Fault...Part I

FAULT II
©2001...Renfren

Part Two

         Stillness played hide and seek with chaos. Lord Chaos sought the silence and instilled his pulsing anarchy.   Methos writhed as combined centuries banded together, forming a barbarous army of predators who gutted his soul and lay claim to its bloody viscera. His cries could not drown out the cacophonic screams of those who fell by savage affliction with swords wielded by the Immortals whose lives were now linked forever in Methos’ ravaged mortal being.
       Duncan began again to struggle with his bonds.
       “Free me,” he implored. His voice was weak and raspy. The strength it took to say the words made repeating them unlikely, at least for the time being.
       Joe opened his eyes in response to the faint petition. He brought his hand up to the part of his head that pain identified.   His touch, though gentle, felt like a hammer blow. He immediately removed the offending appendage and tried to sit up. That, too, was an exercise in pain.
       “Shit,” he mumbled.
       Amanda gathered herself together and made her way slowly to where Duncan lay. The leather straps had been stretched and drenched in blood and were now imbedded in the flesh around Duncan’s wrists.
       “Duncan, I need to find a knife. The leather knots are too tight.”
       “Hurry then.”
       She scanned the room for something useful and seeing nothing left to hunt for the needed implement. She’d try the kitchen. She just had to find it first.
       Joe tried again to move and found the journey a lot less painful than minutes before. He turned toward Methos who now lay quiet on the floor a few feet from him. Though he could see that Methos’ eyes were open, the glazed look about them told Joe that Methos would not be responding to questions anytime soon. The Watcher was certain that Methos was in no condition to talk now and he wasn’t going to invade what little peace the lull afforded the ancient.   Assured that Methos was breathing, Joe turned his attention to Duncan.
       “MacLeod, you okay?”
       “No,” the Highlander growled. “I’m not okay.”
       “Right. Stupid question.”
       “Right. Bloody damn stupid question.”
       After a nominal struggle to stand upright and walk, Joe looked down at Duncan and apologized with a nod of his head. Oh, that hurt.   He didn’t try and touch the straps that held his friend. He knew that it would only cause him more pain. Cutting them off was going to be a bitch, he thought.
       Amanda rejoined them 10 minutes later, offering up a rusted pair of gardening shears and some warm water in an enameled pot. Even after soaking the leather strips to stretch them, the operation without benefit of anesthesia was torture and Duncan thankfully lost consciousness from the initial attempt at cutting away the restraints. Joe worked swiftly to remove the remaining straps, as Duncan lay oblivious to further harm.
       Joe and Amanda let Duncan and Methos rest in whatever state of unconsciousness they now resided. They shared tentative looks and silent confused thoughts. A soft rumble of thunder heralded the coming of a Louisiana storm.   Amanda glanced at the window whose shattered panes of broken glass framed the darkened sky with jagged edges. She apathetically thought of the rain that would come in through the breach and of the intrusion of the raindrops as they entered a world not meant for them. There was little left in the room to damage, however, as the quickening took its toll a hundred fold. As trivial thoughts continued to occupy her mind, Amanda again looked to Duncan and then to Methos. Both men were still. In the meantime, Joe secured the best of the brandy from a sideboard that had endured the quickening with less than minor damage due to its bulk and tried to drink himself into a much-needed oblivion.
       “Joe, do you think that’s a good idea? I mean after the knock you took to the head, it might not be wise to drink so much alcohol.”
       “I think it’s a fine idea. What some?”
       “Oh, what the hell. Got another bottle or do we have to share that one?”
       “My mother always told me to share.”
       “Good for her,” said Amanda as she grabbed the bottle and took a long swig.

       Duncan was the first to revive. His wrists were healed and the residual pain subsided.   His exhaustion remained. The dullness present in his eyes did not do justice to the velvet irises of brown whose contrasts lay in the woven threads of honorable compassion and formidable conviction.   But as Joe watched with no surprise, Duncan grew strong, as was the way of all Immortals. The Highlander rolled off the bed with the gracefulness of a jaguar on the hunt and went to Methos, still on the floor and semi-comatose. He checked for a pulse. Something he had come to do automatically in the last few weeks. The ancient’s pulse beat a dull throb on Duncan’s fingertips. Duncan let out a breath of relief unaware that he had been holding it since before touching Methos.
       “He’s alive.”
       “We knew that, MacLeod. Doing better?”
       “Aye.”
       “Have a swig, Duncan. There’s just enough left to wet your whistle.”
       Without preamble, Duncan roughly grabbed the bottle from Amanda, greedily finished off the rest of the brandy and threw the bottle against the wall. The amber glass shattered into sharp shards and flew in all directions. Having seen the wind up, Joe ducked just in time. Unfortunately, Amanda had no idea and was hit by shrapnel.
       “Ow!” she yelped while covering her upper arm with a shaking hand. “You almost took my head off!”
       “Christ, I’m sorry Amanda. I dinna mean …”
       “It’s all right, Duncan,” said a quickly healed, quickly forgiving Amanda. “No harm done. See?”
       Duncan kissed her gently on the forehead in contrition. He then walked back to where Methos lay, hefted him onto his shoulders and left the room without a word, leaving Joe and Amanda scurrying to follow.
       Duncan seemed to know where he was going and he took roads less traveled to get there. Joe and Amanda had to keep pace lest they lose their leader in the darkness of their unfamiliarity. The rain held off just long enough for them to walk a good distance from the house where Sara Bonne’s body pieces lay. Starting at a drizzle, the rain was now being directed helter-skelter by a heavy wind, pelting the four travelers unmercifully as they made their way through the night.
       The antebellum house sat back from the brick paved road. The darkness and the rain clothed it in a somber coat. Duncan went through the gate and without aid of illumination other than the reflection from a distant streetlight in the puddles forming beneath his feet, moved quickly to the back of the house and down stone steps. Even with the weight of an unconscious Methos, Duncan was sure footed and managed to descend without incident. However, the slick stones were difficult for Joe to navigate and Amanda fell.
       “Where the bloody hell are you taking us?” hissed Amanda trying to adjust her person and her dignity as she regained her footing and jumped down the last two steps.
       “We’ve already arrived,” was all the enigmatic Highlander said.
       Minutes later, they were comfortably ensconced in a rather spacious parlor lit by candles of various shapes and sizes. The warm candlelight did wonders for Amanda’s frayed nerves and puzzlement while Joe and Duncan took the high-proof remedy. Duncan lit a fire in the fireplace and they were soon adequately warm and beginning to dry. Methos lay on the couch. Joe and Duncan had pushed it closer to the fire with the inert body horizontal and the mind unknowing.
       Amanda curled up on a chair that was clearly meant to seat the better part of a person much bigger than she. So big was the furniture piece that she felt lonely sitting there. She patted the spacious emptiness invitingly and Duncan sat next to her. His body filled the vacancy and the intimacy of nearness felt good. Not feeling one bit sorry for himself by the lack of a close encounter of a sit-close nature, Joe stretched out on a similar chair and appreciated the space he occupied all by his lonesome.
       Methos had been watching them for a short time through loosely closed eyes. The thickness of his lashes as they lay upon his cheeks concealed his quiet scrutiny from Duncan, Amanda, and Joe as they spoke softly amongst themselves. Not having an urgent need to join in the conversation, Methos remained still and unmoving while his thoughts tumbled down a steep decline and lay to rest in a heap at the bottom of the reasoning part of his brain.   Before unconsciousness smothered all worldly sensations, Methos had time to catapult his emotions up onto the ledge of his egotistic universe. The speed in which they were now falling provided the materials with which reality began to build a monument to his cursed fate. The structure’s shape was that of deepened despair had despair a viable shape for identification. It was too much for Methos to endure and he released an unauthorized moan.
       Duncan was at his side before Methos’ silent curse to himself was completed.
       “Thank God, Methos. Thank God.”
       “For what, MacLeod. Just what is it I’m to thank your God for?”
       “You’re alive”!
       “Goody”.
       The old man was back and none the worst for wear, noted Duncan. The Highlander also noted the dry humor attending. He dared not utter his thought as a glare from Methos nearly nailed him to the finely brocade covered wall behind him.
       “Quit pawing me, woman!” This uttered as Amanda stroked his hair and hugged the ancient to within an inch of his last breath.
       “Methos, Methos. You’re alive!”
       “Thank you. I was concerned that MacLeod was lying to me. But no, you’ve confirmed it. I’m ALIVE!” he said exuberantly.
       Slowly, so that there would be no mistaking his sobriety, he growled, “The next person to say it won’t be.”
       The banned words were swallowed by Joe just in time to save him from a certain death for Methos said nothing he didn’t mean no matter who breached the vow.
       The need to begin rectifying all that had happened was uppermost in all minds but Methos’. As if reading Immortal minds was second nature to Methos (which Duncan could grudgingly attest to on many occasions), he quickly put their plans on hold. He was not in the mood to placate their altruism at his expense.
       He chose to assail the leader rather than mince words with the army.
       “I know what you’re thinking, MacLeod.”
       Duncan turned away from Methos’ gaze and cursed silently while trying to readjust his facial expression to a less revealing faÁade before turning to face his brother. His attempt was apparently an exercise in futility.
       “This has nothing to do with you.”
       “How the bloody hell do you figure that? If it wasn’t for me, Sara…”
       “Pack up that Scottish guilt in your old kit bag, MacLeod. Sara didn’t need your help with this or anything else she may have convinced you of contriving. No fear of yours, given freely or under torture, made Sara do what she did.”
       “Oh? And what is it you’re not telling?”
       Methos’ face took on the stubborn look of resistance to any delving into his past that had stopped many a mighty man in his tracks (read expect for Duncan, as he never let that stop his well-known Scottish curiosity from jumping headlong into territory traversed by invitation only sans the invitation.) Within seconds, that well-established continence disappeared and produced a resignation not easily surrendered and seldom seen.
        “Shall we say that Sara and I are…er…were acquainted at one point.” The confession was half-baked at best. The revelation, however, was done to a turn. Fini.
        “Bloody Christ, Methos, are there no Immortal women walking around today or ever that you weren’t acquainted with?”
       Duncan knew as well as anyone that the implied acquaintance meant anything from loving to fiendish and it was a no-brainer guess that he and Sara had shared a good dose of the later or rather, more likely, an overdose of the later. Methos, if anything, had mastered proficiency in either case.
       “Humph.”
       “And just when were you going to tell us about your acquaintance with Sara? Surely, you missed your chance when she first showed up at Joe’s. As I recall, neither one of you felt the need to make the acquaintance known. That’s so much like you, Horseman.”
