Still-Heart by Sleeps With Coyotes

Category: DM/M slash

Rating: NC-17 for m/m sex, language, violence, scaryscary, mysticism, and gratuitous flashbacks.

Disclaimer: the Voice with the Lawyer-Slayer hat tells me Rhysher, Panzer/Davis own these fellows, but my other Voices just ganged up on him and beat him senseless, so I'm willing to ignore that little tidbit for the moment...

Notes the First: This takes place a few months after Not To Be. Typical Coyote Bizarrity, and the occasional mild squick...

Warnings of a sort, and Thanks: This has NOT been betaed in the normal sense, but I'd like to thank everyone who's been reading along with me and *not* killing me more often than necessary for the long, long time it's taken to get it done (waves to Karen, Heidi, and the Wonderfully Wicked Witch). Exzzzztraspecialfine thanks to Jeniece and Olympia for brilliant deductions and commentary! There but for the grace of, ladies...hugs to all!

Dedication: To Jeniece, who sent me, rrrrrr....tapessssss.... (gloat, gloat)

Still-Heart
Sleeps With Coyotes
ciceqi@www.slashcity.com
art by X

Prolog

It was cool in the shade of the temple garden, the near-silence of noon broken by the lazy splash of fat fish surfacing in the pool. With every breath, he could smell the desert, the taste of *heat* coating his throat with a deadly seductiveness. Home, it promised, familiarity and silence, but it was hungry, always hungry...

Settling back into the cushions, he stretched out his hand to rest on the broad, domed skull of a drowsing cat. The desultory *harrumph* it uttered was surprisingly deep, and Methos glanced over to meet the sleepy gold stare of a cheetah without surprise. One of Pharaoh's? His high priest's? Or was this one his, or Ptolemy's, or... He shook his head, felt doubt slip away, far less tangible than the velvet fur beneath his palm.

The animal stretched languidly, its jeweled collar glinting faintly in the shade, before it dropped its heavy head on his thigh and thumped its tail once against the ground. He had a vague notion he should take the beast out hunting tomorrow, but there was no urgency to the impulse. It was enough that he was here. Absently stroking the thick fur, he let a tiny frown crease his brows, watching the pale stone walls wash grey with shadow in the blinding heat of noon. Why did it suddenly seem like rain?

As if summoned, darkness rushed in overhead, stormclouds casting an inky stain across the sky. Ozone replaced the dry tang of the desert while pressure built in palpable waves, like a snake drawing its coils in closer and closer. The hunting cat never stirred, but Methos sat up cautiously, reaching for his sword.

A sword that wasn't there.

The first spike of panic hit him square in the chest, his wide eyes fastening on the sky, waiting for the lightnings to start. Stormclouds roiling overhead, black as jet...

...and the darkness that replaced them sucked all the light from the world as a huge head rose up against the heavens, pierced by stars in the wells of its eyes. Not in the least bit human. Methos stared up at the solemn, alien visage of a dead god, with a hunting cat napping in his lap as the desert went perfectly still, silent and cold as death.

And Methos awoke with a start, feeling jackal eyes upon him, his empty apartment reeking of ozone and heated sands.

Strolling into the bar, Methos glanced around once, pulling his coat tighter against himself for a moment. He didn't need to look to know MacLeod wasn't present, nor any other Immortal. The place was almost empty this early in the day, but there were a few dedicated souls at the end of the bar getting a head-start on tomorrow's hangover. Chiding himself silently for the sudden urge to join them, Methos approached the counter, thrusting his hands in his pockets.

Finding a smile for Joe when the man glanced up wasn't difficult. Keeping the unsettled preoccupation off his face was a little more challenging. "Adam," Joe grinned from behind the bar, wadding up towel and tossing it under the counter. "This is early, even for you-- what, did your favorite bookstore close or something?"

"Where else would I come to drown my sorrows?" Methos snorted, his lips twitching faintly as he settled onto a stool. "Can't a friend just drop by?"

Joe shot him a *look* as a beer appeared without Methos' asking. "You know, that's what I usually hear from Mac-- right before he starts grilling me."

"You're too suspicious, Joe," Methos smiled, taking a long drink to gather his thoughts. Why *was* he here, anyway? Over one dream, no less. One strangely disturbing dream that brought back times he could only recall in the vaguest sense, a dim memory of hymns and punishing heat, and wise old eyes...

But Joe was looking at him strangely, and Methos came back to himself with a start, suddenly aware that he had been staring off into space for long minutes. "Sorry, what?" he asked, sitting back and quickly taking another drink.

"I said, is anything wrong? You're a million miles away today..."

"Nothing." Methos shook his head, setting his drink down carefully. "Just... you haven't noticed anything... strange, have you?" Saying it aloud made him uncomfortable, caught between expecting to be laughed at and a superstitious certainty that speaking of his formless concerns would make them real.

"Like what?" Joe frowned, shifting forward as his voice dropped, glancing towards the pair of drunks perched at the far end of the counter. Both had their eyes glued on the television, transfixed by a jowled blond sportscaster and a looping slow-motion play, paying no attention to the rest of the bar. Methos ignored them entirely, staring down at his hands.

Slowly, he turned the bottle on the countertop, watching the glinting lights winking through dark amber. "I'm not sure," he admitted quietly, lifting his eyes to meet Joe's. Something in the Watcher's tense posture, the strained blankness of his face, jolted Methos with an unpleasant shock. "No," he shook his head quickly, "it's not the Gathering. I've just had an odd feeling today, is all. Everybody gets them."

But, he could practically hear Joe think, not everyone has 5000 years of experience to back theirs up.

Dawson shook it off quickly, but Methos could tell the questions had only retreated, crowding behind Joe's eyes to be mulled over later. "Mac came by earlier, looking for you."

"That *is* strange," Methos snorted, lifting his beer again with an amused smirk.

"What's up with you two?" Joe demanded, an edge of exasperation sharpening his voice. "And why are you hiding out from him?"

"I'm not hiding, I'm just busy." //And liable to stay that way for the foreseeable future,// Methos added privately. It was enough that he was *around*, close enough to look out for the Highlander and be available if he was needed, without having to put up with the Scot as well. Out of sight but within reach-- *that* was the name of the game, for the moment at least.

If only 'out of sight' translated to 'out of mind' this time...

"Busy, huh? You've been avoiding him for months. Even *he's* noticed it. What's wrong?"

Giving Joe his blandest, most infuriating smile, Methos asked, "What could possibly be wrong?"

It had the desired effect. Joe threw up his hands at both of them, muttering under his breath about stubborn old bastards. "I thought you two worked out your differences," he growled at last, fixing Methos with a hard stare.

Smiling faintly, Methos regarded Joe with a guileless gaze of open curiosity. "When would that have been?" he asked, tilting his head back as he waited.

"After O'Rourke," Joe scowled doubtfully down at Methos, leaning on his palms as he tried to bridge the gap between them. "You heard the guy-- he said what you taught him was important, he *thanked* you..."

"Ah," Methos grinned humorlessly, raising his bottle between them in a toast. "The MacLeod seal of approval. I don't know *how* I lived this long without it. That was supposed to make everything better?"

"He thought it did."

"He thought wrong," Methos shook his head, draining the last of his beer. "Or, more accurately, he never asked."

"Yeah? Well, you never exactly volunteered anything, did you?" Joe accused, something strange flickering across his eyes. Uncertainty? Fear? The days when Methos would have known exactly what Joe was feeling by the look on that expressive face were long gone. He wasn't entirely certain he even *wanted* them back, built as they had been on a lie.

"No," he agreed quietly. "No, I didn't. Joe, I'm too old for this, all right? I'm tired of beating my head against MacLeod's stubbornness, against those expectations he has of what the world's oldest man should be. I'm not it," he protested earnestly, eyes begging for understanding. "I can't take his constant disappointment. I woke up one day and realized the only thing I was ever going to get from this so-called friendship was a few free beers and one hell of a headache-- not to mention enough Scottish brooding to add a new clause to the Geneva convention. I just can't *do* this, Joe, not right now, not anymore."

Somehow, he'd expected to feel more anger at the thought. After all he'd been through for the Scot, the times he'd put his head on the line, days when he woke up afraid and went reluctantly to sleep with one eye open-- after *swearing* never to be placed in that position again... For MacLeod to brush him off with 'I don't know who you are' and a protestation that he'd *learned*...

If MacLeod had learned *anything* from him, the bloody fool wouldn't have stuck his neck out for Liam O'Rourke, now would he?

Even so, it was an excuse, and he knew it. He wasn't lying-- he *was* tired. But not of the Highlander's inflexible dedication to outdated morals, insane heroics, not even the infernal brooding. The truth was, there was very little he wouldn't forgive the man, couldn't learn to put up with or deflect with a few well-timed jabs.

But. 'I love you,' MacLeod had said to Amanda. 'You make my heart glad. You always have.'

And Methos had woken up.

"He thinks you're going to leave," Joe said at last, a pensive hesitation in his voice.

"I'm still here, aren't I?" Methos sighed, rolling his eyes. "If he really needs me, I'll be there, Joe. Someone has to look out for him, and none of us can be there all the time. I just don't see that I have to leave myself a target while I do it. Look, don't worry about it," he shrugged, climbing slowly to his feet. "You have my number; if you need anything, you know how to get in touch with me. All right?"

"What if Mac needs to get in touch with you?"

Methos hesitated. "*Is* something wrong, Joe?"

"Just that he wants to talk to his friend," Joe replied, eyes narrowing as Methos stood straighter.

"I'll bear that in mind," Methos nodded once, and turned on his heel, striding out into the late afternoon sun.

Far from being closed, his favorite bookstore was open late during the week, and the proprietor had unearthed some fine old copies of Aristophanes' plays. //Candy,// Methos thought gleefully and gave into temptation, purchasing them on the spot. He couldn't face another dry manuscript or wrenching examination of his past today. What he really wanted was to not think at all, but failing that, indulging in mindless humor was a close second.

Making off with his finds, he spent the next few hours in the little cafe across the street, snickering like a schoolboy through _The Clouds_ and _Lysistrata_. All the snide little remarks to the audience, pointed digs at this official or that general... He could still recall the exact shade of red Cleonymus the Shield-Dropper had turned one afternoon, expecting to sit through a harmless comedy. //David Letterman, eat your heart out.//

Glancing outside as he closed the second book, Methos watched brilliant clouds track across the skyline, sunset staining their fleece in vibrant pastels. He could see his reflection in the glass against the gathering darkness, and he regarded his own smile with faint amusement. In the last three months, he could count the times he'd simply smiled on one hand, and he'd just spent the entire afternoon giggling like a fool. Maybe he was getting over the Highlander. Maybe he was simply remembering how to relax, secure for the moment that no one was after anyone else's head.

As secure as he could be outside Holy Ground, of course. But he wasn't quite ready to hide again. This truly was a fascinating age, so much to see and learn and *do*. If nothing else, the beer was good, and the turn of the millennium was just around the corner. He could go make a monk of himself *after* the party of the century.

If the Highlander didn't need him more.

Sighing, Methos tucked his books under his arm, leaving a tip large enough to mollify the waitress who'd refilled his coffee all afternoon. Nodding to Henri as he passed the counter, he bundled his coat tighter about himself, taking a last, deep breath before plunging back out into the February chill. The cold briefly managed to take his mind off Duncan MacLeod as he stalked towards his truck, yanking the door open and settling quickly behind the wheel.

//I am *not* going to think about Duncan MacLeod tonight,// he told himself firmly, jamming the key in the ignition with more force than absolutely necessary. //Not if I can help it.//

It was a mantra he repeated unceasingly on the short ride home, ignoring the contradiction inherent in his chant. Keeping away from MacLeod was supposed to make things *better*, dammit... He just couldn't take it right now, watching the Highlander with Amanda, seeing the centuries stretching out before them, together, in love. Knowing they were in love. While he was all alone, ghosting the orbit of the one person who fascinated him above all others, who he'd never have. Amanda could lose her head tomorrow, and Mac would still be as rampantly heterosexual as ever. And Methos would still be alone.

//Oh, shut up, Old Man. You could be somewhere warm right now, don't forget. Sydney, Istanbul, Khartoum, *Florida*. Well, maybe not Florida. Too many old relics there already...//

//But somewhere the Highlander *isn't*. You could do it. If you really wanted to...//

He could. He had. What did it say about him, that he didn't even want to anymore? Most likely, it was a warning that he was coming dangerously close to losing his head. Maybe a little trip outside Paris wouldn't be a bad thing after all... Long enough to get clear of the Highlander's seductive presence, pulling him ever closer. Time away. Time away from MacLeod would be a *very* good thing...

Even before he saw the Porsche parked outside his apartment building, Methos could feel the Highlander's buzz, prickling over his skin while he was still blocks away. Cursing as he banged his fist on the steering wheel, Methos considered turning the truck around, finding somewhere else to spend the night. Again. The greatly extended range he'd built up since Bordeaux was good for something, at least; it was ironic as hell that the reason he used it so often these days was to hide from the man he most wanted to see.

And it wasn't like MacLeod was going to give up anytime soon, not if he knew the Scot. //The hell with it,// he sighed angrily, trying to control his rising frustration. //Let's just get this over with. Maybe he'll leave me in peace for a few months if I go talk to him now. Or maybe I'll just chase him off. Might be the best thing for all concerned...//

By the time Methos parked and crossed the street, Duncan was leaning against the hood of his car, arms crossed deliberately over his chest. If the dark cloud hovering over the Scot wasn't warning enough, the man's furious scowl was. Mentally squaring his shoulders for combat, Methos swept past the other man, heading up the stairs and tossing a casual: "Come on up" over his shoulder.

MacLeod followed him to his apartment in deadly silence, standing by the door as Methos shrugged out of his coat. Tossing it and his books at the couch, Methos strode determinedly into the kitchen without looking at Duncan. If he was going to do this, he needed a beer. Fishing one out, he held it up expectantly, unsurprised when MacLeod shook his head in refusal. Wonderful-- a *sober* stubborn Scot...

"So," he sighed, going immediately on the attack, "care to tell me what I've done *this* time?" He was pleased to hear the exact shade of nearly-bitter resignation he was aiming for, skillfully ignoring the fact that it was far too close to what he actually felt. It put Mac on the defensive at once, and Methos watched with satisfaction as uncertainty replaced the anger on the other man's face.

"Where have you been?" Mac asked in an almost normal tone, with a plaintive note lurking beneath the resentment that tore at Methos' heart. "I've been trying to reach you for months."

"I've been busy, MacLeod," he shrugged, tossing the bottle cap to skitter across the counter. He'd throw it out later. No sense cluttering up his own house, after all. "Eventually, Adam Pierson's going to have to figure out what to do with his life, you know. He can't just stay an ex-Watcher forever."

MacLeod winced a little at the dig, but he didn't back down or flare up. Which surprised Methos a little, and he didn't care for surprises where the Highlander was concerned. "I *understand* that, Methos, but don't you have time for your friends now and then...? Even Joe hasn't seen much of you lately," he added with a hesitation Methos didn't like at all, though he couldn't quite say what it was that disturbed him about it.

"Like I said, I've been busy," Methos shook his head, tossing back a swallow as he ventured cautiously out into the living room. "Besides, I checked in with him this afternoon."

He knew he wasn't imagining the sharp flash of hurt that crossed the Highlander's face. "Did he tell you I'd been looking for you?"

"Yes," Methos nodded simply.

"And?"

"And you found me," Methos shrugged again, gesturing around them with his bottle. MacLeod hadn't even seen the inside of his new apartment before, Methos realized. MacLeod, apparently, had realized it long since. And the explosion Methos had postponed earlier erupted all at once.

"Dammit, Methos, what's going *on* here?" MacLeod demanded, closing the gap between them with long, angry strides. "You've been avoiding me for months, and now all I'm getting from you is evasions! Is there someone after you? Is something wrong?"

"There's nothing wrong," Methos snorted dismissively, turning away, but Mac's hand on his arm halted him in his tracks.

"I want answers, Methos," the other man growled, dark eyes flashing. "I'm not leaving until I get them."

"Considering that I don't have a spare bedroom," Methos drawled, "it's a shame I don't have any to give you-- you're in for a long wait, Highlander. You're welcome to the couch, mind, but I don't think Amanda will be very happy with your new living arrangements."

MacLeod's anger turned abruptly to bewilderment, and Methos trailed off with a frown. "Amanda?" Mac shook his head. "She's been in Hong Kong the past two months. Didn't Joe tell you?"

Nonplused, Methos regarded MacLeod curiously, surprised he didn't see the hurt there he would have expected. "I didn't think to ask," he admitted after a moment. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened," MacLeod's brows scrunched further, a puzzled half-smile of exasperation tugging at the corners of his mouth. "She heard about some jewel or necklace or something and caught the next flight out. Last I heard, she took up with an elderly millionaire instead."

Methos wasn't sure if it was shock or elation that tightened his gut, but neither made him very comfortable. "I thought you loved each other," he shook his head, trying to make sense of the situation.

"We do," Mac protested, fingers tightening on Methos' arm. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Taking a deep breath, Methos willed himself to patience. "MacLeod. I thought you were *in love* with each other...?" he tried again, arching his brows expectantly as he waited for Mac to catch on.

MacLeod's grin was swift and reflexive, just shy of an outright laugh as he realized where Methos was heading. "Amanda? Settle down? Are we talking about the same woman? We'd be at each other's throats in a decade. Less. She's one of the best friends I've ever had, and I'm more grateful than you'll ever know that I had the chance to tell her," Mac shrugged, a hint of wistfulness shadowing his words. "All of you. But if you were expecting me to ask you to be best man at the wedding, I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed."

"Damn," Methos snorted, annoyance warring with a sudden sense of... possibility. "And I already had my tux picked out. Does this mean no bachelor party?"

Mac did laugh this time, with only a trace of confusion showing in his eyes. "Sorry, Methos. If you want a party, you'll have to find another excuse."

"Who needs an excuse when we have Joe's?" Methos smirked, thinking quickly. He *knew* MacLeod, much as it pained the Highlander at times. Mac was willing to be distracted for the moment, but a serious talk was looming on the horizon, and Methos wasn't in the mood to deal with it at the moment. Not until he'd had time to digest the bombshell Mac had dropped, opening doors he'd thought closed to him. "Come on. I'll buy you a drink," he offered with a conciliatory smile, hoping to keep Mac off-balance.

MacLeod's hesitation tightened a leaden fist in Methos' gut, the Highlander's dark eyes considering him with a blend of consternation and melancholy. "We need to talk, Methos," Mac said quietly, and Methos didn't doubt the man was serious, willing at last to really *discuss* their problems, and hopefully to listen as well.

But not just yet. "We'll talk," Methos nodded seriously. "But we can do it over fifteen kinds of beer at Joe's."

Shaking his head, Mac chuckled softly, shrugging one shoulder. "Fine."

"Good," Methos grinned easily. "Let me get my coat..."

Persuading Mac that they should take separate cars was more a play for time than any real desire for distance. Once MacLeod had him trapped, his chances of deflecting the Talk dropped dangerously, something Methos wasn't willing to risk at this point. Mac just sighed, climbing into the Porsche and waiting patiently for Methos to pull out from the curb, following him close enough to bring a smirk to Methos' face. //I wonder what he'd do if I floored it at the next light...?//

Chase him down, no doubt. And then they'd have their little discussion at swordpoint, like as not. The momentary satisfaction of spiking the Highlander's heart rate just wasn't worth it.

//All right, Old Man, think this out. Amanda took off for parts East, and MacLeod's... dealing with it. Rather well, for that matter. Much better than I would have expected; that child needs something permanent in his life, that much is glaringly obvious. And if not Amanda...//

He sighed, shaking his head exasperatedly. //Not that Mac's ever given the slightest impression he might play for both teams... But yesterday I thought this friendship was as good as over, and today he tracked *me* down to fix it. It really bothered him that I went to see Joe and not him. And Joe's right: he *does* expect me to leave. When did he start wanting me to stay? Because he does. He actually wants me to stay...//

Taking a deep breath, he unclenched his hands from the steering wheel, forcing his thoughts to settle. //Don't get your hopes up, Old Man... but if he gives you an opening...//

Methos would take it.

Walking in with MacLeod at his side, Methos' eyes immediately sought out their Watcher friend, mentally preparing himself for Dawson's smug satisfaction at seeing the two of them together. The Monday night crowd was never very large, and Joe was easy to spot, chatting with a pair of customers at a table by the stage. Glancing back at MacLeod, Methos inclined his head towards the bar, waiting for Dawson to notice them as they crossed the floor.

When Joe looked up, the relieved smile that crossed his face hit Methos with an unexpected pang of guilt. It wasn't as if Joe had had anything to do with Methos' absences, but he hadn't even considered that it might be hard on anyone but himself-- or the Highlander, in his wildest flights of fancy. Truthfully, his relationship with Joe had settled back into the old patterns rather quickly. A good yelling match, a little near-betrayal between friends, and things were back to normal. Now that he thought about it, Joe had every right to worry that, if Methos wasn't even seeing *MacLeod*, he might just pack up one day, forget all his friends and disappear. And Joe didn't have the kind of time it took to wait out one of Methos' moods.

//I've been an all-around idiot,// he berated himself, settling sideways onto a stool so he could face the door. //I may have had an excuse with the Highlander, but Joe deserves better from me...//

The Watcher had already extricated himself from his conversation, making his way to the bar with a huge grin. "Hey, Mac," Joe chuckled as he slipped behind the counter. "I see you've found our runaway researcher..."

"Perseverance counts for something," MacLeod smiled, glancing at Methos out of the corner of his eye. "Of course, his first impulse was to go for a beer..."

"You expected anything different?" Joe laughed, and Methos sighed woefully, willing to bear the brunt of their teasing for the moment.

