Based on a challenge by Lore Krajsman

Disclaimer:  They're not mine, and unfortunately never will be.  Rysher and Panzer have that honor.  I don't make any money, and it's all in fun, folks.

Rated: PG-13 for non-descriptive violence, a not-very-nice story content, and a few little four letter words.

Very loosely based on the episodes "Comes A Horseman" and "Revelation 6:8", as well as several of the other Methos episodes.

A thousand thanks to Shar for doing the beta for this, to Lore for the inspiration and the initial read-through, and to Selinthia for all her wonderful comments.

==================
Redeeming the Fellowship
by Verin Haley

The Horsemen came together a thousand years ago in blood and brotherhood.  They terrorized the world, changing and evolving with it.  Their influence in the world gradually waned as technology advanced until their efforts were limited almost entirely to subversive terrorist attacks.  Although no authority -- mortal or Immortal -- successfully stood against them, and few who tried survived, their power was still limited.  This sat ill with Kronos, their leader; total domination alone would satisfy him.  His plans were based out of the city of Paris, part time residence of Duncan MacLeod.  By nature, he will fight them.  By nature, they will stand against him, united.

****

Duncan MacLeod first met the man he knew as Adam Pierson in the church formerly inhabited by Darius.  As he climbed the ancient stone steps of the church, the familiar sensation of an Immortal presence swept through him.  The tingling alarm carried with it the sickening, unreasonable hope that perhaps Darius was still alive, that all Duncan's life since that day in the church -- when he had found Darius' mutilated body -- had been a nightmare.  In his mind, Darius would smile kindly, tease him for being too superstitious about his dreams, and dismiss the past as a ghost of what had never been.  He watched the worn doors, but the illogical fantasy shattered when no brown robed form met him.  He chided himself for submitting to a false illusion so readily and entered the well known halls, searching warily for the unknown Immortal.  Duncan found the man in the sanctuary.

The stranger stood leaning against one of the room's pillars, his back to the door.  He faced the alter, but turned with casual disdain as Duncan entered.  His dark hair was close cropped, his form trim and athletic.  His trendy, dark leather trench coat was open and the clothing underneath was expensively tailored.  He smiled faintly when he saw Duncan, but the expression was not particularly open or welcoming.

"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," Duncan introduced himself, wondering about the unknown man.

"The Highlander, yes.  I know who you are," came the reply.  The smile never left his face.  "I'm Adam Pierson."

"I've never heard of you," Duncan commented.

"No, you wouldn't have," Adam agreed, shifting uneasily, his gaze lighting briefly on the doorway behind Duncan before resting again on Duncan.  "I'm not much for playing the Game."

"We have no quarrel, then," Duncan stated, relaxing.

"I should hope not," Adam commented blandly.  There was silence as they studied each other.  Duncan wondered what the other man saw.  His expression never lost that amused, calm unreadability.

"Are you meeting someone?"  Duncan asked at length, wanting to know more about this enigma and curious as well about that single, brief glance at the door.

"No," Adam answered with a shrug.  "I was coming to pay my respects to the memory of an old friend."  Duncan felt a sudden kinship with this man who shared the loss of Darius.

"Darius was a friend of yours?"  Duncan inquired, not especially surprised.  Adam nodded agreeably.

"We knew each other.  Are you a student of his, then?"  There seemed, for a moment, to be more to the question than simple politeness.

"No.  Even though I respected him, Darius and I didn't see eye to eye on many things," Duncan explained candidly.  "I never could lay down my sword."  In the end, it hadn't helped Darius much either.  His killers may have been mortal, but he was dead all the same.  Sorrow rose up at the memory of his friend.  Perhaps if Darius had been elsewhere . . . but perhaps then he would be dead at another Immortal's hands instead.  Adam seemed oblivious to Duncan's preoccupation.

"Ahh," he acknowledged softly.  He appeared pleased by the answer, but Duncan couldn't imagine why he would be.  Nor did he have a chance to question the elusive man.  "I should be going," Adam excused himself abruptly.  "Why don't you look me up sometime?"  he asked, handing Duncan a card out of his coat pocket.  It read 'Adam Pierson, President of E.I.C.' and listed an address along with several telephone numbers.  Duncan pocketed the card, wondering even more about the mysterious man.  E.I.C. was a well known company that dealt with shipping grain. Whoever Adam Pierson was, he was rich and probably didn't have much by the way of responsibility in the company.

Methos walked past Duncan and left the church, meeting Kronos on his way in.

"Brother," Kronos greeted him.  "Going somewhere?"  Methos leaving the church without him was unexpected.

"Anywhere but here," Methos retorted dryly, halting near the shorter man.  "Your dear old friend Duncan MacLeod is in there."

"MacLeod," Kronos repeated.  His eyes gleamed in anticipation as he studied the doors.  "Why didn't you say so immediately?  We have old business to take care of, he and I."  Kronos moved toward the church, but Methos stopped him with a light touch on his arm.

"Not now," Methos instructed with a slight shake of his head.  "We have new business to care for first.  MacLeod can wait," Methos insisted.  Kronos did not need to be distracted while they were planning.

Kronos stared at the doors for a long moment, then nodded his agreement.  "MacLeod can wait."

They turned away from the church and walked in companionable silence.

"Have they agreed to meet?"  Methos asked at length.

"Yes, eventually.  They're wary."  Methos could see his brother's silent laughter.

"They should be," Methos replied with a nasty grin.

"They want me to come alone, as well."  Methos nodded slowly.

"Unsurprising, but you can handle yourself, even if I'm not there to watch your back.  Hell knows I haven't had to baby-sit you in five hundred years."

"Baby-sit," Kronos snorted in disgust.  "You have a sick sense of humor, brother."

"So I've been told.  Lunch?"  Methos studied Kronos out of the corner of his eye.  It was possible Kronos would insist they work straight through the meal.  Methos admired Kronos' dedication to his cause, but his brother could be annoyingly single minded.

Kronos nodded, to Methos' amazement.  "The usual place," the younger agreed.

"We're getting predictable," Methos commented.  There was warning in that statement.

"Wait," Kronos retorted, lowering his voice.  "When we unleash the dark fires of chaos, there will be no need for unpredictability.  Soon, Methos, soon all the world will fall at our feet once more."

Methos snorted.  "They never were at our feet, Kronos."  Dangerous anger snapped in Kronos' eyes.  He hated to be contradicted.  "Don't be a fool, Kronos," Methos spat softly, cutting off any retort before it could be made.  "As much as you would love to think otherwise, we were no more than bandits, outlaws the authorities couldn't be troubled to deal with.  This will not always be the case, but for now, your little terrorist operation is the modern day version of that.  Whatever we can be, it's not what we have been."

Kronos glared at him, tempted to draw his blade on the arrogant elder.  Their blood oath forbid it, however, so he settled for the glare.

"They feared us," he snarled.  "We were legends."

"Yes," Methos said with enigmatic cool.  "They also feared Jack the Ripper, and he was only mortal.  We are no more than a bedtime story."

Kronos sneered angrily, knowing Methos was only trying to get a rise out of him.  From the chill smirk on his face, Methos knew he had succeeded.  Bastard.

"That expression doesn't suit Charles Grayne," Methos pointed out.  "Mild-mannered government worker indeed."

Kronos smoothed his expression, knowing that his brother was right and that he couldn't afford to have his cover blown yet -- they needed his connections in customs for Methos' business to do them any good smuggling -- but his eyes still sparked lethal power.

Methos was slightly surprised the entire cafe didn't freeze over under Kronos' malignant stare.  He sat, hiding his smile.  It wouldn't do to press Kronos too far.  He took a seat at one of the corner tables.  From there, with his back to a wall, he could watch the entire room.  Kronos emulated the gesture, and they ordered a quick meal.

"Do you remember how we started out, brother?"  Kronos asked idly.  Methos knew from experience the question was not as idle as it appeared.

"Two amateurs," Methos reminisced, "we started out so pathetically small.  A few burglaries, an occasional robbery."

"Do you remember the first time we killed together?"  The half closed eyes and gentle smile belied the cruelty of the remark.

Methos laughed.  "We didn't even intend to kill him.  A bloody accident."

"No limits," Kronos murmured.  "After that, there was nothing we couldn't do.  This, what we are now, is a shadow of what we should be.  What we can be, if we bring this world to its knees.  Chaos, Methos, anarchy.  We thrive on it.  It's what we are."

Methos' response was cut short by a loudly escalating conversation at a nearby table.  Methos glanced, irritated, in the direction of the three men holding a heated -- and now rather loud -- conversation.

"They're monsters, I tell you," the first man half-shouted.

"No one's saying they aren't," the second replied.  "But they're only men, no matter what kind of masks or myths they hide behind."

Kronos studied his companion, who was now studying the other table raptly.  The mischievous, predatory tension in the dark haired man's form alerted Kronos.  Methos was up to something.

"They're more than that!  These people have taken over and corrupted the very subconscious of our culture, and they've done it for a thousand years!  People are terrified to sleep at night because they wonder whether they'll make it through the night.
These self-styled 'Four Horsemen' have proven their willingness to bomb the public school of a small, nowhere town, and
why?  Simply because they can."  The man rose from his seat while speaking, flailing his arms emphatically, while his companion watched in alarm.

Before Kronos could act, Methos had made his move.  The elder Horsemen moved to the speaker's side and grabbed him gently by the arm.  The man was so shocked by the unexpected contact that he allowed himself to be steered back to his seat.
Methos pulled up a chair next to him and leaned back with insolent casualty.

"The Horsemen, my friend, understand drama," Methos began without preamble.  There was no animosity to been seen, and Kronos again admired his brother's ability to act.

"What do you mean?" the stranger asked.  He was confused, but curious as well what this stranger would say.

"They are utilizing the first rule of drama, friend." Methos paused for emphasis.  "Start small, then build."  The man nodded slowly, entranced by this impromptu explanation.  "They are feared because their attacks have no reason.  A high tech company is as likely to be a target as that school you mentioned.  No one is safe; there is no sanctuary."  Methos paused.  "They will not stop unless they are stopped.  And so far, nothing has successfully come against them.  Right, brother?"

Kronos met his brother's steady gaze, unconcerned about being the new center of attention.  "Nothing," he agreed, deciding to play along.

