature with her aggressiveness. That night had been hell. What came next was worse. As Methos gathers the will to continue, Joe whistles softly through his teeth and shakes his head. "Cassandra's Watcher had been keeping an eye on two immortals and had lost her in Paris. Must have been just before she latched onto you." He pauses. "I'm sorry, Methos." Methos furrows his eyebrows in confusion. "For what?" "For calling that night. If I'd known what would happen, I would have kept the information to myself." With a shrug, Methos says, "It's not your fault. There's no way you could have guessed at what was going on." "But I was Mac's Watcher," Joe protests. "It was my job to know what he was up to." "Not even I knew, Joe. If I had known, I wouldn't have gone back to the motel room the next morning." Joe rests his forearms on the table as he leans forward intently. "What happened?" After a deep breath, Methos continues the tale. =============================== The next morning, the city changed. With the return of daylight came businessmen in unwrinkled gray suits carrying briefcases in one hand and phones in the other. The street vendors emerged, and so did the kids laughing on their way to school. Horns honked. Engines revved from one stoplight to the next. Gone was the dark anticipation of the night, transformed into a bustling urban center with the sunrise. More than one person, when spotting Methos in his slow stroll through the crowded streets, watched him warily and decided it best to detour around him. Their reactions were no surprise. Methos knew he didn't look like the normal morning fare: dirty, wrinkled clothes, unkempt hair and bloodshot eyes. He'd probably avoid himself, too, if he could. He'd slept badly while huddled against the crumbling brick wall that night. Every time he'd dozed off, the nightmares had come. He'd killed Cassandra a million times in as many different ways, and every time he'd jerked awake and found himself still in a cold alley, only to begin the cycle again. By sunrise the nightmares had faded, and he knew what he had to do. Disappear. Walk away from MacLeod and the Game and hide himself. Only then would he find safety and be able to live the remainder of his life in peace as he waited for the end to find him. Yes, to leave was the best course of action. But not quite yet. Not until he had assured himself that MacLeod was all right. As Methos approached the motel, he half-feared and half-hoped that MacLeod might have checked out. Part of him wanted to know that his friend had salvaged his sanity, yet he dreaded that the Scot had surrendered to the rage. In more than one version of his nightmare, after taking Cassandra's head, MacLeod had then taken his. So it was with anticipation and dread that he crossed the parking lot and felt the presence, almost as familiar to his ancient senses as his own. Before sliding his key into the door lock, he unsheathed the Ivanhoe and held it tightly against the back of his arm. If attacked, he was ready. But ready for what? To take MacLeod's head? It wouldn't have been the first time he'd killed a friend, but MacLeod was different. Methos had known since their first meeting that the Highlander should win the Game. And that's why you're here, old man, he reminded himself. You're here to drag MacLeod back from the edge of the abyss and keep him sane, so he doesn't lose his head to some shmuck with a grudge against humanity and a hunger for revenge. Walk in there and save your friend, and probably all of civilization, too, while you're at it. Methos almost tripped over the pile of sheets and bed covers lying crumpled inside the door. With a grimace, he stepped over the mess and into the dark room. MacLeod was relaxing peacefully on one of the mattresses, stripped bare except for the pile of pillows on which he had propped up his head. The gleaming katana lay beside his hand. "Took you long enough." MacLeod's hand wrapped around the sword hilt, and he pointed the blade at Methos. "I've been waiting all night for your skinny ass to show up." With one smooth motion, Methos twisted his hand so he held his sword before him, and MacLeod laughed. The emotionless sound strayed far from the Scot's usual casual chuckle, revealing a truth Methos didn't want to believe: MacLeod had not survived the night unscathed. "What are you doing?" Methos asked softly. "Are you going to challenge me? This is not you. You are Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod." With another harsh laugh, MacLeod slid from the bed. "Oh, I know who I am. I also know who you are, Methos. Five thousand years of power just begging to be taken." Oh, this is not good, Methos thought as he darted toward the door. With a