"Some things never change," MacLeod agreed, but the way he said it, turning to meet Methos' amused gaze with such sober eyes... Methos shrugged off the irrational leap of hope that look engendered, shaking his head in tolerant silence as Joe set them up with drinks. "Apparently," Mac continued with a nod of thanks, "he's been busy with Adam Pierson lately..."

"I have to decide what to do with him sometime," Methos hunched one shoulder, meeting Joe's eyes with a hint of challenge. "Although, to tell you the truth, a car crash is looking more and more attractive every day. I figure I only have another five years or so before it's time to retire Pierson anyway, at least as he is now. Unless, of course, he suddenly becomes Immortal..."

"Is that safe?" MacLeod frowned, glancing quickly at Dawson with a troubled expression. "They'll be keeping tabs on you then..."

"They'll be keeping tabs on Adam Pierson," Methos corrected with a smile. "It's standard procedure, Mac; they're going to want to see a body if Pierson turns up dead, but if I just disappear, they'll *know* something's going on. If I play it right, it'll seem like a bad coincidence. A few adoption records show up, an old journal from a dead parent, and voila, I become the victim of a cosmic joke. Wouldn't be the first time," he grinned before he caught himself, lulled by the familiarity of location and company, falling back into their old sparring habits.

Another dart of the eyes from MacLeod, but the Highlander's voice was mild when he replied. "I've been thinking about that lately," he nodded slowly. "It's amazing you've kept your sense of humor."

Methos regarded the Highlander with narrowed eyes, trying to dissect the expression on that serious face. Was that a rebuke or grudging admiration he heard? "I try," he shrugged noncommittally, wincing internally when Duncan's expression firmed, the man's stubborn resolve to *drag* an explanation out of him coming to the fore.

Joe took one look at the two of them, glanced twice at the infuriatingly bland expression Methos *knew* had just crossed his face, and jumped in quickly before either of them could draw blood. "You know, Mac, when Methos stopped by earlier, he asked me whether I'd noticed anything strange going on lately..."

Methos could cheerfully have strangled the Watcher, bracing himself for the suspicious questions sure to follow. //If you set MacLeod off, Dawson, so help me, you'll meet me in the nearest alley...// Mac might forgive his little disappearing act, but if he thought Methos was hiding another Kronos in the closet...

Mac only looked curious, not perturbed. "Strange how?" the Scot asked, genuine concern in his voice.

"It's nothing," Methos shook his head, hunching his shoulders a bit as he hid behind his bottle. //Gods, this is almost embarrassing...//

"No, really," Duncan insisted. "Strange how?"

"Look, I had an odd dream, all right?" Methos muttered, glaring at his listeners and daring them to laugh. "It's left me a bit out of sorts, but like I said, it's nothing."

Joe didn't quite look convinced, but Methos wasn't sure he liked the idea of anyone taking his dream seriously any better than being made fun of. "What about you, Mac?" Dawson asked. "Noticed anything lately?"

"No," Mac said slowly, shaking his head. "Not exactly... But I know Methos took a head three days ago, and I wasn't anywhere near them."

Methos felt the floor sink dizzyingly beneath him, Joe's strangled, "*What*?" going nearly unnoticed. He really had hoped Mac wouldn't feel that; he'd tried his damnedest to shut the Highlander *out* when he'd taken that Quickening, praying Mac would remain oblivious to the bond that had formed between them since Bordeaux. He hadn't noticed Methos taking out *Walker*, after all... Not a word, not even a stray look, and Joe hadn't said anything to make Methos think Mac had been asking about him like that-- and Joe would have been as consumed by curiosity as Mac. Apparently, he could have saved his strength this time. And he'd give a *lot* to know why that was.

"Gaius Corvinus," Methos sighed grudgingly at last, "otherwise known as Guy Corbin."

"Corbin?" Joe demanded, eyes wavering towards Mac helplessly. Of *course* Joe would know about Corbin. Just another face from Mac's past, as far as Methos was concerned. One down, gods knew how many to go. He really *hated* living at Immortal Central sometimes... "Isn't he...?"

"My guess is he came hunting for one man and found another," MacLeod nodded gravely. "But if there's a better explanation, I'd love to hear it."

"What's there to explain?" Methos shrugged, taking a long drink before setting his bottle casually aside. "He challenged, I took his head. It's that simple."

"It's never that simple with you," Mac sighed, but it lacked the sting Methos expected. Duncan sounded resigned more than anything else, and that put Methos instantly on his guard. "Should I bother asking how long it took you to goad him into that challenge?"

Methos' eyes narrowed consideringly, the slight exaggeration 'two minutes' hovering dangerously on his tongue. Mac was prone to flying off the handle at even the *hint* of someone else trying to fight his battles for him; when Methos did it, the reaction was all the more pronounced. He could always lie, imply that Corbin had heard the world's Oldest Immortal was hanging around Duncan MacLeod and decided to attempt two birds with a single stone... Or he could deliver the truth, and hope for the best. Stranger things had happened than catching Duncan in a tolerant mood...

Before he could give in to temptation or try and explain, the nagging sense of strangeness that had been dogging him all day erupted into reality, a feeling of *presence* slamming into him that left him shaking.

There was someone standing before the door, a vague shape that radiated power, completely unlike any Quickening he'd ever felt. It was like drowning, sinking helplessly down into dark, frozen water, sly bubbles of someone's last breath tickling over his body. He heard MacLeod hiss something unintelligible beside him, followed by a suffocated groan of protest, something like fear... Too much, too sudden, too fast, and it was worse than drowning, the buzz ringing his bones like a struck tuning fork, dissolving thought into random flashes. One of them was going to die tonight.

MacLeod *couldn't* be that one.

Wrenching himself together, Methos forced himself to move, climbing slowly to his feet and willing his eyes to focus. There was no way he could take this Immortal, not with a Quickening that strong, but if Joe could just get MacLeod to safety... Drawing himself up straight, he swallowed hard, his mouth too dry to speak, and tried to assess his last challenger.

The man by the door was tiny, a wizened ancient with smiling dark eyes too knowing by half. In linen robes. Ceremonial robes. Robes that were achingly familiar... "Nakht sa-Menthu," the old man bowed his head, his rich, golden voice washing over Methos like a benediction. "Maai arek am."

Shuddering, Methos could *hear* the snap inside as a long-forgotten wall crumbled, memories threatening to spill over the broken dam and wash him away. He *knew* this man, and there was, almost, a name, a purpose to the sudden, crippling terror that rose inside him at the words, Egyptian, yes, he knew--

"Sennedjem," he breathed, and the old man bowed again, deeply, black eyes twinkling kindly in the seamed golden face--

And was gone, instantly, the door still shut behind him.

Staring wildly about in the absence of that shattering almost-Quickening, Methos vaguely realized he was standing alone in the middle of the bar, the disinterested stares of the other patrons fixed upon him and with no memory at all of drawing closer to the apparition. Without thinking, he darted for the door, praying silently that it had been some trick, that there was an Immortal just outside he could ascribe this visitation to. Yanking it open, he ignored the Highlander's shout behind him, bursting out onto the early Parisian evening and startling a few pedestrians as he skidded to a stop just outside.

Nothing. There was nothing out here, not even the hint of an unfamiliar signature, only MacLeod's familiar pulse behind him. Trying to slow his panting breaths, the mad thrash of his heart against his ribs, he tilted his head back, staring up at the sky with narrowed eyes. Unbroken black, the stars too faint to compete with Paris' brilliance, it stirred something best left unexplored, a memory lost and unmourned.

//Why now?// he demanded silently, trying not to flinch when the door flew open again behind him.

MacLeod approached him warily, looking almost surprised to find him still there. "Ah, Adam?" he said quietly, glancing cautiously around them. "Are you all right?"

//When did *that* become your first question, Highlander?//

Methos nodded slowly, turning to face his friend. "Fine. You?"

MacLeod shrugged, his concerned frown deepening. "Who was that?"

"A dead man," Methos swallowed, holding Duncan's eyes seriously.

"An Immortal you know?" Mac hazarded, seeing sarcasm where Methos had meant none.

"No. He was mortal. Five thousand years ago."

Duncan's shocked expression was absurdly gratifying as Methos turned away, tilting his head back up to stare into starless night.

Chapter One

Duncan stared at Methos for a small eternity, still shaken by the echoes of that alien Quickening and Methos' disturbing words. Methos' calm face was abnormally still, strained and pale, and Duncan found himself staring at the bared expanse of throat as Methos' head remained tipped up to stare at the heavens. In the bar, when Methos had risen from his seat beside Duncan, facing blind what had felt like death...

He shuddered, the image rising unbidden to his thoughts, Methos' face the one thing he had latched onto when the world had shivered apart around them. Wide sightless eyes, and a look of such scared resignation... //Don't,// he growled distractedly and pushed it all away.

Methos wouldn't die for him. Duncan wouldn't *let* him.

"Adam," he said quietly, taking a cautious step closer. "Come back inside. Joe's going to be worried."

Letting his chin fall to his breast, Adam took a deep breath, looking up slowly with an oddly blank stare. "MacLeod," Methos started, then trailed off, as if his thoughts had wandered off the path and abandoned him.

//Drastic measures,// Duncan thought, and took Methos by the arm, leading him back in like a child. It was a mark of Methos' turmoil that he allowed himself to be led without protest. Looking automatically for Joe, Duncan found the Watcher hovering by the door to his office, one of the waitresses ensconced behind the bar. "Come on," Duncan murmured soothingly, "we can use Joe's office..."

But Methos was shaking off the confusion that held him with every step, and when he gently tugged away from Duncan's easy grip, Mac let him go. A vague feeling of loss settled behind his ribs, his hand tingling faintly where it had rested against the smooth flex of Methos' biceps, but he shrugged the strangeness off, trying not to be too blatant in his concern for the other man. Up to a point, he'd found that Methos positively reveled in being pampered, but being *taken care of* was another matter entirely...

//You laugh about 'stubborn Scottish pride' all you want, Old Man...// Duncan sighed fondly to himself. //You probably invented that, too...//

Joe ushered them both in with poorly-contained impatience, hardly waiting for the door to close before he started in with the questions.

The first was *not* one Duncan expected.

"What the hell just happened?" Joe demanded. "One minute you're arguing about Corbin, and the next you're both acting like... like electrified zombies! And *you*, Methos-- I thought you were going to draw your sword in my bar! What's *up* with you two?"

"You didn't see him?" Duncan frowned, rocking back on his heels while Methos collapsed into the nearest chair.

"See who?" Joe growled, staring from one Immortal to the other.

"Sennedjem," Methos sighed, scrubbing one-handed at his face. "Dead guy, dressed like a High Priest of Osiris..." he elaborated, waving the other hand in the air as if to mark the spectre's diminutive height.

"*What*?" Joe's scowl was pained, and Duncan could see the effort it took to keep from shaking more comprehensive answers from the two of them. Taking pity on Dawson, Mac took up the thread of explanations, rubbing thoughtfully at the bridge of his nose.

"There was a sort of a buzz, Joe," he began slowly, trying to put what he'd sensed into words. "The strongest I've ever felt, even when a group of us meet... It wasn't really like one of *our* Quickenings," he clarified hastily, "more like a... I don't know, an electrical storm or something... I can't explain it. I couldn't see who it was at first, until Methos stood up..." He trailed off, trying not to admit to himself what he knew to be true. Methos had been going to challenge the intruder, as good as offering himself up as a sacrifice.

For Duncan's sake.

"I saw that," Joe prodded impatiently, turning to Methos. Grateful for the distraction, Duncan leaned against the desk, drinking in the sight of Methos alive and whole with a relief he couldn't begin to describe. Methos looked five shades beyond exhaustion, his usual graceful sprawl an untidy droop, but Duncan couldn't shake the quiet happiness that warmed his heart at the sight of the man. "You knew the guy?"

"Not at first," Methos sighed wearily, running a hand through his hair. Still spiky, it had grown out some from the last time Duncan had seen him. It softened the sharp planes of his face and made him look younger and more vulnerable than the ancient Duncan had thanked so stumblingly on the barge three months ago. Something about it made Duncan uncomfortable, a visible reminder of months wasted and gone. "I don't know about MacLeod, but I could barely *see* with his buzz ringing in my ears. But it wasn't until he spoke that I... remembered. Who he was."

Duncan heard the slight hesitation in Methos' words, as if the apparition's identity wasn't the only thing that had been forcibly recalled to him. Joe's frown only deepened. "Well? What did he say?"

Methos shook his head, glancing down at his lap, but the strange words rolled fluently off his tongue, spoken to the floor. " 'Nakht sa-Menthu. Maai arek am.' "

Joe nodded expectantly when Methos fell silent. "And?"

Slouching further in his seat, Methos paradoxically seemed to tense up even more, drawing in on himself as he sprawled out. " 'Maai arek am.' That's a line from a very old prayer, I guess you would say...a hymn of praise. 'Ari Anpu auset-sen hru pui en "Maai arek am." ' " He cleared his throat, then shrugged, " 'Anubis appointed their place on the day when it was said "Come therefore thither." ' "

" 'Come therefore thither?' " Joe shook his head, nonplused.

"Come into being. 'And God said "Let there be light," and there was light, and it was good.' Same difference. Only in this case, it's Ra, not Jehovah, letting fly with the divine Logos..."

Duncan caught himself before Methos could draw them into his spell, vast knowledge imparted with a biting sense of humor that made his listeners doubt fact and fiction alike. "What was the other thing he said?" Duncan asked, cutting off the meandering distraction before it could start.

Methos' breath caught briefly, but his voice was steady when he replied. "A name. Nakht, son of Menthu-- Menthu was one of the sun gods, predating the worship of Ra, actually--"

"Who was it?" Duncan interrupted, carefully watching Methos' face.

"Me," Methos shivered faintly, his eyes far distant. The green had faded to a shimmering gold, emerald viewed through amber. "Before my first death. I'd forgotten..."

Before his first death. The name Methos had grown up with, one he could truly call his own. A time, and a place, after all these years... Why, then, was there such horror burning in Methos' eyes? What lay beyond those hidden memories that affected the man so? "So he called your name... and told you to come into being?" Duncan asked slowly, testing the strange concept aloud.

"I think... I think he meant to remember who I was. It's still a blur... I remember his name, mine, maybe a temple... but the details are all fuzzy," he shook his head. "It's like trying to remember a song you haven't heard in centuries-- some of the words are there, and maybe a bit of the tune, but the rest is just gone..."

"But if someone else sings a few bars," Joe offered confidently, "then it's usually not hard to remember at all."

Methos snorted quietly, looking up at Joe with a considering grin. "You're saying you have a song for me to hear?"

"Not exactly," Joe shrugged, "but look at what's been knocked loose in there so far. Look, let's take this one step at a time, all right? You said he was a priest of Osiris? Named Sennedjem?" When Methos nodded warily, Joe arched a pointed brow, probing, "Well, tell me this: what's a 5000 year-old man doing hanging around with a priest?"

"I... I think I was an initiate," Methos frowned thoughtfully. "I can remember the prayers... I remember-- a temple garden, a courtyard at noon," he trailed off, voice growing quieter with every word. Watching Methos stare blindly into space, a pensive scowl of concentration settling like a mask over his face, made Duncan fidget uncomfortably.

"What is it?" he asked when he could no longer stand the suspense.

"Nothing," Methos sighed, jerking his head up to meet Duncan's eyes.

*That* was a response he'd heard too often today. "Methos," he warned, then changed tack, the sudden tightening of the other man's features wringing swift sympathy from him. "What about your dream? Could it have something to do with that? There must be *some* reason he showed up here...."

The way Methos' eyes flickered told Duncan he'd scored a direct hit. But Methos shrugged, his limping answer raising the hairs on the back of Duncan's neck. It wasn't what Methos said, but the way he said it, his voice hollow and entranced. "It wasn't about anything, really... I was in the garden. It was midday, and the sun was so hot you could taste it... sun and the desert. It rained a lot more then, but we were close to the edge of... I don't know. I've forgotten the name. There was a hunting cat; I thought it was the pharaoh's, or Ptolemy's, or the high priest's... And then it just got dark. The sky went black, and there was a... a huge head, Anubis, against the sky...

"And then I woke up," Methos shook his head, snapping back to the present with a self-deprecating laugh that rang patently false. "Like I said, it wasn't anything important..."

"Then why are you being visited by ghosts?" Joe pointed out logically.

"I don't know," Methos sighed, frustrated. "I don't have the faintest idea what's going on, all right? Look," he growled, rising in a fluid motion that belied the weariness in his eyes, "I'm going to head home for now. Maybe I can dredge up some more of those memories, I don't know..."

"Fine," Duncan agreed quickly, glancing warningly at Joe when the Watcher began to protest. "I'll follow you--"

"I don't need a baby-sitter, Highlander," Methos' eyes narrowed dangerously, cutting through the evasions Mac was readying to the truth behind his offer. "I'm not afraid of things that go bump in the night."

"Methos--"

"I need some time alone, MacLeod," Methos stated firmly, in a tone that brooked no opposition. "I need to think. If anything happens, I'll call you, all right? But right now, I'm going home. Good *night*, Highlander."

Duncan sighed, annoyance warring with concern. "Good night, Methos..."

"Night, Joe," Methos nodded to the Watcher, and slunk out the door, closing it softly behind him.

Dawson turned to Mac with a troubled scowl, shaking his head slowly. "What do you make of all this?" Joe asked, almost pleading with Duncan for answers.

"Sorry, Joe," Duncan shrugged helplessly. "I'm as baffled as you are. But there's one thing I want to know..."

"What's that?" Joe sighed, resigned.

"Why is it *I* saw the priest and no one else did? Just me and Methos?"

"Maybe because you're both Immortal?" Joe hazarded.

Duncan snorted, sinking into the chair Methos had vacated, still warm. "Sure, Joe. And that's why I felt him take Corbin's head, right?"

Joe had no answer to that one, Duncan noted with a remarkable lack of satisfaction. "Huh," Joe muttered thoughtfully. "I think it might be time to check my email..."

Watching Dawson fire up his computer, searching his people's records for clues, Duncan only hoped there would be enough there to make sense of a five thousand year-old enigma, one he still, after all they'd been through, called his best friend.

//Even if he's avoiding me like the plague-- or an executioner. How are we supposed to work this out if I can't even find him? Even Joe couldn't tell me where he was... and why is *Joe* the one Methos always looks up? It used to be me...//

It used to be him.

And he wanted that back.

Kicking the door shut behind him, Methos threw the locks in a daze, running on autopilot. What the hell had *happened* at Joe's? What had the old priest wanted, and why now? What did *any* of this mean?

And why had he spent five thousand years unable to remember his own name?

//I thought Methos *was* my first name... it's the one I remember hearing, where my memories start...// Just after he'd taken his first head, and even *that* had been so long ago, he had no way of knowing just when he, *Methos*, had begun, and Nakht sa-Menthu had slipped away...

Sa-Menthu. Pharaohs had often taken the surname sa-Amon, proof of their earthbound divinity... but he had been a simple priest-in-training... hadn't he? Son of the Sun God. Menthu, lord of the sun's deadly ferocity, god of war, a hawk-headed man with a scimitar clutched in one fist and a spear in the other...

But what did that have to do with the old priest, with seeing Anpu-- Anubis-- in his dreams? Shrugging out of his coat, Methos ghosted through his silent apartment in the dark, heading unerringly for the kitchen. The sudden glare when he opened the refrigerator make him wince and blink, but he fished out a beer through slitted eyes.

Padding into the bedroom, he dropped wearily onto the foot of the bed then slid down to the floor, legs bent nearly to his chest. Resting his head on his knees, he took slow, deep breaths, forcing the hollow, aching fear pushing at his ribs to still. //What am I afraid of?// he whispered into the darkness of his mind, holding his breath as he waited for an answer. //What did I forget, and why?//

Hesitantly, he probed at the hidden memories, brushing lightly across the stray fragments peeking from the gloom of forced forgetfulness. He remembered summer, Midsummer, the feel of elaborate ceremonial robes and the heat of the sun as it climbed towards noon on that holy day...

Something made him look up when Ahmose, High Priest of Menthu, entered the garden. Today, his mentor's smile did little to settle his nerves. He had begun training for this day while Ahmose still dandled him on his knee, but now that it was here, his doubts had risen up to crush him. He had never *truly* called upon the gods before, not like this; what if they decided not to listen? Especially now, when the night was rent by terrible deaths, the entire South become a hunting ground for the children of Set. If he failed...

"Nakht," Ahmose shook his head fondly, "you're brooding. Again. Am I doomed to repeat myself until the ends of eternity?"

" 'The gods send us hardship to be learned from, not treasured,' " Nakht chuckled quietly, ducking his head as he parroted the priest's favorite rebuke. "I know."

"But you're nervous," Ahmose allowed, taking a seat beside Nakht on a low stone bench. Nakht glanced sideways at his mentor, seeking comfort from the handsome, familiar face, serene and unchanging, as youthful as ever. Nakht couldn't remember a time when Ahmose had not looked exactly as he did now, from the first time the High Priest had held him up to the sun as a child, bidding him look upon the face of his father. Ahmose had told Nakht many times that the same unceasing vigor would be Nakht's legacy as well one day.

Even so, it was hard to imagine such a thing, long years stretching out in eternal youth while everyone else aged and died. How then, he had asked once, were they to come to the Boat of a Thousand Years, and sit at the feet of the gods? And Ahmose had smiled sadly, and replied that violence was ever the legacy of this world, their kind.

Since that day, he had twice accompanied his mentor into the empty lands south of the temple, had seen firsthand the battles between the avatars of the gods: the champion of Menthu against the warriors of foreign gods, and the divine fire that followed...

"You have nothing to fear," Ahmose broke into his memories, turning to face his student. "You are the beloved of the gods. They will welcome your call," he insisted kindly, taking Nakht's wrists and turning them palm-up.