"They are the most successful terrorist group in the history of the world," Methos stated, patting the stranger's arm in camaraderie that almost could have been genuine.  "They have instituted themselves so firmly into the history, mythology, and instinctual terror of every culture in the world that the effects will echo until the end of time."  Methos' quick, almost imperceptible glance toward Kronos caused Kronos to chuckle under his breath.  Methos was playing the line of truth very narrowly.

"But it can't be them," the man protested.  "No one lives that long.  It must be their descendants, taking up where the former Horsemen left off.  Something!  No one lives for a thousand years."

"Perhaps those who have a strong enough desire will never lose the will to live.  Death is one of the four."  The man stared at Methos, shaken by the casually spoken words, even if he couldn't explain why.

"But they stop!  Every fifty years or so the Horsemen vanish, and reappear ten years later."  The man stated the idea as if it were irrefutable logic.  Methos yawned pointedly, his evident mock-boredom lost on his audience of one.

"So they take a vacation.  Terrorizing the world is a strenuous job."  His flippancy went unappreciated, except by Kronos.  Methos sat upright in his chair abruptly, his expression now gravely serious.  "They have lasted a thousand years, my man, and they will last a thousand more."  He finished gently.  "People like us, friend, don't stand a chance."   With a kindly smile, Methos stood and returned to his seat next to his brother.  Reluctantly, the rest of the cafe lost attention now that the speech was obviously over.

"Bravo, Methos.  I feel enlightened.  You haven't lost your touch.  Still lulling the populace with sweet words.  I knew there was a reason you were our PR man."

Methos smirked.  Kronos must be in a rare good mood to joke.  "Slight good that understanding will do them," he stated, relaxing back into the chair.  "Most of them will have forgotten what I said by the time we leave this charming little establishment.  The rest will wonder, and fear."

"Fear," Kronos breathed.  "They always fear us.  It doesn't change, brother.  Nothing ever does; not them, and not us."  Methos nodded slightly.  If he thought differently, it didn't show in his face.  They finished the meal in silence, and returned to the base.

Silas and Caspian thought the story was hilarious.  Kronos insisted on telling it as soon as they returned and Methos had no option but to agree to the telling with good humor.

"So Methos informed the man that we were simply doing what actors do . . . drama," Kronos gasped out, trying to speak through his laughter.  Silas and Caspian were equally incapacitated by Kronos' rendition of the events.  Methos found his brothers' reactions far more amusing than Kronos' somewhat distorted view of the events, but as long as he was grinning, his brothers would assume he was laughing with them, not at them.

"Methos always did enjoy preaching to the weak," Caspian jibed.  Methos shrugged, refusing to rise to the taunt.

"It gets more entertaining.  The man simply sat there, right next to the one of the men he'd just been raving about, and believed every word Methos told him.  And Methos just sat there -- with that 'humane' poker face of his -- and kindly explained to the man about us.  One of the Horsemen, and he never had a clue!"

Kronos seemed to find that particularly entertaining.  That the man listened to one of the Horsemen explain the Horsemen themselves -- and never realized it -- sparked gales of helpless laughter.

"At least it shut the bugger up," Methos rationalized.  "I didn't particularly want to listen to some mortal rant and rave about how terribly evil we are.  Self-righteous bullshit is distracting.  And not to ruin your fun, Kronos, but we are here to hear about your business, not about our lunch."

"Come, Methos, life is to be enjoyed," Kronos drawled, leaning back and kicking his legs up on the circular table.

"I'll enjoy knowing the details of our next raid," Methos declared pointedly.  "What happened before you met up with me?"

"They're being cagey, as usual," Kronos replied, annoyance tingeing his voice.  He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.  "It's tempting to go in and take what we need."  He examined Methos' face closely as he voiced the idea.

"Not from the Tiger's Claw," Methos said adamantly.  "We don't need Chinese terrorist after us.  Besides, dealing with them would set us back too far."  Methos knew that last argument would sway Kronos to his viewpoint.  Kronos despised setbacks.

"We aren't getting anywhere now," Kronos pointed out.

"There are other channels available to get the virus," Methos retorted logically.  "Killing a few hundred mortals would be costly, time consuming, and far too public.  It would be more fun, but less efficient."

Kronos shrugged.  "We do it your way then, brother."  He half closed his eyes lazily and changed the subject.  "So you met Duncan MacLeod today."

Methos nodded, wondering where this was going.

"So what did you think of him?"  Kronos continued.

"I didn't have much of a chance to get an impression.  He seemed very honorable."

"His kind usually are," Kronos laughed harshly.  "Chivalrous bastards."

Methos half-smiled.  "That he is.  Probably hasn't changed from when you met up with him during that 'vacation' in the eighteen hundreds.  He was amusing, in a infantile way.  He asked if I knew Darius."

"What did you tell him?" Kronos asked with interest.

Methos laughed silently.  "Yes."

Kronos grinned in delight.  "I'm sure he assumed it was during Darius' good and altruistic stage. You play 'Adam Pierson' far too easily."

Methos lowered his eyes in mock-humility.  "One does one's best," he said demurely.  Kronos almost fell out of his chair laughing.

"You missed your calling.  You should have been an actor."  Methos smirked cagily and declined to point out that a large part of acting was being able to convince himself that he was what he appeared to be.  Somehow, he didn't think Kronos would appreciate hearing that.  Kronos was, after all, smart enough to reason out that the longer a person pretended to be something, the greater the chance was that he would become it.  Methos walked that line every day.  Yet how could one man -- even a man like Duncan MacLeod -- change him?

****

Life caught up to Duncan, and for two weeks he didn't have the opportunity to take Adam Pierson up on his invitation.  A lull in his schedule left him with an open lunch break and an inexplicable desire to learn more about the mysterious acquaintance of Darius.  He dialed the office number he'd been given and was informed that Adam had been waiting for his call.  He waited as he was referred through.  Adam sounded pleased that he had called, and agreed to have lunch the following day.

Methos hung up the phone with an amused grin.

"What game are you playing now, Methos?"  Kronos inquired aloud, and edge to his voice.  Methos studied his brother with narrowed eyes.  Kronos had the irritating tendency to become over controlling.  He forgot that this was a partnership, and Methos was not an underling to be ordered around.  Perhaps it was time to remind him of that.

"Come now, brother," Methos said banally, leaning back in his expensive leather chair.  "I want to get to know MacLeod better."  Kronos tensed, and Methos hid his grin.  Kronos was too predictable at times.

"For what reason?" Kronos demanded.  "He would kill you.  His antiquated code of honor wouldn't allow you to live.  He's a danger, Methos."  Kronos' agitation only amused Methos more.  Duncan MacLeod might prove to be a great source of humor.  Life lost its novelty and charm all too soon for the jaundiced Immortal.

"This is not about your revenge, Kronos," Methos insisted calmly, fully intending to stretch this newest entertainment as long as he could.  Boredom lurked, even with Kronos' engaging flair for enjoying life.  The roles Methos played only improved a life where it seemed, at times, that he had seen and done everything.  "How would he find out 'what I am,' as you so charmingly put it?  I certainly have no intention of telling him.  As for why . . .  Anyone can be broken, and he does have a reputation as an excellent fighter."  Methos knew his smug smile would only irk Kronos further.

"Yes," Kronos agreed grudgingly.  "But we are four.  Why would we need another?  The entire world trembles at our feet.  You and I, Methos, we rule the world."

"You misunderstand me, brother," Methos remarked.  Predictable.  "I have no intention of adding another to our brotherhood.  Caspian and Silas will do.  MacLeod . . . MacLeod is but a challenge.  It's been too long since we've had a true challenge."  Kronos grinned, relieved and reassured, and left to deal with the Tiger's Claw once more.

Methos stood and grabbed a beer from the tiny office refrigerator.  As much as MacLeod would prefer it, Methos had no intention of allowing this to be a quiet lunch.  Quiet lunches were dangerous; they led to prying questions that just might reveal more than he wanted.  A little action -- a black and white, rescue the good guys, stop the bad guys scenario -- would make MacLeod feel good about himself and incidentally place Methos firmly as one of the 'good guys.'  An unscrupulous Immortal would work best; there would be no moral agonizing for MacLeod to gripe about later.  The Horsemen made it a habit to know which Immortals were in 'their' cities as well as a detailed history on each of them.  It was only smart to know the other Immortals' weaknesses since only Immortals alone posed a true threat to the Horsemen.  He turned on the computer and accessed the files on resident Immortals.

Kyle Hammond, perfect, Methos thought.  He was an interesting enough bastard.  Because of his sadistic streak, he tended to find Caspian's diversions far more interesting than Methos' mental games, but he was intelligent and moderately enjoyable to converse with.  He also had a thing for fine jewelry, preferably ones he didn't have to pay for.  Methos smiled in dark glee.  A
quick call sold one of his rare diamond and sapphire necklaces to a certain jewelry store located conveniently near a coffee shop.  Methos happened to know that Kyle had the mate to this particular necklace.  Only two were ever made, a stunning geometric design inlaid in white gold.  Methos hated to part with it, even temporarily, but he knew he could retrieve both necklaces easily enough once Kyle was dead.

Methos picked up the phone and dialed Kyle's current number.

"Bonjour," Kyle answered.

"Nice accent, Kyle.  You almost speak French like a native."  The sarcastic barb wasn't lost on Kyle.

"Funny, Chris," Kyle snipped, using the name he knew Methos by, the alias Methos used for all activities not on the up and up.  "To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?"  Kyle's return sarcasm was not unexpected.  He didn't take well to being baited.

"It's entirely pleasure," Methos insisted lightly.  "I was passing by this delightful little jewelry shop the other day and I noticed something you might find interesting."  Methos was stringing Kyle along, and they both knew it, but that didn't dampen
Kyle's eagerness.

"Yeah?" he inquired.

"It was a lovely little necklace.  A match, I believe, to your 'le lumiere de le mer.'"

"The other?"  Methos grinned at the surpressed eagerness in the other's reply.  The trap was baited.

"Yes," he agreed with certainty.

"What's this going to cost me?" Kyle demanded, immediately suspicious.

Methos chuckled darkly.  "Let's just say you owe me one."  There was silence on the other end of the line as Kyle made his decision.  Being in debt to one of the Horsemen or losing an eagerly sought treasure.

"All right," Kyle conceded at length.  "I want the name and the address of the store."

"I can do better than that for you.  I can give you the best time to 'retrieve' it and the security information."

Kyle laughed lowly.  "This is going to cost me, isn't it?"

"Indeed.  But I'm sure you'll find some way to make it worth my while eventually."

"I'm sure I will," Kyle agreed drolly.

