The Sound of Angel's Wings

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THE SOUND OF ANGEL'S WINGS
Rory V. Pascual
         This is the FOURTH story in the TEDDY BEAR TALES. I am definitely certain that many of you will proceed no further than the Prologue. Unfortunately, it will be your loss if you don't finish it up to the end. Take a risk. Read it. I'm sure you won't regret it. "The Sound Of Angel's Wings" is a rather depressing piece, especially since I wrote it during a very trying period in my life. Ironically, this story is probably the easiest I have ever written. I'm still sticking with the notion that angels dictated this tale to me. Up to now, I really can't believe that I wrote this story. Anyway, this story is dedicated to ALL THE HIGHLANDER MAVERICKS!! If it isn't for you lovely ladies, I doubt this story would ever have been completed. Thanks for your support, your love and all your prayers. This story is for YOU!!
PROLOGUE:

         Duncan MacLeod dug his hands into the pockets of his duster and shivered. Every exhalation came out as steam, mixing with the thick fog surrounding him. Weather forecasters said that winter was upon them, and judging from the sudden drop in temperature, it was going to be one of the coldest winters Seacouver will ever experience.
         However, the Highlander was unmindful of the weather or the icy breeze pummeling his body. Neither did he notice the leaves of the tree he was standing under dropping all around him like dead butterflies that had breathed their last. All he could feel was the terrible cold that seemed to permeate his entire being, his heart most of all.
         "I HATE YOU!"
         How could those three words hurt so much? Up to now, he couldn't believe he would hear those words from the mouth of a four-year old child, his own son.
         But Sean Richard had said those three words to him before, when he was just a few months old. When he had rejected the child, not knowing that his missing son was the baby he held in his arms.
         Now, Sean had rejected him.
         Duncan had always wanted a son. The fact that he had given birth to a child was a miracle of its own. But Sean was not an ordinary child. He wasn't a child at all. He was an adult trapped in the body of a little boy.
         He and Methos had early on noted that their son was different, and not just because of his telepathic skills. Sean's interests tended more to the pursuits of a sixteen-year old, all raging hormones. Duncan certainly couldn't forget Sean's intense preoccupation with female breasts. Since he couldn't satisfy his sexual curiosity at this early physical stage, he poured all his frustrations out in books. Just four-years old and Sean already had the intellect of a genius.
         Methos doted on the child, buying him every book he could find. He even bought Sean his own computer with its own Internet access. It dismayed the Scot to learn that his son had learned how to hack into every pornographic site existent on the Web.
         Duncan wanted to wean the boy away from his intellectual and amorous preoccupations, although he couldn't find it in him to wean Sean away from feeding on him. The contact of that small mouth on his nipple was the only thing that helped him to remember that Sean was still a baby. That and good ole Teddy that Sean always carried around with him. A child who was losing out on the wonders that childhood had to offer.
         The Highlander couldn't remember when the arguments began. He just wanted Sean to go out and play with kids his own age, not to stay cooped up inside the house for so long in front of his computer. Sean always told him he wasn't interested. He said that the kids would not understand him anyway.
         Ever patient Methos was always the arbiter, always convincing him to leave Sean to his pursuits.
         "He'll grow out of it, you'll see," the ancient had assured him.
         But his son had showed no signs of growing out of it.
         With a sigh, Duncan remembered how he had come home earlier with one of those clay playsets for Sean. The child, as usual, was seated before his computer.

        "Look what I brought for you, Sean!" Duncan greeted cheerfully, waving the tubs of PlayDoh before his eyes.
         "Yeah, thanks, Mama," was Sean's absent-minded reply as his eyes flicked back and forth over the text of a treatise about the mating rituals of the yak. "Just put it over there."
         In exasperation, the Highlander had switched off the computer, drawing an angry protest from his son.
         "Sean, you've been at your computer for nearly the whole day every day. Why don't you come out with me for a change? We could play. Have fun."
         "This is fun for me." Sean was about to switch the computer back on again. But Duncan yanked the plug with his toe. With an exasperated groan, his son had crossed his arms over his chest, a major pout forming on his lips. "Mama, this is what I like to do. I don't want to hang around with kids who don't have the same intellectual capacity as I do."
         "I'm not talking about other kids. I'm talking about me. Don't you want to go out with me? We could play ball in the park. Maybe go to an amusement park and check out the rides."
         "Mama, I told you things like that don't interest me."
         "And what does interest you? Pornography?"
         "I don't want to talk about it."
         "Sean..." Duncan got down to his knee beside the child. "I just want you to have a normal childhood."