"But you're their champion," Nakht shook his head, staring bashfully up through his lashes. "You say we are the same, but you're older, wiser--"

"Yes, Nakht," Ahmose smiled. "But you're special. Wasn't I led to find you, by dreaming and the stars? You are their favored child, Nakht; they have walked beside you from the day you were born. Can there be any doubt you are Menthu's own son? Observe," Ahmose grinned, releasing one of Nakht's wrists to tap his student's nose. "You wear the face of the hawk already..."

Nakht laughed, ducking his head again. It still pained him that he looked so different from those around him, with his strange eyes and pale skin, so easily burned. He had grown nearly to manhood in this temple, and there were still those who said he was no son of the gods but a savage's abandoned bastard, that he should have been left to the elements and hungry beasts. Ahmose said it was jealousy, but the High Priest's noble face was more handsome than Pharaoh's, every inch a son of Egypt.

"Nakht," Ahmose sighed gently, tightening his fingers around Nakht's arm. "Call the fire to you. Let the gods tell you what I cannot."

Swallowing, Nakht closed his eyes as he was bidden, holding the image of a hawk of flame in his mind, wings spread in full flight below the sun. The dim tingle he felt where Ahmose's fingers curled around his wrist intensified, leaving him strangely bereft when they were pulled away. Opening his eyes slowly, he watched miniature lightnings playing across his flattened hand, a blue-white crackle that leapt and sputtered between his palm and Ahmose's, held above his own.

When Ahmose drew his hand back, the fire popped and swirled, pooling like mist in Nakht's cupped hand before flashing painfully bright, leaping sunward like a loosed arrow. Ahmose's smile was faintly wistful as he squinted against the light, tilting his face up to watch it go. "Mine doesn't do that," he chuckled softly, glancing back down at Nakht. "I could teach any of us to call the fire, if the training's begun early enough. But I've never seen anything like you before."

"What if I fail?" Nakht asked at last, begging with his eyes for reassurance. "What if they don't listen to me?"

"They will, Nakht," Ahmose promised. "Come now. We have preparations to finish. And you aren't the one who'll be talking himself hoarse at the height of Midsummer," he teased, poking Nakht in the ribs for good measure. Squirming away, Nakht leapt to his feet, watching his mentor warily as the priest stood. "Come," Ahmose shook his head. "All will be well."

Nakht's own duties had been finished long ago, but he followed Ahmose uncomplainingly, letting the rigid structure of ritual wash over him, calming his fears. Listening to the singers raise their hymn of praise to the heavens, he watched Ahmose make the offerings to Menthu with an untroubled heart. The sun had nearly risen to its zenith when Ahmose began the petition, calling on the gods in all their names and forms to deliver their children from the growing terror.

"Hail, Menthu, King of the Gods, he who is on his throne in Aptet, lord of Annu of the South, prince of Annu of the north! O thou great god, grant that thy children be delivered from slaughter by night, from death without waking! Seek out the dens of the children of Set, who devour the heart, who eateth the soul, who obliterate the names of thy children forever! Let thy spears burn them where they sleep, let them hunt no more in the hours of peace!"

Standing in the center of the vast court, open to the sun as Ahmose had intended, Nakht closed his eyes, picturing the burning hawk and the sun's bright disk as Ahmose had taught him. He had never attempted to call the fire by himself before, but Ahmose's unshakable confidence in him persuaded him to try. Cupping his hands before his heart, he tried to *feel* the spark Ahmose swore would grow as strong as the priest's when Nakht grew into his Immortality.

"Hail, Set, father of storms and friend of the dead, who carryeth away the soul and eateth hearts, guardian of the darkness, who himself liveth in the light-- call to thy breast thy children, who have turned from the will of Menthu, who devour the pure with the cursed and defile the night with their cries! Call away those who feed on the flesh of man, the destroyers of the spirit, and return them to darkness once more!"

A faint trembling within Nakht gave him heart, and he pushed at it, trying to coax it to the fore like fanning a hearthfire, a weak tingling rising from his bones. It was nothing like the prickling dance of Ahmose's spark upon him, but when he opened his eyes, the mist was there, nestled in his palm like faint foxfire. Amazed, Nakht ignored the murmurs of the priests, the smile in Ahmose's voice, watching the flutter and flash of the pale smoke in his hand. //A prayer... Ahmose said to say a prayer, and let it go...//

"Send us deliverance," he whispered to the weak shimmer of his fire, a poor thing without even the approximation of Ahmose's lightnings... and watched it turn white-hot, shooting sunward at tremendous speed.

Nakht's heart strained within his chest, hope and terror stifling his breath as he waited for some sign, however small, that his prayer had been answered. He could wish to see fire rain from the heaven, striking into the untamed South where the children of Set hid, but even the cry of a hawk, a flash of golden wings...

High above, something passed over the sun, throwing the court into a shadow that was cold as the stone of the grave. From every direction, sudden clouds rolled in, bruise-dark and swollen, plunging the land into gloom from one horizon to the next as a low rumble droned ominously across the plain. Hearing the panicked shrieks of the other initiates echoing around him, Nakht felt his heart go still within him, staring into unnatural night with ice creeping up his spine. What had he *done*?

There were figures running madly at the edges of his vision, sharp cries as even the fire at the altar went out. Someone grabbed him around the neck from behind, jerking him off balance as he continued to gaze helplessly into the sky, stunned and wracked with terrified repentance. A voice shouted in his ear that he had angered the gods, unleashed Set on the world, that he would die, here, now, and appease those he had offended. //I meant no harm,// he cried in the silence of his mind, and felt a knife kiss his throat, his captor propelling him towards the darkened altar.

And then the blackness thickened above them, a monstrous head rising stark against the heavens, and everything went still. Faint points of light glittered in the huge beast skull, but it was the face of Anpu, not Set, that towered above them, the solemn guardian of the dead. Nakht felt the blade fall away from his neck, the unknown man behind him staggering away as the priests dropped silently to their knees and prostrated themselves before the god. Swaying on his feet, Nakht shook his head, beyond reasoning this vision away, staring into dark, alien eyes in awed wonder.

Before him, a pair of jet-black shapes slunk across the cold stones, dragging Nakht's gaze back to the ground. A pair of jackals the size of lions approached on noiseless feet, circling around him purposefully, as if weaving a protection for him. Entranced by their fluid grace, Nakht turned his head to watch their flowing dance, a strange sense of distance making the entire thing seem unreal, like a dream. Darting suddenly away from him, the jackals paused, glancing over their shoulders with identical expressions of canine amusement, and vanished into shadow as if they had never been.

And the sun poured down from suddenly-clear skies, blindingly bright as the heat hit like a hammer after the shade of vast clouds, illuminating the priesthood of Menthu on their knees before a solitary lad not yet full-grown.

Methos' head jerked up sharply, feeling the tingle of another Immortal's presence flickering over his nerves. //MacLeod,// he recognized instantly, anger rising swiftly inside him. //What the hell is he doing here?// he seethed, slamming his unopened beer down on the floor and climbing slowly to his feet. //I *told* him I wanted to be alone...// His recalcitrant memories were in full retreat, leaving him with bits and pieces of what he knew was a much vaster puzzle, teasing him with glimpses of an explanation.

And what he *had* remembered made no sense at all. If he had truly seen a god... then why had the appearance of Ahriman been such a surprise? When had he begun to pick and choose what was real, *this* holy spring, *this* commanding Voice, not that demon or ghost or god? And he *had* just seen a ghost. And he did... believe. He had felt it, *MacLeod* had felt it. But a miles-high jackal head? Maybe in dreams, but not in any memory he could trust. And Mac was just *determined* to hound him today...

Snarling with frustration, he stalked to the door in the dark, throwing the locks and yanking it open before MacLeod had time to knock. "Yes?" he growled warningly, glaring at Mac's surprised face from the shadows.

MacLeod neither hesitated nor backed down, and his first words threw Methos' anger into confusion. "Get your coat, Methos-- Joe's found something you need to see."

"What?" Methos shook his head, his fingers tightening around the doorknob.

"You asked for something strange," MacLeod shrugged, and Methos noticed for the first time that the Highlander was pale, his voice strained and subdued. "Joe found it for you. Come on, I'll drive."

Methos paused for a brief moment, regarding MacLeod with narrowed eyes. The man looked like he'd seen *another* ghost, or something truly awful... //Maybe it's those so-called 'children of Set,'// Methos chided himself, shaking his head as he retreated into his unlit apartment. //Raiders, no doubt-- or maybe they had serial killers in ancient Egypt, too...// Philosophy couched in ritual, atrocities in superstition... hard to believe he'd ever been that young and naive...

//But what was that thing with my Quickening? If it *was* my Quickening... And what *is* my fascination with jackals lately...?//

Methos stilled with his coat in hand, wrapping his fingers tightly around the sword hidden in its folds. Not just the towering head again... *both* of the twin jackal gods, Anpu and Ap-uat. The Openers of the Ways. What did it *mean*?

//I repressed it for five thousand years,// he told himself sternly. //Whatever happened, there's no guarantee my memories are going to make any sense whatsoever if it was *that* bad. Someone probably made a right mess of me when they did me in the first time, and at this rate, I'm going to remember him looking like Peter fucking Pan.//

The little voice that tried to remind him of the incident at Joe's just hours ago was quickly, ruthlessly silenced.

"Methos?" MacLeod called from the door, the concern in the Highlander's voice snapping him back to the present.

"Coming," he sighed, shrugging into his coat and retracing his steps. Mac already had his car keys out, and this time, Methos didn't feel like arguing. If Mac tried to have a serious talk on the way to Joe's, Methos was going to challenge the silly bastard, see if he didn't.

Locking the door behind himself, Methos glanced up once again at MacLeod's pale face, trying to ignore the prickle of worry that sank its teeth in his guts. Mac didn't look good at *all*. "You all right?" he asked, losing the battle with anxiety.

"Fine," Mac nodded, stepping back as Methos followed him into the hallway. "You'd better let Joe explain, though. Whatever's going on out there... it's not anything good."

Methos could only mull that over in silence, trailing after the Highlander like a ghost.

Duncan settled into one of Joe's eminently comfortable chairs, not even looking at the computer screen as Methos went to perch on the desk. He'd already seen it once; he didn't particularly need to see it again. Methos glanced at him with wary curiosity before turning to Joe, brows raising expectantly. "So, what have you got for us, Joe?"

Dawson looked subdued, but he leaped right in with an unflappable dedication to duty Duncan had grudgingly come to admire. "They're only just starting to piece it together, but over the last month, a pattern's been emerging that I don't like at all. What we've got is a collection of kill-sites--"

"You mean where there's been a Quickening?" Methos frowned, leaning over the desk to look at the map Dawson called up.

"Yes and no," Joe hedged. "Some of them have been Immortals, but not all."

"So... what's got the Watchers doing police work?" Methos shook his head, one foot beginning to tap rhythmically midair.

"This is Egypt," Joe shook his head, glancing up to gauge Methos' reaction. "Now, what does this look like to you?"

Duncan watched Methos' frown turn considering as he leaned closer to the monitor. Duncan knew Methos had made the connection when his foot stopped twitching. Those brilliant red dots where the kills had occurred, so many of them, flung out in a widening circle around Aswan... "Someone's hunting ground," Methos said quietly, and Joe's grim nod confirmed it. "Not very smart of them, to leave such a blatant pattern..."

"Unfortunately, no one caught on in time," Joe made a face, calling up the second map he'd shown Duncan, one that included Europe as well. Those red dots, like careless blood spatters, had made a sudden leap to Rome twelve days ago, and another to Milan a week later. "He's on the move."

"Shit," Methos shook his head. "Is it just me, or is he making a beeline for Paris?"

"Give the man a prize," Joe muttered, then glanced at both of them, faint embarrassment in his eyes. Methos only snorted, nodding at the screen.

"So, what made your people tie the mortal killings in with the challenges?" Methos wanted to know. Watching the man's cool reaction to the situation, Duncan couldn't help wondering if Methos' aplomb was due to travel plans rather than confidence. It was something that had always irked him about Methos, the man's tendency to disappear... but of all the times Duncan had gotten the man neck-deep in trouble, the only time Methos had walked away was right after Richie's death... and Duncan had *needed* that time alone, to heal and to mourn.

And after five thousand years... the real surprise wasn't that Methos hadn't learned to take risks, but that he still found reasons to want to *live*. Duncan wasn't sure he could have said the same in Methos' place, and though the realization wasn't a new one, it could still give him pause. Methos talked about fire, a fire he said he lacked. But the man had kept his sense of wonder, and sometimes Duncan found his own slipping, after only four centuries. Maybe, just maybe, a 5000 year-old man could still teach him something...

"I don't think any of them were challenges," Joe said slowly, and started clicking up files. "And the crime scenes he leaves all look the same. Wasn't hard to tie them together at all..."

Methos went perfectly still at the first one, and Duncan saw him tense, though his face remained quietly watchful. Staring at the photographs without flinching, Methos looked like a perfect statue, but Duncan thought he was finally learning to read the Old Man, at least a little. Methos was like a big, drowsy feline, content to bask in comfort with half-slitted eyes, watching the world go by in enigmatic silence.

But when the cat went still, and the languid sprawl turned to steel, the flash of claw was never very far behind.

The scenes Joe had shown Duncan were terrible, not just murder but a slaughter, and worse. Whoever had killed those people, human and Immortal alike, they had attacked with such brutality it left Duncan sickened. Not content with removing heads, the killer had ripped his victims to shreds, scattering the bodies in a frenzy. There was blood on the *ceilings*, pieces flung out as if a miniature explosion had occurred, and when the victims had been Immortal...

Duncan had never seen damage from a Quickening quite like this. Lights had blown out, appliances fried and glass shattered, but in such a concentrated area, the floors had been scorched black in near-perfect circles. Irregularly-scattered holes were sunk here and there where the lightnings must have touched down white-hot, searing to ash whatever it came into contact with. It was a wonder no fires had been started, though Joe admitted no one had thought to check that angle yet.

"Tell me more," Methos said quietly, and Duncan could hear a hard edge to Methos' voice that put him strangely at ease.

"Right," Joe nodded, gathering his thoughts. "Here's what's been happening, at least on our side of things. Most of this we had to piece together after the fact, because the victims were settled, they had a routine-- we didn't have to watch them as closely. But we've had a couple Watchers who stayed on their Immortals all night, and that's when we started to realize this wasn't just some crazy Immortal on a rampage. They go home, and the killer seems to be there *waiting* for them. I mean, correct me if I'm wrong, but no one likes to fight in their apartment, I don't care how much room you have. And the fact that they just walked right in tells me they either somehow didn't feel a buzz, or there wasn't a buzz to feel."

Methos only nodded, but Duncan felt the anger boiling up again, a fury no amount of shouting had been able to drain. Someone was on the hunt, and Immortals were in season once again. Duncan didn't *care* if this killer had branched out into the mortal population as well; if this was another Watcher gone bad, Duncan swore he wouldn't rest until he saw their whole damned organization brought down around their ears.

When Joe seemed certain Methos wasn't going to fly off the handle like Mac had, he shrugged apologetically. "The guy we had on Stanislas Kolvikov gave us our best accounting. He saw his Immortal go home, but the guy never even turned on the lights. It was only about five minutes after Kolvikov walked in that the whole place went up-- Cooper started filming as soon as he saw the first flash, so we've got hard documentation of what happened next. Thankfully, someone thought to upload segments of it..."

Duncan frowned, rising from his chair. Joe hadn't had those downloaded before Duncan had stalked out, promising to retrieve Methos as quickly as he could. Methos glanced up when Duncan leaned in behind him, staring over Methos' shoulder at the monitor. Duncan wasn't sure what he saw flicker in Methos' eyes before the other man turned away, but it sent a shiver racing down Duncan's spine while his heart gave an inexplicable little start behind his ribs. Frowning, Duncan shifted irresolutely before leaning his hip against the edge of the desk, resisting an irrational urge to rest his chin on Methos' shoulder. He wasn't *that* tired, was he?

Enlarging the picture as much as he could before the image resolution went completely to hell, Joe ran the first clip, complete with a decent quality sound file. All Duncan could hear was a monotone commentary and the far-off sounds of street traffic, but what he saw was information enough. The home the camera had been pointed at was squat and dark, a sprawling one-story affair that looked recently renovated, down to the immaculate landscaping. Through the big picture window by the front door, Duncan could see a strobing glow, like someone had set up a huge lightning-globe inside and set it flickering.

"Uh, the time is 11:37," Watcher Cooper was muttering nervously, "and, ah, Kolvikov just walked in about five minutes ago. It doesn't look like he made it past the front doo-- *Jesus*!"

The clip ended just as the bay window *imploded*, going against every law of Quickening physics Duncan knew. "What the hell?" Duncan breathed, moving closer until he was practically pressed to Methos' back. "Play that again..."

Duncan watched it a second time through, shaking his head silently at this collection of impossibilities. "I don't get it," he muttered, "it should have blown *out*, not gotten... sucked in like that... What *happened*?"

Methos shifted, one shoulder hunching in a shrug, and Duncan felt the motion all along his chest. Realizing he'd leaned into Methos, he sat back a bit with a frown. Methos hadn't seemed to mind, at least, and it had felt strangely... comfortable, the warmth of the Old Man's back against him. It felt *very* comfortable to think Methos had allowed the friendly contact, that things were relaxed enough between them that they could make such gestures without thinking of the consequences.

"I don't have a clue," Methos sighed thoughtfully, and Duncan was relieved to hear only consideration in the Old Man's voice, nothing to suggest he'd upset Methos or made a fool of himself. "Did you notice how contained that Quickening looked, though? I've heard stories about what happens when one of us dies without someone to take their Quickening, and it's nothing like that... This is almost like... like a very powerful Immortal just sucked it right in..."

"Well, there's something else you'll want to see," Joe said gravely, and ran a second clip. "Pay close attention to the sound this time, guys..."

It was still the same view of the same home, but the light had gone, though *something* seemed to be moving around inside. Kolvikov's Watcher had fallen silent, and Duncan found himself holding his breath, straining to hear.

He needn't have bothered. What rang from the speakers carried crystal-clear across the dark night, a gruff shriek like the deep *hoff* of a lion, as channeled by a grinning hyena. Duncan felt Methos go rigid against him, but this time he leaned closer, not away, as the shiveringly alien cry came again.

The clip ended just after, and Duncan nearly bumped noses with Methos as they turned to stare at the other. "Have you ever...?" Duncan began, and Methos' shudder raced through him as well.

"I'm not sure," Methos whispered, the warm puff of his breath caressing Duncan's cheek. "There's something..."

"What?" Duncan shook his head, mesmerized by the shadows in Methos' eyes.

Joe cleared his throat, and Duncan blinked, straightening again. This had to be bothering him more than he thought if he was using Methos for a security blanket. "Let's look at this logically, guys," Joe said mildly, not giving the slightest indication that he thought MacLeod was overreacting. "Methos starts having dreams about Egyptian gods, gets visited by an Egyptian priest-- dead, mind, but still Egyptian-- and we've got a string of murders that got its start in Egypt. You think it'd be fair to say the killer's Egyptian too, or am I reaching here?"

"Thanks, Joe," Methos grumbled sarcastically. "What would we ever do without you?"

"Well?" Joe snorted, not rising to the bait. "Do you remember this guy yet? I mean, what the hell was that noise, anyway? Has he got some kind of attack-um... animal, or what?"

"Maybe," Methos shrugged again, rising to his feet to pace the room in an uncharacteristic display of agitation. "Did Cooper see anyone leave Kolvikov's place?"

"No," Joe sighed, thumping the mouse away from him with his thumb. "He stayed in position until reinforcements got there, but by the time they showed up and searched the place, the killer had slipped out the back. Left a pretty decent handprint on the back door, too, but the prints came back a no-match. Are you sure you don't remember anything yet? I'd think that'd be pretty hard to just forg--"

"I'm trying," Methos snapped, freezing in his tracks and throwing his head back to glare skyward for help. "Look, the only thing I can think of is to try and jog my memory a bit. I've been in Egypt off and on for millennia-- I can go through some of my old journals, see if anything turns up..."

//Running off alone again,// Duncan scowled, then froze, wondering whether Methos *had* managed to remember something while he'd been by himself, and whether that might not be the source of the other man's prickly mood. Not that Methos couldn't be a royal pain in the ass when he put his mind to it, but he was usually only this touchy when something had him nervous.

And Methos was *definitely* nervous.

"Want me to drive you back?" Duncan offered quietly, narrowly watching Methos' reaction. Methos turned to him with a small frown but only shrugged, some of the tension relaxing out of him.

"You drove me here," Methos pointed out logically. "Joe? Have you got anything else for us?"

"Not at the moment," Joe admitted grudgingly. "What are you going to do?"

"Well," Methos shrugged, a doubtful expression flickering across his face, "in that dream I had, I remember wondering about one of the Ptolemy clan... I think I have that journal at home, but I'll have to check. It might not be important at all, but it's worth taking a look..."

"Can't hurt," Joe agreed, and glanced between Methos and Duncan. "You'll let me know if you find anything?"

"Sure thing," Duncan agreed for the both of them. "Go on and get some rest-- we'll stop by sometime in the morning," he leveled a hard look on Methos, "to see if anything else's been turned up..."

"Right," Joe nodded, ignoring the long-suffering sigh Methos directed at Duncan. "Well, good luck..."

"Thanks Joe," Methos shook his head, heading for the door. "Come on, MacLeod, you have the keys..."

Joe rolled his eyes at Duncan, but the Watcher's expression was surprisingly fond, Methos' moodiness apparently something Joe took in stride. He couldn't help wondering whether the Watcher ever rolled his eyes like that at Methos when Duncan was sunk in one of his broods... "Night, Joe," Duncan shrugged and followed the other man out.

Some answers weren't worth knowing.

Methos was abnormally quiet on the drive back to his apartment, and while Duncan wanted badly to question the man, cajole Methos into confiding in him, he was finally learning when it was better to give Methos his space. If Methos thought you were prying, he'd fill your ears with fascinating nonsense, rambling on for hours before you realized he hadn't said a damn thing. Duncan couldn't imagine a more private, *secretive* man.