malicious grin and bright eyes, MacLeod fluidly blocked the exit. He locked the bolt under Methos' unreadable gaze. "You can't leave." The raw anger in MacLeod's voice brought goosebumps to Methos' arms. "The party just getting started, and you wouldn't want to miss all the fun." MacLeod slashed his katana in a wide, sweeping arc, forcing Methos to jump back farther into the room. Judging by the insane pleasure evident on his face, the Scot enjoyed this cat and mouse game. He apparently didn't realize that it played directly to Methos' advantage. The longer MacLeod delayed, the more time Methos had to think his way out of this. He had to make Mac see reason. "I know that what you're feeling is easier than fighting the Pull," Methos said soothingly. "But it's not who you are. Remember the Dark Quickening? You beat that, and you can beat this, too. Because what you're feeling right now is nothing more than another Dark Quickening." If Methos had hoped his words would be enough, MacLeod's widening grin proved him wrong. He had to say more. Just keep talking. "Remember all those who believe in you," Methos said urgently. "Darius and Connor and Tessa. Good people who would have rather died than see you like this." The growl that emerged from MacLeod's throat barely sounded human. "They already are dead," he spat, his voice growing louder with every word. "Their goodness brought them nothing but pain!" "Then what about Sean Burns?" Methos felt a faint surge of hope as MacLeod froze. "He selflessly gave up his life to save you. Would you throw that sacrifice away? And how would you feel tomorrow morning if you woke up and realized you'd killed another friend?" For a moment, as MacLeod absorbed Methos' desperate pleas, sanity returned to the deep brown eyes. His sword drooped in his hand. The hilt slowly slid across his palm and toward the floor as he looked around in confusion. Then the moment passed and instead of dropping the katana, he tightened his grip and lunged at Methos with a spiteful yell. Methos fell back a step under the sudden onslaught but quickly recovered and held his ground against his enraged opponent. He had little time to think beyond deflecting the powerful blows. Parry, parry, thrust. He retreated another step, his back foot now almost brushing a wall. With deadly grace, MacLeod's sword darted passed his defenses and slashed across his left arm. Methos gasped, and he felt blood wet his shirt sleeve. The burning pain set him off balance for only a moment, but it was enough. One leg banged into a bed corner and sent him sprawling backward into a mass of blankets and sheets. MacLeod quickly disarmed him, and Methos' sword thudded to the floor. MacLeod towered over him with an evil smile, and he raised his blade in preparation for the final blow. "After five thousand years, you're going to die. How does that make you feel, hmm?" "Who said anything about dying?" Methos growled. He desperately lunged for the only thing within reach -- a half-empty beer bottle on the bedstand -- and he hurled it at MacLeod. As the bottle shattered across the bridge of his nose, MacLeod screamed, dropped his sword and clutched at his face. Alcohol and blood streamed together through his fingers and down his cheeks. Methos watched his opponent's agony with a blank expression and retrieved his sword. Almost of its own volition, the blade ran through MacLeod's chest to the hilt, and the Scot's howls died instantly. He fell back onto the bare mattress as Methos withdrew the blade. He automatically knelt and used a crumpled sheet to wipe the blood from his weapon. Then, without a word or one glance toward his fallen friend, he sheathed his sword, took MacLeod's keys from their resting place by the clock radio and walked out to the car. He drove for hours, stone-faced and silent, heading for God knows where. It wasn't until nightfall, when he parked at a truck stop and stretched across the back seat, that he released the suppressed emotions. MacLeod, the best man he'd seen in all his 5,000 years, was gone. Not dead, but he might as well be, as hollow as his burned-out barge. All his efforts to keep Mac alive, and what had it come to? A battle in a dirty motel room and the loss of a friendship like brotherhood. All for a pathetic Game. As he lay under the dim neon lights from the nearby diner, Methos sobbed himself to sleep. End of part 2 =============================== There is shadow under this red rock, Part 3: The Burial of the Dead As Joe takes a much needed break to the men's room, Methos wanders aimlessly to stretch his legs. He steps onto the stage, climbs the stairs to the upper deck and then sneaks behind the bar for another beer, all the while his mind reliving