Methos slouched back in satisfaction as he recited the necessary information to his bait.  Life was good.

The rest of that day and the first half of the next passed quickly once his plans were in place.  Simply anticipating the upcoming game thrilled Methos, giving life the edge that was usually dulled.  He left the office well before he needed to, eagerness making him impatient.  Lunch was casual, an unknown coffee shop with semi-decent meals and no prying eyes.  Methos arrived ten minutes before Duncan, who showed up precisely on time.  How perfect, Methos thought drolly.

"Adam," Duncan greeted him.

"Pull up a chair, Highlander," Methos invited with a nonchalant wave.  "I appreciate a man who's on time.  It makes life move so much quicker."

Duncan snorted.  "That's a problem for us," he commented, taking the assigned chair, "since we have such a limited time to live."

"Indeed," Methos agreed as Duncan sat.  "I have wasted time . . ."

". . . And now doth time waste me," Duncan finished easily.  "Shakespeare."

Methos nodded, enjoying the exchange.  As much as he enjoyed his verbal sparring with Kronos, the other didn't have much use for education and 'scholarly pursuits', as Kronos phrased it.  MacLeod, evidently, did.

"I believe someone broke my hour glass," Methos stated drolly.

"Hour glass," Duncan repeated skeptically.

"I've used one or two," Methos insisted, feigning defensiveness.  Duncan just shook his head disbelievingly.  Methos tilted his head back, studying the Highlander.  He appreciated a little healthy disbelief.  Silas would believe anything Methos told him.  Methos was very careful not to check his watch.  Kyle should be along in fifteen minutes to start the charade.

The commotion started so gradually that MacLeod didn't notice it until Methos pointed it out, his eyes bright and alive with curiosity.  Adam stood and shrugged his coat on.

"Coming?" he asked.  Duncan grinned and stood as well, dropping a few bills on the table to cover the meal and a tip.  He fell in step with Adam as the other man set a brisk pace toward the jewelry store.  The front of the store was surrounded by squad cars and the two Immortals could overhear enough to learn that the suspect was still inside, and armed.  The officers' orders were to proceed with caution; two of the police had already been shot and rushed to a the city hospital.  By the time Duncan and Methos were close enough to ask one of the officers what was going on, they were close enough to feel the mental klaxon of another Immortal.  Methos met Duncan's worried look with a feigned look of apprehension.  He knew very well what Duncan was thinking.  If the unknown Immortal had already shot twice, he wouldn't hesitate to kill any of the mortal cops.  Methos grinned inwardly.  Kyle never was one to do things subtly.

"I'll distract the cops," Methos suggested softly.  "You go in and take care of whoever it is.  We don't want any more mortals caught up in this."  Duncan nodded almost imperceptibly and Methos broke away.  A suitable distraction with the least amount of damage to public property.  That should make MacLeod happy.  The uncertainty of the confrontation -- the need to improvise -- made Methos feel unusually alive.  The risk of being caught, recognized, or revealed made the encounter that much sweeter.  The adrenaline searing his veins made all his senses hyper-alert; colors vivid enough to burn goaded his eyes; frigid air swept over his slightly parted lips, painfully burning tender skin that seemed afire; each sound echoed, clamoring for attention, and he was certain he could hear even an owl's flight had it not been a daylit city surrounding him.

Methos slipped into the alley across from the jewelry store and scaled the fire escape quickly, hauling one of the metal garbage cans with him.  He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the smell as he carefully placed the can on the roof.  Out of the many pockets in his trench coat, Methos pulled two sealed bags of chemicals.  Isolated, they were harmless; combined, they made a chemical that exploded on impact.  He mixed the two bags cautiously into the garbage can, then placed the lid back on.  He picked up the can gently and tossed it over the edge of the roof.  It wasn't as dramatic as kicking it off, but it was less likely to blow off his foot.  The can plummeted back into the alley and slammed into the ground.  The garbage can itself contained most of the force of the explosion and the damage -- though the can itself would never be the same -- but the noise was terrific.  For a few precious seconds, every head in the street was turned toward the alley.  It was long enough for Duncan to slip inside the jewelry store.

As Duncan fought Kyle inside the building, Methos slipped around to the back, which was covered by only two men.  Sloppy, Methos thought in contempt as he knocked them out.  It would have been easier to kill them, but Duncan would have hardly approved.  He made his way inside the store as the Quickening hit and found Duncan as it died.  He helped the exhausted Scot to his feet and out the back.  Not being killed while he was helpless from the Quickening would certainly inspire Duncan's trust.  As they exited the store, Duncan regained his strength enough to notice the downed policemen.

"Unavoidable," Methos explained quietly.  "They'll wake soon enough, but I couldn't leave you in there to be found with the body."

Duncan nodded in gratitude, then pulled away to move on his own.

"My that was a lovely lunch," Methos commented dryly as they reached the street.  Duncan grinned briefly at the humor.  Methos smirked as well; the Highland child was so amusing.  He was so concerned with right and wrong.  Methos realized long ago that there was only three things in the world that truly mattered: power, pleasure, and brotherhood.  If he had not always thought so, that was no matter now.  Methos was well aware he interested MacLeod.  That made the impending betrayal all the sweeter.  Caspian may prefer the physical torments, but that was nothing compared to the pure beauty and power of mental anguish.  The skillful setup, the mental games, the thrill of out manipulating his prey, all combined to form the dark rush of betrayal.  The quickly buried pain -- a remnant of his less enlightened days -- was a necessary reminder of the price of becoming attached.  The betrayal would be followed by the hunt, then the misfortunate's death.

Methos was not ready for the inevitable betrayal yet.  Duncan trusted him, to a degree, but the depth of emotion necessary for a true betrayal simply was not present.  He was an acquaintance to MacLeod, nothing more, but that would serve adequately as the basis for deception.  What could he offer the Highlander to increase the bond between them?  He had already given his aid -- freely and "selflessly".  MacLeod had no immediate problems to be solved; and while Methos could give him the location of one of Duncan's many enemies, that didn't appeal to him.  Not only would Duncan wonder how he came by the information, Methos wasn't sure he wanted to help MacLeod play "defender of the innocent."  Once was an exception, a ploy; more was a waste of men who could be of better use later.

What else was there?  He could offer Duncan advice, but why should Duncan listen to "Adam Pierson," or care what he said?  Perhaps he could ask for MacLeod's aid?  The generous Scot always had a special affection for his notorious little "clan".  That last idea had promise, he decided.  Yet what kind of danger would "Adam" be in?  A hunting Immortal was the most obvious threat.  Methos frowned.  MacLeod would think him weak if he couldn't handle a simple challenge on his own.  That was certainly not in his plans. Methos' nimble mind leapt and made the tenuous connections between his previous options.  Not an ordinary challenge -- a terrifying one.  A man hunting Methos, the legendary oldest Immortal.  The idea had potential.  The other Immortal came hunting, and Methos went to MacLeod -- confessing his identity and desperately wondering how to get out of danger.  Even better, he would claim not to have killed another Immortal in, say, two hundred years?  Poor oldest Immortal, rusty and in danger.  Methos smirked, enjoying the layers in his plot.  It was not without risks, obviously.  He would have to reveal his identity not only to MacLeod, but also to the other Immortal.  His identity was carefully guarded nowadays, and never used except by his brothers.  It was not out of fear, but convenience.  He didn't shirk from fights -- he welcomed most of them eagerly -- but the continual line of hunters would be tiring, inconvenient, and interfere with what Kronos planned.

If Methos revealed his identity,  he trusted both that Duncan would be honorable enough to keep it a secret and that the hunting Immortal would be greedy enough to want Methos' head for himself, and not risk the competition that would result if he revealed who Methos was.  Methos grinned devilishly.  Nothing worth doing was without risk.  If the other Immortal defeated MacLeod, or got out of control, Methos would take care of him.  If all else failed, Kronos would gladly do it.  Who would be the target?  Methos mused.  It had to be someone intelligent, or MacLeod would never believe he was anything other than a pawn.  Someone intelligent could track down Methos, he reasoned.  It would be better if the hunter had a reputation for hunting "seasoned" Immortals, or for seeking power.

Methos returned to the Horsemen's database and scrolled through the names.  Most he discarded out of hand.  He was looking for a very specific type of Immortal.  Perfect, he thought, coming to one of the names.  This one had never met the Horsemen; in fact, avoided them entirely.  He had no reason to suspect the lure came from Methos himself.  He was intelligent, power hungry, and he had a history with MacLeod.  Methos revised his earlier judgment.  Luring this man to MacLeod would make MacLeod happy -- and thus more generous towards Methos.  Their shared past would ensure they would fight when they met; Methos could probably avoid the fight entirely, if he so desired -- not that he did.  More importantly, this man would be no loss for the Horsemen.  Eliminating the competition was good business.

Methos picked up the phone and dialed one of his mortal contacts.  Shane Dorian was a petty, viscous little man who had proved invaluable to Methos time and again.  He was discrete in his business -- which was always essential to Methos -- and he was unfailingly closed mouthed about any job, not because he feared reprisals, but rather because he was intelligent enough to recognize a good policy.

"Dorian," the voice on the the other end of the line announced curtly.

"I have a job for you, Shane," Methos explained bluntly.  Shane had no patience with circling around a point, and Methos had worked with him long enough to respect that.

"Chris," Shane identified less gruffly.  "What do you need?"

"Some information planted: two names placed with a certain individual, as well as a location."

"He a contact?" Shane queried, ready to back down if his skittish client didn't want to say.  Shane respected privacy.

"Bait," Methos corrected in amusement, willing to indulge Shane's curiosity.  It would go no farther than him.

"Specifics?" Shane questioned, businesslike.  Methos chuckled, and gave them.

"Oh, and Shane?"  Methos added.  "Send someone expendable."

Shane appreciated the warning; with this one, he was always well advised to follow them.  "Same fee if he dies," Shane stated.  His client laughed, unperturbed by this.

"Of course," he agreed.

"Half the fee up front, not counting the death price, and half after it's done."

"I'll send the money to your usual accounts."

"Not the DeSale one," Shane corrected.  "I'm retiring that one.  The others are still valid."

"Fine," Methos agreed, the pleasant glow of a well-spun web of treachery made him unusually amiable and friendly.  Shane was not unfamiliar with his reaction.  He hoped to God it was never directed at him.

"I want to know when he comes for me, as well," Methos instructed as he hung up.