And yet... when it counted, Methos *would* talk, once he'd gotten things straight in his own mind. It had taken Duncan an unforgivably long time to realize Methos had been coming to do just that on the afternoon Cassandra had returned. Duncan should have known better. He *did* know, now. He'd made one mistake after another with the ancient, and if Methos would just give him one more chance to correct that succession of headstrong idiocies, he'd count himself more than lucky.

But he couldn't shake the feeling that time was running out. That if he didn't make his move now, *soon*, the chance to make amends would be gone forever.

This present mess was only a part of that feeling, but it was the most visible symptom. Strange dreams, horrible murders, impossible ghosts... //Gods and spirits,// Duncan mused uneasily, glancing at Methos' grim expression from the corner of his eye. //Why does this sound ominously familiar?//

"So, Methos," he began slowly, not taking his eyes off the road. He could still feel Methos tense, the atmosphere in the Porsche growing strained. "Doesn't this seem strange to you?" he hedged, tightening his fingers on the wheel. "You get a visit from a ghost, start dreaming about gods..." Helplessly drawn, he turned to meet Methos' wary eyes, trying to smother a rising sense of helpless resignation. "What're the chances of the killer being a demon this time, do you think?"

Methos shuddered, but he reached out at once, laying a gentle hand on Duncan's arm. "I don't think so, Mac. Nothing like Ahriman. That's over, done and gone."

"Right," Duncan nodded tightly, turning back to the road. Methos' touch was so warm, a comforting anchor against the sadness of memory that could still rise up to sweep him away... But the sense of forboding was worse, and all Mac knew was that he didn't want Methos to be alone, not until this thing was over.

It was a distinct relief to see Methos' building looming ahead on his right. Pulling in to the curb, he turned to face the other man before Methos could make his escape. "Want some company?" he asked, aiming for nonchalance.

Methos' eyes narrowed slightly, and Duncan knew he hadn't bought it for an instant. "I'd bore you to tears," Methos warned, though he smiled when he said it. "Are you going to be okay? Do you want to come up for a drink?"

Duncan swallowed, glancing away with a faint smile. Methos was worried about *him*, reading Duncan's clumsy attempt at cadging an invitation as unwillingness to be alone with his own memories. He almost decided to play off the Old Man's sympathies, except he could see the effort it took Methos to offer that comfort. Right now, Methos wanted to be left alone, though he was willing to make an exception in the name of friendship. Duncan couldn't bring himself to make a lie of that, not when things were so uncertain between them. If they were ever going to rebuild what they had had, it would have to be done right this time. No evasions, no half-measures. *Trust*.

"No," he shook his head, meeting Methos' eyes seriously. "It's fine. Look, *can* we talk in the morning? Things didn't exactly go the way I'd planned tonight..."

Methos only hesitated a moment before nodding, and for once, Duncan didn't immediately assume the Old Man was trying to find a way to duck out on him. There was honest nervousness in those striking eyes, and a wistfulness Duncan knew all too well. "Fine. Breakfast?"

Duncan nodded, feeling unaccountably lighter inside. "Perfect. Come on over whenever you're ready; I'll cook."

"No need to threaten me, MacLeod, I'll be there," Methos sighed dramatically, but there was a twinkle in his eye Duncan hadn't seen for ages, one he only now realized how much he'd missed. "Now get some rest yourself. I'll see you in the morning."

"Night, Methos," Duncan chuckled, watching his friend get out with a smile. Just before Methos closed the door, he called, "Methos? Be careful..."

"Always, Highlander," Methos assured gravely, holding his eyes deliberately. "Watch your head."

//And yours,// Duncan promised silently as Methos walked away, sitting patiently in his car until he saw the lights come on in Methos' apartment, and long minutes after that. Eventually, Methos walked to the window and waved him away, half-desultorily, and Duncan could imagine the Old Man's smile, tolerantly irritated or perhaps amused despite himself. Starting up the engine, he forced himself to pull away from the curb, telling himself over and over that nothing was going to happen tonight, until he began to believe it.

But he still didn't expect to get any sleep.

Chapter Two

Letting the book fall open in his lap, Methos sighed, rubbing at eyes that refused to stay open. Sinking defeatedly back against the pillows, he dropped his chin to his chest, taking a long, deep breath that turned into a helpless yawn. Hours, he'd been at this, skimming from Ptolemy IV to Cleopatra and adjourning from the couch to his bed, but he was left without a clue in sight. So he'd remembered someone's name in a dream. So what? Ptolemy didn't have a damned thing to do with the time he *seemed* to be remembering, and he'd known it.

But knowing it had been a long shot didn't help. *Someone* apparently thought he had answers, so where *were* they? Whatever storm was heading for Paris, he had to be ready.

At least he'd been able to *remember* Kronos...

Cursing softly under his breath, Methos snapped his journal shut and dropped it onto the bed next to him, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. Certainly it would be best for all concerned if every Immortal in Paris scattered to the four winds, but he knew better than to even suggest it to MacLeod. The Highlander's face would tighten into that firm mask Methos knew so well, criminally soulful eyes darkening with hurt disappointment and reproval. And then, adding insult to injury, Methos would be forced to listen to the Rant of the Noble Highlander...

//Damn,// Methos groaned, scrunching down further into the pillows, //when did I start *missing* all that?//

Probably about the time MacLeod had gone completely around the bend. What the hell *was* all that in Joe's office? Mac had practically been *holding* him, the heat of his chest sinking into Methos' bones as Mac's quiet breaths caressed his cheek... Just thinking about it made him ache, a sharp knife of want twisting in his gut. He couldn't quench the sadly-predictable spark of hope that assailed him, fueled by the possibility that maybe, just maybe, the Highlander had begun to consider possibilities of his own.

Nor could he silence the voice of fear, the one that told him this was bad news, that MacLeod was the *last* Immortal he wanted to get involved with, and that if he read Mac wrong, his head was the least of what he could lose. MacLeod was a trouble-magnet, that much was indisputable-- wherever Mac was, chaos followed. If Methos took up with MacLeod, he'd have to resign himself to an endless string of challenges-by-proximity, the uncomfortable scrutiny of the Watchers, being dragged into every half-cocked oh-so-honorable undertaking the Highlander thought up. And he'd have to *like* it.

Or at least smile a lot.

Or he could be reading more into Mac's actions than the situation warranted, and make the worst mistake of his life. He didn't *really* think Mac would challenge him if he made a pass at the Scot, but the alternative was almost worse. It didn't take any effort at all to imagine Mac's horrified reaction, crippling embarrassment and burning resentment, the way those devastating eyes would darken with betrayed accusation. He'd *seen* guys make passes at MacLeod before, and while it had driven him half insane to watch and say nothing, the Highlander's responses had been most enlightening.

MacLeod hadn't done a thing. Because he hadn't even *noticed*. As far as Methos could tell, Mac had attributed most of those hopeful little probes as friendly teasing, the more obvious ones as jokes or boorish manners. Methos had wondered for years what Mac would do if someone just plunked themselves down in the man's lap and kissed him senseless. Surely Mac would notice *that*...

//Of course, *Joe* noticed Mac today...// Methos reflected wistfully, wishing he'd been a little more strenuous in his attempt to ignore the Watcher. Dawson's eyes had grown huge for a second, the stark disbelief that crossed his face sending an undeniable message. Even Dawson hadn't heard of Mac playing Methos' side of the field before, had obviously never even considered it of the Highlander. But Joe had considered Methos before, all right... Joe's first glance had gone straight to Methos' face, begging for an explanation.

Methos thought his stoic look had probably said it all.

But for Mac to initiate such close contact-- even now, he was warmed by the simple gesture, one that told him more than any drawn-out baring of souls about Mac's acceptance of him, for who and what he was. And he had been so careful not to lean back into the Highlander, not to press beyond whatever Mac was willing to give-- but it had felt so good to just relax into Duncan, only for a heartbeat, and pretend that there could be more...

//Get over it,// he told himself firmly, scooping up his journal and depositing it on the night stand with a thump. Tossing two of his pillows over the edge of the bed and out of his way, he punched the third down half-heartedly and turned out the light. The soft glow that crept through the curtains made the shadows in his room warp and dance each time a car passed, and he stared wide-eyed into the grey, searching for distraction.

The strangeness of his recollections came grudgingly to mind, and he turned his memories over and over for some handle on the situation. He had two priests to worry about now, after all: one an Immortal, a priest of Menthu who had found and raised him, training him to a mastery of his immature Quickening he found nearly impossible to believe. The other, Sennedjem, had been a priest of Osiris... and he *knew* Sennedjem had been mortal, but nothing else, no clue as to why *he* had been the one to visit Methos tonight instead of Ahmose. Ahmose had been like a father to him, and yet had been forgotten...

Who was Sennedjem, and what had two such dissimilar priests wanted with him?

//It's not like I'm anything special... I'm just a guy,// he told himself with a weak chuckle, letting his eyes drift slowly shut. //Just a guy who's really, really good at survival. And that's all. If a god was going to show himself, I doubt he'd waste his time with me... MacLeod, now-- Mac's right up their alley. Noble, generous, honest, martyrable... everything I'm not. I prayed to the sun, and all I got was darkness...// he sighed, picturing again that huge jackal head blotting out the sky.

//And maybe that was all I was meant to have.//

He thought he opened his eyes again as he slipped from waking into dreams, but the room was too clear, too bright; his mind was playing tricks on him, memory supplanting vision behind his heavy lids. Something teased at him as he went under, a swift flash of light in the blackness, a sparkle and pop that was so familiar, a part of him, as comforting as a warm golden voice in the night...

"You're certain you're ready?"

Nakht blinked, coming back to the present with a start. Glancing down, he found his eyes caught by the concerned stare of his High Priest, the ancient Sennedjem of the Temple of Osiris. Finding a wisp of a smile as the old man reached up to anoint his brow, he ducked his head obediently, feeling again the embarrassment of his height. At least Ahmose had stood taller, while the man still lived...

"Haven't we waited long enough?" Nakht countered darkly, trying to tamp down the slow burn of bitterness that sparked behind his ribs. Ten long years he'd waited for this night, when the jackals had returned at last. Ten years of the ghastly cries of Set's children ringing across the plains, growing bolder with each kill, until they hunted the cities with impunity. Households left their fires burning all night now, but even the tripled guard that patrolled the streets until dawn couldn't keep the grim pack at bay.

When Sennedjem had come to claim him for the worship of Osiris, to become the avatar of Anpu and Ap-uat, he had assumed the move was only temporary. That the gods would strike soon, clear the plains of the children of Set, and grant him leave to return to his old life. Instead, he had gone through endless years of Sennedjem's teachings, learning the path through the Underworld and the prayers to bring a soul through unscathed, the names of guardians and spirits of places unimaginably far from bright Menthu's reign. The jackals were the Openers of the Ways, and so he had learned... But the gods had remained silent, while Set's children ravaged unchecked.

Every day, he had the stares of his fellows to endure, watching him with awe and fear and resentment, and worse-- with the confused hurt of a wounded beast-- asking him constantly with their eyes why he didn't *do* something to stop the attacks. The gods had come to him once-- why wouldn't they come again?

That he had no answers to give them tore at him night and day. And every soldier that fell to the red killers, every woman taken by the hearth and every child that went missing cut him to the heart. All he could do was try to shut them out, push everyone away from him and let the terror that masqueraded as reverence set him further and further apart. Ahmose had been venerated for his long youth, and Nakht had been raised to accept that as his eventual due. But the flinching sycophancy he was given was something to be fled from, not enjoyed...

With an undignified snort, Sennedjem poked him in the ribs, fixing Nakht with a reproving stare as he jumped away with a yelp of protest. "If you *aren't* ready and you get yourself lost in the Underworld, then no, we haven't waited long enough," the old priest pronounced balefully, wagging that dangerous digit beneath Nakht's nose. "You've been awfully sure of yourself since you came here, young Nakht-- I don't want to see it get you killed."

"Yes, Sennedjem," he sighed resignedly. He wasn't sure how to broach the subject of his Immortality with the old priest, even now. Sennedjem was the only man living who didn't treat Nakht like a walking god, but he had always assumed Ahmose would explain the matter to Sennedjem, because Ahmose had *sworn* to be there when Nakht came into his Immortality, and toast his eternal youth with the same wine his master had offered *him*... A special drink, one Nakht would find bitter, but very strong.

Only Ahmose hadn't lived out the first year after Nakht's relocation, dragged down by the red pack when he went to face them as Menthu's champion. And every year, Nakht had grown taller and seemed to have grown older, though perhaps it was merely concern that had settled on his face. Perhaps he was still mortal, even now. And truthfully, if this was what eternity had in store for him, awed silences and people expecting incredible feats from him, he would just as soon grow frail and die. He was only himself, only Nakht-- he *wanted* to be nothing else.

"So, I ask again, youngster-- are you ready?" Sennedjem smiled kindly, dark eyes faintly twinkling.

"Yes, Sennedjem. I'm ready. Is everyone gone?" he nodded towards the door, letting the old priest precede him out.

"Gone or barricaded in," Sennedjem informed him with a quiet sigh. "The Temple of Osiris hasn't been so deserted in living memory," he grumbled, glaring around the empty halls in resentful affront. "I confess, I'd expected more courage-- it's not as if they were asked to stand and *fight*..."

"No one wants to meet the gods before their time," Nakht shook his head, defending the others out of a habit that had long outlasted any pretense of nobility. "And if anything goes wrong, you'll begrudge even those few lives lost, as I will," he reminded with a slight smile. "You forget, Sennedjem, I know you..."

"Even so," the ancient chuckled, his quick pace causing Nakht to stretch his long legs to keep up. The soul of decorum when the weight of his office rested upon him, Sennedjem was a whirlwind in his private life, and he could tire Nakht out without half trying. Tonight of all nights, Nakht was grateful for it; the less time he had to think on what he was about to attempt, the better.

Passing the yawning mouth of an open door, Nakht froze in his tracks when a savage shriek rent the air, the hunting song of the children of Set. He couldn't tell how close the call was, but that he could hear it at all was an ominous sign. Moving slowly towards the doorway, Nakht held his breath, straining to listen over the pounding of his heart.

"They're terrifying, are they not?" Sennedjem murmured quietly at his shoulder, looking out over the plain with him, where the lights of the city burned fiercely bright against the gloom. More homes had burned that summer than ever before, but darkness invited attack, though fire was no sure protection. Shivering as another eerie howl rent the air, Nakht nodded once, leaning into the hand the old priest rested on his shoulder. "They are greatly changed from when I was a boy," Sennedjem continued, surprising Nakht with the sorrow in his voice.

"How so?" he asked, his curiosity aroused despite himself. No one spoke of the pack when they could help it; even Ahmose had shook his head and changed the subject until Nakht stopped asking. "Were they less fierce then?"

"Not at all," Sennedjem chuckled ruefully. "But we had respect for them then, as well as fear. Every month, we drove a red bull into the Southlands to pay them reverence, of the same breeding as those we sacrifice to their father, Set. They hadn't forgotten themselves then," he shrugged at Nakht's aghast stare of disbelief. "They were truly the children of Set in those days. What they are now is a mockery."

"I don't understand," Nakht shook his head. "What do you mean?"

"In a perfect world, men would behave well because it makes the gods smile. In *this* world, men curb their baser impulses for fear of the wrath of Set. In six years, you haven't paid attention to a single thing I've said?" he demanded, mock-outrage tarnished by a smile. "Don't just listen, *think*: 'Deliver thou me from the great god who carryeth away souls, and who devoureth filth and eateth dirt, the guardian of the darkness who himself liveth in the light...' "

" 'They who live in crime fear him,' " Nakht quoted slowly, beginning to understand.

"When I was a boy, those who were beyond redemption, whose presence even the gods couldn't bear, were the lawful prey of the children of Set. And for crimes I doubt you could even imagine, they were destroyed utterly, body and soul, until nothing remained to make the journey through the Underworld to be judged before Osiris. They, like Set, served Menthu's purposes. Nothing is ever born wholly evil, Nakht... you must make the choice to it, just as they did.

"But mark me well," he added gravely, holding Nakht's eyes with an intense stare that compelled Nakht's attention. "What they could do to your body is only the beginning. If they can, they will take your soul, your heart, your spirit, even your shade. They exist to obliterate the enemies of the gods. And they have turned so far from that purpose, they have begun to *hunt* the bright, the gifted and the blessed. Like you. Like your mentor Ahmose. And nothing will ever fill the hunger they have for you, not if they sucked the life from the entire world. They'll take us mere mortals if we're available," he smiled wryly, "but it's *you* they want."

"I understand," Nakht said firmly, drawing himself up straight and steeling his spine. If the pack thought Immortals were their prey, then they would learn the price of their hunting. Sennedjem nodded once, and turned silently away from the doors.

Every entrance to the temple stood wide open, and Nakht tried not to imagine eyes upon him from the darkness beyond, lit only faintly by the torches that lined the walls outside. Within, the halls were dark, quieter than Nakht had ever known them, even in the dead of night. Following Sennedjem's sure footsteps, Nakht shut out everything but the duty that lay before him, communicated in its awful entirety that very evening when the jackal gods had returned...

Dusk had just fallen, and he had been standing at his post before the altar, singing the evening prayer. His voice was strong and true, and he had often led the hymns in Sennedjem's place. Tonight, the singing had faltered, and he had turned, tasting the slightest scent of cloves spicing the suddenly-cold air. And there had been twin statues of purest black waiting behind him--

Shivering, he tried not to dwell on the touch of another's mind on his own, the way the images the gods projected cascaded inside his skull, filling him up and taking him over until all he could see were those eyes... Flashes of swift lightning inside him, and then he *knew*, knew exactly what they expected him to do.

Call Set's children to him.

And Open the Ways.

Below the temple, beneath the inner sanctum where Osiris stood manifest in earthly splendor, was a large, windowless chamber. Here the old priests went about their rituals, preserving the mortal shells of priests and kings against the ravages of time. Bowing reverently before the statues of Anpu and Ap-uat while the flickering of a lit brazier made them seem to twitch with life, Nakht turned to Sennedjem with a nervous smile. "Thank you for coming with me," he said earnestly, taking his mentor's hands. "But you can't stay. Please. Go lock yourself in with the others. If I don't come to you, don't come out before dawn, for any reason."

Sennedjem shook his head, his frown troubled. "And if you forget the names of the guardians? Who will lead you back to this world if you lose your way?"

Nakht bowed his head, hiding a sad smile. Ten years to learn the map of a labyrinthine Underworld, only to have two of its gods unravel the need for it in seconds. "I'll be fine, Sennedjem. They'll either take me or send me back, whether I remember or not. It's in their hands..." He hated to contradict the old man like that, as if denying the importance of Sennedjem's faith...

But Sennedjem smiled and clasped his hands tighter. "Ah. Now he begins to understand. Knowledge of your own immortality can be a terrible thing, Nakht. It makes you no more prepared to face death than the rest of us, and you could not open the paths to those halls if you feared them."

Nakht's head jerked up, staring at the old priest in shock, but Sennedjem only chuckled slyly. "Oh, I knew what you were long before I met you. Ahmose told me what to do if he ever lost a challenge. There were a few things more he had to teach you, Nakht; after this is finished, we have much to talk about. And now that you've *finally* stopped growing," he added judiciously, "I believe we have a toast to share..."

Speechless, Nakht nodded helplessly as Sennedjem beamed proudly up at him, letting the old man tug him down to place a kiss on both cheeks. "Trust in the gods, Nakht. May they be with you in this, as in everything."

And Nakht watched the old priest walk away, too confident in his pupil to say goodbye.

Nakht wasn't sure how long he stood in the wavering shadows of the deep chamber, giving Sennedjem time enough to get to safety before he began. When the children of Set answered his call, they would destroy anyone and anything in their path. Most of the Temple's occupants had left for safer ground, save for a skeleton guard and the highest-ranking priests, and those too old or too foolhardy to consider their own safety over that of the temple. He had gone to his preparations with the bloodthirsty encouragement of more than one toothless elder ringing in his ears, and a lord's hotheaded son, unsuited for the priesthood in nearly every way, had dogged his heels. He'd told no one but Sennedjem what was really intended for the pack. He was ostracized enough as it was.

When he was certain Sennedjem was behind strong walls, leaving only himself vulnerable to those he was about to call, Nakht closed his eyes, imagining again the hawk of flame beneath the noonday sun as Ahmose had taught him. It was second nature now to feel the tingle chasing along his bones, enticing it to the surface like an artist drawing form from shapeless clay. The only difference was that, this time, he didn't just see the hawk.

He *became* it.

Flinging his soul outward, he burned through insubstantial layers of stone, streaking up into the night sky as everything blurred around him, thought translating to instant motion. Though he could see nothing, he could feel the crackle of his own heat, the spark and flutter of almost-lightnings, the far-off brooding pressure of a swift-moving storm. Hovering blindly in the dark sky above the temple, he poured his heart and soul into the spirit-bird that held his awareness as the storm drew closer, filled with the hungry mutters of avaricious thunder--

//Gods,// he gasped silently, and the flame-hawk broke apart, sending his consciousness crashing back into his body. It was *them*, the children of Set, in the dark cloud that bore down upon him so ferociously. They had seen him, felt him, and they were coming, *now*...

//Wait,// he told himself firmly, hearing their feral cries echo through the halls above him. When he opened his eyes, he realized with a shock that he was still glowing, faint mist clinging to his hands and crawling up his arms like somnolent snakes. Fighting the urge to clutch them to his chest, hide the pale flicker of power that the children of Set sought, he began to reach for the doorway the gods had shown him, panic warring with strained discipline as the pack drew closer. If he sprang the trap too early, some of them would escape... He had to wait for just the right moment.