       With some effort, Methos was able to mask the sting of Duncan’s right-on-target accusation and with much more effort, casually replied,   “I hadn’t planned on telling you at all and quit saying acquaintance like that.”
       “Like what?”
       “Like the bloody woman and I were friends. You have to know by now that wasn’t the case.”
       “I’m afraid to admit what I know.”
       “I guarantee you know nothing more than what I tell you.”
       “Yes, yes…forgive me my trespass,” pleaded Duncan with dramatic flare.
       “Oh, Methos.” sighed Amanda quietly. “How could you not tell us?”
       The closest thing to shame that ever crossed the Horseman’s face darted as if chased on horseback by its cousin, Obstinate. The image became illusion and was gone, but not before imprinting itself indelibly on the minds of both Duncan and Joe.
       “Shall we say it wasn’t one of my better moments.”
       “All right. Let’s,” snapped Duncan.
       The conversation ended sourly with both Immortal men taking their metaphysical corners. The fight would continue, to be sure, in the physical realm just as soon as the opportunity presented itself. At the moment, both men were in dire need of mental rest and restructure and knew it.
       “We’ll talk later.” Methos left the room. He’d never been to this house, but didn’t let that stop him from finding a space uncluttered with others. The “others” let him go as if they had a choice in the matter, which they clearly did not.
       “We need food,” said Joe as he proceeded to make a list of requests. Duncan gave him directions to the nearest grocery store.
       “And don’t forget the beer!” shouted Amanda as an afterthought, but it had been Joe’s first priority. He knew that the dark brew would make conversing with Methos a little bit easier, but none the more pleasant.
       Duncan and Amanda sat silently before the fire. More wood had been added allowing the two to discard some of their clothing. The glow of the newly fed flames shone as a blush on Amanda’s beautiful alabaster skin. Duncan inched closer and caressed the bare upper arms of his sometimes lover and always friend. Amanda snuggled into the touch and the tenseness that had enveloped her began to let go its grip. Had she been a cat, she would have purred from the attention of her sometimes lover and always friend. Each planned a good amount of time to elapse before speaking.
       Maddeningly, it was Joe who cut short their respite with a loud announcement of incoming food and drink. Beer caps popped and pizza was distributed. The sound and aroma brought a sluggish Methos into the room. Without words, he grabbed more than his share of the steaming pizza and a half dozen bottles of beer and was gone as quickly as he appeared. The three remaining diners took this in stride and began to eat in earnest. Drinking took on another dimension as Joe produced three bottles of wine for a less frantic consumption and a much hoped for delirium. Duncan distributed the spirits according to preference. They each had their own favorites available, thanks to Joe’s diligence. Whereas Joe was happy to be drinking anything with an alcohol content above 18 per cent, Amanda was particular when given the opportunity of choice. Her selection was sweet and rich and welcomed where Duncan’s was robust and dark and just as welcomed.
       Satiated with food, drink and comfort, Duncan, Amanda and Joe picked resting places within the room they occupied. Joe fueled the fire one last time before retiring and the three friends were covered by sweet oblivion. In the back of each fading mind was the urgency to save Methos.
       The room Methos occupied was cramped, cold and dark and he would have it no other way. Methos’ tolerated not the creature comforts sought by his companions. He had learned eons ago that comfort equaled complacency and he would have none of it. Complacency made one vulnerable and mortality was as vulnerable as one could get and more than he could handle at the present.
       There was no doubt in his mind that he was now fully mortal. Mortality never seemed to be a part of him even when he lived as if it was. His Immortality was never bravado and he felt the difference a thousand fold as he sat alone with mortality as a companion. Perhaps, companion was not the correct word to describe his horror. No, companion seemed to somehow denote acceptance and he could not accept the fact that he would die an ordinary natural, mortal death brought on by disease, mayhem, old age or a combination thereof.
       Mortality granted nothing but a short life in which to make choices that lacked time for resolution or absolution. He had barely begun his requisite absolutions for the sins he had committed over the centuries. There were situations, events and history that were byproducts of time and place and Methos was a man of distinction, be he master or slave. Immortality impeded the need to make some good come from the bad. Essentially, a simplistic way to look at one’s immortality in order to move from one life to another without the baggage. Sara and Cassandra were a part of that baggage. Like magnetic particles, regret, guilt and denial snapped smartly, affixed themselves to his soul, enmeshed with his heart and Methos wept. The sediment of centuries flowed unimpeded as the world’s oldest living being became a speck in the universe of time.
       The night loitered, desperately trying to avoid daybreak. The tactic only lasted so long before dawn dispersed the darkness with unfailing authority. Amanda’s mercurial stretch helped to ease the kinks out after spending one too many hours curled up on a chair not intended for cushy slumber. She allowed a soft stretching-the-kinks-out sigh that woke Duncan who was part of the reason why she had kinks in the first place. She smiled languidly and stroked his cheek, feeling the roughness of a beard that had been neglected too long.
       “Morning, I think.”
       “Tis morning. Late morning.”
       “Shit.” Joe added his own contribution of morning chit-chat as he rose to stretch his own upper body kinks. His lower body kinks had been permanently erased years before.   It didn’t make him move any faster than Duncan or Amanda just with less of a need to stretch for any length of time.
       Methos had not been seen or heard since the raid for dinner and drink.   Duncan made finding him his first priority. He wasn’t gone long. He returned to the parlor with a sullen Methos within minutes.
       “MacLeod, what’s the hurry?” snapped Methos as he was gingerly led to the couch and with further prodding, sat.
       “We’ve got things to discuss.”
       “Things?” asked Methos in voice and gesture. His face smirked. Not just his mouth, but seemingly his entire facial constitution. Duncan could think of no one he had ever met who could do that as well as the world’s oldest Immortal. Must have been the years of practice that made the gesture seem so natural.
       “Yes, things. Things like finding a way to get your immortality back. Things like keeping you from losing that bloody head of yours. Things like…”
       “We get the picture, MacLeod,” assured Joe. “Let’s talk.”
        “Yes, Duncan, don’t babble on so. We all know what should be done and how important it is to get it done right away,” scolded Amanda, switching her attentions to Methos who allowed the woman her concern, but only from a distance.
       Several minutes passed without words being spoken. Much was being said in the realm of minds, but no one was willing to launch them out into the open where any one of the gathering clan could pulverize them with a look or negative response.
       “Joe, what do you (read Watchers) know of Sara Bonne?” asked Duncan.
       “There’s scarce history before a Watcher was assigned. We weren’t aware of her immortality before she took up residency in New Orleans.”
       Thunder rumbled. As shadows began to shorten with the waning of the sun, Methos’ presence shrank into the universe grays and became less and less of a presence. The departure went unnoticed by everyone but Duncan, which in turn was noticed by Methos. He scowled displeasure.
       “I’ll bet Methos here knows something of that time, eh brother?”
       Methos scowled deeper hoping to discourage further questions. It didn’t work. It never did with the Highlander.
       “Ae’ll do what ae have to to get it out of you, Methos. That ae promise.”
       “Highlander, I warn you…”
       Duncan had his sword drawn and threatening before Methos could even imagine the brazen move was possible by MacLeod.
       “Listen, you bloody stubborn …” stammered Duncan, finding himself once again at a loss as to what nationality slur to throw. It stopped his tirade only for a second before he went on. “You may not care what happens to your five thousand year old ass, but there are others who do. God only knows why, but there are. Now talk or die by mae sword.”
       “Are you threatening me, MacLeod?”
       “That ae am.”
       There were tense seconds while Methos fought within himself as to whether he would draw a sword and meet the challenge or bow gracefully to defeat. Pride was not giving in quickly and nearly won the raging inner battle before one last thrash by reality brought Methos to some sense.
       “Bloody Christ, MacLeod. Put that thing away before you hurt yourself.” The fact that he had no fear of being hurt himself was evident in the flippant nuance of the command. Methos walked casually to the chair he occupied earlier and sat. He began mumbling in incoherent one and two word syllables that would have made no sense to Joe, Amanda or Duncan even if Methos had clearly enunciated each one.
       “Speak up, man!”
       That warranted a cease-fire to the mumble-jumble anthem.
       Amanda watched Methos intently and if she hadn’t known better, thought she saw a slight pink color creep across his face.
       “Christ, MacLeod…I…”
       By the gods, he was blushing!
       Why this recent bit of fluff was difficult to confess was anyone’s guess. Methos, who had spent a good part of his 5000 years an evil man, had certainly been more creative with his transgressions. In the short time he was allowed to think before another bellow from Duncan brought his attention to order, Methos decided this particular transgression was against probably the only true brother he ever had or would ever allow. He cursed Duncan’s black and white values and mores. He cursed them again because they had infected him of all people. He cursed the total paltriness to this minor bit of history to his now seemingly decreased future and then he cursed one more time just because he felt he had earned the right.
       “Methos!” Gads, how Methos hated the way Duncan could drag out the six letters of his name for so long. The time had come.
       “Oh, for bloody Christ’s sake, I fucked her too!” Methos submitted the much lesser of the two confessions he could have made at the moment. He preferred to keep the other, one of a thousand regrets, securely buried with the other 999. He silently applauded Sara’s revenge. He couldn’t have done better. Hell, Kronos couldn’t have done better and he knew how to hurt him like no one else could or ever did. Until now.
       “You...,” sputtered Duncan. “You…”
       Amanda was biting down on her lip so furiously that blood began to pool in the space between the aforementioned abused lip and her lower teeth. She had to turn away and thought she was safe until her eyes met Joe’s and saw that they were squeezed so tightly shut that they were beginning to bulge with the entrapped tears that continued, nevertheless, to flow like the river Thames. Their combined explosion of laughter, replete with spraying tears and blood, deterred the two men from further words, such as they were.
       Startled, both men turned toward the tag team interlopers. Clutching at one another, Joe and Amanda provided the precarious balance that kept them standing only as long as they held on…which they did, desperately. Their laughter continued for several minutes while Methos and Duncan watched in silent incredulousness. Amanda’s lip healed and Joe wiped the tears from his eyes as they finally caught the breath that ceased to exist before they lost control, which allowed them composure and independent deportment. They refused to look directly at one another, but remained close in the event they would lose control again.
       “Augh!” growled Methos as he attempted to make his leave. That was not what Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod wanted as was clearly evidenced in his body being placed directly in the path of retreat.
       “Out of my way, Highlander.”
       “We’re na done here, laddie.”