         "But I'm not normal, am I?"
         "No, not exactly, but..."
         "I can't help the way I am. You gave birth to me. Live with it."
         At that remark, Duncan lost his temper. "When are you going to start acting like a child?"
         To this, Sean retorted, "When are YOU going to stop acting like one?"
         "Sean, don't be so difficult!"
         "I'm being difficult? You're the one who's being difficult. Why can't you leave me alone?"
         "Because I'm your mother!"
         "My mother?" Sean burst into bitter laughter. "If I remember correctly, Mother," he said the word with such acidity, "you rejected me. I was trying to tell you that I am your real son, but you were so immature and so irrational that you couldn't understand what I was trying to say."
         "I didn't know! I swear I didn't know!"
         "You refused to listen to me! And in doing so, you rejected me!" Sean glared at the Scot. "God, I HATE you! I wish you were never my mother! I wish I had never been born!"

         Duncan clenched his hand tightly, closing his eyes. He could still feel the stinging contact of his hand against that soft cheek.
        Oh, God! the Highlander thought in horror. How could I have struck my own son like that?
         Suddenly, there was a droning sensation in his head, jolting his taut nerves. As if on cue, a man strode out of the mist, sword in hand.
         "Are you Duncan MacLeod?" the Immortal asked him.
         "Yes, I'm Duncan MacLeod," was his flat reply.
         "I'm Marco Desiderio, and I've come to challenge you."
         "I have no quarrel with you, Marco. We don't have to do this."
         "But I'm afraid we have to." The Immortal grinned, readying his sword. "I've heard a lot about you, MacLeod. You're one of the most powerful Immortals on this earth. Imagine what would happen to me if I took your head."
         "If I allow you to take it, and I have no interest in taking yours."
         "Draw your sword."
         "I won't fight you!" The Scot waved his hand dismissingly. "I have more important business to attend to, like my son who's waiting for me back home."
         But Marco blocked the Highlander's path with his blade. "If you want to go home to your son, you must fight me first."
         Duncan sighed, seeing the futility of it, and pulled out his sword. "We don't have to do this," he repeated.
         "It's the time of the Gathering, MacLeod," Marco reminded him. "There can be only one."
         At once, the two Immortals fought, their swords clashing that sparks flew with every collision of metal against metal. Duncan was a good swordsman, but his heart wasn't in it. He couldn't feel his heart beating at all. Just that damnable cold, like a block of ice had been wedged in his chest cavity.
         Numb as he was, Duncan didn't feel the sharp edge of a blade slash through his gut or that his katana had slipped from his grasp. Neither did he feel his life's blood trickle out of him and onto the grass at his knees.
         There was just an abrupt pain as the edge of a sword sliced through his neck. Then, he felt nothing at all, not even the agony of knowing that he would never see his beloved son again.

         Glancing worriedly at the clock, the ancient wanted so much to follow his stricken lover.
         He had arrived at the loft just in time to see Duncan slap their son in the face. For what seemed like an eternity, all three of them stood transfixed, shocked by what had just happened.
         Then, Sean hurled the PlayDoh across the room, screaming "I HATE YOU!", and ran to his bedroom on the third floor.
         The Highlander had looked at him then, tears streaming down his cheeks, holding his hand in horror.
         Before Methos could speak, Duncan had sobbed bitterly, "I didn't mean to hurt him, Methos! I was only trying to get him to play with me! I'm sorry! Oh God, I'm so sorry!" Saying this, the Scot snatched his coat and his sword and fled from the loft.
        Mac's late, thought the Old Man in concern. Where could he be? Damn it, I should have said something! Sighing, he decided, But Sean must come first. Once I get him calmed down, I'll leave him with Joe and I could go look for Duncan.
         Methos was sitting beside the closed door of Sean's room. For the past hour or two, he had been trying to coax the child out.
         "Why won't he understand how I feel?" Sean sobbed within. "He knows I'm different."
         "Sean, please! You know how difficult things have been for your mother. You're in the position to understand."
         "Understand what? Hey, it's not my fault all those bad things happened to him. It's not my fault that he was raped! Damn it, Papa! All I want is to be left alone and do my own thing! Maybe it would've been better if I didn't have a mother breathing down my neck all the time! I wish I never had a mother!"
         At that comment, a sudden pain pierced his heart causing Methos to gasp and press his hand over his chest. Just as quickly as it came, the pain disappeared. At once, the worry resurfaced. Damn it, Duncan! Where are you? Please come home! Turning back to the child, he said, "Sean, never, ever say that! You don't know what it's like not to have a mother. You're very lucky you have Duncan, and he loves you very much. I never even knew my mother. Don't ever wish for something like that. You'll always mourn the loss, like I have."