"I almost pity the man," Shane muttered as he hung up.

Methos used the next two weeks of silence from Shane to good effect.  He met with MacLeod several more times, always in a casual place, and always when there was something else to focus on.  He told Duncan a bit of his past, enough to let the man know he was older than four hundred, though not enough to reveal his true age.  To his charign, he found his stories roused hidden memories from before he had joined with his brothers.  That was the time he had to draw on most heavily, and the memories were not all terrible. The remembered pleasure unsettled him; it was an unwanted reminder that he had not always been what he was, and of what, if he wished, he could be again.  He drove the memories aside with the consolation of his brotherhood, the strongest love.  It would endure all time and be there when the world was ashes and chaos.

Methos was a creature of change and survival.  He had given up mourning the past long ago.  It was true what was said: he could never go back, only forward.  Still -- he remembered . . .

Shane's call settled the remaining confusion.  He could not afford an unclear mind, and of necessity -- with long practice -- he focused his mind on surviving this next game.  As with everything he did, this game had layers that could prove dangerous if he did not take care.  He considered his options, and decided to meet with his stalker first.  If he came to Duncan with proof he was being hunted -- proof the hunter could verify simply by meeting Methos before Methos went to Duncan -- there could be no unanswerable questions later of how Methos had known he was being hunted without seeing his hunter.  Methos was hardly going to leave the circumstances of the meeting to chance.  He made it a point to plan as much as possible, then improvise on what could not be planned.  This meeting was no exception to his general rule.

He moved his official residence to a convenient building near the Seine.  The most logical place for the hunter to find him, Methos reasoned, was in his home, and planned accordingly.  He made alternate plans if the man came after him where he worked, but in a busy downtown, he doubted that would be the case.  Methos was not mistaken in his calculation.  Three days later, he returned "home" to the thrilling mental alarm of another Immortal.  His nemesis came in sight, sword already in hand.

"The legendary Methos, I presume," he commented softly, unthreatening in his charming manner.

"Perhaps," Methos acknowledged coolly.

"No need for that," the other chided him.  "I read your journal.  So kind of you to leave it for me."  His voice was calm and blandly amused; he could have been discussing something as trivial as what to have for dinner.  "It must be amazing to have seen so much.  Pity you'll see no more."

"That's a bit premature, don't you think?" Methos asked, matching his tone exactly.

"We shall see," his opponent stated.  "I must say I'm surprised to find you here."

"Why is that?" Methos inquired.

"Paris is the residence of my good friend Duncan MacLeod.  I wonder what he'd think to learn what hid in his city."

Methos snorted.  "Why don't we go ask him?" he suggested.

"I think not," the man replied with a faint smile.  "I don't want to catch up with MacLeod quite yet -- at least not until I have your head."

"I don't think you'll be meeting MacLeod any time soon," Methos retorted civilly.

"That is where our opinions differ," the man stated calmly, and attacked.  Methos blocked the attack, fighting back only enough to keep himself alive.  He made sure not to show too much skill; it wouldn't do to actually win the fight.  Instead he slowly retreated towards the river and the bridge that spanned it.  He allowed the man to drive him back and disarm him.  With one last, unreadable look, Methos leapt over the side of the bridge into the torrential waters below.  The man glared down in frustration before turning away.

Methos arrived at Duncan's barge still damp and smelling of river water.  His quick knock betrayed an urgency he didn't feel.  Duncan opened the door cautiously, katana in hand, then welcomed him in.

"Adam, what's the matter?  What happened?  Are you wet?"  Duncan questioned incredulously.

"Yes, Highlander, I'm wet," Methos snapped in exasperation.  "That's what happens when people fall in rivers.  Can I come in, or do you want me to freeze?"

"Sorry," Duncan responded automatically, moving out of the way to let the older man pass.  "How'd you end up in the river?  It was another Immortal," he surmised, not waiting for Methos to answer, "or you'd have gone to your place, not mine.  Who was it?"

"Xavier St. Cloud," Methos stated, shrugging off his unpleasantly damp trench coat.  He collapsed on the couch, more exhausted then he cared to admit by his swim in the river.  His companion had yet to speak -- had still to respond.

"MacLeod?" he prompted.

"Why would Xavier hunt you?" Duncan wondered aloud, tone heavy with skepticism.  "He never does anything that doesn't immediately benefit himself, and he doesn't fight battles that don't serve his ends."

"He suspects -- he knows," Methos corrected himself, "-- who I am."

"Who you are," Duncan repeated, incredulity warring with interest.  Methos studied him carefully.  This was his last chance to turn back.  He could give Duncan a false name and past, kill Xavier, move on -- or he could take this game to the next level.

"Xavier wants, more than anything, power, MacLeod.  What would give him more power than taking the head of the oldest Immortal alive?"

Duncan stared at him.  "Methos?!"

Methos half-nodded, an amused smile touching his lips.  As dangerous as it was, watching a person's reaction to learning his identity always thrilled him.  Duncan shook his head in stunned amazement.

"I thought you were a legend," Duncan commented, unable to get over his amazement.

"It's good to be a myth; no one hunts a myth."

"Xavier does."

"Yeah," Methos agreed, looking away.  "I was careful.  I don't know how he found me.  For two hundred years I've managed to stay out of the bloody game, and now this."

"Two hundred years?" Duncan asked in amazement.

Methos sighed.  "I'm out of practice.  If we hadn't been fighting by a river, Xavier would have taken me -- and after that, he would have come after you."  Duncan stared at him, shocked.  "Xavier hates you, MacLeod; for that alone he'll come after you.  If you shelter me, he'll not be able to resist."  Methos' eyes gleamed with a sudden inspiration.  Improvisation was always a strong point of his.  He stood and moved to where MacLeod had laid his katana against the wall, his back to MacLeod.

"Xavier nearly killed me today, Highlander," Methos stated, barely audible.  Duncan had to strain to hear.  "What's to stop him next time?  If he takes my Quickening, he'll be able to take you as well."  Methos grabbed the katana, spinning smoothly back to face Duncan again.  Duncan wondered, with a sudden thrill of fear, whether Methos planned to augment his own formidable abilities by taking Duncan's head.  Methos flipped the blade around with one quick move.  He held one arm straight in front of him, holding the handle.  The other hand guided the blade gently to his own neck.  Inside, Methos was giddy with glee.  Offering MacLeod his head would make the man trust him tenfold beyond what he did now.  The noble Scot would never go through with it, of course.  It went against his honor to kill an unarmed man, especially if that man was one he considered a friend.  Methos controlled himself; none of these thoughts showed on his grave face.

"He can beat me.  He might beat you.  He cannot beat us both," Methos reasoned levelly.  Duncan studied him, expression unfathomable.  He stood abruptly.  Methos tensed, though he seemed relaxed.  Should Duncan actually try to go through with taking his head, he was ready to move away.  Duncan crossed the small space, moving with the grace of a predator.  He pushed the blade away from Methos' neck angrily.

"Never," he stated uncompromisingly.  "I will not buy my life at this price; nor is my honor so cheap.  You are my friend, Methos, and I won't lose you to Xavier."

There was a tense silence between them, then Methos lowered the sword.  "Then what do we do?  I lost my sword fighting Xavier and I don't want to go back to my apartment unarmed, if at all."

"You can stay with me," Duncan offered immediately.  "I have a spare sword you can use as well.  Xavier will probably be waiting at your house for you to return.  I'll meet him there."

"This is not your fight," Methos argued, a token protest.

"He and I have a score to settle," Duncan said calmly, holding his hand out for the katana.  Methos handed it over without another word.  Duncan existed the room and returned several minutes later with a serviceable broadsword.  "Will this work?"

Methos nodded, accepting the weapon.  He felt better having a sword again.  There was only so much he could do with knives.

"I'll be back after I deal with Xavier," MacLeod promised, slipping the katana into his trench coat and walking out the door.  Methos gave him a five minute head start and followed.  When he arrived at his temporary home, MacLeod and Xavier were already fighting.  They were closely matched, Methos noted, careful to stay out of sensing range, but MacLeod seemed to have the advantage in skill.  The two men fought in focused silence, and in the end, MacLeod's skill won out.  Even in defeat, Xavier had a calm dignity about him.  He did not ask for mercy, and Duncan didn't offer it.  When the Quickening lit the sky, and Methos slipped back to the barge before MacLeod could notice him.

The whole plan came out better than Methos hoped.  Duncan was so trusting.  He was both in awe of Methos' age, and trusted Methos' rare advice.  It was an improvement, but it was not enough.  Methos wanted the bond even tighter, to make the betrayal cut deeper.  There had to be something in Duncan's past that would work.  Maybe a friend whom Methos could help to rescue?  With the Xavier "threat" taken care of, there was no reason for Methos to stay at the barge.  He thanked MacLeod for his help and vanished back to Kronos' lair to access his files, in search of another target.

With one last irritated glare at the computer, he shut it down and gave up temporarily.  It would come to him, but for now he decided to meet with his mortal acquaintances over lunch and learn about any new business.  He learned from Jenna Michaels, an employee and one of the girls with whom he had an occasional fling, that Kristin Gilles was opening a new agency in the US.  Jenna was notorious in her addiction to what she called the height of fashion, and she inflicted her fascination on her coworkers.  Why she had become an executive secretary instead of going into the fashion industry was something Methos had never figured out, but he wasn't going to question it when it inspired him like this.  For Methos remembered that there was bad blood between MacLeod and Kristin.  She was of no use to the Horsemen, her death would be no great loss, and she was a woman.  She was perfect.  Forcing Duncan to examine his rigid morals could prove endlessly entertaining.

He called Kristin with a lucrative deal: he would sponsor another modeling agency in Paris in return for a silent partnership.  Of course, Kristin had to come to Paris personally to deal with the business matters.  The woman was excited, and gullible enough to offer that she come over on the next flight.  Methos met her at the airport, noting her surprise when she discovered he was Immortal.  He cut her off before she could comment.

"You're Immortal?" Methos asked in surprise.

"I might say the same for you," Kristin commented, recovering her poise.  "That answers the question of whether you have the funds to cover the opening."

"Yes indeed," Methos answered, noting her predatory look.  It would be insanely easy to lure her into his bed.  He knew her history with MacLeod.  The woman became sexually fixated on any Immortal man she bedded.  "I think we are going to get along nicely, Kristin," he purred her name, returning her examination with a sensual one of  his own.  Kristin smiled back suggestively, and the two Immortals left to find privacy.