       Methos and Duncan glared at each other until finally Methos could no longer hold the gaze of Duncan’s brown eyes, which were intense with the never-to-forget tenacity of the Highlander, and surrendered.
       “What?” asked Methos.
       “What? Ya ask me what? Well, then, let’s start with when?”
       After seconds of panic, Methos realized Duncan was asking about the most recent encounter.
       “Made that pretty clear, didn’t I?” he said, cockily.
       “I mean,” drawled Duncan, “When did you…she…find the time together?”
       “You had to sleep sometime, MacLeod.”
       Duncan raised an inquisitive eyebrow. At this point in their long acquaintance the distinct language of Highland eyebrow was easily read by Methos and he continued as requested.
       “Uh…you may have had a little help with that.”
       “Meaning?”
       “By the gods, MacLeod, surely I don’t have to spell it out for you.”
       “I want to hear you say it, Methos. I want you to tell me.”
       Methos looked up at Duncan and knew the depth of his betrayal as Duncan viewed the betrayer with hooded eyes. The firm mask of anger had been replaced by the pliant disposition of a wounded heart. Something began to inch its way into his own heart. Something brought on by the intimacy that had at first been coerced and then by design with a bond that grew strong between the two Immortals.
       Amanda and Joe stilled themselves. They were now very much aware of what was happening. Though over 400 years old, Duncan could still be disappointed in the impenitent ways of mankind, be they mortal or Immortal.   A fact that never ceased to amaze Methos or more accurately, to annoy him greatly. Yet, he would have suffered a thousand tortures than to be on the receiving end of that look. Damn.
       “I’m sorry, MacLeod. My mind was a bit fuzzy from overindulgence of…Bloody hell, MacLeod, do you have to look at me like that?”
       “Yes, I do.”
       Methos bowed his head and when he looked up again the eyes that met Duncan’s gaze were level and cold. It was clear he was struggling with a conscious that was relatively new to him and not at all appreciating the exercise. Yet, he was done with this conversation and with the guilt trip.
       “She came to me, brother.” It was true for New Orleans. It was not so for their first congregation.
       Duncan wasn’t sure he reacted to the statement or the voice that uttered it. He’d heard that voice before and it in no way matched the Methos that should have been contrite and trying to make amends. Instead, what he heard was the Horseman of long ago edging his words with concentrated tolerance.   Very little of it existed and what there was would soon be expended if the situation did not resolve itself soon.   The strain as Methos locked horns with a nature best left in the past was proving to be laborious.
       Duncan reluctantly, but wisely backed off. Methos left the room. Amanda and Joe released a collective breath.
       “Damn. What just happened here?” asked Joe.
       “Man, that was spooky,” added Amanda.
       “That was an Immortal no one has had to deal with in a very long time. We need to back off.” Duncan looked at Joe while saying this. Joe nodded in agreement. The Highlander would get no argument from him. Death aka Horeseman aka Methos needed to be given a very wide birth, especially by those who would willing interfere. It was time they got down to business and found a way to bring immortality back to Methos. They would have to do it without his help. Duncan feared Methos had reached his breaking point. He hoped that the isolation Methos relegated himself to would allow the past to seep from him and go back to where it belonged. They would have enough to deal with without evoking the proximity of Methos’ ancient libertine residue.   May that forever rest in peace or whatever hell would afford it.
       Amanda needed a nap or rather chose to sleep in an effort to escape the haze of something evil that transformed Methos’ present day demeanor into something feral and stormy. She shivered as the dregs of her unease settled. She said her farewell and left to find her own sanctuary.
       That left Duncan and Joe to ponder the problem. Booze would help, thought Joe, and he poured two tall drinks without proffering the choice first. He just assumed Duncan needed it as much as he did. Duncan refused, however, and walked over to the fireplace. He poked at the skeletal remains of the previous night’s fire. The fragile pieces, holding precariously to their former shape, surrendered and fell into a pile of ashes with Duncan’s prodding. He went about preparing the hearthstone for a new fire. The storm threat announced earlier by the distant rumble of thunder moved closer and became reality. Small drops of rain began knocking at the windows as if petitioning politely for entrance. Quickly, the demand intensified as the drops, propelled by the storm’s amplified winds, punished the panes of glass with their explosive splatters.
       “Man, that came on fast enough,” commented Joe as he watched while Duncan lit the tinder beneath the teepeed logs. “If we didn’t already not have electricity, I’ll bet we wouldn’t have it soon.”
       Duncan looked at Joe. “What the bloody hell are you talking about, Dawson?”
       “Nothing,” Joe muttered. He realized his inane speech, daft as it had been, was meant only to try and dispel his own uneasiness; bring a normalcy to the day and the situation. It hadn’t worked and it had annoyed Duncan. Why he continued to think that anything to do with Duncan or, for that matter, any of them, could ever be normal was beyond optimistic. It was Pollyannaism at its highest. Christ, he thought, he’d never live long enough for it to come even close to normal. Resigned, he sat dejectedly on the couch.
       Duncan raised himself and sat across from Joe. With elbows on his knees and his hands clasped before him, the Highlander bowed his head. His dark hair loosely framed his face and hid it effectively from Joe’s vision. It was just as well. Joe was sure he didn’t want to see the helplessness and fear on his friend’s face as much as Duncan wouldn’t want it to be seen. Despite the history the pair of them shared, the inventory Joe too quickly assigned Duncan’s spirit had never shrouded the strong Scottish features nor entered the realm of his heart. It was not a path open to Duncan now or ever.
       They sat in silence. Duncan remained still. Joe moved only to bring the glass of whiskey to his lips and down again. The storm orchestrated his movements and mirrored Duncan’s disposition.
       Duncan’s voice finally edged itself from behind the dark curtain of hair. Its sound was deliberate, as if what was being said was being expunged from hell. When the meaning of what Duncan said sunk in, Joe understood the timbre.
       “You can’t be serious,” said Joe in hushed tones as if saying it louder would evoke the unthinkable.
       “I canna see another way,” replied Duncan.
       “But, if…”
       Duncan looked up. Joe continued.
       “MacLeod, you’d hand him over to…Chirst, he’s vulnerable. He’s mortal.”
       “I’d be there to see that nothing…”
       “She’ll kill him!” Joe shouted.
       “I won’t let that happen.” Duncan was on his feet, glaring defensively at the Watcher.
       “And how do you propose to stop her? She nearly took his head last time. I doubt she’ll pass up the chance again.”
       “We don’t know that.”
       “MacLeod, you know how much she hates him. Christ, hate doesn’t even cover it.”
       “She’s the only one alive that can undo what Sara has done.”
       “That may or may not be true, Mac. The point is, she’s wanted Methos dead for over 4000 years. You know how she feels. You know what he did…Christ, MacLeod, he deserves to die by her hand. And your going to hand him over on a silver platter?”
       “I’ll talk to her.”
       “And say what, Mac? Oh, by the by, Cassandra….IF, hypothetically speaking, of course, Methos were to need help you and only you could give, and IF you could forget that he destroyed your village, killed everyone you ever loved and made you his slave, and IF you could forgive him for the suffering you did by his hand and sword, and IF…”
       “Enough, Dawson,” commanded Duncan. “She’s the only one who can save him now. And save him she will or …I’ll...”
       “Or you’ll what, MacLeod? Take her head? Going hunting now, are you?”
       Without hesitation, Duncan replied quietly, “Yes.”
       Joe could not have imagined this depth to Duncan’s determination to save Methos. To hear him admit now to behavior so abhorrent to the Highlander stopped Joe’s foray into making sense of any of it.
       “Christ, MacLeod. Cassandra? Do you know the chance you’re taking in letting her know where Methos is much less that he’s now mortal? What if she refuses to help him? You’ve handed him over to the one person who earned the right to kill him. And to stop her from killing him, are you really prepared to take her head? Think about this Mac.”
       “I’m doon thinking about it. She will help him or die.”
       A finality secured the words Duncan uttered in air that could not supply enough oxygen for Joe to breathe. Joe knew it was useless to argue. The Highlander’s mind was made up and would not be budged. God help them all, but especially Methos.

       For reasons quite obvious, Methos would not be told of the plan. While Duncan was confident he could keep it from his brother, Joe was convinced that in some unintentional way he would reveal it with just a mere essence of his doubts. Methos had a way with Joe… knew him as if he himself had formulated the man that was Joe Dawson. Living 5000 years helped, of course. You couldn’t live that long and not become somewhat mindful of the ways of humankind. Methos was a warrior, a hunter, and had been hunted. Instinct was only one of his finely honed tools of survival.   After much soul searching and denial, Joe decided his next move would be to return to Seacouver and do what he could from there.   He didn’t feel there was really much he could do and the feeling of being left out of the loop made him feel even more helpless… and helpless was not a feeling Joe like d to consider for himself … ever.
       Duncan watched as Joe walked toward the boarding area of US Air’s Flight 282, show his ticket to the agent and never look back as he disappeared through the doors and out of the Highlander’s view.
       Emotions were running strong in both men. Anger landed Joe’s prosthetic feet hard on the carpeted, serpentine compartment leading to the plane’s hatched opening; the soundlessness inadequate to convey just how angry Joe was with MacLeod for not protesting his departure. The Watcher/friend would have needed so little encouragement to stay. Duncan had accepted Joe’s fear and explanation without a word. It told Joe that Duncan thought of him as useless and, therefore, the need for him to be there unimportant. It told him that the gap between mortal and Immortal was deep and Joe felt betrayed and alone on the other side of an abyss he thought he had bridged long ago. In reality, it told Duncan just how much of a selfless friend Joe Dawson truly was and how much he was loved for it.    The need to tell each other their feelings never entered the picture for that was being painted with strokes of dark fear and impenetrable dread by one mortal man and unfaltering determination by an Immortal who refused failure. Hardly a canvas for understanding.
       Amanda had elected to say her good-byes to Joe at the house. She thought nothing strange about Joe’s sudden departure. The Watcher was convincing enough in explaining the need to leave at this particular time.   Methos, however, when discovering that Joe was on his way to Seacourver, did find his leaving strange. Stranger still, was the fact that he would not look Methos directly in the eyes. Methos learned in many different ways that if you could not look a man in the eyes when you spoke then what you spoke could not be trusted.   A vigilant and primitive presence stepped to the forefront and looked out through Methos’ leveled unmet eyes.   What hadn’t been for a long time was once again.