         There was silence on the other side of the door. Then, Sean said softly, "I didn't mean to say that. I was just so angry. I'm sorry."
         Methos smiled in relief. At that moment, the phone started to ring. Getting to his feet, he told the child inside, "Don't apologize to me. Apologize to your mother when he gets back."
         Running to the phone, the ancient raised the receiver and said, "Hello! Mac, is that you? Where are..."
         "Adam..." a choked voice answered, barely recognizable.
         "Who is this?"
         "Methos, it's me, Joe."
         Oh, hi, Joe! Long time, no hear. We were going to drop by later and..."
         "Methos..."
         There was something in the Watcher's voice that caused him to pause. "Joe, what is it? Is something wrong?"
         That same instant, Sean timidly emerged from his room, looking hesitantly at his father.
         "I'm sorry!" Joe blurted out. "I did everything I could! But I couldn't do anything! It was too late!"
         "Joe, wait!" Methos interrupted, hearing the Watcher begin to cry. "Take a deep breath! Tell me what happened!"
         "I couldn't save him! I swear I tried, but it was too late!"
         "Save who? Joe!"
         There was deafening silence on the other end. When Joe spoke at last, the world suddenly crashed around Methos in roaring, devastating bits.
         "Duncan. He's dead, Methos. I'm so sorry."
         Methos set the receiver down in stunned silence, as tears began to fall from his eyes. When he turned around, he saw Sean standing behind him -- so small, so vulnerable, wide, shocked eyes red from crying.
         "I felt something earlier," Sean admitted. Methos recalled the ache he had felt earlier. "A pain. Now I can't feel anything at all." Gesturing to the phone, he asked, "Who's that on the phone? Is it my Mama? Please tell me it's Mama!"
         Rather than answer, Methos embraced his son tightly as he began to weep hard.
         He barely heard Sean wail, "No! Thats not true! Not my Mama! I take it back, Papa! Everything I said! I just want my Mama! I want my Mama back! Oh, Mama! I m so sorry!!"

CHAPTER ONE:

         The days following the Highlander's death seemed to move at a snail's pace.
         Methos was lost in a haze of disbelief and shock, floating aimlessly in a limbo of despair where no one could rouse him. He had fallen into this stupor immediately after Joe Dawson had told him that they had the Scot's body cremated. It was SOP for the Watchers to do this, so that there won't be any evidence of Immortals lying around.
         How it had hurt him to learn that. Methos wanted to rant and rave at his friend for doing this. He was robbed of the chance to see his lover one last time, even in death's repose. But he knew that venting out his anger and frustration would accomplish nothing. Instead, Methos fell into that state of numbness where no one could reach him.
         There was a small memorial ceremony for the Highlander. It vaguely registered inside the ancient's mind how there seemed to be only a few well-wishers. Duncan MacLeod was a well-loved man. Strange that only a few came to mourn his death.
         At one point, Methos was momentarily roused by a heated argument between Joe and Amanda. For some reason, the Immortal thief was furious, he remembered that. Of their exchange, the Old Man only recalled snippets.
         "You had no right...!"
         "No choice...!"
         "But the crystal..."
         "It was too late!"
         Over and over again, Methos berated himself, I should have followed him. I should never have stayed too long talking to Sean. I should have been with him that night.
         But it was too late for regrets.
         Returning home after the memorial, the loft had seemed like a mausoleum without Duncan. It was stifling, the silence choking him with grief and loneliness.
         Unable to endure it any longer, the ancient made the decision to go to the cabin on the island with his son. Thankfully, for once, his belligerent offspring obeyed his orders.
         Methos thought the change of scenery would do him good. However, when they arrived, the solitude, the comforting embrace of Mother Nature, the cabin that reeked of the absence of its owner... It only made the Old Man's depression much worse.
         So where could a lonely Immortal find solace in a cruel, taking world? Certainly not beer. Something much stronger.
         Thank God, Duncan had left a bottle of Scotch for him in the cabinet.

         "Papa?" Sean asked timidly, carrying a small tray in his hands. "I brought you some coffee."
         Methos didn't answer. He just stared blankly out the bedroom window, and at the snow falling outside the cottage, covering the island in a thick white blanket. He took a long swig from the bottle of Scotch he held in his hand.
         The child swallowed hard and laid the tray on the small table beside him. "In case you want anything..."
         No reply. Sean bit back the scream that was rising in his throat, demanding that he be seen, that he be heard, that he be acknowledged in any way. Anything, as long as he would know that he still existed.