the past few weeks. He remembers waking to the blare of truck horns the morning after escaping MacLeod. As he'd later sat in the diner, waiting for breakfast, he had berated himself for his emotional weakness the previous two days. No more self-pitying tears, he'd promised. Then he had recited a truth he'd shared with MacLeod ages before: People die; immortals die. They live by that simple yet profound truth. Everyone dies, friend and foe, good and evil. Hades is not discriminate. Since that morning, Methos has kept the promise to himself. Not once has he cried, not even on the hellish afternoon when he took MacLeod's head. The arid desert had evaporated his tears before they could wet his cheeks. Methos shakes himself to the present as he hears Joe return. His friend's eyes are bloodshot and rounded by dark circles, and he leans heavily on his cane as he lowers himself back into his chair. Methos hasn't noticed until now how tired Joe looks. "We can finish this tomorrow if you want to," Methos says as he sits. "I know you've had a long night." Joe pauses to consider the offer and shakes his head. "Nah," he answers. "I wouldn't be able to sleep anyway without knowing what happened." "All right, then." Methos leans back and closes his eyes. "That next morning, I made my plan. I drove south, across Europe and into the Middle East. Outside Jordan, I sold the car and bought a bus ticket for a place I had called home long ago." =============================== Petra, a city once majestic enough to rival the encroaching desert, slowly crumbled into ruins. Its creators long dead, only a few Bedouin called it home. Even they degraded the city's memory by selling T-shirts to gawking tourists in Bermuda shorts and designer sunglasses. Methos remembered, almost two thousand years ago, riding with a caravan across hell's furnace for twelve weeks before reaching the city. He had urged his camel down the deepening crack in the rock that had served as the main road into Petra. And then the city itself had appeared, carved into red sandstone cliffs and sustained by an ingenious network of channels designed to capture the region's occasional torrential rains. Many words could describe the wonder Methos had felt at first glimpsing this oasis: Beautiful, royal, unreal. He had loved Petra -- loved it so much he'd stayed for more than a hundred years, living both in the city and with nomadic tribes on the outskirts. Yet aboard a bus packed with eager tourists, bumping down the gravel roads toward Petra's ruins, an aching sadness intruded on his homecoming. All that remained of this marvel were ghosts. Petra was dead, like so many other wondrous civilizations. All dead except in his memory. Still, even as a graveyard, Petra offered something few other places could: Safety. Only archaeologists and Bedouin wandered the ancient caravan roads outside the main tourist traps, and even they would not discover Methos' destination, the haven he once had called home. His stone dwelling undoubtedly would have fallen, but in the nearby cliffs stood a cave, and in the cave, a sheltered cistern carved into the rock. It certainly wasn't the Ritz Hotel, but no one would find him deep in the Jordan desert. So after wandering among the deserted buildings with his tour group for a nostalgic afternoon, he returned to the nearby town of Wadi Musa to buy food and transport. He was laughed at and warned more than once not venture into the desert. Much too dangerous for an outsider. Methos merely smiled and promised that he was tougher than he looked before draping his loaded saddle bags over the back of his newly bought camel. Then he headed northwest, leaving civilization behind in favor of rock, gravel and no water, unless one knew where to look. He sometimes spotted a brittle shrub that had forced its way through a break in the sandstone, but vegetation proved rare. Methos appreciated the beauty of the sterile land, where nothingness stretched for miles upon miles. No cities or pollution or the deafening clatter of humanity. Here, he could finally find an respite from the Gathering. After a few hours of riding, he arrived in the shadow of a half-ring of jagged cliffs that surrounded his old home, now nothing more than a pile of stone. A rock that had once been part of the walls crumbled as Methos crushed it in his hand. The dust blew through his fingers on the soft wind. "Home," Methos murmured as he surveyed the ruins. Then he smiled with dry lips, brushed a hand through his dusty hair and led his camel toward the cliffs. It only took a few minutes for Methos to locate a certain path that wound between the ledges and an outcropping of massive boulders. He and the camel trekked through the