       The rain was falling steadily and continually . The light of day was dusk-like and demanded a fire for warmth as well as light. After silently watching from the doorway for nearly half an hour as Amanda struggled and failed miserably with fire duty, Methos took charge and when Duncan entered their sanctuary, a fire blazed with an intensity to match that of Amanda’s voice as she berated Methos his lack of industry.
       “The fire’s lit, woman,” Methos retorted with a smirk. “What’s your problem?”
       “You could have offered to do it in the first place and saved me from splinters and this damn sticky sap!” she snapped bravely knowing that Duncan was just outside the door.
       “It’s 2001. I thought women wanted to be in control of their own destinies?”
       “Don’t ever, not even on a good day, Methos, profess to know anything about what women want,” warned Amanda as she moved toward Duncan and into his arms, happy that he was back.
       “Oh, I think I know a little about women, luv.”   The smoldering, sexy smirk infuriated Amanda and added additional fuel that fed her fire.   Methos used the smirk, however, to mask just how much he knew about women scorned. Casually, he tossed another log on the burning heap in the stone fireplace, eliciting heat from that as well.   He nodded to Duncan and without another word returned to his sequestered area of the house.
       Duncan accepted the tender ministrations of Amanda as they sat themselves down before the fire with barely a breath between them. While Amanda foolishly thought the impassive embrace Duncan gave her would eventually lead to other things, Duncan remained too focused in his thoughts to give much attention to her presumed needs. Consequently, it was with great surprise and condemnation on her part when a few seconds later Duncan extracted himself from the heat of fire produced by log and woman alike. The log was forgiving, the woman was not. He was into the fourth step of his retreat when he heard Amanda call his name.   The sound of her voice seemed distant and garbled. That it was bothersome was made very obvious to Amanda when the Scot turned and in his best brogue shouted, “What is it, woman?”
       Amanda was driven back physically and emotionally by the force of Duncan’s agitated state. Rarely, if ever, did Duncan take that tone with her. It clearly   signaled something awful. Amanda didn’t do awful well and even less when demoted to “woman” by a man she considered both friend and lover. She chose her next words carefully and from a safe distance.
       “Duncan, darling. Don’t be cross. I know this is a very bad time, but it won’t do to alienate your friends. You’ve already lost Joe.” Her voice notched up levels in pitch and rancor. “Shall I leave as well?”
       She didn’t expect the reply nor the swiftness in which it was delivered.
       “Yes.”
       She was gone within the hour without pomp and/or circumstance.   If Methos knew of her departure, he gave no indication as he made neither appearance or spoken farewell. The silence left by Amanda’s migration was a side order to the crackling hiss of the fire as pine wood sections secreted their sap like molten tears in the heat of the flame. The permeating warmth was more a remembered, instinctual reaction than a reality of combustion and wood as Duncan resumed his seat.
       Duncan foraged in a landscape of thought. Every turn he took, every path he traveled led to a medieval dwelling in Donan Woods and Cassandra. He knew where to find her. He always knew where to find her. He wondered just how much the sorceress had to do with that. She had been a force in his mortal and Immortal life. He learned many things from her and most recently her hatred for the man called Methos. Duncan thought about the word hatred and how insignificantly it measured her feelings toward Methos.
       “I want him to live!”
       His lament that night had saved Methos’ head from falling by her hand while the two Immortals shared Silas and Kronos’ quickenings. She had done it for Duncan. She had pulled in all her markers and granted him that which he wanted more than life itself. But, with that saving grace he contracted a hell in which Methos would abide; mortality, and scraped together a substantial share of her hatred for Methos for himself. Through the quickening’s intensity, dancing on his nerves, igniting them to a crescendo of pain he had never felt before, there danced a spirit of lost kinship. It entwined itself mostly around Duncan’s heart, inflicting its disconsolation in spasms of her anguish. Long after the quickening, Duncan’s sense of a loss remained. He didn’t understand the discrepant feeling then. He did now. And in spades. He hung his head. His dark, unencumbered hair fell like night on a vista of despair.
       Duncan sensed Methos’ approach. He raised his head in time to confront the hazel eyes that sought out his own. Methos disengaged from the visual contact and sat silently on the chair opposite the Highlander.
       Neither spoke. Their breathing and the fire’s fervor completed the room and allowed no intruder.   However hard the shadows tried to encroach upon the sanctum, there was no portal open to them.
       “What now, MacLeod?” Methos’ voice was subdued and weighted. The contrived sound was spoken by a now vigilant Horseman whose veiled cunning remained unaltered by the state of mortality.
       “I don’t know.” answered Duncan far too nonchalantly.
       “I asked, what now, MacLeod?” This time Methos emphasized his inquiry with a sword to Duncan’s throat. A small trickle of blood descended the suddenly stretched throat.
       It was as if Duncan was the one who had lost all Immortal faculty. He certainly underestimated Methos. And he knew in that instant the damned Horseman was back, unfettered by the lack of longevity. That Methos would make the most of the time allotted him by Father Time should not have surprised the Scot.
       “Methos…”
       “Make very certain your next words tell me something, brother. I’m in a rather testy mood.”
       “I do have an plan.”
       “Oh?” The blade remained at his vulnerable throat, raising Duncan’s ire as well as his chin, tilting back just a little further with the aid of the blade’s biting tip. Duncan’s hand grasped the hilt of his katana in instinctual response to threat. The fact that he was at a distinct disadvantage at the moment was only one reason it still lay at his side and not in the torso of the offending man who held him down. The fact that the strike would actually kill Methos was the other reason he did not move.
       “Go on, Highlander.” Methos was keeping his distance in stance as well as disposition. “I’m listening.”
       “Can we talk without the sword?” asked Duncan through gritted teeth. He really did try to keep his voice neutral. The bile in his mouth stung as much as the tip of Methos’ blade. Duncan swallowed the bitter taste along with the anger and waited.
       “No.”
       “Methos, it hurts.”
       “Not as much as it could or will. Talk.”
       Duncan was all to aware that the close proximity of a very sharp cutting instrument to his throat and the mention of Cassandra’s name would not be in his best interest.
       “Methos. I’ll make it happen. That I promise.”
       “Make what happen, brother?” Methos’ voice was annoyingly placating as he inched the blade higher and deeper, making conversation very painful.
       “Take the blade away, Methos.”
       “I don’t think so. Talk.”
       If Methos thought he could out-stubborn Duncan MacLeod, it was his turn to underestimate.   Long moments later, he withdrew the weapon not wanting to bleed the damn Scot to death. It was still leveled at Duncan’s heart, but, at the moment drew no more Highland blood.
       Duncan adjusted his dignity, tallied this latest offense to the long list Methos was amassing and stood, watching all the while the blade as it followed his ascent. Methos was unflinching in his resolve to keep the Highlander hostage to his threat.
       “You’ll listen to me, then?”
       “I’m listening.”
       “There is someone who has the ability to undo what has been done to you.”
       Methos acknowledged this bit of information with a slight twitch of his dark eyebrow. His noncombatant facial expression seemed to give Duncan sanction to continue without fear of bodily harm. Foolish man. Decidedly, the next words Duncan uttered revoked that sanction as he dropped to his knees with eight inches of Methos’ sword buried in his gut. Methos removed the blade almost as quickly as it had gone in. Too late to stave off the inevitable death.
       Duncan groaned. Death silenced him. Instinctively, Methos placed his hand on the fresh wound in an effort to induce healing. He was of no use. Within minutes, Duncan’s quickening began to diminish the Methos-inflicted wound on its own. Methos pulled his hand away, still smeared with the Highlander’s drawn blood, and stared not quite believing that he still felt nothing of the quickening nor of the healing process. His face was pale as he looked up to see Duncan regain his strength. To late he realized he was unarmed and a clear target for MacLeod’s wrath.
       “Damn you, old man.” hissed Duncan through clenched teeth. The pain had charred the nerve endings in Duncan’s skin, muscle and sinew as he mended. While Methos felt nothing of the healing, he was not to be spared pain when at last Duncan floored him with a well placed punch to the jaw. Duncan’s foot stomped down heavily on Methos’ wrist as the ancient fought to regain his edge by retrieving the errant sword thrown upon impact from his hand. Methos grunted as his wrist took the full force of a much irritated Highland warrior’s booted foot.
       “Enough, MacLeod. Uncle. Aunt. What the bloody hell do I have to say?”
       “Get up.”
       The command was given tersely and without assistance being offered. Duncan, with one hand shielding the healing, unnatural opening on his body, stood over Methos as he slowly got to his feet. His manner was not aggressive, but both hearts pulsated in a war-like cadence.
       Methos rubbed his jaw. His wrist ached from abuse. The only thing saving Duncan MacLeod from another death was Methos’ neophyte sense of justice.   This justice thing had been newly introduced by virtue of contact with Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Decency seemed to metabolize within him uninvited and at the most inopportune times. Somewhat like a contagion. Yes, very much like a contagion. The fair-play fever grew inside him and with it came MacLeod’s clemency. Shakey at its best.
       The ancient was too far removed from his blade to make use of it against Duncan who was too close for comfort. He stepped back and glared at the Highlander
       “Just hear me out.”
       The fists clenching and unclenching at Methos’ sides joined the muscles flexing in his jaw and became the only movements the ancient would allow himself. He could find no voice in any of the languages he knew to articulate the penitent anxiety brought to the surface by that one name. Cassandra. Add Sara’s name to the mix and he might as well let Duncan take his head here and now. Seconds from begging that it be done, he stopped the surrender. Bloody Christ, would he ever be free of them?
       “She can save you.”
       “And why would she want to do that?” he asked evenly in a voice that was already dead.
       “I will demand it.”
       “Highlander, you are a fool.”
       “She will have no choice but to save you or….”
       “Or what, MacLeod? Die?” Methos’s laugh was Arctic ice.
       “Yes.”
       Methos sucked in breath drawn from the farthest corner of the room. It seemed to empty the place of air. The room remained a vacuum for several minutes until from desperation Duncan had to take a breath. It took Methos seconds more to do the same.
       “You would challenge her?” Life was back in the hard voice.
       “Yes.”
       “And take her head?”
       “Yes.”
       “Just how would that help me?”
       “It won’t come to that,” Duncan said in a cock-sure manner.
       “Do you know what I…”
       “Methos, I took the quickening. Remember?”
       Methos knees went weak. The spine that had held him erect in a disposition of arrogance simply lost the rigidity to hold him now. He sank to the floor and rested on hands and knees as his body tingled with the burgeoning heat of shame and depravity.