         He must have projected his thoughts very strongly for his father suddenly turned to look at him.
         The child was taken aback by the anguish he saw in those reddened hazel orbs.
         Before Methos gazed back at the white expanse surrounding the cabin, Sean heard his thoughts as clear as day.
        He shouldn't have died! the ancient thought miserably. God damn it! Why did he wish for his mother to die? It's all his fault! It's all his damned fault!
        I didn't mean it! Sean cried out in his mind. Papa, I swear I didn't!
         This time, Methos ignored him, choosing to wallow completely in his grief and misery.
         Biting his lower lip, Sean said softly, "I'm sorry, Papa."
         As he went back into the living room, the child felt the tears begin to trickle from his eyes once more.
         Sean never understood why his parents refused to take him to the cabin on the island. Now, alone with an unresponsive Methos, he knew the reason why.
         Everything in the cabin echoed the memory of the Immortal who was Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod - from the simple furnishing to the pictures of a distant past lying on the table and on the mantle above the fireplace. The whole place smelled of Duncan.
         But of the physical presence of the Highlander, there was nothing. Even the memory was not enough to make up for the loss, a loss that Sean knew was his own doing.
         Ever rational, the child tried to force himself to believe that there was no such thing as curses or that idiotic warning, saying to be careful about making wishes that could come true in the worst way possible. It just doesn't happen.
         Unfortunately, it did, and he couldn't think of any rational reason for it except the irrational explanation that it was his fault by wishing his mother out of his existence.
         Looking back at the drunken figure sitting by the window, Sean knew that his father believed this too.
         Wanting to get out of the stifling environment of the cabin, Sean flung the door open and ran weeping into the snowy night. He ran on and on, though the ice and wind pummeled his tiny body. But he had to escape from the guilt that was tearing him apart.
         Blinded was he with grief, Sean did not see the rock that was jutting out from the snow. With a surprised cry, he tripped and fell face first on the snow.
         Pounding his tiny fists on the ground, he cried out in the darkness, "I want my Mama back! Please return my Mama to me! I'll do anything if you'll just bring my Mama back!"
         His outburst was stilled by a flash above his head. Gazing up, Sean saw a ball of light streaking down from the sky, landing with a crash not far from him. Though frightened, he somehow got his courage up and toddled off in the direction the ball had fallen.
         The child reached a small clearing, in the middle of which was something glowing with a pulsating light. For a moment, Sean hesitated. When the light died down, he slowly made his way towards the thing lying in the center.
         A delighted cry escaped Sean's lips. In his happiness, he didn't notice anything peculiar about the creature lying at his feet. His eyes were riveted to that beautiful, familiar face.
         Getting down on his hands and knees, Sean crawled towards the unconscious form and settled close to it, embracing it tightly, not wanting to let it go.
         "You came back!" he sighed in relief. "I'm so glad you came back!"

         Methos was roused from his drunken stupor by the icy wind and the snow that entered through the open door of the cabin.
         "Sean?" he slurred. "Would you please close the door?"
         But there was no reply.
         The ancient felt his heart begin to thud rapidly in his chest as he stood up, searching for his son. When he saw that Sean wasn't in his room, the effects of the liquor quickly vanished. Heading for the door, Methos saw tiny footprints heading out into the snow.
         "Oh, dear God! No!" Methos muttered in shock as he ran out, calling Sean's name. That same moment, a comet streaked across the sky and crashed in the woods.
         Fear overwhelming him, the ancient made his way into the forest, desperately searching for his missing son.
        Dear Lord, prayed Methos earnestly as he pushed through the bushes and the brambles, you've already taken Duncan from me. Please don't take my son too!
         A dissipating light in the distance immediately caught his eye. Swiftly, the Old Man headed in the direction of the light, remembering that it probably was in the small clearing not far from him.
         Reaching it, Methos was greeted by a most astonishing sight.
         "Duncan?" he whispered in disbelief.
         The young man lying on the snow-covered grass looked like Duncan MacLeod. Indeed, the ancient could have sworn that it was the Highlander. But the man's brown hair was lighter in shade, almost golden. He wore a silky white robe, the hem of which was hitched up, revealing long legs much like the Scot's. On his back, however, were two large snow-white wings. A wing was laid over Sean, who was sleeping peacefully. In his tiny hand was clenched a gold ring, obviously the man's halo.
         Not knowing what else to do, Methos picked up the unconscious young man and Sean in his arms, and made his way back to the cabin.