rocks and around a sharp corner before stopping at the narrow entrance of a cave. Methos slid his bags off the camel's back and hefted them into the blessedly cool darkness. He dug through the supplies until he found a flashlight, then slowly picked his way toward the back of the cave. Behind the wide opening cavern and a narrow archway, he found the treasure he'd left behind centuries ago: a pool of still water that reflected the flashlight's glare like glass. Methos dipped his cupped hand into the sweet liquid and sipped its offering. No beer had ever tasted so good. After settling his camel outside, Methos returned to the main cavern and unpacked his bags, resulting in small caches of dried meat, salt and other foods, tools and the necessities of survival. Next he set about making the cave habitable. He situated the larger rocks away from his main traffic ways and cleaned space for a firepit. The last rays of sunlight died from the narrow entrance by the time he finished his tasks. Before retiring that evening, he used a knife to scratch a short, vertical line into the cave wall. One line, one day. Exhausted, he then lay under a blanket in the center of his new dwelling and quickly fell into a dreamless sleep. The next day passed similarly, as Methos labored tirelessly, more to take his mind off the Gathering than from any real necessity. As the daylight cooled into early evening, he wandered the familiar territory and climbed the cliffs. It transported him to another time, when this empty place wasn't an escape but his livelihood. A time when this region stood as a thriving cultural Mecca and he the king of a small trade empire -- but no longer. That era had long since faded into history. During the day, he avoided spending too much time away from the protection of his cave, as the sun mercilessly scorched the bare rocks. After several centuries of living in sheltered places, he had lost his immunity to hard desert living. The endurance needed a gradual rebuilding. But he emerged with his Ivanhoe as evening descended and practiced his forms until darkness made such activities impossible. Although this hideaway granted him temporary safety, one terrible truth he could not forget, and it drove his shadow-sparring to higher levels. The Gathering was now. No matter where he ran, it would find him. The thought troubled him, and each night, he slept fitfully. Time passed hardly without notice in the desert, where calendars and clocks had no meaning. Day surrendered to night, which in turn gave way as the sun god Dushara returned to the sky. Each cycle slipped peacefully away, and Methos grew more bold in his ventures into the burning afternoons. He rode to town when his supplies dwindled and scratched another line on the wall when he returned at twilight. The thin marks began to multiply. He was surprised to see he'd spent eighteen days in his arid sanctuary. Then, one particularly cold night, came the inevitable moment he had run across half the planet to escape. It came in the predawn hours, as his small fire died to a dull glow and the frigid air caused him to huddle deeper under his blanket. He had been dreaming about Alexa again, standing by her Paris grave on a snowy afternoon, when he awoke with such force that he jumped to his feet. A feeling coursed urgently through his body. It entrenched itself deep in his bones and filled him with so much dread he began to tremble. Only two were left. His opponent seemed far away, but the muted sensation was undeniable in its implications. Then another thought came that weakened his knees, and he collapsed to the cold cave floor, pulling his blanket tightly around his shoulders. This connection he suddenly shared with his opponent, like a thin, unbreakable thread binding them together, would lead the other immortal to him. He could no longer hide or run. Within a matter of days, they would finish the Game in this desolate place. In a few more days, he might be dead. Methos slept no more that night. =============================== "Let me take a guess," Joe says frankly. "MacLeod." Methos' eyes flicker, and he nods almost imperceptibly. How will Joe react, he wonders, now that he knows who killed his friend. Not a monster like Kurgan or Kronos but a man he's known for a decade. They'd shared countless drinks and debated philosophy in the back corner of Shakespeare and Company. But how will that compare to the death of Joe's inspiration for twenty years? Joe sinks into his chair and shakes his head in amazement. "You and MacLeod," he breathes. "The last two. Who would have thought." "It's what I had always feared." At Joe's quizzical glance, Methos explains. "It's one of those ethical questions that I could never