       “But you took so little of me,” he whispered.   Methos had to make Duncan understand the nature of his relationship with Cassandra. And to do that, he had to bare his soul. And in order to do that, he had to die a little more to pay for his sins.
       “Kronos was ancient and evil and his quickening was dark and all consuming.   Silas was as savage as Kronos, but I liked him. His quickening was torture. Mac, we somehow shared their quickenings. Any part of me that slipped in was just memory tempered by time and guilt…hazy pictures and falsified justifications. You know nothing of the man I was, the man that lives beneath my skin.”
       “I know that I won’t let you die.” This was said as an indisputable declaration.
       “MacLeod, if you bring Cassandra into the picture, the only thing I will do is die. By her hand. And justly so.” Where Sara failed, she was sure to be victorious. Sara had hoped to hold the power of life and death over his head. Make him beg. He’d ended that with the swift accuracy and deadliness of his sword. How she would have relished this turn of events. Cassandra, the first of many tortured souls awash in his forever turbulent ocean of regrets, the one whose capture and exquisite suffering help to nurture his thirst for blood and lust, summoned to save him.
       “No!” Duncan grabbed Methos chin and jerked it upward, angry brown eyes flashing.   Methos drew himself up and removed Duncan’s hand swiftly with his own. He didn’t release Duncan’s hand, holding it tightly at an angle that made the younger man wince. He wanted to be absolutely sure he had Duncan’s full attention.
       “No Cassandra, Mac. I owe her too much to even entertain the notion that she would help and I can’t, won’t, nor do I have the right to beg. I owe you too much to see you destroyed by your misplaced sense of allegiance to me.   Whereas I do deserve her wrath, I’ve done nothing to be worthy of you. I’m out of here.”
       He turned to leave.   He got no further than a few feet before he felt the blow to his head and had seconds to curse himself for stupidly turning his back on Duncan MacLeod. The darkness came as painful bliss.

       Methos turned his head and immediately regretted the activity. Movement festooned the inside of his head with sweeping flashes of blinding light and shrapnel that bounced around like rubber balls. Pulsing throbs subsided with inactivity. He remained still, not even opening eye lids for fear the bouncing would return.    He summoned his sense of hearing to the forefront and demanded information. The silence mocked him. Smell was vague and provided no clues and dread had no taste. Sight demanded a chance and cautiously took its turn. Its effort was rewarded with darkness. His sense of touch finally joined the exploration and told him that he was blindfolded and cuffed. This was not good. His struggles were useless and only caused pain. He would kill that damn MacLeod.
       Curses in every language known to living man and to many that were long dead and gone were spewed out in to the darkness along with a generous sprinkling of the name Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Methos ran out of words thirty minutes into the exercise and stopped wasting his breath. His head hurt. His wrists hurt.   He was exhausted. He fell asleep.

       Duncan’s mouth was dry. Swigs of beer did not help.   He held the cell phone in one hand and continued to take in as much of the liquid as the bottle held. When he emptied one bottle, he reached for another. He counted three empties and held a fourth that was quickly on its way to joining the others before he made the call.
       It was a little after two o’clock A.M. in Seacouver. Joe answered before a second ring had time to resonate in the stillness of early morning.
       “Yeah?”
       “It’s me, Joe.”
       “What’s happened?” Joe sat up as best he could with only the one hand and arm available for the task. At best, he was at an awkward angle but held to it while Duncan took his sweet old time answering.
       “Nothing yet.”
       Not promising, thought Joe as he adjusted his body, holding the phone between shoulder and ear this time as he maneuvered himself into a more comfortable position with both hands.
       “What’s that suppose to mean, MacLeod? Nothing yet.”
       “He was going to leave.”
       “And?”
       “I had to stop him.”
       “And.” Joe was losing patience fast.
       “And…he’s been confined.”
       “Christ, MacLeod. What’s the hell does that mean?”
       Duncan, sensing Joe’s dwindling patience and building anger, quickly told of the events leading up to the moment.
       “Did you have to cuff him? He’s not the forgiving sort.”
       “I’ll deal with that later. Besides, how else was I going to keep him here. He won’t listen to reason and….”
       “By reason, you mean getting Cassandra to New Orleans and handing him over to her. That reason?”
       “She’ll not take his head.”
       “I don’t know how you can be so damn sure of that, Mac.”
       “We’ve been through this already, Joe. I’ll …”
       “Yeah, yeah. I know. You’ll take her head before she takes his.”
       This was met by silence on the other end of the phone. Softly Duncan spoke.
       “I was going to say, I’ll convince her to save him.”
       “Christ, Duncan. Do you know what you’re doing?”
       Apparently that didn’t warrant an answer.
       “Joe, I have to go to Cassandra. She’s at Donan Woods.”
       “That’s in Scotland as I recall.”
       “How fast can you get here?”
       Joe coughed and sputtered, “Me, get there. You want me to be Methos’ jailer while you traipse off to Scotland to bring back his executioner?”
       “She’ll not …”
       “No way, MacLeod. I’m not going to do it. You may trust Cassandra, but I don’t. She’s wanted his head for thousands of years. I can’t even imagine the magnitude of hate it takes to keep that alive.”
       In the end, Joe could do nothing but agree to return to New Orleans. He’d broken every Watcher rule and then some in his acquaintance with Duncan MacLeod, Methos, Amanda and others. At Duncan’s invitation, he would be in New Orleans when Cassandra and Methos met again.   He knew if needed, he was prepared to break the most cardinal of Watcher rules and interfere in the lives of Immortals. His life as a Watcher would be over.   Joe chuckled mirthlessly to himself.   Hell, his life would be over period … Watcher or otherwise.
       The changing of the guard took minutes as Duncan met Joe at the door, stopping long enough to explain the lay of the land and give him the keys to the cuffs that now restrained Methos. Joe numbly took the proffered keys and directions without speaking. After all, what could he say. Have a nice trip? When do I water and feed the beast? Fuck. The total impact of the situation hit him in the ass as the door closed on Duncan. Wasn’t it suppose to be Duncan’s ass that got the beating? In a perfect world.
       With the aid of three quick shots that barely had enough time to hit the pit of his stomach, let alone numb the senses, Joe entered the room where Methos sat languidly draped on a bed. The ancient’s wrists were secured to the head board by uncompromising handcuffs and his legs were crossed at the ankles. Joe noticed that his right ankle also sported a cuff, larger and heavier than those above the waist. Chain was added to each set of cuffs to enable some movement. Maneuvering to the small bathroom was difficult and cumbersome, but not impossible. The overgrown sweater and jeans he wore looked clean. His face was free of yesterday’s beard. His hair was long and hung past eyebrows and ears. His head was bowed, hiding any expression that would clearly state his mood. Christ, thought Joe, he looks every bit an offering to the gods of vindication.
       “Methos, I….”
       “Save it Watcher.”
       “We have to trust Duncan on this one, old man.”
       “We?” Methos’ voice was way too subdued.
       “I mean that Duncan doesn’t want you dead anymore than I do.”
       “I see.” Joe did not like the timbre of the man’s voice. Coupled with the fact that he still hadn’t moved raised fiery red flags that snapped in the winds of ominous expectation. He decided to keep his distance and he moved no closer to the captive.
       “Get out.”
       Not knowing what else to do, Joe left.
       A brief note on the care and feeding of one handcuffed, angry, deadly, cunning ex-Immortal was taped to the refrigerator door. As Joe suspected, Methos was pretty much on his own.   He’d bring him food and drink, but according to Duncan’s note, these had been repeatedly refused. Joe imagined that Methos could hold out indefinitely and probably would just as a matter of principle.   He ignored the rest of the note giving it a peremptory glance. The writing was precise and clear just as Duncan’s voice would have been had he been delivering the message up close and personal.
       “Yeah, yeah….don’t trust Methos,” he mumbled as he surveyed the contents of the refrigerator. As the electricity had still not been restored, the unit contained several insulated coolers and blocks of dry ice. Duncan had been thorough in providing Joe with all of his favorites, at least the ones that could retain edibility in these conditions. The rest he would find in cans lined up on the counter. How kind of you, Highlander.   You still owe me big time. On a whim, he checked the small freezer above. Empty. Oh well. At least the bar was stocked.
       Evening announced itself with a thunderclap that shook the walls. Damn, thought Joe.    Another storm and if the first earsplitting crash was any indication, this one promised to be a doozy.   He hadn’t heard a sound from Methos and decided to at least offer him a beer or two. He’d never known Methos to refuse a beer.
       The room was dark. The fireplace needed lighting. Joe should have thought of it sooner as both chill and guilt washed over him when he entered.
       “God, I’m sorry about this, Methos. I should have realized there was no heat or light in here.”
       There was no answer, but Joe could hear Methos breathing in the intervals between the rumbling thunder.   The mortal busied himself with logs and tinder and in a short time had a fire blazing in the grate. The flickering light cast cubist shadows on the dark walls of Methos’ prison. All in all, a fitting backdrop to the situation. Joe turned to look at Methos and shuddered involuntarily at what he saw. Methos’ pale face was illuminated in the warming glow of the fire. Tiny flames reflected in his open eyes. The Watcher was transfixed until Methos blinked and broke the spell.
       “Christ, Methos. Say something.”
       “Get out.”
       Joe was not going to be bullied by a man who was at the moment unable to do him harm.
       “I just thought you might like a beer.”
       No answer.
       “Suite yourself, old man. I’ll leave a few bottles anyway because that’s the kind of guy I am.”
       He found out quickly what kind of guy Methos was as a bottle narrowly missed his head as he exited the room.
       “Shit.”

       The flight was long and uncomfortable. Duncan tried to flex the muscles that had atrophied during the first hours of flight. He grumbled and moaned causing the man seated next to him to turn and give him an angry stare. A large, sausage like finger exaggeratedly marked the page in the book he had been reading uninterrupted until Duncan decided to move. This infringement upon what seemed to be his personal space annoyed Duncan’s seatmate greatly and he was about to let the Scot know, in no uncertain terms, just what he thought about the situation. One Highland glare put the man in his place without a confrontation. Neither man acknowledged the other for the rest of the flight.
       The rental car was not to his liking nor prescribed specifications, but time and circumstance prevented Duncan from arguing the point. He grudgingly folded his six foot plus frame into the compact car and headed for Donan Woods and Cassandra.
       The trip would take several hours along roads that were vaguely familiar. It had been many years since he’d been back to his homeland. Emotions welled up and threatened to hamper his very breath and heart beat as the vague became lucid memories. Although the surroundings wore a shroud fashioned clearly of the present, bits and pieces of the past threaded their way through the contemporary weave and affixed themselves, willfully refusing to vanish.