         Reaching the cabin at last, Methos carried his two charges inside, not minding the melted snow sloshing at his feet, and kicked the door close behind him. As if having a mind of their own, his feet brought him to the master bedroom. Nudging the covers aside with his knee, he laid the winged young man on the bed. He was about to take Sean, but the child mumbled in protest, holding on tightly to the man's waist. As if sensing the boy's distress, the young man embraced the boy and draped his broken wing over him.
         Sighing, the ancient decided to leave them that way and went inside the bathroom to get some antiseptic and bandages. Sitting down beside the bed, Methos cleaned the man's scratches. Carefully, he set the broken wing, pausing only when his strange patient whimpered in pain. When he was finally done, his eyes were drawn to that handsome face once more.
        Except for his hair, he looks so much like Duncan, thought Methos, rolling a strand of golden brown hair between his fingers. Abiding a tempting urge, he reached out to the smooth cheek, his fingertips brushing across the silky skin.
         The memory of his lost love caused Methos to burst into bitter tears. His left hand went to his face to halt the flow, but it was hopeless. As his body hitched with the force of his weeping, he cursed inwardly, Damn you, MacLeod! How could you leave us like this? How am I going to live without you?
         There was a soft sound coming from the bed. Thinking Sean had picked up on his troubled thoughts, Methos blanked out his mind and hastily wiped away his tears.
         But then, he felt something wet trickle on his right hand, and it was enfolded in a warm grip. Gazing down, Methos was surprised to see that it was the young man who was holding on to his hand -- the same hand he had not removed when he fell into a crying fit. There was a tear track coming from the closed right eye to the ancient's knuckles. As he looked on, an amber tear began to form at the corner. That soft whimper again escaped from the man's full lips. With a sob, the winged man pressed Methos' hand to his lips, bestowing a tiny kiss that suffused the Old Man with soothing warmth. The ancient tried to pull his hand back, but the young man shook his head, refusing to let it go.
         "All right," he whispered reassuringly. "I won't cry. I'm fine now."
         Sensing the lie, however, the young man refused to release Methos' hand, the amber tear at last falling from his eye and trickling down his cheek.
         Methos groaned, seeing that his mysterious guest would not let him go. With his toe, he pulled the chair towards the bed and sat down. Weary and grief-stricken, the ancient laid his head on the soft, sweetly-scented feathers of the man's left wing.
         Somehow, his mind brought him back to the cabin of six years past, and to the loving, child-like Highlander who had warmed his cold heart and, eventually, captured his soul. Glancing at his hand enfolded in that tender grip, Methos pondered why the presence of this young man brought back the memory of that sweet, gentle soul.
         As he finally drifted off to sleep, the ancient murmured a word. "Angel."

         In Sean Richard's bedroom, Teddy sat quietly on the child's bed, leaning against a pillow.
         Suddenly, the bear began to glow with a golden aura and tiny, flickering lights fell upon him like snowflakes. Then, Teddy moved, stretching his arms out. Scratching his head, the toy got to his feet. He toddled towards the edge of the bed, jumped down to the floor and headed right out into the hallway, going to the master bedroom.
         Peeking through the crack of the door, the bear paused for a moment, looking at the three sleeping figures. As he went inside, Teddy placed his stubby paws on his hefty waist, shaking his head, truly resentful at being forgotten.
         Probably sensing the toy's presence, the winged man slowly sat up on the bed. There was a sweet smile on his face as he gestured for the bear to approach. Teddy hesitated, his button eyes shining with disbelief. But when the young man let down his injured wing, the bear quickly ran towards it and grabbed it. The man exhaled sharply, feeling an ache in his wing, as he boosted the toy up on the bed.
         Noting the young man's discomfort, Teddy ran his paws over the break in his wing in a soothing massage. But the man gave the bear a reassuring smile. At once, Teddy scooted onto the man's lap. Lifting the toy in his arms, Methos' strange guest hugged Teddy in glee, bussing the bear at the top of his head. He then carefully laid Teddy beside the sleeping child, who readily embraced the toy though not relinquishing his grip on the ring of gold he held in his tiny hand.
         The young man glanced down at the ancient. Releasing Methos' hand, he lovingly caressed the Old Man's face, fingers playing with the silky curtain of lashes. Kissing the tip of his finger, the young man then pressed it to the tip of Methos' nose. The ancient let out a soft sigh.
         Seeing that all was finally well, for the night at least, the ancient's mysterious guest lay back down on the bed, his left arm cradling Sean and Teddy while his right hand caressed the top of the Methos' head.