And drag this room out of time, out of space, into the realm of death itself.

His first glimpse of the pack was a grinning Set's-head, appearing suddenly out of the darkness at the top of the stairs. Red rather than black, its face was a nightmarish cross of delicate gazelle bones and hyena savagery. The huge dark eyes should have been melting-soft, its curiously-pricked ears engaging, but the shark-toothed grin that stretched its aquiline face was too sly by half, regarding him with a hunger that left him shaken. Before his eyes, a second one appeared at the shoulder of the first, then a third, until the pack spilled suddenly down the steps with the sinuous fluidity of striking cobras, a writhing tangle of blood-stained russet fur.

And then, one by one, they began to *change*...

A red-haired man as tall as Nakht stood naked before him, powerful body smeared with gore, boasting the same beast-grin on his aristocratic face. "Here's a pretty one," he crooned through a growl of menace, pure ravenous lust in wide doe-eyes. There was blood under his nails, painting his lips, matting in his long, tangled hair.

"Much prettier than the last," the woman at his shoulder chuckled, a low, hoarse sound that made Nakht's skin try to shudder off the bone.

"I can taste him from here," a third voice purred, and edged closer, the pack slinking forward and flickering in and out of skins, taking one step as a man, one step as a beast. Silent, half-starved, mesmerizing. Those smiles, hands reaching to pluck at his robes, naked want in a dozen pairs of eyes, stalking closer, too close--

"Sing for us, Still-Heart..."

//Too late,// the knife of panic speared him, and he *reached*, but the doorway was impossibly far distant, and their hands were right there, catching hold, bearing him to the cold stone floor and tearing his clothes away, rags binding his arms as they held him down--

Convulsing awake, Methos thrashed against tangled sheets, the deafening thunder of his heart masking his harsh, panting breaths. Slicked with sweat, he froze in the darkness, muscles locked and singing with strain as icy panic gnawed at his spine.

//I missed one,// hissed through the blankness behind his staring eyes, tightening a cold wire around his heart. //I missed one, and it's coming for us, for me, MacLeod, oh Jesus we have to get out of here get of here *now*--//

Motion. Blackness, a dark shape low to the floor. Sigh of breath. A glittering beside his bed.

*Eyes*.

He was up, rolling across the bed and to his feet, sword in his hand, before the stark kiss of terror could nail him to the mattress. As he eased toward the door, faint tremors wracking him in long shivers from head to toe, his eyes strained to pierce the dim gloom, frantically trying to predict the attack that would follow. Would the thing come in low, as a beast? Or on two legs, as a man? And why couldn't he *feel* anything, dammit?

((**FORGOTTEN**))

The echoed thought slammed into him like a speeding truck, dropping Methos to his knees as his legs gave out beneath him, sword tumbling from his boneless grip. Fighting for consciousness, he gritted his teeth, pushing back the aggressive waves of image and emotion that rode the wake of the deafening word, threatening to drag him under. He *knew* those voices, speaking nearly in unison, rolling syllables in baritone and tenor that played a game of leapfrog with each other, the deeper voice pulling ahead, then the lighter. ((**LOST**)) they said, flickering between mournful regret and pitiless examination. Bright and dark. Summer and Winter.

Anpu. Ap-uat.

Groping stubbornly for his sword, Methos dragged himself upright when his fingers closed around the hilt, leaning back against the wall. Sucking a shuddering breath past clenched teeth, Methos slid his hand over the blank smoothness of the wall until he found the light switch and snapped it up. The coldly rational part of his brain, which had regarded even Kronos' reappearance with perfect analytical calm, expected the room to be empty when the lights came on, leaving him standing alone in his boxers like a fool.

The rest of him was not at all surprised to see the two massive creatures that waited patiently in the middle of the floor.

It was both comforting and terrifying to see something so impossible under the harsh glare of modern lighting. The jackals looked somehow more firmly grounded in reality than the four walls around them, bringing Methos' own existence into question. The smile of the one that sat upright was mild, seen mostly in the warmth of its eyes, the attentive prick of its ears; the one that lay regally reclined had a rakish tilt to its head, eyes turned up at the corners like the wry grin of a wolf.

//Gods. I'm talking to gods. *Fuck*, it was all real, all of it--// he babbled silently, shaken to the core. The loneliness as he grew, raised alien from the beginning. The fear, the *failure* he had shut his heart against, as his people died around him. Agony in an underground chamber, with his own screams ringing in his ears, but not enough to deafen the malevolent taunts crooned above him--

((**WAKE**)) the jackals demanded, dragging him back to himself. ((**GUARD**))

And it hit him, suddenly, that he had been a fool. That last word had been shaded with so many meanings, but the only one that came clear was that he had left vulnerable a man they couldn't afford to lose. *He* could sense the children of Set coming.

MacLeod couldn't. Not yet.

"Shit!" he cried, sacrilege the furthest of his concerns, and leaped for his clothing. Twinned sendings of amusement rippled around him as the jackal gods disappeared, taking with them a subterranean thrum that had vibrated his bones, unnoticed until its absence. Slithering into his jeans, he yanked a plain grey thermal shirt from the closet, pulling it over his head as he stuffed his feet into boots. Pausing to jerk the laces tight and stuff the ends into the tops without tying them, he grabbed coat and sword on his way out the door, leaving the light on behind him.

Settling behind the wheel, he glanced once into the mirror as he started the engine, wincing when he saw his hair. As he screeched away from the curb, he ran shaky fingers through wild tufts, restoring some semblance of order to the mess as he tore through dark city streets. At 2 AM on a Monday night, Paris was as dead as she ever got, most of the traffic centered around the bars and clubs. Taking more sedate residential streets as he made a beeline for the barge, the had the roads practically to himself.

//Which is a damn good thing, because Adam Pierson's got no business running around with a sword,// he reminded himself firmly. //If someone pulls me over for speeding, I'm just going to shoot the bugger...//

There was simply no way he was going to leave MacLeod unguarded, not tonight, not until this was over. He knew the creature he'd been warned against was still in Milan, would be there for days yet if the pattern held, but leaving Mac open to attack wasn't an option. And when gods bothered to show up and tell him to be on guard, Methos listened. He'd sleep outside Mac's door tonight, dammit.

And in the morning, he'd set about planning to hunt the hunter before it could stalk *them*. If the Highlander wouldn't run, then Methos would keep Mac safe in spite of himself.

Parking just outside Mac's range but where he could still sense the Highlander, Methos slumped down in the seat, watching the lights of Paris glinting off the water behind the barge. MacLeod was alone, sleeping soundly. He didn't worry about how he knew that. All he cared about was that it was so.

//One of these days,// he promised himself wearily, the jittery buzz of anxiety clashing with bone-deep exhaustion. //One of these days, I'm going to understand exactly what it is you do to me, Highlander. I just hope I live long enough to figure it out.//

And with a final sigh, his breath steaming the air inside the Range Rover, Methos settled down to wait out the night.

It hadn't quite been an hour before Methos blinked awake once more, lifting his head to see the lights come on inside the barge. As he watched, faint dread tightening his throat, the door opened, spilling a soft golden glow across the deck. Framed in the doorway, Mac stood in a loose pair of grey sweats that rode low on his hips, hands empty. Turned unerringly towards the truck.

Taking a deep breath, Methos dropped his head to the steering wheel with a thump, banging twice more for the hell of it. Of *course* Mac's range had changed, at least when it came to Methos-- what the hell had he been thinking? Mac had to have been halfway across Paris when Methos took Corbin's head. A single block was probably no challenge at all.

Sliding out of the truck before Mac could decide to come out and haul him in, Methos locked the door behind him and trudged resignedly up to the barge. It wasn't like he could drive off, after all, not without sending the Highlander into an utter funk. Glancing at the Scot as he slipped past, Methos attempted a tired smile before making a beeline for the couch, shrugging out of his coat and dumping it over the first chair he passed. Mac just shook his head and shut the door behind him, automatically heading into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.

"What's going on, Methos?" Duncan asked, his voice gruff with sleep. Sinking onto the couch, Methos wedged himself into the corner between the cushioned arm and back, sprawling out to face Mac's chair by sheer force of habit. When Mac took the other half of the couch instead, it threw him momentarily off his stride. Accepting the beer Duncan had snagged for him, he tried not to wonder if this had anything to do with the scene in Joe's office.

And Mac looked *far* too good for 3 AM. In three months, his hair had grown out considerably, curling just below the strong line of his jaw. Even during the day, it made him look fetchingly disheveled; sleep-tousled, it inspired Methos to think impure thoughts. Lounging patiently in his bare feet and those disreputable sweat pants, MacLeod still looked like someone Methos should be peeling grapes for.

//I wonder where I can get grapes in February...//

"Methos?" MacLeod repeated, frowning slightly. Not quite grumpy, Methos cataloged, just concerned-- and he dragged himself back to the present with a wrenching effort.

"You were *almost* right," he sighed quietly. "It's not a demon, but it's not human, either."

MacLeod sat quickly straight, his eyes sharpening on Methos' with painful intensity. "You remembered something," Duncan stated expectantly, turning sideways on the couch to give Methos his full attention.

"I had another dream," Methos nodded, heeling off his still-untied boots and setting his back to the couch arm, folding one leg beneath him as he curled bare toes against the chill. Taking a drink to steady his thoughts, Methos shook his head slowly. "It's something very old and very dangerous, MacLeod. We tried to wipe them out when I was still young, still mortal; we must have thought we'd succeeded."

" 'Must have?' " MacLeod repeated, eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

"There's a lot that's still a blur," Methos sighed, turning the bottle around and around in his fingers, watching the glints in the glass. "I remember the sound they made when they were on the hunt-- it's the same as what we heard at Joe's. We used to leave fires lit all night long-- guards patrolling the cities at triple strength-- and they still kept coming. The thing is, MacLeod... the thing is, it'll be hunting us, because we're Immortal. But it'll be hunting me because it knows who I am."

Glancing up, Methos surprised a look on MacLeod's face that was fiercely protective, as territorial as he'd ever seen the Highlander. Shrugging, Methos looked quickly away, down at his hands as he picked at the label on his bottle. Trying to sort out what he felt, the best answer he could arrive at was astonishment, and relief.

//No anger? No accusations?// he wondered, glancing up again to find Duncan's face hadn't changed. A trace of impatience was beginning to surface, but the concern was still there, directed towards MacLeod's... friend. He'd half expected the man to blow up, blast Methos for dragging another skeleton from his past onto their heads. Mac's unsolicited support was more than he'd dared to hope for.

"So what do we do?" Mac asked at last, fidgeting when Methos remained silent. "Will it be hunting you *specifically*? What is this thing?"

"I don't know if it's coming after me or all Immortals," Methos shook his head, sighing heavily as he leaned his shoulder against the couch. "And I don't know why it waited this long to make its move again. Something must have changed, somehow, but... I don't know what. There's a *lot* I don't know about what's happening here..."

"Like the ghost?" Mac hazarded.

"Like the ghost," Methos nodded tiredly. "Maybe it *is* hunting me. Or maybe I'm just supposed to try and stop it," he shrugged. "I'm probably the last person left who knows what it is."

"And that would be?" MacLeod asked pointedly, brows raising. Methos' eyes narrowed, bristling automatically, but the wry smile that tugged faintly at Duncan's lips made him subside before he could make an ass of himself.

"It's going to sound incredibly stupid if I tell you," Methos warned, resting his beer on his knee. How the hell was he supposed to explain this without sounding like a loon? Sometimes, he really, really wished Mac had been raised pagan... And as for the jackals, the less he said about them the better. Mac would never believe *Methos* had been visited by the gods. Methos was having a hard enough time with it himself.

Perhaps he could take comfort in the fact that they weren't particularly *comfortable* gods. No rational individual would *brag* about a visit from a pair of death gods-- though it did make certain career choices he'd made seem more sensible. An appearance by Dionysus at the local pub, or Aphrodite rising nude from his bath-- Jesus playing handyman at his flat-- those were decent brags. A pair of jet-black jackals trying to scramble his brain in the middle of the night was hardly his idea of a good time. The sheer unpleasantness factor was just enough to convince him that yes, Methos the Oldest Immortal was indeed worthy of such a dubious honor.

But MacLeod was waiting with admirable-- if strained-- patience, so Methos shrugged and gave it his best shot. "A very long time ago... You know the Egyptian gods, right?"

"Not personally," Mac quipped, then froze, frowning at Methos.

Smoothing out his expression, Methos hurried on. "Well, I'm sure you've seen pictures of the god Set, yes? And you know that the animal whose head he wears doesn't exist. When I was a boy, they still did," Methos said seriously, "only they weren't really... animals. They used to feed on the cursed, on the ones the gods had cast out, and we called them the children of Set. You see, the dead were judged by Osiris," he explained, tilting his free hand back and forth in the air, seesawing an abstract balance, "but it was Set the wicked feared. The ones Osiris judged unworthy were given to the Devourer of Souls-- but the ones who were beyond judgment were given to Set while they still lived."

"It sounds harsh," MacLeod shook his head slowly.

"It was a harsh world."

"But who decided who was cursed and who was redeemable?" Mac objected earnestly. "How could you know?"

"I told you, Mac, the *gods* decide," Methos rolled his eyes. "We didn't just drive some poor bastard out into the desert to be eaten by wild beasts. There used to be a time when they wouldn't *touch* human beings unless they had been marked for death. They weren't *animals*. They had thinking minds, their own kind of buzz, just like that ghost did, and whether they were the inspiration for Set or truly created by a god, they were Immortal, Mac, just like you and me. What's more, they... they could change their shape somehow, I don't know how to describe it," he shrugged again, frustrated. "I've never seen anything like them before. Maybe they were just Immortals who learned a new trick, like the Voice, or Francis and his animals..."

"St. Francis?" Mac scowled, momentarily distracted.

"Very young," Methos snorted, "and mad as a hatter, but he *had* something. The younger you start... well, there's more to Immortality than swords and long memories, MacLeod. You'll start to see what I mean the older you get. The point is, the thing that's hunting us now can sense us just like we can sense each other-- better, even. And while it used to hunt only the cursed, what it wants now is power. It feeds on our Quickenings, Mac... and that may not be the worst of it."

"What do you mean?" Mac shook his head.

"I was taught... that they don't just kill the body. That they can kill the soul, as well. And I was told they had begun to hunt the blessed when they started killing indiscriminately, so that makes you particularly vulnerable."

"Me?" Mac blinked, surprised.

"You are the Champion," Methos reminded gently. "Not to mention the oldest resident Boy Scout. It's going to come after you twice as hard as the rest of us..."

MacLeod shook his head, turning away with a sigh. "Whatever. So you were out there tonight...?"

"Because I can sense them," Methos offered quietly, letting the other matter rest. He knew how much Mac had lost in that fight with the demon, could more than understand why the Highlander might be uncomfortable with the title... but Mac was what he was, and while it might make his company trying sometimes, Methos wouldn't change that inner core of nobility for anything. He might wish Mac would *think* more often before he acted, *consider* the ramifications of his snap judgments and outdated value system... but if he were being honest with himself, that was all part of what made the Highlander so interesting.

Mac snorted, glancing back at Methos with a tolerant grin. "You could have sensed it from the couch, you know..."

"I hadn't gotten that far," Methos admitted with a chuckle, relaxing a bit. "I'm afraid I woke out of a sound sleep when inspiration struck and drove on over. You know I'm not at my best when I've just woken up..."

He'd left himself open on purpose, anticipating a friendly round of teasing from MacLeod. Instead, Duncan turned serious, his dark eyes regarding Methos with an uncomfortable intensity. "Aren't you tired of standing between me and danger?" the Highlander asked, regarding Methos with something like regret.

//So he *has* noticed,// Methos sighed to himself, searching for something to say. "It's a habit," he shrugged at last, turning his attention to the half-forgotten bottle in his fingers. It had left a cold ring of condensation on the knee of his worn jeans, and a fresh droplet trickled down the side of the bottle to infuse a fresh chill to his skin.

"I'm starting to understand that," Mac nodded gently. "Tonight isn't the first time I've felt you close-by, you know. I knew you were avoiding me, because I knew you were still keeping an eye on me, watching out for me. Eventually, it occurred to me to wonder why you were still here if you didn't want to see me."

Methos' heart was pounding against his ribs, but his voice was perfectly steady when he replied. "What did you decide?"

"That when I thanked you three months ago, I should have apologized instead," Mac shook his head. "I've been an ass. You're *not* my teacher, and I'm no kind of student. There are some things about your past that I'm probably never going to understand, but I understand *you*, and I know all I need to know about you."

"Do you, now..." Methos couldn't help the slight trace of cynicism that stained his words, waiting for the Highlander to add a qualifier that would snatch it all away again. Trying to quell the wistful hope that rose up in him, he waited patiently for the other shoe to drop.

Mac just smiled, with a firm, "*Yes*. I know that you'll stand behind me no matter how big a fool I make of myself, and that you'll forgive me even when you don't want to. That you'll go out of your way to help the people that I care about, and laugh at me when I need it, and keep me from taking life too seriously whenever you can. Because you're my friend, and that's all that matters. Not who you were. Who you *are*. I should have listened when you told Cassandra she didn't know you. She *didn't*, but I did, and I lost sight of that, and I'm sorry. But if you think you can put up with someone this slow..." Duncan trailed off hopefully, regarding Methos with an almost shy expression as he held out his hand. "Tell me how we can make things right."

Methos realized he was holding his breath, and he let it out in a long sigh, smiling ruefully. Yes, the Scot was infuriating and willful, and he would very likely be the death of Methos one day... But a deaf man could have heard the sincerity in that simple plea, the conviction in Mac's voice. "Already done, Duncan," he shook his head, taking Mac's forearm in a warrior's clasp. And maybe his reply was a shade extravagant-- but it felt so good to just let it all go, the anger and resentment evaporating like smoke. "But you can say goodbye to your couch again..."

Duncan laughed as Methos meant him to, dark eyes dancing with relieved delight. "Mi casa es su casa," he chuckled, tightening his grip around Methos' arm before letting him go, almost reluctantly.

"As often as I'm here, I ought to just move in," Methos grumbled exaggeratedly. "It's practically a textbook case for chaos theory: an Immortal stubs his toe in Singapore, and I end up on your couch."

It was probably the late hour, but something about that struck them both as abnormally funny. Wiping tears from his eyes, Mac objected, "Haven't we given the Watchers enough to talk about?"

Methos couldn't control the wicked chuckle that escaped him, trying not to dwell on images of seduction scenes and telephoto lenses. "Gossip like that only comes along once in a lifetime, I'll have you know," he insisted loftily, and Mac threw a pillow at him.

"Gossip indeed," Mac snickered, only to raise a curious brow as a thought crossed his face. "So, tell me. When you were with the Watchers... how did you...?"

"Keep a straight face?" Methos completed, smiling.

"Yes."

"Years of practice-- and reminding myself daily what a fox among the hounds feels like."

"But you stayed," Mac frowned, with more shades of meaning than even Methos could decipher. Staying when discovery might have meant death, as an alien masquerading as just another man, when it might very well have been easier to leave. With the Watchers, and with MacLeod.

"It was safer than the alternative," he shrugged easily, "at the time..."

"And now?"

Few people had ever regarded him with the intensity Duncan lavished on him on an almost daily basis, and Methos had spent millennia regarding that as a good thing. Even if it meant no one ever remembered him, ever knew him, at least it meant he was rarely picked out of a crowd. Mac could make him feel like he was the center of the Highlander's world, and it was almost impossible not to come out with the whole truth under the spell of those eyes. "And now there's never a dull moment," he smiled reassuringly instead, rising to take his empty bottle to the kitchen and turn off the neglected coffee.

Glancing over his shoulder, he met Duncan's hesitant smile with a grin. "Go to bed, Highlander. We can talk more in the morning-- *after* you make me that breakfast you promised..."

"Fine, Methos," Mac shook his head, climbing slowly to his feet. "I'll get you some blankets..."

Ambling back into the living area, Methos watched MacLeod walk away, graceful despite the late hour and lack of sleep. //At least things are moving in the right direction,// he allowed, making a concession to optimism. //And there *was* something odd about that whole thing in Joe's office... If either of us were a woman, I'd stake my head I wouldn't be sleeping alone tonight...//

He grinned suddenly, and stifled it just as quickly. //Maybe the noble Highlander just needs a hint or two...//

This could be incredibly fun.

Pulling off his shirt, he shook it out and folded it neatly before dropping it on the floor beside his boots. He had just popped the first button on his fly when Mac turned back, his arms filled with blankets and a pillow. Not looking up as he tugged his jeans open, buttons slipping through worn holes easily, he silently threatened his body with unimaginable harm if it embarrassed him now with an erection. He just wanted to make the Highlander think, not scare him out the door.

Duncan *had* hesitated, just for an instant... Letting his jeans fall, he bent to retrieve them, trying not to smile as Duncan recovered his stride and returned with the bedding. Mac had always been terrible at hiding what he thought or felt, and Methos caught a half-embarrassed flash of confusion crossing Mac's face when he looked up again. "Thanks," he smiled, taking the blankets from Mac with perfect serenity, as comfortable in his boxers as he had been fully dressed.

Except that embarrassment was imminent if Mac didn't stop looking at him like that, bewildered and furtive and... considering.

//Thank you, gods...// Methos crowed, firmly resisting the urge to do a victory dance. //Patience,// he counseled himself, tossing the pillow onto the couch and shaking out a blanket. //You've had 5000 years to acquire it, and now you're damned well going to use it.//

"No problem," Mac hunched one shoulder, ducking his head. "Night, Methos..."

"Night, Mac," he told the Highlander's swiftly retreating back. When Duncan took refuge in the bathroom, Methos' smile became a full-fledged grin, something hot and bright uncurling behind his ribs. Duncan MacLeod might still be the death of him...

But maybe he'd die happy after all.