       He drove as close to the cottage as he dared. He cut the lights and engine. He sat comforted by the darkness and the sounds the nightlings produced as they went about their evening pursuits.
       Belatedly, Duncan wondered if his unannounced visit was such a wise decision.   He reluctantly brought to mind the last time he’d seen Cassandra. It was a wretched picture. Both he and Methos on hands and knees succumbing to the quickenings that would forever change their lives. As Cassandra saw it, the plea to let Methos live was Duncan’s refusal to acknowledge her anguish and diminished all that she had suffered by the hand and will of Methos. Before she relinquished her right to the kill, she turned to Duncan and in his eyes saw and felt deviled. This time by the Highlander himself. The kinship Cassandra had allowed between the two of them vanished, and to her the loss of it was one more denial to her humanness, her right to be.
       The bond that resulted between the two Immortal men, however, left no choice for Duncan. It was what brought him to this moment.   Duncan shuddered with the memory and with the realization that should she refuse to help Methos, he would take her head.
       He felt her presence as she felt his. He didn’t need to knock. She opened the door and each met the other with a drawn sword. Neither spoke. The silent exchange continued until a clock within the cottage chimed the hour.
       “Duncan MacLeod?” Her words, consisting of his name alone, demanded many answers.
       Duncan looked her in the eyes and knew he was doomed. He lowered the katana and presented himself unarmed.
       “Cassandra…I’ve not come to challenge you.”
       “Why are you here, then?” asked the Witch of Donan Woods, speaking the most obvious question out loud from her list of yet to be articulated ones.
       “I’ve come to ask your help. May I come in?”
       “Help?” Yet another question off the list. She looked at him for a long time and then moved to the side to let him enter. She was cautious and curious.
       The interior light was dim, but not uninviting. The warmth from the fireplace combined with candles that seemed to be everywhere lent an air of comfort, though not extended by any means to Duncan.   He sat down on a bench that faced the fire and waited for Cassandra to join him. She did a moment later with her hand extended, offering a cup of tea. He took the tea and thanked her, feeling uncomfortable with the hospitality. She sipped her tea and waited for him to speak.
       As determined as he had been earlier, the close proximity of Cassandra seemed to drain him of his resolve. She said and did nothing to encourage him. She just waited quietly, sipping her tea.
       “Cass, I…”
       Her head jerked up angrily silencing the Highlander with a glare. It was obvious that he had lost the right to call her Cass.
       “Forgive me. Cassandra it is.”
       She resumed a neutral posture and he continued.
       “Cassandra, I need a favor. One I am willing to pay any price you demand. Within reason, of course.”
       “And is the favor also within reason?”
       That stopped him cold. He doubted very much that doing anything good for Methos would be considered reasonable by her standards or his, for that matter.
       “I’ll let you decide.”
       “Go on.”
       “An Immortal has been cursed with mortality, and I want you to reverse the curse. Can you do that?”
       “Which Immortal, Duncan.” The questioned was asked in a tone that almost convinced Duncan that she already knew the answer before he spoke it. But, that was impossible, wasn’t it?
       “I want to know who the Immortal is, Duncan,” she continued. Her voice was sing-song and Duncan was feeling a bit warm. “The payment would have to equal the task. You understand that, don’t you Duncan?”
       “Yes. Can you do it?” Again, Duncan’s tone demanded an answer.
       “I can. It’s simple enough.” She gave the answer as if appeasing a petulant child.
        “Thank the gods.”
       “The gods will have nothing to do with it.   It’s me you’ll thank. And very handsomely. Who is the Immortal?”
       “Methos.”
       There was no air to breath. The heat of the room engulfed him as he tried to draw in what he needed to stave off the impending loss of consciousness. He frantically tried to move away from the fire, but his limbs would not obey the shouted commands that were silently issued inside his head. The tea. The damned tea.
       “Methos.”
       He heard the name said as if from a distance.
       “Methos.”
       “Cassandra, please…”
       “What is it, Duncan? Have you changed your mind?”
       “No. I want him to live!”
       “And so I’ve been told before. And I let him live, didn’t I?”
       “Yes. Thank you for that.”
       “But, now he is mortal. How was it done and by whom?”
       “I…it was my fault. I let her know my fears. It’s all my fault.”
       “Who, Duncan? Who?”
       “Sara Bonne.”
       “Mmmm,” she said knowingly. “A priestess.”
       “You know her?”
       “I know of her, Duncan.”
       “She’s dead.”
       “By whose hand?”
       “Methos took her head.”
       “Thus sealing his fate. How ironic. You could have insisted she save him.”
       “Will you?”
       There was no answer. There was no air. There was no consciousness.
       He woke with the worst hangover he could ever remember. The throbbing in his head became an art form. He put his hands up to still the vibrations, but the act itself was pain incarnate. He moaned and tried to die.
       Cassandra watched Duncan struggle to meet the day. She stood against the backdrop of the stone fireplace, cold by default, but warmer than the blood that thrummed inside her.
       “Cassandra. Can we please talk?” he mumbled from behind cupped hands.
       “Yes.”
       “Will you reverse the curse?”
       “If I refuse?”
       “Please don’t do that. I’ll pay what ever it is you want.”
       “If I refuse, Duncan. What will you do?”
       “Cassandra, please.”
       “Duncan?”
       “I will take your head.”
       Silence descended as if to give the two Immortals a buffer from the hell that would proceed. Duncan moved and with his katana firmly in hand, he stood.
       “You are challenging me, Duncan? In my home?”
       “Please,” he pleaded again. “Don’t ...”
       “The Highlander hunts!” she spat.
       The words wounded the man that Duncan was before the double quickening made him other than that.
       “I cannot let Methos die.”
       “You are asking me to help the fiend who…”
       “I’m not asking now, Cassandra. I’m insisting.” Duncan hissed between clenched teeth. A feral passion rose in his chest, providing the breath with which he growled.
       When the tip of his blade brushed the skin of her face, Cassandra conceded to the man who clearly meant business. But, only for the time being. She knew what she would do. The smile he saw intimated at his victory. The smile she was offering told another story altogether.

       “Rise and shine, old man,” said Joe as he approached Methos, but not too closely.
       Methos slowly met the Watcher’s gaze with one of his own. The hooded hazel eyes spoke volumes his mouth refused to voice. Joe knew Methos well enough to cut the bullshit and say what he came to say.
       “They’re on their way. They should be here within the hour.”
       “And so the fun begins,” muttered Methos.
       “She’s here to help you.”
       “Whatever.”
       Methos tried to sit more erect, but the clatter of the chains as he moved served only to remind him of his present situation and his total lack of control over it. The sound also shamed him. His face flushed with it. He willed it to be gone. It didn’t have a chance in hell to survive as his pallor quickly reclaimed its domain.
       “Get rid of these cuffs, Joe. Let me stand to meet her.” It was as close to begging as Joe had ever heard from the man.
       “Christ, Methos, you know I can’t do that.”
       “Afraid, I’ll bolt?”
       “Well… yes.”
       “She knows where I am now. There’s not a place on this earth I can hide.   She means to kill me this time. Neither you nor Duncan will be able to stop her. You’re fools to think she can be manipulated. After all, she learned the taste for blood from a master. Rest assured, Dawson, she has her own agenda and my death is its only item. And it won’t be easy or quick.”
       “Duncan won’t let that happen,” assured Joe, not knowing who he was trying to convince more, Methos or himself.
       “Duncan,” whispered Methos, bowing his head. Christ, the boy scout was in for it now. He’d be lucky if she spared his head. He wasn’t sure how he could prevent that, but swore to do his damnedest to see that MacLeod got out of this alive. No matter what the cost.
       “What price do you suppose she’ll extract for my life?”
       Joe had no idea. His knowledge of the history of each Immortal involved didn’t paint a pretty picture. In fact, the image he began to perceive was fucking scary.
       “Joe, please.”
       The Watcher walked a mile in Methos’ shoes just short of 3 seconds before he went over and removed the handcuffs, leaving the cuff on his ankle secured.   He half expected (and hoped) that Methos would try to escape. Methos only moved to stretch his lean cramped body.
       “Whatever happens, Joe, it will end here.”
       Joe had no time to respond as they both turned toward the sound of a car engine being cut. Methos’ anxiety was running a race with time and crossed the finish line a victor. The front door creaked open and footsteps provided the only sound as Joe and Methos eliminated breathing from their bodily functions.
       Duncan entered the room first. His demeanor was confident until his eyes locked with Methos’. He had scant time to decipher the intimations held therein before Cassandra made her appearance.
       Methos tried to dodge Cassandra’s contemptuous examination of his present station. He fought desperately to remain lost in the velvet folds of the Highlander’s chestnut eyes and not register in any part of his brain her consideration of him.
       His name spewed from her lips like extricated poison.   Joe had never in his life heard such loathing voiced.
       Duncan winced.
       Methos turned to face her.
       The air thickened between them and dismissed Duncan and Joe as if their presence served only to complicate the simple matter of death. Neither Methos nor Cassandra moved. What breathing taking place seemed motionless. Images danced back and forth between them. Not doubt, the same images, but projected from very different perspectives. Waves of emotions joined in the dance, uniting a spectrum of intensities and bias. Eventually, dominant passions took their place in the forefront and claimed their allegiance.   Cassandra’s vengeance reared high while Methos stood defiant in his acceptance of his past. Any shame, however, was relegated to stand before Duncan and Joe in the here and now.
       “How does it feel to be so vulnerable, Methos?” she said in a voice that registered nothing of the volcanic fury that churned within her.
       “Like shit. Get this over with.”
       “What is it you want me to do?”
       “Do what you’ve come to do. Kill me and MacLeod will owe you nothing.”
       “No!” shouted Duncan.
       “Stay out of this, MacLeod. This is between the two of us. It has been for a long time.”
       “But, Duncan wants you to live.”
       “He’s a bloody boy scout. Just do it. I’m not going to beg for my life, Cassandra. It’s as worthless to me as it is to you.” He could finally accept that.
       Cassandra moved forward and smiled a wicked smile. “So you would believe, Methos. That’s the beauty of this whole thing. You would rather die now by my sword in some pathetic pretense at retribution than to live vulnerable as a mortal, but Duncan hasn’t figured that out yet, has he? He believes I can save you. You don’t. He believes you’re sorry. I don’t.”
       “Do it anyway you need to. Take your time. I promise to suffer well for you.   All I ask is that in the end you take no payment from MacLeod,” It was as close to begging and concession as he would get. “From where I stand, he’s already given you plenty.”