         Methos was caught in a beautiful night vision. In his dream, he was lying in a bed of soft, perfumed white feathers. Turning onto his back caused tiny tufts to flutter all around him. Out of the corner of his eye, a lovely winged creature, bare as a babe, was creeping towards him on hands and knees. There was a gentle smile on his lips as he peered into the ancient's face through beautiful violet eyes.
         "Duncan!" whispered Methos, reaching out a trembling hand to caress that high cheekbone. "My beloved Duncan! You've come back to me!"
         The Old Man started to wakefulness when his fingers encountered not the wispy ether that dreams were made of but soft, silky skin. He also felt a slight tugging under his face and frantic whimpering as if someone -- or something -- was trying desperately to pull free. Blindly, Methos raised his hand and grabbed a hold of the blurred, struggling form above him.
         There was a pained cry and Methos quickly shook off the cobwebs. Gazing down, he blanched, seeing that he was holding a fistful of feathers. The lovely creature he had yanked the feathers from had scooted to the headboard, curled up in a ball, clutching his aching, broken wing. Pressed close to his chest was good ole Teddy. To the Old Man, it seemed as if the bear was giving him a scolding look.
         "Oh, God! I'm so sorry!" Methos declared, holding out the feathers in his hand. "Don't worry! I could imp them back in."
         But as the ancient sat on the bed, the young man shrank into the corner of the bed, pretty violet eyes wide with fear.
         Before Methos could get closer, an overjoyed Sean entered the room, carrying a tray of milk and cookies.
         "Good morning, Mama!" the child greeted cheerfully. "I brought you some breakfast." Laying the tray on the table, a sheepish Sean scratched his head. "Sorry about this, but I couldn't find anything else in the kitchen."
         Sean climbed onto the bed and started crawling towards the petrified young man.
         "Sean, wait..." said Methos, about to stop his son. But Sean had already flung his little arms around the waist of their strange, bewildered guest.
         "Oh, Mama! You don't know how happy I am that you came back to us. I promise I'll be a good boy from now on. I swear I'll do everything you say."
         The winged man gazed at the child with growing alarm as Sean eagerly hastened to open his robe.
         Knowing what his son intended to do, Methos leaned forward, about to snatch him back. "Not today, child. I'll just fix you a bottle in the kitchen. Let your Mama rest."
         But the child was successful in baring the young man's right breast and a delightfully pink nipple. A red flush colored the man's cheeks when Sean smacked his lips on his tit and began to suckle.
         "Sean, I want you to stop." Methos gave his guest a helpless glance. The winged man blinked at the ancient, just as confused. Giving in to an urge to comfort the little boy, hesitantly, he raised his hands, about to embrace Sean.
         A frustrated mumble escaped Sean's lips. As Methos looked on, the child started to twist his head from side to side, tugging at the tiny tit. His hands fiercely kneaded the man's breast.
         "Sean, what are you doing?" the Old Man exclaimed, seeing the distress on the other man's face.
         The young man cried out in pain as Sean bit into his nipple and started pounding furiously on his chest with his small fists.
         "Stop it, Sean! Stop it right now!" Methos swiftly grabbed his son away.
         There was a perplexed expression on Sean's face as he looked closely at their mysterious guest, who was rubbing his aching chest. The ancient saw the child's eyes assume a piercing glare, staring into the man's face. Slowly, Sean's features scrunched up, shaking his head in utter dismay and disappointment.
         "You're not him!" the boy started to sob. "You're not my Mama!"
         Seeing the deep hurt in the child, the winged man inched close to him, wanting to take Sean into his arms and comfort him. Before Methos could stop his son, however, Sean pushed the young man away, who looked at the little boy in shock.
         "STAY AWAY FROM ME!" Sean screamed, tears streaming down his pudgy cheeks. "YOU'RE NOT MY MAMA!"
         "Please, Sean!" the Old Man begged the child, holding on to him. "Son, please get a hold of yourself! You could see for yourself he's not your mother. Oh, Sean! Try to calm down!"
         Somehow, Sean's eyes focused on the bear in the distressed young man's arms. Enraged, the boy twisted out of his father's grasp, grabbing the toy's paws. The winged man, however, clutched Teddy to his chest, refusing to let it go.
        "Teddy's mine!" cried Sean in a fury. "You give him back to me!"
         The stricken young man was shaking his head, desperately trying to keep the bear out of the child's grasp. From his position, Methos could clearly see why. The seams along Teddy's shoulders were about to give way from Sean's frantic pulling.
         As he started to weep himself, the ancient pried his son's hands loose from his grip on the bear. Sean howled in anger and grief.