It was as easy as Methos hoped to make himself the center of her universe.  The one thing that facilitated that more than anything was a dependency on her.  Methos feigned not to know anything of the fine arts, and allowed her to "instruct" him.  MacLeod had done much the same thing, though for him it was not an act.  This dependency made her feel useful, and once he had established her jealous possessiveness, he planned to launch the second part of his plan.  What made Kristin homicidal -- and always had -- was losing the love of "her" man to another.  Methos intended to use this to his advantage.

He ambushed her in the spacious country house she had rented for her stay in Paris.

"Kristin?" Methos asked hesitantly, opening to door to her office.  "Can we talk, if you're not busy?"

Kristin looked up from her paperwork.  "About what?" she demanded irritably.  She wanted everything at her convenience, Methos noted cynically.  He took the response as a 'yes' and approached her.

"Kristin, you are a wonderful woman, you have been nothing but kind, but I think it may be time for me to move on," Methos said certainly.

"What do you mean?" Kristin demanded.  "Don't you love me?  You said you loved me."

"I know.  Believe me, I never wanted to hurt you.  I thought I did love you, but I don't.  I'm sorry, Kristin."

"There's someone else, isn't there?"  Kristin met his gaze levelly, the first hint of rage hovering behind the calmness.  If he went for psychotic women, like Caspian, he might have stayed.  Instead, he nodded.

"Who is she?" Kristin glared.

"Does it matter?" Methos asked.  She rose to her feet, furious.

"If you're going to leave me, you can at least give me the courtesy of telling me who you're leaving me for," she growled.

"I love Jenna," he admitted.  He couldn't have made Kristin's job easier if he had painted a target on Jenna's back.  What kind of knight had no damsel in distress?

"That little bitch who works for you?" Kristin identified, outraged.

"She is a wonderful woman," Methos snapped, feigning anger at the insult to Jenna.  Poor Jenna, she didn't know she was his one true love; she didn't even know they had a relationship.

"As wonderful as me?" Kristin snarled, throwing his earlier words back in his face.

"Good bye, Kristin," he said firmly, refusing to answer that parting shot, and turned away.  He could sense her fly into a rage behind him, and dodged the expected sword neatly.  He disarmed her, threw her sword behind her desk, and shoved her to the floor.

"Good bye, Kristin," he repeated, leaving to room to argue or persuade, then walked out.  He had arranged to meet MacLeod for dinner, carefully setting up the events to coincide exactly.  Jenna's death would do him no good if he couldn't "learn" her fate from MacLeod in time.  MacLeod smiled a welcome and waved him to a seat.

"Have you ever fallen in love with one women while you were involved with another?" Methos asked abruptly, falling back into the offered chair.

"Yeah," Duncan nodded, wondering what was bothering his friend.

"Yeah," Methos agreed, sighing.  "Me too.  I care for Kristin, but I don't love her.  She didn't take our break up well."  Duncan nodded sympathetically.  "I didn't want to hurt her, but it's not fair to any of us for me to stay with Kristin when I love Jenna, it only causes more pain.  Though I thought for a minute Kristin was going to take my head."

MacLeod stared at him.  "Kristin's . . ."

"One of us?  Yeah," Methos answered, shrugging nonchalantly.

Duncan leaned forward, speaking intently, "Was this Kristin Gilles?"  Methos nodded slowly, appearing surprised.  "Did you tell her about Jenna?"

"Yes, yes I did," Methos answered slowly, as if not sure where Duncan was going with this.

"We have to find Jenna," Duncan insisted, drawing Methos to his feet.

"MacLeod!" Methos protested.  "Why?"

"I was involved with her once.  She killed the mortal woman I fell in love with," Duncan explained grimly.  Methos' expression became horrified.

"Jenna," he realized.  He spun and ran for his car, hearing MacLeod running behind him.  He jerked the door open and slid hurriedly behind the driver's seat.  He waited until MacLeod got in beside him, then spun out.  It took a good twenty-five minutes to get to Jenna's country house.  Methos almost thought they'd find her dead, and Kristin gone, but the could sense the woman as soon as they pulled up.  They spread out through the spacious house, searching for any sign of either Kristin or Jenna.  To his irritation, Methos found Jenna first, facedown in the bathtub and probably drugged if Kristin had followed her MO.  He fumed, knowing he couldn't afford to have Duncan suspect he didn't try to save the girl, and Jenna was useful to his cover business.  No sense in wasting resources, he decided.

Methos grabbed Jenna by her soaked shirt and dragged her roughly from the tub.  She lay on the floor, unbreathing.  Methos slammed his hand sharply on her back several times, attempting to force the water from her lungs.  It must have worked, because Jenna exhaled the deadly liquid onto the bathroom floor and took a ragged breath.  She lay there, gasping, as Methos left to go after Kristin.

He knew he was too late as soon as he stepped into the moonlit, partially wooded fields behind the house.  Duncan and Kristin stood there already, swords drawn.  He couldn't hear the conversation, so he crept closer.

"Why, Kristin?" Duncan demanded.

"You know that when I was twenty years old, Duncan, I was the most beautiful woman on the face of the continent?"  Duncan frowned slightly.  That wasn't an answer.

"You still are beautiful," he admitted.

"Am I?  Show me," Kristin beseeched.  "Prove it to me."  Duncan shook his head slightly, denying her plea and the pitiful sexuality of it.

"That wouldn't prove anything, Kristin," he reproved her softly.

Kristin's expression hardened.  "Then die," she spat.

Kristin lunged, desperate.  She was not a skilled fighter, and Duncan was far more than merely proficient.  He disarmed her with unnerving ease.  He hesitated.  Methos could see that from where he stood.

He is weak, Methos thought in contempt.  She's a threat to him, and still he hesitates -- because she is a woman, and because she was his lover.  Treacherous memories rose, reminding him of Cassandra -- a woman, and his lover as well.  He could no more kill her than Duncan could kill Kristin.  He viewed the Highlander with . . . not pity, but understanding.  He knew then that Duncan would not be able to finish this, no more than Methos could have condemned Cassandra to die those centuries before.

Methos slunk through the partial cover yielded by the trees until he had cut off Kristin's most likely escape route.  She wouldn't risk going back towards the house, not when he might be there, so she would cut through the woods this way and try to reach the road behind him.  He observed Duncan's growled warning for Kristin to stay far away from himself and Adam Pierson.  Kristin froze there, disbelieving, then grabbed her sword and ran -- straight towards Methos.  He stepped into the light precisely as she came within sensing range.  She halted, staring at him, wide eyed.

"Leaving without saying good-bye, Kristin?" he mocked maliciously, knowing his voice was pitched too low for Duncan to hear.  She raised her sword with trembling limbs, hopeless exhausting ravaging her usually pretty features.

"I did it because I love you!" she pleaded, trying to talk her way out of this as she always had before.  He laughed with dark glee.

"I don't care," he stated coldly, stalking her, his placid mask discarded for chill malice.

"Who are you?" she demanded, terrified by the unnaturalness of his expression.  "What are you?!"

"Death," he hissed, circling her so his back was to Duncan.  She dropped the sword and ran.  Methos sprinted after her, catching her within a few steps.  He grabbed her arm cruelly, pulling her around roughly.  She collapsed, sobbing.  He pushed aside images of what he would have done to her -- had Duncan not been there -- since she was acting so beautifully submissive and terrified.  He circled her again, sword to her throat.  Kristin scrambled backwards, frantically trying to keep away from the insistent, guiding pressure at her throat.

"Pick it up," Methos ordered, leaving no room to disobey in the command.  Kristin realized he referred to her sword -- now
by her hand.  Methos smiled sardonically.  Duncan might forgive him for killing a woman, and his lover, but not if she was unarmed and begging for mercy.  Kristin had trouble holding the sword level, it wavered unsteadily in front of her.  Desperation marked her, and Methos grinned in dark delight.  Blade met blade five times before she was disarmed.

"Do you think I will be chivalrous?  Spare you as MacLeod did?  I was born long before chivalry," he whispered.

"Please," she begged, her face tear-streaked.

"You ask the wrong man for mercy," Death answered.  Kristin saw the sword coming, flinched away from it, then there was only light.  The Quickening lanced the air, the furious shadow to darkness, leaving Methos a brief glimpse of Duncan's disillusioned, suspicious, re-evaluating glower before electrical oblivion claimed him.

Duncan watched the confrontation between Methos and Kristin.  Logically, he knew he had no reason to interfere.  Methos had a right to challenge her, like any other Immortal, Duncan reminded himself, and Methos was simply neutralizing a threat to himself and to someone he loved.  He had a right to protect Jenna, even if Duncan couldn't.  Maybe his apprehension stemmed from the fact that Methos had finished something he could not.  The cold, inhuman expression that lit Methos' face was one he himself had probably worn many times, Duncan told himself uneasily.  This was what Immortals did. This struggle between two foes was normal, expected.  He had no reason to feel so . . . unnerved by Methos' actions.  Methos was only doing what he had to do.  If he enjoyed it  . . . that was excusable.  There had been times Duncan had enjoyed the dark thrill of the Immortal combat.  It wasn't unnatural.  It wasn't.

Duncan almost convinced himself, in spite of Methos' nonchalant brutality.  It was Methos' casual disregard for his decision that threw him off, Duncan decided.  Duncan had granted Kristin mercy and Methos had revoked it.  By his actions, Methos indirectly interfered in a challenge, even if he and Kristin hadn't been fighting at the time.  That was why he was so angry, Duncan reasoned.  Not because of Methos, because of himself.  He had a right to be furious.  Methos should not have interfered!  Duncan stalked away, confused and wanting -- needing -- to believe his own illogical conclusions. Because the alternative was unthinkable.

Methos regained the use of his senses slowly, and was aware almost immediately that he was alone.  Damn Duncan!  Why had he left?  How had Methos miscalculated?  Duncan should be grateful for Methos' interference; damn his code of chivalry anyway!  He struggled to his feet and hurried to where they'd left the car, only to find the other had indeed already left.  In the only car.  Methos cursed; maybe it would be better to simply give up this game.  Take the brat's head and be done with it.  He didn't truly consider doing it; he had put too much effort into this.  Whatever had gone wrong could be salvaged, he resolved.  He paused long enough to drag on his coat and pull it shut.  There weren't any blood stains to hide, but it was a cold night.  He scowled, and started the long hike back into town.  If he dared risk it, he would have called for a ride from the next house.  Unfortunately, he couldn't afford being seen and recognized near a murder scene.  A stranger would be remembered, and having his name linked to a murder would not make Kronos pleased.