answer: If I had to kill a friend in the final fight, could I do it?" He pauses to take a fortifying drink. "Turns out that the will to survive is stronger than ethics." Joe's eyes turn cold. "An ethical question, huh? You want ethics? What about the ethics of betraying a friend?" "Now calm down, Joe. I didn't betray anyone." Methos holds up his hands defensively. "Calm down?" The suddenly bitterness in Joe's voice alarms Methos. "You killed Mac, and that's all you have to say? That survival is stronger than ethics?" Methos nervously licks his lips. "You don't know everything yet." "Well, the explanation better be damn good," Joe spats. He leans forward across the table and locks Methos with his angry gaze. "MacLeod was the best. He deserved to win." Methos surges to his feet, his chair crashing to the floor behind him. "You don't think I know that?" His voice rises uncontrollably, and he begins to tremble. "He was my friend, too, and the best I'd ever seen, in five thousand years. I put my life on the line for MacLeod time and time again for just that reason. So don't you tell me that he deserved to win because I know." Joe's stunned, and even slightly frightened, expression snaps Methos back to himself, and he forcefully calms himself, rights his chair and sits down. He can't bring himself to meet Joe's hurt gaze. This is exactly what he had feared the most: blame and feelings of deception. He shouldn't have come back here. "Was all your concern for Mac just a front?" Joe presses. "No," Methos whispers. "No, Joe, it wasn't a front." "So why then?" The Watcher's frank stare bores into Methos with a determination he's rarely witnessed in his friend. With a deep breath, Methos says, "What do you think it's like to be the last one? None of us knew what it would mean to win the Prize, and ironically the thing we've been fighting to claim for thousands of years was a myth. But beyond the Prize, what else is there?" "Like you said, you get to live." "Yes, that's true," Methos responds. "But what's the point in living when you're the last one? The only thing that has made the past five thousand years bearable was knowing that I had others to share it with. Always, there were friends who could remember the same places and people. Knowing that, I was never alone. But now--" He pauses to swallow a catch in his throat and continues in a wavering voice. "But now all that is lost. How long will I endure, with everyone and everything around me dying while I go on forever? How long until I lose my mind?" Understanding lights in Joe's eyes, and he whistles under his breath. "So that's why you killed MacLeod. To save him." "To spare him from the torture of eternity. And because I didn't have a choice," Methos says sullenly. "Is that enough to justify it, Joe?" The question hangs heavily as silence stretches on between them, the only sound the steady tick of the clock behind the bar. Several seconds pass like years before Joe sighs loudly and shakes his head. "I don't know, Methos," he replies quietly. "I just don't know." "Fair enough," Methos answers with a curt nod. "Let me finish telling you what happened, and then you make your judgment." "You better start talking fast then because you have a lot of convincing to do." Methos takes a long swallow of beer, both to wet his throat and calm his nerves. And with a weak smile for Joe, intended as reassuring but failing miserably, he begins his tale again. =============================== As the days passed, Methos became increasingly aware of how little time he had left. He wanted to make each afternoon count for another hundred years, live his life for all it was worth in case the approaching immortal took his Quickening. With every second, his opponent drew closer, crossing oceans and deserts in a relentless quest to win the elusive Prize. As the presence grew stronger and more defined, a suspicion that had pricked at the back of his mind became a certainty. He recognized this distinctive sensation, as unique as a signature and familiar as his own face. The immortal was Duncan MacLeod -- but which MacLeod he couldn't tell. He would not know until Mac stood before him whether he faced a friend or an enemy. So he prepared to fight for his life. He shadow-sparred in the glaring furnace of midafternoon until he collapsed from heat stroke, but he could practice a little longer each afternoon, his endurance strengthening. He only hoped that he could outlast MacLeod in this scorching climate. Despite his exhaustion every night as he fell asleep, the nightmares returned, horrifying visions of losing his head and spending eternity in hell. Those dreams snapped him awake countless times and made him fearful to return to sleep. So