         Bowing to his guest, Methos stammered, "Forgive us. Please." Saying this, he quickly carried the hysterical little boy back inside his room. The Old Man closed the door and set his son down on the bed.
         "Mama's dead!" Sean wept bitterly, his tiny body hitching with the force of his sobs and hiccups. "He's never coming back, and it's all my fault!"
         Methos cupped the child's face in his hands, wiping his tears away with his fingers, but Sean continued to cry. "Sean, no! Don't say that! It's not your fault!"
         "Oh, yes it is, because I made that wish -- that I didn't want to have a mother! My Mama died because of me!"
         "Please, son! Just listen to yourself! You've always used your head. You're always the logical one. Think, Sean! You know you can't wish people out of existence."
         "But I did, and you know it! Because of me, Mama's dead, and you hate me for it!"
         "Sean, that's not true! I could never hate you! You're my son! You're the only one I have left! I love you, Sean!"
         "You're lying! I saw it in your mind! YOU BLAME ME!"
         With the child's growing agitation, so too did his psychic powers begin to manifest, increasing in intensity. To Methos' horror, he could see that the toys were rattling on the shelves. The computer screen was flickering, though it wasn't plugged. The diskettes on the desk and the toys started to fly, as if caught in a maelstrom. Methos had to shield his son with his body as the toys pummeled them. A sharp pair of scissors broke through his defenses and slashed across Sean's cheek.
         "God, Sean! Stop this please!" Methos screamed, covering the boy's face with his hands. "Get a hold of yourself! Look inside my heart! You'll know how much I love you!"
        "I wish it was me!" wailed Sean, willing the projectiles to hurt him. "It should've been me who died, not my Mama! I wish I was dead! I WISH I WAS DEAD!"
         "Is that what you want, Sean? Is that what you want?" the Old Man demanded. "Then do it! But damn it, son, take me with you! Kill us both! I don't want to live alone! I can't live without you or your mother!"
         Suddenly, the chaos around them ceased. Methos cautiously looked up to find Sean's things suspended in mid-air. One by one, the toys floated back into their proper places on the shelves. The diskettes were carefully stacked on the table. As father and son stared in amazement, the pair of scissors floated into an outstretched hand. That same hand angrily flung it into the hallway.
         The winged man stood at the doorway, amber tears streaming down his handsome face. Quietly, he padded towards them. Facing Sean, he offered Teddy back to him. The young man bit his full lower lip as he urged the child to take the toy. For a moment, Sean hesitated, not knowing what to do. Rather than wait for the little boy to make up his mind, the winged man laid the bear on his lap, his fingers caressing the loose threads at Teddy's shoulder. With a sad little bow, he began to walk away, limping as he did so.
         "Wait, please..." Methos called out, about to stand.
         It was Sean who moved first, closing the distance between him and the departing young man. He enfolded his tiny arms around those long legs.
         "I'm sorry, Mister! I'm so sorry!" Sean wept in sincere apology. "I didn't mean to be cruel to you! Please forgive me! Don't go! You look so much like my Mama! I beg you! Please don't leave us!"
         Hearing the last, the winged man swept the child into his embrace, cuddling him, kissing him lovingly on the brow. Running a gentle finger over the little boy's cheek, the man healed the bleeding cut. As he rocked Sean, he let the left shoulder of his robe slide down his arm. Taking his nipple between his fingers, he squeezed it gently, his palm rubbing over his breast. Carefully, he eased Sean to his left tit.
         The boy peered up warily at the stranger holding him. However, the young man gave him a reassuring smile. Gingerly, Sean pressed his lips to the nipple, drawing in a deep breath. At once, delicious nectar flooded into his mouth -- that and love so pure that it soothed and warmed his aching heart.
         Methos noticed the change in his son, saw peace settle on his face. To his amazement, Sean even settled into blissful sleep, his lips suckling lustfully on that tit. The ancient slowly went towards the winged man. The man hummed questioningly, but the Old Man led him towards Sean's bed and bade him to lie back on the headboard. Methos even propped up pillows on his back and at his arm.
         "I..." he began with hesitation. "I don't know what to say, except to offer my apology for what happened." Methos ran his fingers through Sean's curly black locks. "My son...he's not always like this. You see, his mother died recently. Like Sean said, he looks like you. Yes, he's a man. It's...it's a complicated thing. Hard to explain." The ancient shook his head. "I'm sorry. I guess I'm not making any sense."
         Methos' head lifted to look at his guest.
         The young man had a blank expression on his face, his full lips pursed in an O. For awhile, they just stared at each other, their eyes blinking at the same time.
