Methos, circling in the trampled clearing beside the stable, was losing his battle.

They had been surprised when the truckload of hay was delivered early. But the paperwork was in order and the girls had let the driver in completely unaware that he was harboring an immortal in the bales of sweet alfalfa. It wasn�t until the men arrived back from a grocery run and to pick up a shipment of antiques for Connor, that the immortal had shown himself.

Rugged and handsome, with eyes that burned in fury, he leveled an ancient blade at Methos and shouted in an unknown tongue. Methos rolled his eyes at the drama and smiled his smug smile � then went off to fight.

And was losing. Badly. There was something amiss in his sword-work, as if the very weight of the Ivanhoe was heavier. His blows were quick, but fell at the end instead of striking true. The greatcoat flapped soddenly and every flick threw an arc of blood that pattered across the trampled grass. He fought grimly on, his mouth a gash of color in a pale face.

Duncan and Connor, twenty yards away, could not interfere.

Dodge, thrust, parry, counterstroke, advance, horizontal block, retreat. Duncan took in his friend�s footwork as he did every day when they sparred all together. How many mornings had he observed the swift Richie try to best the ROG? All the laughter and catcalls back and forth from the eldest immortal and the zesty young one. The making bets on who would bleed first, who would yell first, who would have to clean the others sword�

How many times had he watched Methos match pace with Connor? How many mornings had he watched the elder Highlander, both age 18 and age 483, push to his very limits � only for both of them to end deadlocked over crossed swords, leaning on each other to keep from falling down. Then swigging beers to cool off, telling ribald jokes just to see Duncan blush�

And how many times had he watched those eyes over that sharp face, trying by brute strength to get through Methos� quick footwork and deadly sword strokes himself? The grins and grimaces, the barbed quips in that fond familiar accent � and sometimes Duncan won and sometimes Duncan lost. And sometimes they leaned on each other in the center and heard Connor�s triple chuckle of amusement from the sidelines at the two of them.

Now, it came down to this sweltering muggy day in the torn grass and the blood that cried from the ground.

�He�s mine, Connor,� Duncan said with a deadly voice. �When this is over, that bastard is MINE!�

�Something�s wrong in that fight, kinsman.� Connor was watching Methos� pattern of sword work too. �The Ivanhoe twists for his legs instead of the body like it should � like he�s strapped MRI magnets or something to his calves, drawing the blade down.�

�Even if it�s trickery, we can�t interfere.�

�You think I don�t know?� the elder Scot snarled in a voice so savage that it made Duncan flinch slightly.

This is as hard to watch for him as it is for me, the darker man reminded himself internally. Connor and Methos had formed a united front to tease both Richie and me. He doesn�t trust many and now he�s losing another friend. Double, triple damn!

�Where�s lahoffy?�

�lahoffy?� returned Duncan sidelong, unable to tear his eyes away from the shrill clash of swords.

�You stay here.� Connor pivoted and swung away, but after a few steps, he whirled back to face his younger counterpart. �If that A-hole wins, give him my regards too!�

Then the elder man was running, coatless, sword in hand and his sleeves rolled up in preparation for wrestling bales of hay into the loft. Down, down, down the long path the horses took for carrots at his window, past the chain link fence at the pool � vanishing around the corner of the potting house.

�lahoffy!� Connor�s shout echoed through the covered porch and down the hallway.

�Wha�?� sounded the startled response. lahoffy, bare-armed herself and cranking a reluctant can opener, was in the kitchen surrounded by a host of mewling cats.

�There�s a fight. Go!� He batted the open can of tuna away and it bounced and rolled, scattering fish across the floor. The cats scrambled for the tidbits. �To the barn. There�s something wrong!�

�B-but�b-but�� she spluttered and then was running, pulled along by one wrist, following in the wake of the Highlander towing her. A fight? Where? Who? Something wrong? But � I�m just a mortal! her chaotic thoughts tumbled as she ran.

The horizon jumped and bounced. The sun was in her eyes. One of her tennis shoes flew off. Her hair was in her face and she smelled like tuna, but the raw emotion in Connor MacLeod, conveyed through the death grip on her wrist and the straight line of his run, made everything else negligible.

She registered the scene in slow motion: the bales of hay tumbled like blocks off the bed of the truck. Duncan, legs spread in his classic ready stance, the sword glistening deadly in his hands. His was the face of a widow maker and death was in his eyes.

The grass was trampled and black with blood. Methos was struggling to remain on his feet, his beautiful dance with the sword corrupted down to methodical chopping that barely kept his opponent at bay. It was obvious even to her untrained eyes that the immortal was dying on his feet.

�B-but,� lahoffy sputtered, aghast at the terrible scene.

Connor leveled a long arm and one finger, pointing. �Something�s amiss with that fight! Methos is going to lose! And we can�t help!�

The ROG was down, head thrown back in a paroxysm of pain and gripping one thigh. He turned his head away from his opponent, just a glance to see Duncan MacLeod standing like a thundercloud�waiting�and then he nodded and faced his final moment. Sneering, even at the end.

No one, save Connor, expected lahoffy, however. All of her rage, all of her devious streak�the inspiration for midnight rides behind Richie on his motorcycle at midnight and screaming like a schoolgirl at rock concerts�came to the fore. Furiously, she tore the halo off the top of her head and slung it with all her strength, spitting obscenities like knife points after it. �You bloody bastard! I�m going to carve you in steaks for the FELINES if you take him!�

ZZZ-III-NNNGGGGG! sounded the halo, traveling at high velocity, the air below the beveled edge lifting it slightly. It sailed, a golden blur, in an unwavering line and went sneckkk when it struck. A bright wedge of white appeared on the attacking immortal�s forehead and his eyes went wide and blank below it. In a second, the wedge filled with blood and it streamed crimson down across the stunned face. Ker-WHUP, he fell prostrate.

�METHOS! NOW!� shouted Duncan.

Wounded badly, dying, the ROG had just enough strength to rise to one knee and swing the Ivanhoe like an axe. He chopped through the neck with one desperate blow before collapsing again.

lahoffy was still frizzing the air with dangerous invectives when Connor and Duncan hauled her by both arms away from the scene. It was only when the lightning started that she jerked out of her motorcycle-mama persona and assisted with the retreat. They stared at the light show and then frowned as the barn roof caught some embers that smoked and sputtered into miniature fires. The windows of the truck blew out and the radiator spewed hot steam. Connor was calculating the insurance money in his head. Duncan was eyeing lahoffy. lahoffy was watching the tendrils of energy shuffle from one body to the other out in the open field.

�Connor?� �Yes, Duncan?�

�Did you know she could do that � that � halo thing?�

�You just thought she was a regular angel all this time?� He looked a little surprised at the younger immortal. �I didn�t think you were that na�ve. Haven�t you heard of Hell�s Angels?�

MacNairCDC
August 14, 2001

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