It was unbearably ironic. Now that he finally had Methos where he knew the other man would be safe, Duncan couldn't sleep. Staring up into the darkness, he forced himself to remain still, not wanting to keep Methos awake with his restless thrashing. There was, though slim, a possibility that Methos would ask him what the matter was, and what could he say to that? Sorry, Methos, but I'd never seen you naked before?

Well, that wasn't quite true. For one thing, Methos had still been wearing his boxers, and for another, Duncan *had* seen him in various states of undress. In the summer months when they'd still sparred, they'd often stripped down to as little clothing as that, and he hadn't thought anything of it then. So why had it bothered him this time?

Hell, to be honest, why had it *aroused* him?

He saw again that smooth, pale skin, the flex and roll of sleek muscle captivating even in memory. With those long, long legs, large hands and angular face, Methos looked like he should be gangly and awkward beneath the bulky clothing he favored. Duncan knew better: he'd sparred against the man, fought beside him, and Methos had an effortless grace Duncan envied and a classically athletic build, vast reserves hidden beneath his innocuous appearance. Duncan might be the stronger of the two, but he had no doubt Methos could run him into the ground every time.

But he hadn't been appraising Methos as a fighter. When he had turned to see Methos unbuttoning his jeans, his breath had caught in his throat, and it had taken a frantic heartbeat to realize that the thrumming tension racing up his spine was anticipation, not panic. And behind the pile of blankets he'd held, he'd been achingly, ridiculously hard.

In the next instant, he'd nearly flushed with embarrassment, stunned at the thought that he *wanted* to see his friend naked, horrified that Methos might notice his reaction and shatter their reclaimed friendship by walking out the door. The fear was enough to wilt his ill-timed erection, and he was able to approach Methos as if nothing was wrong, handing over the bedding with a smile.

Although, up-close, Methos looked even better than he had from across the room...

//He's my friend,// Duncan reminded himself firmly, then faltered, realizing that had never been an objection before. //And he's a man!// he tried again, with more feeling. It wasn't that he had any particular prejudice against the matter; it was just that he'd never looked at another man that way. Every once in a great while, someone would make what *might* have been an offer, and he'd stop and wonder whether he was out of his head, imagining things... but the urge to find out had never really crossed his mind. Admittedly, his upbringing had been both strict and sheltering on that matter, but after four hundred years, he'd gained a slightly more flexible outlook on Right and Wrong than what he'd known as a boy. And from where he stood, very little that was a sin had anything to do with love.

//*Love*?// he blinked, eyes wide in the dark. Had he truly meant to think that? Love? Him? In love with Methos? Now he *knew* he was out of his head. Methos would laugh himself sick. Or dump him on his ass and call it forgotten. Or...

Or maybe Methos would just shrug and...

He was blushing again, and he thanked God the lights were out. Thinking back on the eras Methos had lived through, he found it very easy to believe the other man had at least... *tried* it. In fact, he was probably quite good at...

Yes. Well.

But the idea of a casual fling was somehow... distasteful to him, and he forced himself to stop and wonder why. It really wasn't the sex-- he suddenly couldn't seem to *stop* wondering what Methos would be like in bed-- but he wasn't *that* curious. In fact, he doubted he'd find the subject so consuming, doubted that it would even have come up if it wasn't for that *other* thing.

Love.

When Amanda had run off to Hong Kong, he'd been disappointed, but it had come as no surprise whatsoever. He did love her, yes, always would... but they would never have what Robert and Gina had, never have the kind of relationship that could *stand* the harsh light of day-to-day existence, of complacency. What they had was permanency without commitment, or vice-versa, Duncan was never entirely certain-- and he'd known, in the back of his head, that confessing that love aloud was the quickest way to send Amanda running for the hills, whether he'd meant to or not. That she'd stuck around an entire week spoke more of her earlier fear for him than even a half-hearted stab at a more stable relationship.

But when he'd surfaced to find *Methos* gone... At first, he'd bought the excuse that Methos was just busy, after going to Joe to verify the other man really was still in Paris and not on the next flight to Bora Bora. So he'd waited, a little impatiently, for Methos to slink back out of the woodwork and their friendship to resume. Methos, he'd told himself, was probably just giving him time to be alone with Amanda; as soon as the other man realized the honeymoon was over, there'd be a knock on Duncan's door, and they'd pick up where they'd left off.

Only one week had turned into two, and one day a month had gone by, without even a peep from Methos. None of Duncan's messages had been returned, Methos was *never* home, even when Duncan drove by at night, and Joe was starting to get a little strange. Duncan *knew* Dawson wasn't lying when he said he didn't know where Methos was, but he got the feeling Joe had worries he wasn't sharing. And the few times Joe *had* seen Methos had galled him beyond belief. Why was Methos going to *Joe* and not him? Was Methos mad at him, and if so, why didn't the stubborn old bastard just *say* something?

And then he'd felt the first sly touches, just at the edge of his range, as if Methos was the cat that had just walked over his grave. That first time, he'd dismissed it as wishful thinking, it had been there and gone so fast. But the second time, that faint buzz had hovered persistently at his shoulder, just close enough to be noticeable, for hours. He would have gone looking, assuming that Methos just happened to be in the area, but he'd been on the trail of a two-bit extortionist who'd tried to wrest 'protection' money out of Maurice...

When the same man turned up dead in an alley the next day, gun still in hand, it had suddenly hit him how close he might have been to death, if only a temporary one. Someone had taken the man out quick and neat in one of the alleys Duncan himself had been skulking around. Suddenly it had occurred to him that it was very odd, how he'd spent the whole night with Methos' buzz always *just* out of range, but never coming clearer or disappearing entirely. Methos had been following him. Looking out for him. Again.

The realization had made him stop and reexamine everything he knew about their friendship, rocky as it had been at times. Why would Methos guard the back of a man he didn't want to see? Why couldn't he talk to Duncan about whatever was bothering him? It couldn't be Bordeaux, not *still*, could it? He'd put it behind him-- hadn't he told the man so in front of Joe and Amanda both?

He'd called Amanda. She hadn't been very helpful. 'Mac,' she'd sighed after an hour, 'you know how cranky he gets. And it's not like he hasn't disappeared before. Maybe he's still mad at you for playing the martyr to O'Rourke. *I* am... Give him time; he'll come around, or decide you didn't mean whatever it is. He always does.'

Always does. And he'd thought about *that*, too. How many things he'd given the Old Man to forgive, and how often Methos did just that. And maybe, just maybe, Amanda was trying to go easy on him. Maybe there was something *specific* he'd done, something she'd caught and didn't know how to tell him...

Decide he didn't mean it. Didn't mean...

He'd said something stupid, hadn't he?

The next time, he'd gone to Joe, asked him flat out how Methos had taken Mac's apology at the barge. And Joe had looked at him in surprise and said he hadn't realized it was an apology.

Then he'd offered Duncan a drink. Duncan had no doubt he'd looked like he needed one.

When he thought back on it... he had sounded rather high-handed. But he'd been so nervous, waiting for a wry brush-off, or one of those barbed little jokes Methos made every time he thought the mood was getting too heavy. The man had absolutely no patience for Duncan's brooding and took a gleeful delight in puncturing those dark bubbles whenever possible, but he seemed to regard very little as truly serious to begin with. So Duncan had kept his shield up, already on the defensive against an attack that hadn't come, and Methos...

Methos had probably assumed he was being a self-righteous sonofabitch, and gone on the defensive himself. He could practically *hear* Methos' reasoning-- keep an eye on the Highlander, without having to put up with his moods. That would be just about right. Methos would have seen his going off to the slaughter three months ago as the act of a dangerously unbalanced man and didn't feel comfortable leaving Duncan to wander about on his own. So he'd stuck around, just in case he was needed...

Not realizing that Duncan needed him *there*.

Now that Duncan had him, he was strangely loathe to part with Methos again. He knew Methos would tire of making himself a target eventually-- although a little voice insisted that if Methos was going to, he would have done so a long time ago. After Kronos and what had followed, certainly, if not after *Kalas* at the very beginning. He already knew that Methos was the kind of man that made long-term plans...

Was it so startling to wonder if those plans could include Duncan MacLeod?

//Maybe I'm just looking for stability,// he frowned, more than willing to admit he hadn't seen very much of it in his life. He couldn't help striving to find it, in one form or the other, whether it was keeping alive the memory of his clan or his understanding with Amanda. Methos' friendship could be another brick in the sanctuary he was trying to erect, and he wouldn't have to sleep with the ancient to bring that friendship closer.

But he wanted to, and not just for one night. And he didn't want Methos' careless acquiescence, a casual arrangement between friends, not even the easygoing bond he had with Amanda. Something meaningful, permanent, something...

That the other man might have no interest in whatsoever. The thought was instantly deflating. Hadn't Methos once told him a relationship with an Immortal was too much commitment? And while he was certain Methos *was* capable of commitment, the man also had an obsessive *need* to be able to pick up and leave at a moment's notice. To Methos, running was always preferable to standing one's ground, and that had driven Duncan insane for years...

//Maybe he just likes to be able to pick his own ground,// Duncan decided slowly. Methos *would* fight if cornered, after all, and when he did... there was nothing cowardly or retiring about him then. And maybe, after 5000 years, a man just got *tired* of it. 5000 years of the posturing, the challenges, fights for no reason while grown men stood around and thumped their chests like cavemen...

//My God, he must see us as a bunch of bratty children,// Duncan realized with a start, and nearly burst out laughing before he choked it off. In Methos' place, he imagined he'd see the Game as a particularly deadly annoyance as well... No wonder Methos didn't like to fight.

He'd outgrown it *years* ago.

//Maybe I'm giving him too much credit, but he's never been patient with fools... Well, except for *this* fool. What am I to him, anyway? Is he this dedicated to all his friends? Why does he stick around if...?//

But no. Surely Methos would give some sign if he was in love with Duncan. He'd seen the man with Alexa, after all-- nervous, uncertain, endearingly goofy. He'd never understood why Methos had seemed so unsure of himself. His voice alone...

//Just drop it,// he warned himself sternly, rolling over and burying his face in the pillow. //You're not doing yourself any favors. If Methos was in love with you, you'd know...//

But maybe... maybe Methos could be... persuaded.

There was no chasing away the smile that tugged at Duncan's lips, a deeply smug grin of pure satisfaction. Duncan was, after all, a master at the art of seduction. And he had years to work on the stubborn ancient. By the time Duncan was through with him, Methos would never know what hit him.

And that, at last, was comforting enough to send him happily into dreams.

Chapter Three

Rolling over into a patch of weak sunlight, Duncan buried his face in the pillows with a muffled groan. He knew it couldn't be as early in the morning as he felt... Blinking reluctantly awake, he turned his head, slitting his eyes towards the clock. 10 AM. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd slept that late.

//No, wait-- yes I do. Methos was here *then*, too...// he thought with a sigh, recalling all-night bull sessions over beer and chess...

And *that* brought into focus the faint buzz tickling the edges of his awareness, summoning a grin along with it. Methos. The events of the night before came rushing back to him as he woke completely, and not even the strange things Methos had told him could dim his pleasure at the other man's presence. Lately, he had begun to wonder if he would ever feel that unique Quickening again...

Slipping out of bed, he stretched until his spine cracked, yawning quietly. Padding across the floor towards the kitchen, he glanced once at the form sprawled on his couch, half-hidden under a mound of blankets. One of Methos' arms was curled protectively over his face, nose nestled in the crook of his elbow, his hair spiking up crazily against the pillow. Chuckling softly, Duncan tried not to make the obvious comparison between Methos and a particularly bedraggled crow, hiding its head under its wing.

//Or a caped vampire... 'The light, the light...'// Duncan mused gleefully, biting his lip to stifle the laughter that threatened to explode. Methos was *not* at his best in the morning, and waking him was a job best left to professionals.

//Damned if I'm going to tackle him without coffee,// he chuckled, setting about making a fresh pot.

Only to have his breath catch in his throat when the thought of tackling Methos tackled him instead.

Turning slowly back to the couch, Duncan leaned against the counter, watching Methos sleep as the coffee maker began to hiss and burble behind him. //I don't have a clue how to go about this,// he admitted slowly, eyes tracking over the half-curled figure. //How do you seduce a man, anyway? How do I seduce *this* man? My best friend...//

What he'd decided last night-- it hadn't been a passing fancy, and it hadn't been the relief at having things right between them again. He could still feel it, nestled close and comfortable behind his ribs, the simple *need* to have Methos there, in his life, in his arms. It wasn't just that he'd missed Methos, though he had; when he'd realized Methos was gone, he'd been left edgy and off-balance, like his sword had been taken from him, like a *piece* of himself was missing. And now that he had Methos back...

How was he going to keep him?

If Methos were a woman, the course of action would be clear. Dinner, maybe dancing, flowers and gifts to let her know he was thinking of her. Standing a little closer, touching her arm when they spoke, a smile, a kiss...

Closing his eyes, he tried to picture it, Methos' angular face cupped in his palms, close enough to lose himself in those fascinating eyes... as close as they had been in Joe's office, pressed companionably to Methos' solidity, the warm puff of Methos' sweet breath on his cheek... If he had leaned in then, could he have teased a smile to those lips with his own? Would Methos have let him? And if he had... then what? Where did he go from there? A kiss was only the beginning, and the territory from there was so familiar, so very strange...

A man's chest, hard muscle under his hand... sweeping ladder of ribs, ridged abdomen, a stiff cock rising to meet him... No softness anywhere, except the velvet of his skin, the touch of his mouth-- all his own strengths mirrored back at him, except that it was *Methos*, who was somehow... *more* than anything Duncan had ever known. Even if he knew how to, *could* he make love to Methos? Give as good as he got, give the man the same pleasure he knew Methos could give him? And he'd been with women *that* way before, but he'd never... no one had even *thought* to ask if he might be curious... What was it about him that discouraged people so? Was that why Methos had never given any indication of interest? Because Duncan was so unapproachable?

He'd have to change that, then... and slowly, so he didn't frighten the Old Man away. And then... then he'd have no choice but to jump in and pray. Having a grasp on the mechanics in no way prepared him for the reality of it, he knew that, and if the thought of touching Methos, *tasting* Methos, did foolish things to his blood pressure, it was no guarantee Methos felt the same. Which brought him back to his original question... how did he seduce this man?

//Shower first,// he told himself firmly, pushing away from the counter. //Worry about candlelight dinners later. And we're supposed to be meeting Joe...//

As he went through his morning routine, he turned over and over in his mind the information Joe had passed on and the things Methos had said the night before. The idea of some sort of... creature, or being, 5000 years old and hungry for Immortal prey... On the face of it, it sounded ridiculous. But Methos had looked so deadly-serious when he spoke of them... Duncan was certain Methos was leaving things out. Maybe he thought his story was fantastic enough as it was.

//But I've seen stranger,// Duncan sighed quietly, pausing in his shave and staring blindly into the mirror. Methos had scoffed, at first, at the idea of demons... and now the man had ghosts appearing to him at Joe's, had apparently grown up with impossible creatures as a way of life. What had happened to make him so... close-minded?

//He believed in the holy spring,// Duncan frowned thoughtfully, coming back to himself with a blink and lifting the razor again. //Believed enough to drag me there and risk his own head in the process. There's something not right here. What is it he's afraid to tell me? And how are we supposed to kill this thing, anyway?//

Tugging on a loose pair of old jeans, worn at the knees and faded nearly white, he threw his towel over the bar before wandering out barefoot. Methos, predictably enough, was still sleeping, though his arm had fallen away and his eyes were darting rapidly as he dreamed. Smiling, Duncan allowed himself to be distracted by an odd sense of pride as he detoured to fetch a T-shirt, pulling it over his still-damp hair. Over the years, Methos had relaxed his guard more and more around Duncan, going from a man that jerked wide awake at the slightest noise to the soundest sleeper Duncan knew. It practically took a sign from God to get Methos up before noon these days...

Or very good coffee.

Pouring a mug for each of them and adding extra cream to Methos', Duncan sauntered quietly to the couch, taking a seat on the edge of the coffee table. Setting his own cup aside with a grin, he passed the other mug under Methos' nose a few times, watching the other man's face scrunch up in a distant frown as the scent of strong coffee penetrated his dreams. Methos didn't so much as twitch, but Duncan knew the moment Methos woke, something indefinable changing in the air around him.

Slowly, Methos cracked open an eye, glaring up at him suspiciously. "What time is it?" Methos growled, voice rusty with sleep.

"Time for you to get in the shower, if we want to make it to Joe's before noon," Duncan chuckled as Methos' arm snaked out of the covers.

"Coffee," Methos demanded, holding his hand out imperiously. Amused, Duncan surrendered the mug, trying not to laugh when Methos' eyes closed blissfully on the first swallow. "Mm," he sighed appreciatively, letting his head fall back to the pillow again while holding the mug perfectly steady. "Good stuff."

Methos' eyes snapped open at Duncan's snort, but there was a spark of humor in their depths, at odds with the mask of indignant pride that crossed the other man's face. "You're welcome, Methos," Duncan grinned, picking up his own mug. "Should I just bring the pot?"

"You're the one that woke me up," Methos sniffed, sitting up on his elbow and propping his head on his fist. "You can just keep my cup filled."

"Hey, I promised you breakfast, not valet service," Duncan protested quickly. "And I don't know about you, but I'm starving."

"Fine, fine," Methos sighed dramatically, leaning over to set his mug on the table beside Duncan. When he stretched across, the blankets fell away, and Duncan found himself watching the smooth ripple of lean muscle across Methos' back, wondering if his skin would feel as soft as it looked. If he caught hold of Methos' retreating hand... "But next time, I'm holding out for breakfast in bed."

//Done!// he almost agreed and had to restrain a grin, thinking of the *look* Methos would give him if he did. "You do that," he said instead, sitting back when Methos hauled himself upright. Methos really did look tired still, more than his usual reluctance to rise dragging at his limbs. Untangling his legs from the blankets, Methos heaved a short sigh and climbed wearily to his feet, running a hand through sleep-mussed hair.

"I hate mornings," he grumbled, slipping past Duncan on his way to the bathroom.

Watching Methos go, Duncan's heart leaped instantly in his chest until he tore his eyes away, searching desperately for distraction. He couldn't understand it; why did the sheer *intensity* of what he felt for Methos keep surprising him? Having decided what he wanted, shouldn't things just... fall into place? Maybe if he knew Methos wanted him back... or if he just knew what to *expect*. He could picture holding Methos, waking up to him, his senses filled with that strangely welcome scent: autumn forests in the rain and the dry musk of some sun-furred creature--

//When did I learn Methos' scent?// he froze, eyes darting to the couch. Slowly, he reached for the pillow, stroking the still-warm fabric with his thumb. If he pulled it to him, rested his head where the indentation of Methos' cheek remained... Tossing it aside, Duncan snatched up the topmost blanket with a sigh. He had all the time in the world to moon over his perennial houseguest, but it wouldn't get breakfast cooked or leave the barge any neater. Might as well straighten up, before Hurricane Methos struck again...

Duncan had to laugh at himself, knowing he wasn't being entirely fair. If he put it off for later, Methos *would* clean up his own messes, most of the time; it was just that the other man tended to prioritize things the same way someone would in their own home, and Duncan rather liked that, though he'd never admit it aloud. But picking up after Methos was something of a habit, a ritual of sorts. Methos came in, took over, left his mark from one end of the barge to the other-- and it was only when Duncan *stopped* finding reminders of him everywhere that he knew Methos had truly gone. On the surface of it, it looked like havoc, but the traces Methos left were all superficial, erasable in minutes.

//One of these days,// he promised as he folded, //I'm going to get you here and keep you here.//

And the pledge conjured a deep contentment that stretched his wistful smile into a grin.

He heard the shower shut off as he was removing the last pan from the burners, toast popping up on his right. By the time he had the table set, turning back to fetch their plates, Methos was just emerging from the bathroom with a long-suffering sigh. "And if I don't move in, I'm at least going to leave a change of clothes here," he was muttering as Duncan turned back around, returning to his complaint from the night before.

Methos had a towel wrapped around his hips, for which Duncan was truly grateful. Still flushed from the shower, his skin looked impossibly sleek, begging to be touched, like the tousled, damp hair carelessly brushed out of his eyes. The transition from steamy bathroom to cooler barge had hardened his small, dark nipples to points, and he licked away a drop of sweat beading above his upper lip as Duncan watched, transfixed.

"Help yourself," he heard himself say from a distance, nodding towards the clothes press absently and hoping he didn't look as nervous as he felt. Crossing quickly to the table, he concentrated on setting out breakfast without tripping over his feet and breathed a silent sigh of relief when he didn't drop anything.

"Thanks," Methos' lips curled in a half-smirk of acknowledgment, eyes crinkling cheerfully at the corners. Methos never looked more smug than when he'd gotten his own way...

But he was ambling over to the table, not scrounging up clothing, and Duncan had to swallow a brief flash of panic. Methos wouldn't just... "That smells wonderful, Mac," Methos smiled, pulling out a chair and collapsing into it, sprawling comfortably in his towel and reaching for a fork. "Thanks for cooking."

Duncan wanted to curse out loud. Methos couldn't *possibly* know what he was doing, could he? "My pleasure," he managed, sinking hesitantly into his own chair and trying to focus his attention on what was on his plate. //I'm imagining things,// he told himself firmly, hiding behind his coffee mug. //It's just a coincidence. Just because I *want* him to be interested, it doesn't mean I can read things into his actions that aren't there. He's just comfortable with me. Always has been-- look at the way he takes over my couch any time he feels like it...//

But then again, Methos hated being less than prepared. Ready for fight or flight at any moment-- that was the man Duncan knew, and Methos never just lounged around looking so... vulnerable. The idea that he considered Duncan protection enough was flattering, but... //Maybe he's making a point? Or a gesture...// If only Methos wasn't so damnably hard to read...