he watched many sunrises from the ruins of his old dwelling, huddled in a blanket among the crumbling stones. As a last preparation for MacLeod's arrival, he scoured the region for the perfect locale to receive his guest, some place difficult to reach that would exhaust his opponent in simply getting there. Finally, as MacLeod's presence grew so strong that Methos feared to see the Scot around each corner, he found his battleground. At the top of a cliff, he discovered a wide plateau with no shelter. The cracked sandstone top allowed for little vegetation. Its roughly circular shape dropped off on all sides to a gorge 50 feet below. Yes, here he would fight MacLeod. It gave him a childish pleasure to visualize the end of the Game in such a hostile place. In one last precaution, he bought a small tent in town and erected it atop the plateau, giving him at least a small refuge should he have to wait for his opponent. Then, after Methos had scraped twenty-two lines into the cave wall, came the last morning of his old life. The day dawned windy, with thick, dark clouds building on the horizon for a late spring storm. His loose clothing whipped about his lean body as he stepped outside, and he knew with absolute certainty: Today it would end. He strapped his sword across his back, slung a brimming water pouch over his shoulder and set out for the plateau. By midmorning he reached the top and settled in the shade of his tent, billowing in the wind. He didn't have to wait long. The sun hung directly overhead, almost overtaken by storm clouds rumbling with thunder, as he saw a large hand reach over the edge. MacLeod pulled himself onto the plateau and rolled onto his back, his broad chest heaving. At first sight of the Scot, as the presence flooded Methos' senses with almost unbearable power, the Pull returned with vengeance. Rage pushed at his mind and thirsted to stain this pure place with MacLeod's blood. He struggled to hold it back with the same will that had defeated the Horseman inside himself so many centuries before. Still, his balance tipped precariously close to surrender. Methos approached with sword bared. As MacLeod saw him, he struggled to his feet. The Scot's eyes gleamed maliciously despite his heavy breathing, and he grinned as he twisted his katana in his hand. Methos' heart sank as he saw a foe, not friend, before him. Had MacLeod been like this since their parting a month ago? Perhaps Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod was dead, after all. "You picked one hell of a hiding place," MacLeod said, his tone somehow both cheerful and intense. "Couldn't you have gone to Bermuda?" "I like it here," Methos replied. He raised his sword protectively before him. "So what happens now?" "Now," MacLeod said, taking a step toward him, "I kill you." Methos backed away. "Easier said than done." He took another step back, never taking his eyes off the predatory MacLeod, and his heel sunk into a wide crack in the bedrock. The change in balance surprised him. He fell, his bottom landing hard on the unyielding rock. MacLeod laughed and swiped at him, but Methos dropped and rolled out of the sword's range. He came to his feet a few yards away. "Careful," MacLeod mocked. "Don't want to lose your footing." "Mac, this is insane." Methos glanced behind himself this time before backing away. "Oh, is this the part where you try to talk me out of it?" MacLeod asked. "'Don't do it, MacLeod. We can still walk away and be friends, MacLeod.' Is that it?" He grinned insanely and continued his slow advance. "Well I have some news for you, old man. Your friend is gone." "So I see," Methos answered carefully. "And now you're wondering what will happen to me after I take your head, right? You're wondering whether I'll go back to being the old MacLeod and torture myself for the next few thousand years about how I shouldn't have killed you." "Actually, I know you'll revert to yourself," Methos calmly lied. He honestly had no clue. "And I also know you would never be able to handle your regret. All the lives you've taken in anger, they'll haunt you for eternity." MacLeod chuckled. "And you think you can handle it?" "Yes," Methos answered simply. "I already do, every day." "But wasn't it so much easier before you grew a conscience? When you could kill and destroy and feel no guilt?" MacLeod grinned. "I didn't realize before how beautiful it is to live without regret." "Oh, yeah," Methos said sarcastically. "It's a real thrill." "You could live like this, too, Methos. Or at least until I cut off your head. It's so much easier to surrender to it." The oily coaxing of MacLeod's voice reverberated in his mind, echoing the tempting promises of the Pull. Yet Methos