It took him half an hour to reach one of the suburban train stations.  It took another half an hour for the eight o'clock train to come by.  He paid for his ticket, fuming.  He was very very tempted to simply take MacLeod's head and be done with it.  Patience, he counciled himself, not yet.  His anger simmered below his placid fascad, a controlled tension.  MacLeod would not get off easy for this one.  He left the train downtown and caught a cab back to Kronos' warehouse.  He stayed only long enough to pick up a car, then headed for MacLeod's barge.

MacLeod was nowhere to be seen when Methos arrived at the barge, but the buzz gave away his presence.  Methos stalked up the ramp and opened the door.  Coming down the stairs, the first thing he noticed was MacLeod performing a kata in the middle of the barge.  The second was that all the furniture had been pushed aside to accommodate his actions.  He must be furious, Methos realized.  Good, he thought vindictively.

"Do you think she would have stopped?" he asked, smothering his anger.  "She was killing mortals, Mac.  She would have killed Jenna.  What would you have me do?  Leave her free to kill again?"

"I don't know!" Duncan yelled.  "But she didn't have to die!"  Duncan kept stubbornly to his conclusions.  He was angry because of Methos' interference, not because of what he had seen on Methos' face.

"Yes, she did!"  Methos shouted back.  "She was a danger to Jenna; she was a danger to you; she was a danger to me!"

"She was no danger!" Duncan insisted irrationally.

"She was!  Every time you let her walk away, another mortal died.  Your mortal woman did.  Jenna almost did.  She would have killed me -- without honor, or fairness -- had I not seen her move."  Duncan was silent, remembering her own attempt to kill him.  "The next Immortal might not have been so lucky, nor the next mortal."

"She might have stopped," Duncan argued, less sure of himself.  Why did Methos have to make sense?

"She had four hundred years to stop.  She needed to be stopped, MacLeod, you know that."  He was silent for a moment, allowing MacLeod to think.  "That's a beautiful sword," he commented, apparently changing the subject.  "May I see it?  The last time I saw it, I didn't have the opportunity to examine it."  There was humor in his voice as he reminded MacLeod of offering his head.  It put Duncan off guard, took his mind off his anger and uncertainty.

MacLeod nodded, and handed it over.  Methos made a show of examining it, then brought the blade around to Duncan's neck, his expression grave.

"Not funny, Methos," Duncan snapped, eyeing him warily.

"Not meant to be," Methos retorted, holding the blade level.  "How have you lived this long?  You trust too easily.  You would have let her walk away again, even though you know she was a danger.  You were better than her.  Yes.  You were stronger than her.  Yes.  But if you kept letting her walk away, someday she would have gotten lucky.  Yes.  Do you think she forgave you?!  If she had known you were here, she would have gone after you instead.  And you would have let her do as she wished."  Methos pulled sword away; he had made his point.  "You are my friend, Duncan, I don't want you to lose your head."

Duncan studied Methos for a long moment, trying to remember why he had been so angry.  He was out of line, that was obvious.  Nothing was more than what it seemed.  His mind had been playing tricks on him.  Methos was his friend; Methos cared about him.  He had neutralized a threat -- a threat as much to Duncan as to himself -- that was all.  That was all.

Methos turned and walked away, setting the katana on the displaced table as he left the barge.  Brilliant, he congratulated himself, his earlier anger purged.  First to offer his head to Duncan, now to have the opportunity to kill him -- and not take it.  Duncan, when he recovered from this shock, would trust him all the more.  Simply brilliant.

Methos gave MacLeod another month; a month to get over Kristin's death, to understand Methos had been right -- if not right, then justified -- and to ensure the trust had returned.  The ploy had been well worth it, even if he did end up saddled with a relationship with Jenna as a result.  He had to keep up appearances.  At the end of the month, Methos moved to bring this game to a close.  He made plans to meet Duncan in the church yard of Darius' former abode the next day.  It was a simple matter to invite Kronos to walk there with him.  Kronos, MacLeod's enemy.  What knife could cut sweeter than the lie of a friend?

****

Duncan stared at the two men standing companionably side by side in the church yard.  He knew them both, but he never would have imagined them together.

"Melvin Koren," he spat under his breath.  That psychotic bastard walked next to Methos.  His friend.  Duncan had to warn Methos what he was up against.  He would not allow Koren to hurt one of his friends.  The two looked up as his buzz hit them, so deep in conversation they hadn't noticed him before.  Each recognized him immediately.  Methos' expression lifted in an undeniable sign of welcome; Koren's twisted in cruel anticipation.

"Duncan MacLeod," Koren sneered.

"Melvin Koren," Duncan drawled back, tight anger in the naming.  His smile was as nasty as Koren's.

"How nice.  We've all met," Methos stated sarcastically.

"Adam, you don't know what you're dealing with," Duncan said warningly.  "He's a killer."

"Oh, he's far worse than that," Methos said lightly.  Duncan stared at him uncomprehendingly.

"Methos?" he asked uncertainly.

"Come now, MacLeod," Methos mocked.  "Don't be simple minded.  It's not Methos you address."

"What are you talking about?" Duncan demanded in confusion.  Anger rose, what did he mean?

"You stand in the presence of Death, MacLeod," Methos revealed maliciously.

"The Horsemen," Duncan realized, fury and hatred warring in him.  This man, one he had called friend, one he had trusted, had lied to him.  Methos -- Death -- was a merciless killer; he cared for no one.

Methos smiled benevolently.  "Bright boy.  You could join us, MacLeod," he invited, keeping his tone friendly.  In spite of himself, he regretted that Duncan had, at last, discovered what he was.  He recalled Kronos' words of long ago.  'Have you become attached, brother?'

"And do what?  Rule the world?" Duncan said scathingly, trying to hide the pain of this betrayal.  Methos laughed darkly.

"We already rule the world, MacLeod, we four," he revealed.  Not quite the accurate, but they did hold the world in fear, and soon they would rule in truth.

Duncan shook his head violently.

"Join us," Methos demanded, eyes unnaturally bright.

"Never," Duncan vowed.  Methos smiled nastily.

"I hoped you would say that," he confided.  He had slipped fully into his Horseman persona.  There was no room for human emotion or caring, there was only Death.

"I'll stop you," Duncan promised, taking a step inadvertently toward them.

"You'll try," Kronos goaded.  Duncan went for his sword.

"Ah ah ah," Methos chastised, shaking his head.  "Not on holy ground, Mac."  The familiar address fell harshly in the air.  Duncan's hand stilled.  "What would Darius think?" Methos continued mockingly, his expression a caricature of appalled grief.

Duncan glared at the men in fury.  His breath came short and he clenched his fists to keep from drawing his sword.

"Of course, you're welcome to step off holy ground with us," Kronos invited, knowing full well that Duncan didn't dare, not when it would be two on one.

"See you around, Highlander," Methos said jovially, waving one hand infuriatingly.  Duncan wanted to beat that smirk off Adam's face.  Holy ground alone stopped him.  The two men sauntered past him and left the refuge of the church.  Duncan stayed motionless by force of will.

"Let the games begin," Methos murmured to Kronos.  Death left him, the characteristic numbness that personified the creature he became lingered.  Human emotion returned, but it felt vague and hazy.  Death was an act, a role like any other.  One more true now -- with Kronos at his side -- than in the past, but it was an act none the less.  As ever, Methos lost himself in the roles he became, until not even he remembered who he was.

Kronos smiled, but said no word.

****

The sense of another Immortal lashed at the edge of his thoughts as soon as Duncan arrived at the barge.  He glared at the doors, really not wanting to deal with another Immortal now.  He stormed in and slammed the door loudly.  The feminine figure waiting jumped at the loud, sudden noise.  She turned, and he studied her.  Wavy brown hair haloed elegant, elven features.  Her form was trim, athletic, and clothed in a way fit more for casual wear than for style.

"Duncan MacLeod?" she asked uncertainly.

"Yes," he stated flatly, despising the brazenness she showed by invading his home.  "What do you want?"

"I'm Cassandra," she introduced, a little put off by his semi-hostile tone, though it was to be expected since he didn't know her and she had broken into his barge.  "You know my teacher, Ceirdwyn."  Duncan nodded.

"Why are you here?" he insisted, his stance still forbidding.

"I wanted to warn you," she said hesitantly, "and to ask for your help.  An old enemy of mine, Kronos, is in Paris."  Duncan sighed, and moved to the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of milk.

"Would you care for something to drink?" he asked as poured himself a glass.  Cassandra shook her head, then realized he couldn't see her.

"No," she answered.  He put the milk away, then went to sit on the couch.  He gestured for her to take as seat, then began questioning her.

"Who is Kronos?" he asked.  He would rather have dealt with her -- and whatever situation she brought -- another time, but he owed Ceirdwyn, so he would listen to her student.

"He's one of the Four Horsemen," she said softly, sitting dutifully across from him and crossing her legs.

"The Four Horsemen," Duncan repeated, sitting up in sudden attentiveness.  If it rains, it pours, he thought grimly.  "You know them?"  Cassandra started at his sudden interest.

"I did," she corrected, looking away.  "I knew them two hundred and thirty years ago.  I was their slave for seventy years," she informed him bluntly.  Duncan's hostility softened.

"I'm sorry," he said gently, knowing it wasn't enough.

"Not your fault," she said uncomfortably.  "It . . .  wasn't pleasant.  I was the slave that couldn't die," she laughed bitterly.  "I was told I lived to serve them.  Since I didn't know anything about Immortality, I believed them."

Duncan's anger grew at Cassandra's tonelessly recited story.

"After seventy years of being beaten and raped, I stabbed the leader and escaped to Scotland."  Although the words were blandly, impersonally stated, Duncan could sense the helpless rage and violation behind them.

"Why Scotland?" Duncan asked, curious and concerned in spite of his previous desire to have nothing to do with her.

"They had no interest in Scotland.  It was a barbarian country, useless to them.  It was safe."  For the first time in her tale, Cassandra seemed happy.  Scotland was filled with good memories.  "Cierdwyn found me and taught me what I was.  She trained me.  More than that, she gave me back myself.  She helped me through the nightmares, the depression.  She was the one who convinced me that what happened wasn't my fault.  And she was the one who told me about you."  Cassandra smiled at Duncan when she said that.