       They stood facing one another, Methos thinking he was in control of his shortened destiny, Cassandra knowing he wasn’t. She let many moments pass just to savor the power.
       “I can give you back immortality, Methos,” she said quietly.
       “Bloody Christ.” The air to speak the words deflated his arrogance.
       Cassandra’s mirthless laugh chilled him. She could save him. All he would have to do is convince her to do so. And to do that he would have to beg for his Immortal life. From somewhere deep inside him, Methos heard soft murmurs become louder as whispers became hoarse cries for mercy or death. The past had come to show him the way. She had been a healer, a spirit that held no hatred or malice until he entered her village those centuries ago and introduced them and so much more with his iron will. He had constructed this woman. She had been taught by a master and had learned the dark art of evil at his tutelage.   It would now serve her well and would serve him as he deserved.
       It took some moments before Methos could speak.
       “What now?” he asked resignedly.
       “Tell me how badly you want to live.”
       “I want to live.”
Cassandra snickered. “Not good enough, Lord Methos. I live to serve you. Tell me.”
       Methos winced at the contempt in her voice and the twisted memory of her words.
       “Please, I want to live.” With bowed head, his low voice was barely a whisper and more a “Lord Methos” hiss. It did no justice to the memory of Cassandra’s pleadings.
       “I didn’t hear you,” she chided and moved further away from him, increasing the necessity for volume to anything else he had to say.   This wasn’t over yet. The tether at his ankle refused to give and he watched dismally as the distance between them grew wider. Damn. Bloody damn.
       He tried to put sound and sincerity to his supplication as he met her gaze. His next words were garbled and pathetic. He despised himself for the effort. Hell, this wasn’t going to be easy. She’d had years to design his due; there was a part of him that accepted the fact that he owed her and was willing to hand himself over to her justice. Now. That concession, however, didn’t come easy to the part of him who had lived with no limits; who had power over life and death without consequence for so long. Humanity had to be nurtured with blood, sweat and tears as mankind’s ethical and moral evolution expanded across the continents and finally his heart.   The Methos of today was repentant and meant it. It was the Methos of long ago she wanted on his knees and that Methos was calling the shots and refused to surrender. The struggle was evident on Methos’ face as his jaw clenched tight to keep the petitions for life from being said. The present persona was no match for the heartless ancient and repeatedly lost the battle to do what had to be done to live once again as an Immortal.
       Duncan attempted to intercede on Methos’ behalf. Cassandra would have none of it. It was not his voice and body she wanted to own.
       Time dragged endlessly on. The battle raged. When it finally came, Methos’ descent was slow and labored. While his body sank into submission, his villainous antiquity roared its protest. Quietly at first, and then with conviction he pleaded for his immortality.
       “Please, Cassandra. Please…I am begging you. On my knees. Please.” Pride diffidently immigrated from his soul. It knew its rightful place and took it. At her feet.
       All protests were silenced as soon as his knees hit the floor and the words were spoken. The petition had not been granted nor denied. Cassandra was still and unrevealing as to whether the plea had been good enough. Mortal and Immortal hearts beat as one.
       “Duncan,” summoned Cassandra.
       “Aye.” He had to work very hard to keep his voice neutral and compliant. The sight of Methos on his knees was not easy to watch, but Cassandra paid horrifically for the right to have it so. He knew that. It didn’t make having to be there and see it any easier. He had no idea how hard it would become.
       “Payment equal to the task. Remember?”
       “Aye,” answered Duncan, swallowing hard with a dry throat.
       “You’ll do as I say?”
       “If it will give immortality back to Methos. Aye.”
       “Oh it will do that, Duncan. That I promise.”
       Both Duncan and Methos waited.
       “Get rid of the mortal.”
       Duncan jerked his head toward Joe and back to Cassandra. The horror on his face made Cassandra smile, but it was not Duncan or Joe Dawson she wanted to torment.
       “Make him leave, Duncan. That is all.”
       Joe didn’t need to be told twice nor did he need the help of Duncan to vacate the premises. He said a silent prayer for Duncan and Methos, thankful to be leaving with his life. There was no doubt in his mind, if his death would have suited her, his heart would no longer be beating.   That Duncan could or would have done the deed would forever haunt his thoughts. Duncan walked the Watcher/friend to the door. Joe looked at Duncan and then dropped his head and muffled a sob that had grown in his heart and would not be silenced.
       “We’ll get through this, Joe. I promise. We will.” Duncan laid a hand on Joe’s shaking shoulder. The gesture stopped the unintentional fracture in Joe’s normally resolute faÁade, but did little to ease his mind.
       “She doesn’t seem so charitable, Mac. Had I been judge and jury back then, I would have gladly given consent for his death. But now, I…”
       “I know. I know, Joe. We know a different man. She doesn’t. She only knows the past between them. She’s refused to move beyond and I can’t even say I blame her. Your records of that time are sketchy at best. Anything you know, you got from Methos. Hardly a objective account. If it hadn’t been for Kronos’ hope for another Apocalypse, we wouldn’t even know that much.”
       “But he did save her life in Bordeaux. That should count for something.”
       “It will.”
       Joe nodded, placing all hope for it in the hands of Duncan MacLeod. He left the house in a darkness that matched the moonless night. He would stay close and pray there was no quickening.
       When Duncan returned to the room, Methos was still on his knees with a sword at his throat. Cassandra’s right hand held antiquity while her left hand held the 21st century as she pressed the buttons of a cell phone and brought it to her ear. She spoke too softly to make her conversation clear to either man. Methos was sure he didn’t want to know what she was saying, but Duncan was curious and moved closer.
       The phone snapped shut and Cassandra casually replaced it in her pocket, stopping short Duncan’s approach.
       “Now we wait,” she said, confident in her power over the two men who had no choice but to do whatever she commanded. “Duncan, free Methos.”
       Duncan moved slowly toward the table that held the keys and handcuffs Joe had removed earlier on. So much of him wanted to strike out and stop this madness. He kept his impulses in check as he bent to remove the ankle cuff from a quiet Methos. Neither man looked at the other. Too much wanted to be said and none of it could change the coming events.
       “Methos, cuff Duncan to that chair.”
       “What the hell…?” spat Duncan.
       Methos shook his head. This was not good. This was not good at all. He did what she said, silently cursing MacLeod for putting them both in this present predicament. This would only get worse and the Highlander would soon find out what his damn meddling generated. Duncan had no idea how bad this was going to get. Methos foolishly thought he did know and that propelled his movements as he roughly wrapped the chain that had bound his ankle around Duncan’s waist twice and then secured the larger cuff to his wrists behind his back.   The cuff barely encircled both of Duncan’s wrists, leaving no room for movement. He was quickly loosing feeling as the blood circulation was being dammed by the tight constriction. His hands would soon be numb and blue. Methos removed each boot and sock with a jerk, cuffing each ankle to a back leg of the chair, making sure that Duncan would be good and uncomfortable. It worked as the cuffs bit into bared ankles and drew blood. Duncan, angered with the situation, was more angered by the man-handling. Methos finally looked into his eyes and stilled the anger therein with a look that said the meddling Scot’s days would have been numbered had he any choice in the matter. Duncan looked away.
       Cassandra watched the two men wordlessly do battle. Methos turned to see her smile. It was cold and venomous. Methos resumed his supplicant posture without direction and was granted another smile. That one cut into him like fire.
       With the Highlander restrained and Methos in his place, Cassandra confidently moved toward the breakfront and poured herself a brandy. She let the amber liquid warm to her touch and sipped slowly, enjoying more the scenario before her than the slide of the drink as it heated her throat with its passing. Seductively, she sipped again watching Methos as he struggled to swallow what little moisture his heated anger left in his mouth. She sidled up to him and held the rim of the glass to his mouth.
       “Would you like a drink, Methos?”
       Methos didn’t answer. The sword at Duncan’s throat persuaded him to decide otherwise.
       “I could use one,” he answered hoarsely.
       Again she smiled and poured the rest of the brandy onto the blade’s tip, watching as it coated the steel with rivulets of the pungent liquor. She rested the blade on his bottom lip and said, “Lick it.”
       This time he swallowed dry. He closed his eyes, parted his lips and let his tongue take the lead, trying desperately to disengage any pride left to him. He needn’t have bothered. He had none to release. Cassandra twisted the blade so that the edge bit into his tongue. The brandy quickly found the opening and added sting to the pain. What a team.
       Duncan watched, slowly beginning to realize what Methos and Joe had known all along.
He tried once again to intercede for Methos. He was rewarded with a gag. Methos made sure it was good and tight.
       Through the curtained window to his right, Methos saw the veiled lights of a car slowly make their way up the drive, stop and go out. With the coordinated turn of heads, Duncan and Cassandra let him know an Immortal was approaching. Methos’ first concern was Duncan’s obvious vulnerability.   Duncan instinctively tried to free himself. His effort was rewarded with cut wrists and ankles that bled from the strain.
       Two men entered the room without preamble. The first, a large man dressed in black from head to foot, surveyed the room and its occupants. His long coat did little to hide his bulk, but worked well enough to swallow up the sword he was holding as he determined no threat present. The second man followed his lead and secreted his sword as well.
       “You’re way to early for Mardi Gras, Cassandra,” said the man in black with a heavily accented voice. Methos groaned. Another damned Scot.
       “Thank you for coming, Ian. Hello, Richard.”
       Both men nodded while taking in the intriguing vision of one man on his knees and another bound and gagged. Ian walked over to Duncan and ran his fingers through the long unfettered hair. Duncan jerked his head back and Ian turned toward Cassandra with a puzzled look on his face.
       “Not him, Ian. He’s just the audience. As I recall, you do like an audience.”
       “And a captive one at that.” His laugh was rich and deep. “Too bad. He’s a pretty one. Maybe later?”
       Richard took his turn petting Duncan. His fingertips proprietarily traveled the length of Duncan’s jaw line. The Highlander twisted as far away as possible to avoid the trespass, which continued despite his best effort. He growled. Richard backhanded him with restrained force, hoping later to have the time to teach him some manners. Methos tensed, but held his attack at bay. It would do neither of them any good.
       Their combined attention turned to Methos and the chill of their gazes made the ancient shiver. Methos knew then what was coming. He’d been on the receiving end of that look a hundred or more times in his long life. It had become a part of him long before its infamous introduction to Cassandra and later to Sara. Jumbled, long forgotten memories were as cold as the eyes that now took him in. Ian’s boots hit the floor solidly as he made his way to stand before Methos. Richard took a place behind the kneeling man.