gritted his teeth and planted his feet firmly against the solid rock. "No!" he yelled, and the rage inside him vanished on the wind. He almost sobbed for the release. MacLeod shrugged. "It was worth a try. I guess I'll have to kill you as you are." With that, MacLeod attacked. He aimed his first powerful blow for Methos' neck, which the older immortal dodged and returned in force. Mac swatted his sword away, and then the duel began in earnest. They circled as they fought, carefully picking their way over boulders and deep fissures in the rock. The approaching thunder answered the clash of their swords. Methos led them toward the plateau's ledge and then slowly circled so MacLeod's back faced the dropoff, but the Scot didn't seem to notice. MacLeod attacked with such focused ferocity that he saw nothing except the opponent before him. He fluidly swung at Methos' sword arm, which Methos barely parried. Then he abruptly changed the direction of his arc to slash at Methos' abdomen. Methos jumped back, but the katana ripped through his shirt and across his stomach, leaving a shallow cut that trickled warm blood down his skin. MacLeod laughed harshly. "I'll take you apart one piece at a time if I have to." "Then come and get me." Again, the blades clashed. MacLeod quickly pulled the same trick, this time directing a serpentine cut across Methos' hip. The older immortal hissed, but a quick glance at the wound showed it hadn't cut deep. He ignored the pain and continued to fight. Now Methos could see the heat affecting his opponent. MacLeod breathed raggedly, and sweat dripped down his forehead into his eyes. As MacLeod blinked to clear his vision, Methos pressed into an attack, swiftly pushing him closer to the cliff. MacLeod's back foot slipped over the edge, and his eyes widened as he sensed his danger. With an inhuman effort, he pushed his weight onto his front foot and managed to step away. Then his foot slid into the side of a large rock and he overbalanced. With a purely instinctual response, MacLeod sought to stop a face-first fall with the only thing available: his sword. The blade caught upright in a fissure, and MacLeod's chest smashed heavily against the hilt. With a grunt of pain he rolled off. Methos watched the sequence of blunders with something akin to amazement, but as soon as MacLeod landed flat on his back, the hesitation ended. With an unreadable expression, he buried his sword in the immortal's stomach. Then he pulled the bloody Ivanhoe free and lifted it above his head, ready for the final stroke. "Methos, stop!" The exclamation startled him into stillness. His eyes raked his defeated opponent, slid from the red stain on his stomach to his face. What he saw there almost made him drop his sword. The filmy rage seemed to drain from MacLeod's eyes as he watched, and the Scot raised one weak hand in supplication. "Mac?" he asked cautiously. "Is that you?" MacLeod's raised hand fell to his bloody stomach. "Methos, I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I can't control it. I'm so very sorry." Despite his screaming instincts, Methos lowered his sword and knelt by MacLeod. The pain of the wound must have brought his friend back, just as it had on the barge so many ages ago. "I'm sorry, too," Methos breathed. MacLeod smiled wryly. "For what? Defending yourself against a madman?" Then the smile vanished, and he screwed shut his eyes. His voice grew strained. "It's coming back. The darkness. Methos, please help me. I can't ..." Without warning, MacLeod hands lashed out and closed around Methos' throat. The older immortal struggled to breathe. His vision began to darken around the edges as he brought up his sword and slammed it deep into MacLeod's side. The Scot cried out, and Methos gasped as the hands fell away. After Methos pulled his sword free for the second time, they sat in silence, with only the thunder between them. Shadows crossed the plateau as heavy clouds obscured the sun. Finally, MacLeod twisted to regard him with tortured eyes. "Methos, if you're my friend, you will kill me now," he whispered. Methos blinked. "You want to die?" "I can't live like this." A single tear trailed down MacLeod's cheek. "Please, Methos. Do this for me. Do it now, before the darkness comes back. If you don't, you know I'll hunt you until one of us is dead." Methos squeezed his friend's hand and nodded curtly. MacLeod had spoken the truth. It had to end now. As Methos stood, MacLeod struggled to his knees and bowed his proud head. A powerful wind whipped around them, swaying the nearby katana like a metronome. Methos lifted his sword. "Do it," MacLeod said hoarsely. "And live a good, long life, my friend." "Goodbye, Duncan MacLeod." Methos brought