This morning, Methos was the picture of relaxed comfort, staring meditatively out the nearest porthole as he raised another bite of his omelet. Letting his eyes track over the lean body displayed before him, Duncan was struck once again by how much he wanted this to continue, wanted to learn the feel of Methos' skin, the taste of him, the warmth of his body curled close at night. Wanted that casual slouch at this table for years to come.

Blinking suddenly, Methos looked over at him with a smile, and Duncan had to fight to not drop his eyes, suddenly aware that he'd been caught staring. "You okay, Mac?" Methos asked calmly, regarding him with an untroubled expression. "You've been awfully quiet this morning..."

Smiling back, Duncan shook his head, relieved. "Just wondering where we go from here," he shrugged, ignoring his own double entendre. "How do we kill this thing, anyway-- cut off its head?"

Methos snorted, but Duncan watched him sit up straighter, some of the serenity leaving his eyes. Duncan could have kicked himself for that, but Methos barely seemed to notice, his gaze already far distant. "Not likely-- but I'm not entirely sure. While there was still a pack, no one ever got close enough to try. They're extremely fast, Mac, and lethal in either form... I don't know how much safer a single one will be by comparison," he admitted ruefully.

"Well, how did your people stop them last time?" Duncan frowned as he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table and holding onto his mug with both hands. Methos made a face, hesitation and something like embarrassment twisting his expression. "It's all right if it sounds strange," Duncan reassured him, smiling tolerantly as he guessed the source of Methos' discomfort. "I'm sure it can't be any worse than millennial demons."

Methos' eyes went instantly dark, however, and the Old Man's tone was solemn when he spoke. "I owe you a bigger apology for that than I thought," he said quietly, holding Duncan's eyes with an unwavering gaze. "I should have remembered..."

"It's not your fault," Duncan protested, swallowing the fervent wish that Methos *had*, that there had been *somebody* else that had believed in him besides Richie... //Then Ahriman probably would have killed him too,// Duncan told himself firmly, trying hard not to remember those words at the track... 'I am Set...' A convenient title or literal truth? And if it was the last child of Set that was on the loose now...

But Methos was shaking his head, an inward-turning condemnation staring from his eyes. Reaching out, Duncan took Methos' shoulder, refusing to be distracted by the silken-smooth tensing of muscle under bare skin. "Maybe there's a reason you didn't remember," he insisted before Methos could protest, and felt Methos flinch beneath his hand.

"Probably." Taking a deep breath, the Old Man looked away, leaving Duncan with the certainty that whatever Methos was keeping from him, it was very personal and very, very disturbing. Something he'd blocked out for 5000 years... Duncan could barely imagine the kind of pain that must represent, coming from a man who had survived the reign of the Four Horsemen.

And whatever it was, he was sure Methos had begun to remember.

"Then...?"

Visibly pulling himself together, Methos dragged his eyes back to Duncan's with a strained smile. "Can we do this at Joe's?" he asked suddenly. "I don't really want to go through this twice."

Frowning, Duncan nodded, trying not to be disappointed as he dropped his hand. "Sure," he agreed, though he wasn't happy. Not at all. Why was it always Joe? When he looked deeper into Methos' eyes, however, he saw a roiling tension he didn't know how to cure, knew Methos didn't want to talk about this at all but was willing to try because Duncan had asked.

//Does he just think I won't believe him, or is he expecting me to react like I did about Kronos?// he wondered, kicking himself again for his hotheaded refusal to stop and *listen*. He could have saved them all so much pain... "Look, whatever it is," he tried, "it'll be fine..."

"Yes," Methos shrugged, ducking his head and reaching for his coffee. "I know. Thanks."

Deciding all he could do was leave the other man alone, Duncan let Methos finish breakfast in silence, trying to keep his imagination from running away with him. When Methos carried his dishes to the sink, Duncan waved away his help with a smile. "Go get ready," he shook his head. "Joe's going to be wondering where we are as it is."

"Don't even try to make me feel guilty, MacLeod," Methos snorted, retreating to scrounge through Duncan's clothes for something to wear. "I would've been perfectly happy sleeping for another five hours or so..."

"You're *always* happy to sleep another five hours or so," Duncan tossed over his shoulder as Methos disappeared into the bathroom again. He was still chuckling when the door opened once more, Methos running his fingers quickly through his hair in a vague approximation of a combing.

"Yes, and if everyone would just leave me alone long enough to get a decent night's sleep, that might change," Methos declared with a snort, a grin chasing the corners of his mouth. Of course he'd snagged one of Duncan's favorite sweaters, a dark cream one that hung loosely on his leaner frame, thick and warm and sinfully soft. But the belt he was tightening on a pair of worn jeans was also one of Duncan's, and even the pants looked very familiar...

When he started laughing, Methos' eyes narrowed suspiciously before a soft chuckle escaped him as well. Trust Methos to take full advantage of 'help yourself.' Drying his hands, Duncan tossed the towel aside before hunting up a sweater for himself, watching Methos pull on his boots with a smile. He was surely insane to have missed all this, but miss it he had. Having Methos around again was like the return of a particularly perverse stray, the kind that yowled all night, clawed at no provocation and shed all over everything-- but still managed to claim a place in your home and heart. Life without Methos was... not boring, no, but *empty*, in a way Duncan found hard to describe. All he knew for certain was that he was glad to have Methos back.

"Tell you what," he smiled, reaching for his coat. "You can catch a nap on the way there. I'll drive."

Methos just snorted and shook his head, giving in with the regal air of a man conferring a favor. "I always wanted my own chauffeur. Can I call you James?"

"No," Duncan chuckled tolerantly.

"What about the hat. Will you wear the hat?"

"Methos..."

Which meant everything was as it should be, at last.

"Come on, guys," Joe insisted as he dragged them into his office. "I know you've got something, so give."

Methos glanced heavenward, unsure whether he was more amused or irritated by the relief Joe tried to hide at their arrival. //Is he just happy we haven't killed each other yet, or did he think we were going to keep him in the dark?// "We've got to stop meeting like this," he muttered dryly as he sank into *his* chair.

And glared over at MacLeod when the Highlander kicked his foot. "Are you going to explain this or am I?" Mac challenged, and Methos assessed the other man's smile through narrowed eyes before settling back into his seat, allowing himself to be charmed by Mac's tolerant grin. Besides, he could afford to be generous today. The look on MacLeod's face when he wandered up to the table in that towel was going to fire his fantasies for *years* to come...

"It doesn't make a whole lot of sense when *I* tell it," Methos snorted, lips twitching helplessly. "I doubt your version would improve matters much."

"What version?" Joe demanded, fingers twitching towards a paperweight before he slid his hands down to grab the chair-arms. "Has something happened?"

"Sorry. Not yet," Methos shook his head quickly, feeling vaguely remorseful for driving Joe up the wall. Again. But only vaguely. "I remembered some things last night that might explain who and what we're dealing with, but it's going to sound pretty odd. You were right about the Egyptian angle, Joe-- but it's a little more complicated than it might seem..."

"Well?" Joe scowled. "Is it an Immortal after all? And how do you explain those Quickenings, and you guys not sensing him--"

"Joe," Methos smiled wanly, raising his hand with a shake of his head. "One thing at a time. First of all, chances are good that they *did* sense something, but they wouldn't have known what it was. This *is* an Immortal we're dealing with, but not one like you've ever seen. 5000 years ago--"

"Wait," Joe interrupted, frown turning to shock. "You're not going to tell me this guy is 5000 years old, are you?"

"Older," Methos shrugged, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "And it's not one of us, Joe, so don't even ask. Look. When I was a boy..." He stopped suddenly, blinking as the true meaning of that stole over him. When he was a boy. Funny. He'd spent so long unable to remember it, he'd slowly begun to believe he'd never really been that young, that he'd always been just as he was now. It was strangely humbling to recall that distant time, before he'd been Methos, before he'd outlived everything he knew and become a myth himself. "When I was a boy," he repeated slowly, ignoring the sympathetic looks his friends were giving him, "there was a pack of... creatures," he shook his head, frustrated with the imprecision of language. He was going to sound like a complete idiot...

Joe's brows shot up, and Methos saw him glance towards Mac, looking to see if the Highlander would laugh. "Creatures?" the Watcher asked with raised brows.

"I can't explain this very well," Methos sighed disgustedly. "I don't actually know what they were. I have ideas, *theories*, but I'm still not clear on everything that happened-- and it's not like anyone ever took me aside and laid it out in scientific terms. What I do know is that there were twelve of them, that they were Immortal, and they went bad and had to be destroyed. I very much doubt that they were human, but they could change their shape, so it's entirely possible that they simply became more beast-like over the centuries. We called them the children of Set, assumed they were exactly that, but we often confused Immortality with divinity in those days," he shrugged.

"And they had a buzz," Joe repeated, voice rising at the end in a half-question.

"Like... the pressure of an approaching storm," Methos frowned thoughtfully. "A very hungry storm."

"Looks like it's our week for weird buzzes," Joe grumbled, sitting back in his chair. "I thought only Immortals had Quickenings--now we've got ghosts and de--"

Mac sat up straight in his chair, cutting Joe off at once. "Wait. Ahriman-- I *felt* something whenever the demon was around. It was faint, but..." He shook his head quickly, meeting Methos' eyes seriously. "Maybe there's something to this. Ahriman, a dead *priest*, your Set-beasts--"

"Set-beasts?" Joe demanded.

"--don't you see a pattern here?" Mac insisted urgently, holding Methos' gaze. "I know something about this has you nervous, Methos, but I promise I'll hear you out, whatever it is..."

Caught by those wide, dark eyes, Methos took a deep breath, absurdly calmed by the intensity of Mac's stare. Just like always, he had been asking for Mac's trust and belief while stringing the man along with the flimsiest of explanations and vague hints of something bigger-- and Mac had followed, like he always did, except that this time the Highlander was doing it by choice, knowingly. And what was he truly afraid of, anyway? Ridicule? If MacLeod laughed, he laughed.

Or maybe he simply didn't want to be right, didn't want to speak the truth he feared aloud and make it even more real. Didn't *want* to be the kind of man stalked by gods, however dubious the honor might be. Just thinking of it made him feel like a fraud, indulging in the height of egotism, uncomfortably aware of the fact that he was as far from worthy of that kind of attention as one man could be. They couldn't possibly be interested in *him*. Most likely, he was just the most convenient medium of warning MacLeod, who was a man shaped from birth to wrestle with demons and win.

The Champion.

Whereas he was just a very old and tired messenger who was lucky enough to be this man's shield. The gods knew there were worse destinies he could have been dealt... but the squirming embarrassment he felt at the confession he knew Mac would drag out of him was coupled with a stinging sense of loss, of wasted years and missed chances, and bone-deep damage he had no name for. He could have been more. Instead, he was just barely enough.

Without looking at Joe, he folded his hands over his stomach, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair. "I was found on the first day after the end of Harvest, the day of Osiris," he began calmly, ignoring Joe's sharp intake of breath and Mac's wide eyes. It was almost ironic to have a birthday to call his own after so long, considering that there was no sure way of determining which day on the present calendar it was. Lacking a leap year, the months had already fallen out of step with the seasons when he was a boy, leaving the holy days in chaos. Ironic indeed.

"The man who found me was a high priest of the god Menthu, an Immortal named Ahmose who, at the time, was nearly one thousand years old. He claimed he had been led to me by dreams, named me the son of Menthu, and raised me to be his successor. I knew since I was a boy that I'd eventually stop aging and live forever-- a 'special drink' on the day I became a man would make sure of that," he added with a touch of dark humor, admiring his old mentor for that calculated act of compassion Ahmose had planned. A cup of swift poison to ease the transition, perhaps a knife if the poison failed, and he'd never have known the difference...

But MacLeod looked angry and Joe shocked, reminding him of the men he was dealing with. Yet another thing, it seemed, his friends weren't equipped to understand: that, far from resenting such interference, Methos would have welcomed it wholeheartedly. To be frozen in the prime of one's life by a gentle hand... it was the kindest thing Ahmose could have done for him, had he only been allowed. Shaking his head, he continued quickly before the protests and commiserations could start, their misplaced sympathy the last thing he wanted.

"He raised me like I was his own son, taught me the duties of the priesthood and how to use a blade. And more. He was... gifted, an adept, like Cassandra-- only he was a teacher, like his own master had been before him. He could do things with his Quickening and his mind that you wouldn't believe..."

"And he taught you this?" Joe asked when he trailed off, watching him with a frown of doubtful speculation.

"Some," Methos shrugged, glancing down at his linked hands. "I was still a pre-Immortal then, so there were limits to what I could do, but... he did teach me how to call fire."

"Fire?" Mac's eyes went wide.

"My... I *think* it was my Quickening. No lightnings then, just a mist... He taught me how to draw it out of myself, bring it to the surface without needing to heal-- when *he* did it, it was like watching a miniature Quickening. I think that's how he became a priest of a sun god," he added with another shrug, shaking his head. "It would have been more than impressive enough to awe the natives. He said he could teach any of us how to do it if we started practicing young enough, before we decided we *couldn't* do it. From some of the things he said, I gathered he'd taught quite a few of us in his day."

"Well, can you show us?" Joe glanced from Methos to Mac and back again. "I've heard about some pretty strange talents cropping up in Immortals, but seeing it in action..."

"I haven't even tried that for 5000 years, Joe," Methos snorted with a humorless smile. "And there's something else-- my Quickening, or whatever it was, didn't act the way it should. Frankly, Joe, if I actually did manage it after all this time, I'd probably leave a hole in your ceiling."

He could tell Joe wasn't happy with that, but it was all the answer the Watcher was going to get. Remembering the way that strange fire had streaked heavenward... how was he to know whether it was substantial or a mirage? It might shatter like the prism of sun on water or sear its way through obstacles like the lightning it resembled. And maybe nothing would happen, and he'd sit there cupping air, empty and cold...

And that, he had to admit, would somehow be the worst thing of all. He knew the gods didn't live behind the clouds, that there was no fiery boat skimming the heavens with divinities at the helm, but that symbolic flight from his hands to the sky had always made him feel as if they *were* listening to him, that he could justify his name and the trust his mentor placed in him. That he was more than some foreigner's abandoned bastard, and an ugly, worthless one at that. If even the gods rejected him now...

"When I was seventeen," he forced himself to pick up the thread of his story, "maybe eighteen, Ahmose asked me to participate in a ceremony. In those days," he glanced at Joe, "the god Set wasn't the source of all evil he is today, merely the other side of his opposite-- Horus the Elder, Ra, Menthu. Dark to their light. Without his help, neither the souls of the dead nor the gods themselves could ascend from earth to heaven, and he punished the wicked, destroyed those the gods cursed. Red was his color, and he ruled the South-- and so did the creatures whose head he wears."

"Wait," Joe shook his head. "I thought they just made that thing up, cobbled it together like a gryphon or a sphynx or something...?"

"No," Methos sighed quietly. "That's why we called them the children of Set," he replied, and watched a sudden flash of comprehension cross Joe's face. "Back then, if a man was cursed, he was given over to them as their lawful prey-- no one would shelter him or give him aid in any way, because the pack only hunted those that had been marked. Like hellhounds, or the Wild Hunt. There was no escape.

"We'd find the bodies in the morning," he shrugged, "torn to pieces-- and I don't know if it's true, but I was told that they ate the soul as well as the body. That everything that made a man human was destroyed. Of course," he snorted softly at Joe's automatic scowl, Mac's dark look no better, "we're talking about the scum of the earth here, men even the gods couldn't find compassion for. For want of a better word, the irrevocably damned."

"So you're saying these things weren't wholly evil...?" Joe frowned doubtfully.

"I'm saying they weren't evil at all," Methos patiently explained, ignoring Mac's flinch of surprise, the way Joe's eyes went wide. "Just very, very dangerous."

"Well, *something* obviously changed," Joe growled, leaning pointedly back in his chair with a defensive, stubborn set to his jaw. Methos sighed quietly, silently resolving to rein in his sarcasm for the afternoon. The day had started out too perfectly for him to ruin it by antagonizing Joe with his moods... //And Black and White never does go out of style, does it? Not even when you should know better...//

"Yes. It did," he nodded mildly, holding the Watcher's eyes with a serious expression as he waited for the mortal to relax. "Somewhere along the line, they developed a taste for power, I assume. Maybe they took their first Immortal, and his Quickening was too tempting to ignore..." He wouldn't think about Kronos, his time with the Horsemen, not just now... refused to wonder whether the pack would have come for *him* one night and torn him to--

--long wet muzzle thrust under his chin, hands holding him, and an agony as if his flesh was being flayed from his bones, torn off in screaming--

Shreds.

//*No*.//

"I don't...." he whispered.

"Methos?" Duncan's wide eyes were fixed on him, dark and concerned as the Highlander leaned toward him.

"Know. I don't know." He concentrated on breathing, slow and steady. Calm. "But I do know they started hunting for more of it," he made himself continue, as collected as ever on the surface. Mac settled hesitantly back in his chair, and Joe stopped reaching for his cane to rise, both men wordlessly giving him the space he needed. Tucking the gratitude away where it couldn't distract him, Methos shrugged again, letting the story tell itself.

"Eventually, they stopped discriminating at all. They went from punishing the cursed to actively seeking out the blessed in the space of about fifty years, and they just got bolder as time wore on. Maybe they stopped believing in the gods," he shrugged wearily. "They didn't fear anything else, that's for certain..."

"So your people put them down," Joe nodded when Methos trailed off.

"Yes." And maybe it would be easier to leave things at that, something anonymous and vague. If he could get away with it, there would be no reason to bring up the jackals at all, gods he wasn't entirely certain he *wanted* to believe in. Not when it meant Death still stalked his heels, his one faithful companion and an inescapable shadow over everything bright in his life. Not if they *had* claimed him, and Death was all he would ever be...

"Is that what the ritual you mentioned was for?" Mac frowned thoughtfully, and Methos felt his heart sink, hopes dissolving like smoke. He couldn't keep lying to MacLeod, not if he wanted to keep the man's friendship, to maybe someday earn his love... He had been given a second chance, it seemed, but if he blew this one, the odds of recovering from the wreckage a relationship worth having were impossibly slim. And it was one thing to gloss over a truth-- it was another thing entirely to outright deceive.

//But what will you make of me now, MacLeod?//

"Yes," he said slowly, watching the knuckles of his laced fingers going white with strain. "I was supposed to call on the gods, ask them for assistance against the pack. On Midsummer, the priesthood of Menthu assembled in the inner court at noon, open to the sun..." And he could still taste the heat of the day, smell the blood in the air from the bull Ahmose had sacrificed, hear the chanting of the priests and the echoing rasp as they breathed as one. Feel his heart shivering in time with the rise and fall of their prayers. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, so incredibly, dizzyingly blue... "And I sent out the call." Hot rush of his fire, his Quickening, warming his palms as white mist turned to bright golden lighting and soared sunward like a loosed arrow.

He closed his eyes on a sigh, feeling his hands cup empty air, cooled by his breath. "And then the sky went dark."

No one said a word as Methos listened to his heartbeat pounding in his ears, waiting for questions to slap a poor patch on suspicion, for doubt or smug recriminations from the people he called friends. All he got was silence, and a vague feeling of *expectation* from the Highlander, resonating down their bond so strongly he almost flinched. Frustration and confusion followed its heels, but strongest was the burning desire to *know*, for Methos to continue, to confide...

//Trust,// he told himself firmly, squeezing his eyes more tightly shut for an instant as he weighed the strange certainty he felt. //He's waiting to see if you trust him enough to tell him everything, like you should have done before... like you should have from the beginning. If you'll let *him* stand by *you*. And you'd better not let him down, Old Man...//

"It was stormclouds at first," he spoke without opening his eyes. "Or at least, that's what I remember. Everyone panicked-- they thought I'd... they thought I'd loosed Set on the world," he forced through gritted teeth, "Father of Storms. Someone put a knife to my throat and would have sacrificed me to any god that'd listen, but... I can't... I can't really trust my memories, you understand, but the way I remember it, Anpu... rose up against the sky. The dream I told you about. And then both the jackals appeared. They circled me a few times, and when they were gone, the sky was clear. And everyone was staring at me like..."

Methos' eyes snapped open, suddenly claustrophobic in the darkness behind his lowered lids. Joe was gaping at him in unconcealed awe and consternation, but MacLeod...

There was a strange sort of understanding in the Highlander's eyes, and not a flicker of doubt. There were questions in abundance, but also an uncertain patience, as if the man was wondering whether keeping his silence would cause more harm than good. And beneath it all, a terrible sympathy that raked Methos' soul, without stirring up the sharp-edged pride he carried like a shield. Duncan knew what it was to be a pawn in that sort of game. If anyone *could* understand, it was MacLeod.

"After that, I had to leave," Methos offered almost casually, not surprised when it was Joe that started in confusion while Mac waited calmly for the rest.

"Leave? But if you'd chased off those..." Methos shook his head silently, and watched Joe's affront turn to bewilderment. "You mean, all that, and it didn't fix anything? So they chased you out?"

Chuckling bitterly, Methos shook his head, unlacing his fingers and wrapping his hands around the chair-arms. "No, they didn't chase me out. They assumed I'd been chosen. The High Priest of Osiris came for me..."

"Sennedjem," Mac offered quietly, and Methos nodded once.

"Yes. I became his student... learned the paths through the Underworld and thirteen ways of looking at a dead man." Learned a worship that was as different from everything he'd been raised to believe he was without becoming a devotee of Set and wandering out to meet the pack one day. Learned the silent shadows of death after staring into the sun. "Ahmose went to challenge the pack a year later, and never came back. I waited nine more for the gods to make up their bloody minds to do something."

Ten years. It had seemed like an eternity at the time, but he was only just now processing the surprise at how truly young he'd been at his first death. Solitude had worn on him, melancholy that passed for maturity, and he might have lost a couple of years here and there in his memory, might be older than he thought when he had first died-- at this point, he had no way of knowing. But it was no coincidence that he'd just reached the end of his growth when the jackals had returned. Maybe if he'd had another year, his body would have had time to translate that upward momentum to power, the kind of juggernaut frame most male Immortals had been stamped with. Even among his own kind, he'd always looked so damned out of place...