         Methos breathed in deeply and sighed. "I guess you really didn't understand me."
         The man cocked his head from side to side, his eyes narrowing. A wide smile slowly quirked up his lips. With a quick twist of his head, he burst into gleeful laughter. His voice sounded like tinkling bells and wind chimes.
         There was sheer disbelief on Methos' face as he gaped at the laughing young man before him. To his dismay, those hearty giggles were contagious and the ancient found himself laughing along until he was gasping for breath. When his giggles eased into soft hiccups, Methos noticed that his guest was smiling at him warmly, the kind of fond smile that his beloved used to give him.
        Duncan... There was a sudden lancing pain in his heart. Unable to control himself, the ancient's laughter dissolved into a crying jag.
         "I'm sorry," Methos stammered as he stumbled towards the door. "I'm so sorry!"
         The ancient hurried back inside his bedroom, flinging his distraught form on the bed. But the imposed solitude only aggravated his grief -- that and the sweet scent of mountain heather on the sheets. Methos surrendered to his pain and loneliness, his mind reliving happy moments with the Highlander with agonizing ease. Lost as he was in his sorrow, the Old Man lost track of the time. It seemed like millennia passed when it was only an hour and a half.
         In his distress, Methos did not hear the door squeak open. Before he could react, strong hands lifted him up and into a loving embrace. For a moment, he couldn't move, though his tears continued to trickle from his wide, stunned eyes. To resist the comfort that was being offered was the first thing that entered his mind. He didn't need this. What he wanted was to be left alone with the numbing ache inside his heart and the memories of his lost love.
         But his firm resolve melted away, like snow in the warm spring sun, when those pristine white wings enfolded him. A gentle hand eased his face to the tiny tit that was being offered to him. Methos' lips opened of their own volition and took in the taut nub. Clinging tightly to the young man's back, the ancient suckled on that nipple, drawing the sweet draught inside his mouth, like a babe upon his mother. That sweet milk...so piquant, so luscious and yet the taste was so familiar to him, so much like the essence of the Immortal from whom he had himself savored with ravenous delight.
         "Duncan..." Methos mumbled his lover's name as the sobs began to rise in his throat.
         There was a bright red flash inside his mind, willing his tears down. Even without words, the Old Man knew what it meant.
         Don't cry. Please don't cry.
         Methos felt the young man nod, happy that he had understood, sending waves of deep blue all over the Immortal's body.
         It's all right. I won't leave you or your son.
         "Who are you?" the ancient muttered, his lips moving to the other tit. "Are you an angel?"
         A tiny yellow spark. <Yes.>
         "Are you his angel? My Duncan's guardian?"
         No answer. All he saw was white before his eyes. Methos' eyelids fluttered open and he gazed up to find reluctant violet eyes staring down at him.
         "You look so much like Duncan," Methos whispered. At the sight of those full lips, he eased up and kissed him.
         The angel gasped in surprise, but did nothing to stop that tender, yet desperate, caress.
         "Duncan...my sweet Duncan..." Methos' left hand supported the angel's back, between the region where his wings were attached. His right hand paused at the center of that broad chest, slowly descending, caressing that firm abdomen and the pit of his navel. Tremulous fingers ran through the nest of golden curls before enfolding the awakening sex within that was so much like the Highlander's.
         A strong hand grasped his wrist, prying his fingers loose. Again, that bright red flash.
         No. Please.
         The young man lowered Methos' head to his chest again, his fingers squeezing his right nipple that an amber drop formed at the tip.
        This is all I can give you. Forgive me.
         That small offering was enough for the ancient as he lowered his face to that tit and began to suckle once more.
         "My name is Methos, and the child is my only son, Sean Richard," the Old Man mumbled in introduction. "What is your name, dear angel? What do I call you?"
         There was a moment's hesitation. Then, Methos' mind was flooded with a kaleidoscope of color and vague images of clouds, crystal castles and winged beings. There was a pillar of light from which a shining hand reached out in welcome. At that same instant, he heard a voice -- all powerful, almost echoing, but it had a calming effect on his bitter soul. The voice said a name.
        "Radha..." the voice said with great love and fondness. "Beloved Radhael."
         "Is that your name?" queried the ancient. "Radhael?"
         He felt the angel nod again, pillowy lips kissing the crown of his head.
         "Radhael...Radha..." Methos whispered as he succumbed to the love and warmth the angel was showering upon him. "Thank you."
         A soothing green color filled his mind as he slowly drifted off to sleep. You're most welcome, Methos.

Continued in Chapter 2...click "next" below

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