down the blade in one clean cut, and MacLeod dropped. With a strangled breath, Methos once again knelt by his friend. A pressing weight settled on his chest, and he found it difficult to breathe between his dry sobs. He'd killed his best friend. He'd won the Game. Methos stood and closed his eyes as the first mists heralded the Quickening, and he simply rode the waves of instantaneous pain and healing that followed. He hardly noticed when the thick pillar beneath him began to shake violently and the rumble of tumbling rocks grew louder. None of it mattered. He had killed his friend. And then it was over. Half the plateau had vanished, slid into the gorge, and a few cliffs in the distance still shook from the shock wave of the power released. Yet the phenomenon barely registered as Methos paid tribute to the fallen hero. He pulled the katana from the rock and stumbled away, leaving the body to nature and the thunder, mourning softly in the distance. =============================== Joe breathes out explosively. "Wow." "That's it?" Despite himself, a faint smile curls at Methos' mouth. "Just 'wow'? I expected something a bit more profound." "Like what?" "Oh, I don't know. How about, 'Get the hell out of my bar, you murdering bastard.'" Joe sighs, and he says solemnly, "You killed the best man I've ever known, but I can't blame you for what happened. I probably would have done the same thing in your place." "I'm glad to hear you say that, Joe. After you almost took my head off earlier ..." Methos lifts his beer in salute. "I have to say that you handled it quite well." "Thanks." Joe forces a smile and lifts his drink. "A toast. To Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod. The most heroic man to ever walk the planet. And the best friend anyone could ask for." They clink glasses, and as Methos drinks, he lifts a thought to his friend. I hope you're in a better place than this, MacLeod. You deserve it. "So what now?" Methos kicks his feet up on the table, and Joe promptly pushes them off. "Now, I get this mess cleaned up and hit the sack," Joe says as he stands. "If you don't mind my saying, it's been a long night. I'll worry about making sense of all you've said tomorrow." "No, I mean what do you do now that it's over?" Methos grabs his empty beers as Joe goes to the bar for a cleaning cloth. "There's no reason for the Watchers to exist anymore." Joe hesitates as he considers the question, the rag forgotten in his hand. Finally, he shakes his head and shrugs. "I'll file my final report tomorrow. Then I guess I'll ... play music, run the bar and spend a lot of time getting to know my daughter." "Yeah, you should spend time with Amy," Methos says as he dumps the bottles in a recycling bin. "Family is important." "If I get bored, maybe I'll assign myself as your Watcher." Joe manages a weak smile at his own joke, but Methos can't bring himself to smile in return. As much as Joe tries to hide his grief at MacLeod's death, Methos can see that the pain weighs heavily on his friend's heart. Methos regrets causing that grief almost as much as he regrets killing MacLeod. "I'm sorry," he whispers. Joe tightens his lips and nods. "I know." "If I could have saved him ..." Methos leaves the thought unfinished as he looks away. He slips into his coat and smooths the collar. "I know," Joe answers in a strained voice. Methos nods curtly. The words are as close to forgiveness as Joe will give him, and maybe it's enough. He knows it's time to leave, time to disappear for awhile and reorganize the shambles of his life, but one task yet remains. Methos reaches under his coat and pulls out his last memento of Duncan MacLeod. He lays it reverently on the bartop. Joe stares at him in surprise before hesitantly reaching out. He glides his fingertips over the white dragon hilt and down the length of gleaming metal. "Mac's sword," he says, amazed. "I think he would want you to have it." When Joe looks up at him, Methos can see unshed tears bluring his eyes. "Thank you." "Take care of it," Methos says. "And take care of yourself, too." He turns away and walks slowly toward the exit. Daylight sneaks past the edge of the door frame. "Hey, Methos ..." He stops and looks back at Joe. "What are you going to do?" A smile tugs at the corner of Methos' mouth. "I'm going to live." "You won't disappear on me, will you?" Methos shakes his head. "I'll see you around, Joe. I promise." He walks outside, into the parking lot, and a raindrop splatters against his coat. Above him, the lightning cracks and the thunder speaks. For once, as he walks to his car, Methos can almost understand what it is trying to say. What have we given?
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