       Silently and quickly, he dedicated a portion of his participation to his desire to be immortal again. A small portion was to abate Cassandra’s need for vengeance. Some of it went to Sara. The remaining sum, the largest ration, was to keep Duncan alive so that once this was over…and he prayed silently to any god who might now be observing man’s inhumanity to man, to please let it be over quickly and in his favor…he would kill the meddling Highland bastard himself. Perhaps, more than once.
       The stage was set and the nightmare began.
       I will survive. I’ve been through this before. I will survive. Methos said the mantra over and over. The thick hand stroking his face fought fiercely with the rhythm of his prayers and rent them savagely from Methos’ mind. His focus would soon be redirected by the agony of what was to follow.
       “Stand up,” Ian commanded. He watched like a bird of prey as Methos found his footing. Methos’ breath was shallow as he waited for his next move to be directed. The next move, however, belonged to Richard. With peripheral vision, Methos saw the knife come around the right side of his face. He then felt it come to rest at the pulse point of his neck. He tried to swallow, but couldn’t. He heard MacLeod’s muffled shout, but remained still. He felt Cassandra’s triumph in the heat that raced through his body. The knife began to move, slicing through the knit weave of his sweater and finding flesh on which to feed. Slowly the blade traveled down his chest and stopped at his waist. Blood trickled down the line of demarcation and pooled in his navel. He bit his tongue to hold back a moan. It was far too early in the game.
       “Take it off for me,” murmured Ian. His gaze was wicked and predatory.
       Ian pressed close to Methos. He was barely an inch taller than Methos, but clearly outweighed him by twenty pounds. Ian’s breath washed over Methos’ face and added further heat to the shame that had already staked its claim. As Methos shakily tried to accomplish his task, Ian’s licentious lips brushed Methos’, teasing and telling. Without stopping to embark on an invasion of Methos’ mouth, his impertinent mouth continued down the front of him, licking at the trail of blood. With a feral slurp, he consumed the remaining blood at his belly. Methos shuddered.
       When the sweater lay at their feet, the man in black tapped the metal button at the waistband of Methos’ jeans.
       “Next,” he said with a smirk.
       Methos bowed his head and sucked in air, though for the life of him he didn’t know why. He truly didn’t want to breath anymore. Immortality was becoming questionable as well. He couldn’t hear Duncan breathing and guessed that the boy scout was finally catching on. Bloody Christ, MacLeod. Joe tried to tell you. I tried to tell you.
       Maddeningly, his fingers fumbled with the metal buttons. Apparently, Ian found his trial amusing for he laughed heartily. But only for a short time. His sword was poised and willing to help. Methos quickly finished and kicked the jeans over to join his disemboweled sweater. He should have been chilled in his near-naked condition, but the heat of his humiliation warmed him through. The last vestige of concealment fell away along with any hope that this would go other than it would.
       And so it began. The tricks and techniques returned to him sporadically, but once recalled pleased the men who commanded the pleasure of his mouth and body. Early on he stopped thinking about Duncan being privy to his debasement and concentrated only on doing what he was told to survive. Always to survive. As the pain and degradation increased, he searched desperately for that part of him that acknowledged neither a physical or an emotional existence. He hadn’t needed it for such a long time and he was afraid he would never find it. Moreover, he was afraid he didn’t deserve to find it. As he was penetrated and torn apart, his screams chased away any hope for salvation and confirmed his unworthiness from a very vivid, but lonely awareness.
       The dark pair left in silence having concluded the orchestration of Methos’ laments. The din of discipline ceased with his fourth unconsciousness. Cassandra’s only concession to them having been there was to shut the door behind them. Methos’ body could testify in a hundred different ways.
       She walked over to Methos who had too quickly regained awareness of time and space. His breathing was erratic and harsh, making his attempt at verbal abuse feeble and weak. Cassandra was well acquainted with his struggle to sink back into the oblivion that would eradicate the pain and humiliation, having made the journey at his behest more times than she cared to remember. She knew that as long as there was a spark of life left, it was impossible to get there. Ian and Richard were experts at what they did and leaving the slightest ember of life to smolder helped to indelibly brand Methos’ soul.
       She observed him for a long time, taking in the bruising and dried blood. She was convinced he knew now how it had been for her when he took her as his slave and later handed her over to Kronos, listened to her screams, and did nothing. Then did it again. And again.
       She turned to Duncan and what she saw brought a wicked grin to her face. Duncan was unaware until that moment that the discomfort he was feeling was evident to anyone other than him and his head hung heavy with shame. Bound as he was, there was no concealing the clear evidence of his need. His body was blatantly obvious in its traitorous reaction to Methos’ violations. He raised his head and tried to plead with Cassandra, letting his eyes speak for him. Beg for him.   His moans added nothing to his petitions. Never breaking eye contact with Duncan, she spoke.
       “Methos.” She called his name and it dully registered in his brain. She gave him only seconds to respond. The second summons was accompanied by her blade. He felt the jab and was jerked further into the here and now. An errant groan escaped his lips before he had the wherewithal to stifle it. He rose to his hands and knees shakily, very much aware of his vulnerability and nakedness. She left Duncan to confront his growing alarm and turned toward Methos.
       “I believe Duncan needs your attention,” she said languidly, pushing his face with the flat of her blade to better take in the view.
       “Bloody Christ, MacLeod.”
       Duncan shook his head frantically and tried to explain everything and nothing through the gag. While his garbled words resembled no known verbal language, his body language was eloquent. Methos knew the Scot was proficient in the spoken language of guilt, but was mildly surprised that his body conveyed the emotion like a second skin and with such mastery.
       “You know what to do, Methos,” said Cassandra coldly.
       Methos looked at her incredulously. He needed time to think. He couldn’t put Duncan through it. Bloody hell, he didn’t want to go through it. Every part of his body ached and would continue to hurt without Immortal healing. He could barely walk from the injuries the two men inflicted. Looking, touching and taking Duncan was not an option he saw for himself now or in the future, although he seriously doubted now that there would be a future.   He needed rest. He wanted death. He bowed his head and coughed up blood. The spasm took several minutes to exhaust itself and him. His shaky arms barely held him up as he gasped, trying to gain breath in which to speak.
       “Please, Cassandra, just get it over with,” he pleaded softly. “Please.” He begged for his death. She had other plans.
       Determined to continue Methos’ torment, Cassandra walked the short distance to Duncan and brandished her sword high in a swift and sweeping arch. Duncan tensed his muscles in anticipation of the blow. In the nanoseconds before contact, he locked eyes with Methos and silently asked forgiveness for his betrayal. He had no time to unravel the flashing bits of fire in the hazel eyes as Methos took action. Drawing reserved strength from nowhere he knew existed, he lunged. He managed to grab her wrist and stop the sword’s intended death wielding descent.
       In the aftermath of the save, Duncan would have collapsed in a heap were it not for the chains that held him to the chair. Cassandra stood stiff and unrelenting while she waited for Methos to do what he knew he had to and to release his grip.   The adrenaline that had fueled Methos now drained from him as did the blood from his face. He let go and dropped to his knees in front of Duncan.
       He did not look up. He did not speak.   His anger was beyond sight and sound. His hands moved mechanically as he prepared Duncan for his mouth. Duncan struggled to escape the invasion, but did little more than prolong the time it took Methos to release him from his jeans. Duncan tried to breathe. The gag filtered the chilled air he drew in and heated it to fill his lungs with fire. Meanwhile, Methos set a fire of his own.
       Duncan became dead still. All senses were heightened by his panic. His flesh sparked where Methos introduced his hands, mouth and tongue. Heated by the closeness of Methos, blood used to flush Duncan’s cheeks reassigned itself to a more strategic area. Methos continued his rough and punishing trespass as Duncan adjusted both body and soul to the attack. The torment of the deed and the damning pleasure it elicited ripped at the fabric of Duncan’s tightly woven standard of moral and ethical conduct. His turncoat body thrust hungrily forward, unrestrained by rationale thought while the part of him that could still reason agonized, only briefly, over his carnal need and the damage he was inflicting.
       Duncan exploded with a wash of wanton pleasure. The floodgate, however, was left open to other emotions as remorse, mortification and self-loathing followed in spasmodic waves. Both men fell away from the dishonorable union. Duncan closed his eyes, laid his head against the back of the chair and groaned his contrition. Over and over. Methos sat back on his heels, refusing to make eye contact with any living thing. He took in air that was filled with the scent of Duncan’s debauchery. They unknowingly took on the cadence of each other’s breathing while working to bring themselves to a place that did not hurt so damn much. Neither found it as neither felt entitled.
       The sound of her voice brought them to instant alertness.
       “Dress him,” she commanded. Hands that no longer seemed attached to his body moved methodically as he jerked Duncan’s hips up by the waistband of his jeans so that he could begin to close the fly one button at a time. Duncan remained still as Methos struggled to align each button and move on to the next. Without permission, Methos’ skin began to acknowledge the feel of rough jean material, the smooth surface of each button, the coolness of the metal snap at Duncan’s waist and the heat of the body now safely hidden beneath.
       The redressing gave Duncan back some measure of dignity. For Methos, it was powerful and seductive. He moved away quickly trying to disengage from the pull of depravity that raged within him. The ancient demons taunted him with memories of his acceptance of the darkness that lay within all beings. He had been tempted and the malignancy triumphed many times over the centuries. His teachers had been thorough in releasing that part of him and cruel in its introduction. For a long time he gave as he got, learning only by grace of longevity and the influence of principle and morality that the iniquity was just one part of him. There lay within an equal measure of compassion. The age old struggle of good over evil was not his alone to bear, although at the moment he felt it was. He’d lost to the dark power more times than not. If tested now, he wasn’t sure he had the strength to fight his old enemy.
       “Release him.” Another command given. Another torture to endure for to touch Duncan again was almost beyond his endurance.
       With emotions electrified by the night’s events, Cassandra read Methos’ hesitation as willful defiance, the final straw. Her consuming hatred became incendiary, imploding emotions long suppressed in order to function in a life that was fashioned so cruelly by the man that defied her now. Powered by that hatred and thousands of years of calculated revenge, her impetuous response was to take his head. But that would have ended it too soon. Too soon. Regaining tenuous control over her impulse to end his life, she instead callously lashed out at him, sliced deep into his side, twisted and withdrew a bloody blade. Methos clutched the gaping wound in agony. Blood abandoned his b