"Why me?" Duncan queried, caught up in the story.  He was charmed by her open affection for her teacher, a good friend of his.

"She said you're one of the good ones.  If I needed help and couldn't reach her, I should come to you.  Duncan, I need help," she admitted, meeting his gaze firmly.  "Ceirdwyn's gone, I don't have any way to find her, and the thought of taking on any of the Four Horsemen alone is terrifying -- and I'm almost certain Kronos is not alone.  I know that at least one of his 'brothers' has work here in Paris, and I don't doubt the other two are nearby as well.  Don't make me do this alone, Duncan, please."

Duncan nodded immediately.  Letting her face this alone was not an option, and not simply for the friendship he owed her teacher.

"What does this Kronos look like?" Duncan asked.  Cassandra smiled at him in relief.

"Brown hair, stocky.  The most notable thing about him is the scar down his right cheek."  Duncan's fists clenched as he recognized the description.

"Melvin Koren," he identified aloud.

"What?" Cassandra inquired, not understanding the reference.

"I knew him as Melvin Koren in the eighteen hundreds," Duncan explained.  "I saw him again this afternoon with Adam Pierson, but we were on holy ground."  Cassandra found it difficult to breath at the words.  They were closer than she'd thought.

"Adam . . ." she repeated, then trailed off.  The unspoken demand for more information hung between them.

"Around my height, dark hair, slight build, hazel eyes . . ."  Duncan described the man, watching her reaction carefully.

"Methos," Cassandra growled, eyes narrowed, and she shook with the intensity of her hatred as she remembered her former master.  Duncan started, surprised she knew his true identity.  But that made sense if she had lived as his slave for seventy years.  Duncan stood and began to pace, needing an outlet for the violence of his emotions.  He didn't want to think about Methos right now.  He didn't want to remember the pain of the betrayal.  He couldn't even be sure which hurt worse, that the man he thought was his friend had lied to him -- had betrayed him -- or that Methos, the mythical oldest Immortal, was one of the Horsemen.  He couldn't get past that idea.  Methos was supposed to be wise, like Darius.  Not a monster.  Not one of the Horsemen.  He shook his head violently.

"He is," Cassandra cried, misinterpreting his response as a denial.  "Methos killed me, enslaved me.  He was the one who told me I lived because he willed it.  He made me love him, and he betrayed me.  I thought maybe he was different, maybe he cared.  I thought he would keep me safe.  I was a fool.  He is one of them, Duncan.  Believe me.  He's no wise sage.  He's a murderer."

"I believe you," Duncan said, desolate.  'Maybe he was different.  Maybe he cared.'  Methos had seemed to care.  They had been friends, or at least Duncan had thought so, yet he was one of them.  He remembered the dark smile, the uncharacteristic sadism in Methos at the church.  Did I ever know him at all?  Duncan wondered.  Was it all an act?  Was there nothing honest?  He felt slow, frozen.  If Methos was one of them, he was as guilty as they were.  The Horsemen were a menace, and they had to be stopped.  Methos as well.  They weren't friends, and apparently they never had been.

"We'll stop them," Duncan stated, unaware how chill and dead his voice sounded.  Cassandra gazed at him in concern, but didn't comment, for which he was grateful.

"The heart and the head," she said softly, staring at her hands.

"What?"  Even his curiosity felt dim and far away.

"Kronos, the heart, and Methos, the head.  They will both die," Cassandra stated fiercely.

"Yes," Duncan agreed solemnly.  "They will both die."

They hunted all day, but found no sign of the Four Horsemen.  They had vanished, as elusively as mist.  In frustration, Duncan and Cassandra returned to the loft.

"We'll find them," Duncan comforted her.  "We'll stop them."

Cassandra allowed herself to be drawn into his embrace.  "Yes," she agreed, leaning into the offered strength.  She so rarely had the luxury of leaning on someone.

"Come to bed," Duncan invited softly.  "We need to rest if we have any chance of finding them tomorrow."  Cassandra nodded and allowed herself to be drawn away.

She lay awake long after Duncan had fallen asleep, thinking.  Night's release eluded her, and she rose silently.  If she couldn't sleep, at least she could be productive.  She moved slowly through the dark barge to where she'd left her bags.  She searched blindly through her bags to find her cell phone.  She dialed the number of the private investigator she'd hired, hoping he'd forgive the late hour.

"'Ello?" a bleary voice mumbled.

"Mr. Rosetti?  This is Sara Cass.  I'm sorry for the late hour, but I was wondering if you have any more information for me."  Cassandra kept a close eye in Duncan's direction as she spoke softly.  She didn't need to wake Duncan from his well needed rest.

"Yeah, Ms. Cass, as a matter of fact I do," he answered, sounding more alert.  "I was planning on calling you tomorrow if I could get the information confirmed."

"Whatever you have, Mr. Rosetti," Cassandra ordered.

"An address.  A possible address, anyway," Gerald Rosetti amended.  Cassandra dug through the bags again for a pad of paper and a pen.  She stood silently and moved to sit on the couch.

"What's the possible address?" she asked, then copied down his answer.  She thanked him, then hung up.  Cassandra tore the paper off and snuck back toward the bed, leaving the pad of paper and pen beside the couch in her haste.  She dressed hurriedly, but silently.  She didn't plan on doing anything yet, merely investigating the place.  She certainly couldn't sleep now.  She would see what she could find out, then come retrieve Duncan to help her deal with them.  She had no intention of being seen; she wouldn't get caught.  There was nothing to worry about.

****

In the young, silent night, the Four Horsemen shed their real world alter-egos.  With nonchalant ease, they dropped the constraints that concealed them among the teeming masses of humanity and emerged a terrifying, destructive, elemental force.  Intricately detailed bronze masks hid blackened faces, alarming grimaces frozen on the metal.  Black body armor went under traditional lose flowing tunics -- white for Methos, black for the other three -- that fell to their knees and belted with bronze clasps that matched the unnerving specters on the masks.

Kronos grinned behind the comforting familiarity of the mask.  "Ready, Methos?" he asked.

"Yes, brother.  Are you sure these contacts of yours are trustworthy?"  Methos forced himself to focus, and ignored the tense preoccupation that had distracted him since that afternoon.  MacLeod.  Methos had become attached, he knew.  It was a mistake, and he knew that as well.  He had lost his enjoyment in this manipulation, had lost the desire to bring it to completion.  Given the choice, he would let the Highlander live in peace, but it was too late for that.  Kronos would make sure it was too late.  Banishing the thoughts, Methos focused on his brother; wandering thoughts were a good way to rouse Kronos' deadly anger.

"Hardly," Kronos retorted, a dangerous infliction in his voice.  Methos wondered if his brother suspected his thoughts.  He watched his brother carefully, glad the mask hid his face.  Kronos gestured flamboyantly.  "Of course I can't trust them," Kronos informed him, "but they don't dare double cross me.  Once I have that virus, we will bring down such terror as the world has never known."

Methos laughed darkly, caught up in his brother's enthusiasm.  "Pity we can't come with," he suggested.  Kronos shook his head adamantly.

"As much as I would love your presence, brother, they wouldn't deal with me if you were there.  I need you to deal with SimCyber.  Those new computer chips are essential.  And it has been awhile since Caspian has had any fun."

The sadistic cannibal chuckled cruelly from where he was meticulously re-sharpening his sword and dagger.  "Far too long, brother," he agreed.

Methos wrinkled up his nose in distaste.  "To each their own," he shrugged.  Now was not the time to rouse the animosity between himself and Caspian, second only to the animosity between Caspian and Silas.

"I don't know how long this meeting will take," Kronos told Methos.  "I expect you will be back before me.  Wait here.  I want the next stage to get started as soon as I get back, and I need you all to be here for that."

Methos nodded quickly, then gestured Silas and Caspian to follow him.  Kronos watched them leave, then made for his meeting.  This was going to be a productive night.

Methos by-passed the building's security under Caspian's impatient eye, well aware Caspian preferred force and brutality to subtlety.  Methos refused to let him kick down the door, however, since they didn't want to draw attention yet.  The guards and remaining security measures were neutralized with ease.  Methos noted that Caspian, predictably, had kept two of the guards alive to . . . amuse himself.

"The chips first," Methos ordered.  Caspian growled in anticipation and Silas smirked.  The two men kept watch as Methos retrieved the prototype chips out of the safe.

"Silas and I are taking these to the car," Methos informed Caspian.  "Do whatever you plan to do quickly, then get back to the base.  Kronos won't be happy if anyone's late."

Caspian waved his agreement absently and turned back toward the two captives.  His smile became distinctly nasty and they shrunk away from him.  Methos gestured toward the door with his head, and Silas preceded him out.

****

Cassandra noted the arrival of the first two Horsemen, but was careful to stay out of sensing range.  Jackpot, she thought triumphantly.

****

Duncan MacLeod woke alone in bed.  A quick glance at the clock showed it was only slightly after midnight, and Cassandra was nowhere nearby.  He stood, worried about where she had gone.  She was -- understandably enough -- not thinking clearly when it came to the Horsemen.  If she was in trouble . . .  He flipped the lights on and scanned the area for any sign of where she'd gone.  The pad of paper by the couch caught his eye; it wasn't his, and it hadn't been there when they had gone to bed.  He hurried over and picked up.  Vague impressions had been made in the paper, and he searched through his drawers for a pencil.  He rubbed the top sheet of paper lightly, and was awarded with an address in Cassandra's writing.  She was there, he was sure of it, and where she was, the Horsemen were.

****

Caspian was nearly back to the base when he sensed an Immortal signature.  He slowed his motorcycle and looked around eagerly.  A good fight would make this night perfect.  He should have been back long ago, but Kronos would forgive him.  Kronos always did.  A dark car coming from his right pulled to a stop.  The other Immortal exited the car and Caspian dismounted.  They met on the street corner, six cautious feet apart.

"I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," the stranger introduced himself.

"The Highlander, yes.  Kronos has spoken of you.  I'm Caspian, the last Immortal you'll ever meet."

There was recognition in the man's eyes as he took in Caspian's characteristic Horseman garb.

"I doubt that," Duncan returned with a thin smile.  He motioned toward the alley, determined to deal with this threat while he could, while Caspian had no allies.

The fight was short and bloody.  Caspian's cutlass and dagger style clashed against Duncan's hard won skill with the katana.  Duncan's skill proved superior, and he finished Caspian with one sharp blow.  Duncan braced himself, exhausted, as the massive Quickening lashed the sky, lighting the world with tell-tale fury.

****

Cassandra noted the Quickening, and moved to investigate.  This close to the Horsemen's lair, maybe one of them had been the killer.  If so, he would be especially vulnerable after the Quickening.  This was too good an opportunity for her to pass up.

****

Inside the building, Methos and Silas also became aware of the Quickening.

"Come on," Methos ordered, grabbing his coat and sword.  Silas followed him obediently.  A Quickening this close by had to be investigated.  Three blocks away they were halted by the presence of another Immortal.  He heard light, hurried steps and spotted a slight, feminine figure fleeing.  Without thinking, he took off after her.  He knew instinctively that Silas would stay hard on her heels while he picked up the pace and circled around to cut her off.  He and Silas had hunted this way so many times they no longer needed to discuss it.  He cut the mysterious woman off at the head of an alley.  Silas came up to block the other end.  In the bright, illuminating moonlight, he could make out her distinctive features.  Cassandra.

****

Duncan circled around the streets, moving away from where he'd left Caspian's body.  He expected someone to investigate, and he didn't plan to be anywhere near there when he  arrived.  While they were gone, he could safely spy on the base and maybe manage to lay a few traps.  He arrived at the inconspicuous warehouse, but felt no Immortals.  So far, so good.  He crept forward, but before he could reach the door, the electric tingle of another Immortal alarmed him.  He turned, angry at his luck and hoping there was only one.  There was.  A low chuckle met him.

"Well, well, what have we here?" Kronos asked rhetorically.

"Kronos," Duncan spat.

"Indeed.  As they say, Highlander, there can be only one."

Duncan drew his sword grimly.  He didn't know if he could beat Kronos fully rested, and he'd already taken out Caspian tonight.  They came together in a brutal clash of blades.  Kronos was good, but so was MacLeod.  It was one of the most even matches either had faced, and neither knew who would triumph.

****

Silas took the fight, for which Methos was grateful.  Kronos was right; it was a mistake to have grown attached to Cassandra.  Even now he didn't want her dead.  Now, she was a threat.  She knew what she was, she could no longer be safely enslaved, and she was fiercely determined to destroy them.  She had no use.  She was a danger.  Methos hated the twinge of regret he felt anyway.  In his own way, he had cared for her.

She was good, even against an giant like Silas.  His blows were crushing enough that Methos had trouble meeting them in a spar.  He could see Cassandra's arms tremble with exhaustion yet she refused to give up.  He admired that bravery.

Cassandra knew her situation was desperate.  She  couldn't block many more of Silas' blows.  She played her trump card, and used the Voice.  "YOU ARE GETTING TIRED," she ordered.  Silas's blade dropped and she managed a shallow cut along his ribs before he raised his guard again.  "YOUR SWORD IS TOO HEAVY TO LIFT."  Silas didn't have the intelligence to block out her Voice, even if he did have the natural immunity of his age.  His sword lowered again, and she managed a second cut.  She had some hope of winning, if she could simply kill Silas, then get out of range of the Quickening.  When Methos was down with Silas's Quickening, she could kill him, then take care of the other two with MacLeod.

Her hopes shattered as Methos voice rose, blocking her influence.  Silas's love and trust in his brother was absolute.  With Methos' calmly angry words backing Silas, there was no way for her to successfully use the Voice.  She changed her target, trying to avoid Silas's sword.

"LEAVE, METHOS."  He laughed.

"Parlor tricks don't work on me, Witch."  She screamed in despair, nearly at the end of her endurance, and searched the ally for some way to gain an advantage over Silas.  A stack of crates gave her an idea.  She allowed Silas to drive her back until she was even with the crates.  She clambered up them even as Methos shouted a warning against her treachery.  She kicked one of the crates down on Silas.  He tried in futility to knock it aside with his sword.  She leapt down as he was distracted with the crate.  He saw her coming, and his eyes widened in childish horror.  Her sword struck the final blow as she landed lightly on the ground.  She took off running, aware Methos had divined her ploy and was doing the same.  The Quickening rose like a deadly viper.  It writhed between the two fleeing figures for one heartbeat, then lashed toward Cassandra.  It dropped her in her tracks, draining and energizing her at the same time.

****

Five blocks away, two figures paused in their fatal struggle to observe the second ancient Quickening released that night.  With a bestial growl of fury, the two joined again.

"You lose, Kronos," Duncan sneered.  "Caspian is dead.  I'm sure one of your brothers just joined him in hell.  You will never be four again."

"No!" Kronos screamed, agonized rage twisting his face into a brutal mask.  There was no trace of sanity or intelligence in his eyes as he attacked.  MacLeod fought with iron determination and near-perfect skill.  He couldn't fail, too much depended on him.  Slowly, he turned the fight to his advantage as Kronos' draining rage took its toll on the Horseman.

****

Methos' scream of rage and loss was smothered by the raging fury of the Quickening.  Tears streamed unheeded down his cheeks as he stared at the lifeless body of his brother.  The Quickening faded and ceased, leaving Cassandra dazed and exhausted on her knees.  An unthinking rage overwhelmed Methos.  Silas was dead.  Silas was dead.  Silas was dead.  He lashed out with grim insanity, sprinting the distance between himself and Cassandra.  She watched him come, but could do no more than stare in terror.  She tried to move, managed to come half-way to her feet, but he cut her down mercilessly.  As her Quickening rose around him, he shrieked his loss.

****

The sky behind Duncan and Kronos lit with a second Quickening.  Neither looked up.  Kronos was using all his skill to keep Duncan away, and he was losing.  His earlier rage had cost him, and he fought grimly to keep Duncan's katana away from his vulnerable neck.  He snarled, unwilling to admit defeat, no matter how close it seemed.  Duncan pressed his advantage once more and the sword fell from Kronos' hand.  Duncan snapped his sword back reflexively and stopped the madness.  The body began to glow and Duncan braced himself for the inevitable.

****

Methos stood carefully, his strength returning quickly.  His gaze was drawn upward as he saw the last, lingering effects of a monumental Quickening.  Chill fear invaded, and he made his way hastily back to the base.  Kronos body met his eyes.  Duncan stood leaning against the warehouse, watching his suspiciously.

"MacLeod," Methos stated flatly.

"Methos," MacLeod acknowledged.  Methos' rage grew as he stared at the body of his fallen brother.

"Silas, dead by that Witch's hand," he spat.  "Kronos, dead by yours.  And Caspian?  What of him?"  Methos demanded, madness and grief in his eyes.

"Dead," Duncan answered emotionlessly.

"Dead," Methos replied.  "All dead.  As dead as Cassandra."  He laughed hysterically, manic fury twisting his face.  "As dead as you," he added, and attacked.  Duncan fought for his life, but his two previous fights and their successive Quickenings had drained him.  Methos was no novice with a sword.  He was at his peak, he was fresh, and he wanted this victory.  Despite all his skill, Duncan was soon on the defensive.  He twirled his katana into a deadly blur, but he knew only too well he wasn't fighting as well as he could.  Methos brutally knocked Duncan's sword from his hand and brought the claymore to his neck.

Methos shifted his grip on the sword restlessly, his desire to kill warring with other emotions that writhed below the surface.  All his emotions were remote, smothered.  He pressed forward slightly, drawing blood.  MacLeod had killed Kronos, he had killed that bastard Caspian, but Methos didn't want him dead.  That rage had left, purged by the fight.  The sight of MacLeod kneeling at his mercy roused no killing fury.  Kronos would want MacLeod dead; he would demand this price in blood.  But Methos was not Kronos.  He felt weary, the years pressing on him suddenly.  Revenge had never been his love, and he had had enough of death, enough of blood.  His brotherhood was lost, and he had no more will to continue alone.  He had no more roles to play.  He was nothing again.  No matter, he thought in grim desolation.  For five thousand years, he had adapted.  He would adapt again.  It was his nature.

With an inhuman cry of loss, he pulled the sword away and vanished into the night, leaving behind the stunned Highlander.  Briefly it occurred to Methos that what Kronos had been, MacLeod could become -- he could make MacLeod become.  The thought passed almost without consideration as he wandered night's streets.  The cost was too high, he knew.  Never again.  This terrible, adrift loneliness wasn't worth the dreams of power.  It was stupid; he should know by now that nothing came of dreams, only pain and nightmares.  Kronos was gone, Silas was gone, even Caspian, and Methos was sick of death and blood.  MacLeod had taken the heart when he had killed Kronos; he had ripped away Methos' soul.  Methos had no will left to rule the world, and no desire.  He was empty.  This was the end.  Like every other time his life had fallen to nothing, he would move on.  He would survive.  Live?  No, but he would survive.

****

Duncan stared after the departing figure in stunned confusion.  Mercy from the Devil.  From Death.  It was unthinkable.  Had their positions been reversed, he would not have allowed Methos to live.  Kronos surely wouldn't have allowed mercy.  Whatever else Methos was, he was one of them: an unchanging, destructive, malicious force of nature.  And now they were dead, save one.  MacLeod got slowly to his feet.  He stared thoughtfully in the direction Methos had gone, then turned and walked away.  They might meet again, they might not.  But if they did, it would not be Duncan who struck the first blow.

~End~

'le lumiere de la mer' is (I hope) French for 'light of the sea.'

The Challenge: [to GenFic]

From: lore krajsman  <[email protected]>
Date: Fri Mar 17, 2000 5:19am
Subject: Challenge

I've been reading a lot lately about Duncan's right to judge other immortals
as seen in Modern Prometheus and Forgive us our trespasses. In one post the
question came up whether or not Mac should have challenged and/or killed
Methos if he'd ran into the guy in the Bronze Age.

That got me thinking.
What if the crimes of the Horsemen hadn't happened in the Bronze Age but
now. Let's say for the past 1.000 a 2.000 years. What if they attacked a
little village, the one where a young girl called Cassandra is living in.
Now imagine after a couple of years in virtual hell Cass finally manages to
escape and runs into Duncan who takes her under his protection.

I'd like it if someone could write a story with this basic premise.
Methos is the Methos we knew in the Horsemen-flashbacks and so are the other
Horsemen and Cassandra. The story has to happen in modern day and I
definitely want to see it done as Gen. There are more than enough slash
versions of Duncan MacLeod meets Horseman-Methos.
And I absolutely don't want to see any kind of bashing.
Not of Cassandra, not of the Horsemen and definitely not of Duncan.

So is there anyone who thinks they're up to the challenge?
Please do
Lore

Back