//And I'm too damned old to care about it now,// he reminded himself sourly, as impatient with his own self-pity as he was with others'. His body had kept him alive five millennia, after all, and one didn't disparage an old and faithful servant. And he had far more important things to worry about than how he compared to other Immortals. Even the one sitting beside him.

Christ, though, he could use a beer for this... He didn't know what had possessed him to make the attempt sober. Stupid gesture, trying to look more serious, his attention more committed to the discussion. Like he was going to be thinking of anything else...

"When the jackals came back, we cleared out the temple," he continued more calmly, tilting his head back as he spoke. "There were a few guards left, some of the senior priests, but everyone else went to safer ground," he added dryly, a mirthless smile tugging at his lips at the idea, Holy Ground no longer a sanctuary against demons. "We set up a trap in a chamber beneath the temple, where the dead were prepared, and when they came to take the bait..."

Smiles in the flickering gloom, less than sane, as they stalked him so slyly... Sinuous as snakes, they eased closer like the slow rise of the tide, their dull Presence lapping at him hypnotically, numbing his panic with a weight of terrible apathy... And what came next? What followed agony and shame, the desperation of his pleas? He remembered hands and mocking voices, and the doorway he couldn't quite reach...

"What bait?" Mac asked quietly, his voice strangely distant, a stone dropping into the darkness of a well without a splash.

"Me," Methos mused almost dreamily, narrowing his eyes to pierce the shadows, as if *seeing* would make a difference, would make it all understandable. Bearable. The red glow of the coals glinting on tangled red hair, playing over the slickness of fresh blood... "I made myself... obvious. Called fire and lured them in..." Quiet laughter as mouths fastened on his flesh, tongues lapping at the stinging heart of pain, fingers stroking so *deep*...

"So the guards could take them?" Mac sounded so... hesitant. Cautious and concerned. For him? He wished he had the leisure to enjoy it, to dissect the feeling of blessed security that gave him, but they wouldn't leave him alone...

"No. Just me. I was supposed to Open the Ways." Oh yes, that was it. The doorway he couldn't reach as the dark chamber went darker, the writhing agony igniting his spine all-pervasive. If he could just give in to it, he could escape, float away...

"The Ways?"

"To the Underworld." Where even the Immortal could die. Where everything... ended. Washed away. Became nothing.

Silence. Such silence. The flicker of light from the brazier died, the thrust and tug at his flesh fading completely. "Did it work?" Mac asked at last.

"I don't know," Methos breathed as touch returned, his hands splayed across his chest, his tense abdomen, holding himself together. Cupping wounds that had surely never been. And his face was so cold, cold as his fingers, as if all the blood had drained from him, leaving him shivering in Joe's heated office.

"Methos," Duncan called intently, and he blinked, slowly turning to face the Highlander with a curious sense of disorientation. "Are you all right?"

Was he all right. Blinking again, Methos felt a smile leap automatically to his face, though he could feel himself staring blankly out of his own eyes, running on instinct and ingrained calculation as confusion took over. "Yes, of course," he quickly asserted, watching Mac's concern solidify at once. Damn...

"Is this what woke you up last night?" Mac asked warily, an unfamiliar gentleness in his tone that made Methos want to shrink back into his chair or get up and pace the room. "Remembering this?"

Methos shrugged, lacing his hands together again and resisting the urge to stroke his thumbs over the unbroken muscle of his stomach. Better if he could wrap his hands around a beer... "Like I said, I wasn't at my best. And I still don't know how much of what I remember is real," he added swiftly, flashing a smirk of self-deprecation.

"So then... you're *not* planning on trying that again?" Joe shook his head, scowling at both Immortals with a vague gesture mid-air. "This... 'Opening the Ways' thing... I mean, how does it... work?"

Methos felt his spine stiffen, defensive words already on his lips. "How the hell should I know?" he snapped, watching Joe sit back with a sharp surge of satisfaction. "*You* try making sense of something you've forgotten for 5000 years-- for all I know, I'm out of my bloody skull! Maybe I'm just hallucinating all this, have you thought of that?"

"You're forgetting, *I* saw that ghost too," Mac jumped in quickly, casting a mollifying glance towards Joe that paradoxically pricked Methos' temper to new heights. "And after Ahriman," the Scot added firmly, "I'm inclined to believe people who tell me they've seen demons. Or gods."

"Yeah," Joe nodded with a frown both sheepish and disgusted by turns. "I don't know why I'm surprised at anything you two bring me anymore..." he grumbled, rolling his eyes. "And maybe I didn't see your ghost, but if Mac says he did, then I believe him. I mean, I don't claim to understand this..."

The mere mention of Ahriman had already delivered a killing blow to Methos' anger; Joe's quiet acceptance was a soothing relief, and Methos chuckled quietly, trying to put an apology in his eyes. "Then that makes two of us," he sighed, running a hand through his hair. These two never did stop surprising him... and it was still strange to find the uncertainty gratifying, a challenge to be relished. "That's why I'm going to rely on more traditional methods of disposing of the problem this time."

One of Mac's brows raised expectantly, the Scot still regarding Methos with a concern that was only thinly-veiled, dark eyes shadowed. "Traditional?"

"Blow its head off and hack it to pieces," Methos replied fervently, fingers twitching helplessly towards his gun.

The laughter that filled the room was strained but genuine, some of the tension slipping gratefully away. "Sounds good to me," Joe chuckled quietly. "How do you plan on getting close enough to do it?"

"I'm not sure," Methos admitted, hunching one shoulder. "It might not come to the call a second time-- they're not *stupid*. But once it reaches Paris, it won't leave until it's hunted us out-- especially MacLeod. Like I said, it's developed a taste for Boy Scouts and martyrs..." he trailed off, eyes cutting sideways towards the Highlander.

"Methos," Mac growled warningly, embarrassment plain on his face as Methos snorted in amusement.

"You think it'll come after Mac in particular?" Joe demanded, not quite a question.

"I *know* it will," Methos nodded seriously. "There's no way it'd pass up a meal like him. It might be a good idea for you to get out of Paris," he added, turning to face Mac with an earnest stare. His feeling of trying to push back the tide was not misplaced; Mac's expression firmed instantly, as mulishly stubborn as Methos had ever seen him.

"I'm not leaving," Duncan insisted, in case anyone had missed the determination in his eyes. "We can't just let this thing run free and hunt indiscriminately-- *you* should know that better than anyone."

Methos flinched, but didn't back down. Mac had no idea... hell, *he* had no idea, nothing but nightmares he would rather forget, but he was damned if he'd see those blood-soaked dreams acted out in the waking world. "There's a vast difference between being bait and being a target," Methos observed dryly, narrowing his eyes as Mac's chin came up.

"And which will you be with no one to watch your back?" Mac demanded. "You think it's coming after me? What about you? It doesn't *know* me, Methos-- but it has a *grudge* against you. I don't think I'm the one at risk here."

"Then you're a fool," Methos snapped. "*Just once*, if you'd stop playing the Noble Protector and pay attention to the dangers--"

"And if you'd take your own advice!"

"Wake up, Highlander! *I'm* not the meal of the century-- but if we both stay in Paris, it won't have to go very far for an appetizer, now will it? I can take *care* of this-- I've done it before--"

"Then a little more help won't hurt," Mac insisted. "You said yourself you don't know whether what you tried worked, you can't trust your memories, and even if you can, there's no guarantee you'll be able to do it twice. You *need* someone to back you up-- and if it splits us up, what's to stop it from taking one of us and going after the other? If it isn't stopped, it'll just keep hunting, Methos, even I can see that. The sooner *we* take care of this thing, the better."

Mac's glare could powder diamond, and Joe was sitting quietly for once, almost holding his breath, his eyes flicking intently from one man to the other. Waiting.

//Funny,// Methos growled to himself, holding the other man's gaze without flinching. //From the way he throws that 'we' around, he hasn't even stopped to wonder whether I'll be on the next flight to Bora Bora the minute I leave here. Of course, he'd be right...//

//Face it, Old Man. He's going to be the death of you-- and you'll go happy.//

Shrugging, he sat slowly back in his chair, letting the Highlander enjoy his supposed victory. And ignoring the mollified look that crossed those dark eyes. Duncan was never more infuriatingly attractive than when he'd just gotten his own way... "You still don't have any experience of what you're dealing with," he shook his head, resigned but not beaten. "You're going to *listen* to me, Highlander."

"Fine," Mac nodded magnanimously.

"Gods, why do I bother," Methos grumbled, rolling his eyes as he collapsed in a nearly petulant sprawl, just to catch that tiny flare of guilt in the other man's eyes. "I mean it, Highlander," he warned. "My memories might be unreliable at times, but they're all we've got. If you can't trust my judgment, then *one* of us had better get out of the line of fire."

"Fine!" Mac repeated, scowling. "You can stop trying to chase me off now, thank you..."

//Brave words, Highlander,// Methos sighed to himself. "All right, then," he sighed aloud and watched Mac settle, the Highlander grudgingly appeased. It was unbearably ironic. 5000 years of self-sufficiency, and *now* he had to have a bodyguard? He couldn't even remember the last time he'd had someone to turn his back on, much less trust them to guard it. Certainly not both at once. Had *anything* brought him true safety since his first death? Honestly?

//Just this,// he admitted silently. //Just this.//

"So," Mac began at last, "if you sent out this 'call...' "

"That's if I still *can*," Methos reminded quickly. "I'm 5000 years out of practice, Mac..."

"Well, whether it works or not, we'll need a place to trap it," Mac pointed out reasonably.

"Yeah, and does it have to be Holy Ground?" Joe put in curiously.

"There's always the basement of Darius' church," Mac mused aloud, but Methos shook his head.

"I don't really know-- the temple chamber was convenient. I was already in the priesthood, and it seemed safest to cover all our bases. And besides, the place was dedicated to Anpu and Ap-uat, my hypothetical patrons. Two birds, one stone, game point," he shrugged. "For all I know, having another rousing battle on top of the Eiffel Tower would be just as effective..." he added, unable to resist the urge to poke at MacLeod every now and then. The man was just so damned much fun to watch when he squirmed...

"*Funny*, Methos," Mac grumbled, nudging Methos' calf with the toe of his boot.

"What about Kalas' hideout?" Joe glanced from one man to the other with a carefully neutral expression. "It's underground, one entrance, thick walls... And I know the place is empty-- the Watchers, ah, took it over..."

"A little bit of history for your collection there, Joe?" Methos commented dryly, hiding a smirk as Joe grimaced.

"It's just a really convenient spot," Joe defended with a growl. "They haven't decided whether it'd make a better safehouse or archive yet, or it'd be in use..."

"We can at least take a look," Mac agreed, sounding optimistic. "If the place can be set up as a trap, then it'll be perfect..."

"I've probably got most of what you'd need for that in storage," Methos admitted wryly with a smile. Mac looked rather less than surprised. "But if we're going to go by the place, we'd better do it today. If the pattern holds, we've only got a few days to prepare before it goes on the move again, and we need to be ready for it."

"Is there anything I can tell my people to look for?" Joe asked quietly, a fine tremor of tension underscoring his words. Even now, Dawson's conscience rested uneasily where it touched on his Watcher Oath. Methos had always been of the opinion that an oath once broken should simply be abandoned, but he knew better than to offer that observation to Dawson. And it cost him nothing to respect the other man's code, however fragile it might be.

"Yes," he said simply, his tone friendly and casual. //Mention Mulder and Scully now, and you'd better get used to drinking watered beer, Old Man...// "They're all redheads, tall, with dark eyes and pale skin. And they used to be nocturnal, too, but I don't know how much of that was by preference and how much by nature. If anyone like that approaches one of your people's Immortals, or if their Immortal suddenly seems to get edgy, maybe like he has a headache but isn't worried about a challenge, then have them call it in. Just tell them to keep as far away from the thing as possible, Joe. It'll kill them for sport, and it won't be quick or clean. And don't get too close; by the time it attacks, it's too late."

"Gotcha," Joe nodded gravely, stern determination darkening his eyes. "I'll pass the warning on," he added, and Methos felt a part of him relax he hadn't been aware of until then. Partially, it was that old habits died hard; he'd spent years thinking himself almost a part of the Watchers... they weren't family, no, but they were somehow *his*, and he couldn't help feeling a bit proprietary where they were concerned. And partially, it was a relief to see Joe taking his ravings so seriously. Dawson really *did* believe him. And a look like that meant the man would stand by him, come hell or high water. "You guys going to head down to Kalas' place right now?"

"The sooner the better," Mac nodded, sitting forward and bracing his elbows on his knees, glancing expectantly at Methos.

Who nodded as well, with a smile. "And I think somebody owes me lunch. Want to come, Joe?"

"Lunch!" Mac protested automatically, though Methos could tell his heart wasn't in it. "I just made you breakfast!"

"Yes, and it was delicious. Joe?"

Dawson was giving them a *look* again, a variation on the usual theme. Resignation at enduring their banter, relief that they were relaxed enough to be at it again, a prickle of devilish amusement urging him to join in and up the ante. And the slightest hint of reluctant curiosity, half-ashamed of wondering whether their present camaraderie had anything to do with Mac's uncharacteristic behavior the night before, in this very office. Leaving together, returning together, breakfast in the middle... and Methos being just as uncharacteristically open. //Don't I wish, Dawson,// he sighed to himself, glancing back at Mac and quickly away. //Don't I bloody wish.//

"I think I'll pass this time," Joe said with a slight smile, questions congregating behind his eyes. "I'm going to have enough to do finding ways to explain this to the Watchers and getting folks organized..."

"You could tell them one of Mac's friends from Egypt called," Methos shrugged with a grin that widened when Joe snorted, rolling his eyes. "Or, better yet," he smirked, taking pity on the man, "you could tell them you asked your good friend Adam Pierson, who just happened to remember a mention of something similar in an old journal he'd come across..."

Joe's grimace turned considering, but Mac straightened with a frown. "Are you sure you want to bring yourself to their attention like that? And what if they ask for proof, or more information?"

"I'm going to have to deal with them eventually," Methos sighed, "and I'd just as soon be in their good graces again before it comes to it. Saying they're not going to be happy is something of an understatement..."

"I could always claim I knew you were a pre-Immortal," Mac offered slowly, testing out the idea as he spoke.

"Now that's not a bad idea," Joe jumped in with a wicked grin. "Maybe he could start teaching you how to fight..."

"Ha, ha," Methos scowled, glaring at the Watcher through narrowed eyes. Mac teaching him how to fight. What a joke...

"Well, it'd give you the perfect excuse for hanging around Immortals so much," Duncan reminded, lips twitching suspiciously.

"And Mac *is* known for taking you kids under his wing-- he could claim he's been keeping tabs on you since Kalas, waiting to step in and take you on as a student..."

"After carefully winning your trust like the manipulative devil I am," Mac added dryly, his mouth hardening for only a heartbeat before his smile gentled once more.

"Are you two finished deciding my fate?" Methos demanded, bristling as his annoyance got the better of him.

Mac and Joe looked at each other silently for a long moment, serious communication passing through their eyes. Biting thoughtfully at his lip, Joe asked, "Car crash or jumping off a bridge?"

"Oh, bridge, definitely," Mac nodded decisively as Methos rolled his eyes, looking vainly heavenward for support. "He looks unbelievably pathetic when he's half-drowned-- maybe if they feel sorry enough for him, they won't ask too many questions..."

"The only way I'm jumping off another bloody bridge is if some maniac is coming after me with a sword," Methos growled warningly, "and don't you get any ideas!"

When the other two burst out laughing, Methos felt a sudden, stabbing sense of dislocation, utterly familiar-- of being on the outside, being laughed *at*. It tasted like panic, bitter defenselessness-- and then it was gone, and nothing could have stopped the chuckle that rumbled up from his chest, grudging and hesitant and in perfect accord. When he shook his head with a tolerant sigh, it only set the pair off again, and Methos joined them with an ease that could still surprise him. Rare finds, these friends, all too priceless...

"Are you sure you don't want to come with us?" Methos asked to distract himself, giving Joe a wry grin. "Think of the matchless wit you'll be missing out on..."

"Nah," Joe chuckled, wiping at his eyes. "I'd love to, but I've got too much to do here-- and Headquarters will probably want me to stop by and explain things in person, just you wait. Thanks anyway-- you'll call me if you decide you want to use the place?"

"Sure thing, Joe," Mac answered again for both of them. Sighing, Methos tried to work up enough outrage to break the Highlander of the habit before it could get one of them in trouble-- probably Methos. *No one* made his decisions for him, not anymore... but with Mac, it didn't feel like such an imposition, as if he'd been chained, or disarmed. It felt like he was a *part* of something, and the reflexive affront was blunted, soothed by Mac's unthinking acceptance. "And if you hear anything..."

"I'll let you know," Joe agreed, turning to Methos hopefully. "And if you *do* come up with anything I can show the Watchers as proof..."

Ah. Methos tried to contain a sudden grin. If Dawson repeated Methos' story to the Watchers, he'd look like a total lunatic... But having their eyes and ears might just mean the difference against this creature, after all; playing along would probably be a good idea. "Sure," he shrugged, rising from his chair. Mac copied him immediately, and Methos tried not to think of the gentleman's code. "Worse comes to worst, I can always add a notation to some manuscript I don't intend to keep, offer them a translation and all..."

"Convenient," Joe's mouth twitched in a slow smile, honest appreciation in his eyes at Methos' pragmatic solution.

"Glad to be of service," he shrugged, glancing over at Mac and receiving a nod in return, ready to go... "Keep in touch, Joe..."

"You too," Dawson smiled, rising at last to see them out.

Blinking in the afternoon sunlight, Methos realized with a start that more time had passed than he'd originally thought. It was nearly two already, most of the day fled. Soon enough, the sky would fade into twilight, into pure darkness, and then...

//But I'll be with the Highlander tonight,// he reminded himself firmly, shaking off the chill the thought of night had inspired. //I don't care if I do make a nuisance of myself, I'm not leaving him alone...//

"So, lunch?" Duncan asked, dragging him back to the present.

"Why, thank you Mac," Methos couldn't resist smiling, eyes slanting sideways to catch the man's indignant expression. "So nice of you to offer."

"Methos!"

"Give it up, Mac," he chuckled indulgently. "You know you love it."

He was prepared for a caustic reply, protestation or rebuttal, for their verbal sparring to continue as usual. What he wasn't prepared for was Duncan's smug, "Maybe," as if the Highlander knew something he didn't.

Tilting his head to the side, Methos regarded Mac's expression consideringly, cataloging an interesting spectrum of emotions on that distressingly frank face. Amusement tinged with nervousness, insincere innocence and earnest affection, apprehension without being off-balance... not *quite*.

Which was better than Methos was doing. Because if he didn't know better...

//It can't possibly be that simple,// Methos warned himself fiercely, throttling a host of frantic impulses, his desperation to *know* conflicting with his determination to do this *right*. Pinning Mac against the front door of Joe's bar was *not* an option. But if it was that simple... if Mac *did* want him... what was stopping the man? Was Mac still hung up on their genders, or was it something else, something more dangerous? Something for Methos to *fix*?

The feeling of Mac's frustration from earlier, wanting Methos to open up, to confide, to *trust*, washed over him in memory, and he found himself smiling again, relaxing all at once. The idea that hit him was totally insane, but it was the kind of gesture Mac could understand and appreciate, and it would tell Methos all he needed to know...

And if he knew MacLeod, it would pay off quickly, one way or the other.

He supposed he must have been silent too long, smile or no; Mac shifted uncertainly, an aborted move towards the Porsche and a half-embarrassed shrug. "Where would you like to go?" the Highlander asked quickly, and Methos' lips curled into a serene smile of pure wickedness.

"What about Maurice's?" he asked casually, watching Mac's belated uneasiness transform into quick relief. "But we have to stop by my apartment first."

"Sure," Mac agreed at once, thrusting his hands into his pockets in a gesture that reminded Methos startlingly of himself. "Did you forget something?"

"Mm-hmm," Methos nodded absently, lips twitching faintly. Time to toss the coin, see whether it would come down on friendly tolerance or anticipation... either way, it couldn't be said that he'd *lose*. He might simply have to wait a little longer before he earned his prize, that was all... "My laptop, for one. And I forgot to pack."

"Pack?" Mac blinked, tensing visibly with surprise and... hope?

//Bingo,// Methos grinned to himself, fighting to keep his voice and expression casual. //I have you now, Highlander...//

"Pack," he agreed simply. "I'm moving in."

And he turned on his heel, letting the other man catch up as he made his way to the car, the image of Mac's sudden grin branded on his thoughts.

Hope.

The Highlander wanted him after all.

Chapter Four

As he watched Methos pack, it was hard to keep the smile off his face and a crow of pure triumph trapped in his throat. Methos was moving in. All right, so Methos had probably meant it as a joke, thought he was being allowed to *impose*... But Methos would be *there*, where Duncan could watch his back and prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that the stubborn ancient didn't *have* to face anything alone. Not anymore.

And being there wasn't the same thing as having, and having wasn't the same as keeping, but...

'Maybe,' Duncan had said, the word slipping out before he could call it back, along with a smile a shade too pleased with itself for Methos to let it slide. Maybe. Maybe he *did* love it. Methos' head had come up, tilted just a little to the side, a strange expression of intent surprise flashing across his face.

He'd never been as embarrassed in his life as he'd been just then, trying not to fidget as Methos regarded him with motionless consideration. He'd messed up, moved too fast, spoken too soon, and he didn't know how he was going to take Methos' ridicule... or worse, his polite turn-down, apologies and regret and a swift retreat that would leave Duncan all alone...

Except. A twinge or an echo had thrummed between them, the way he'd felt Methos' hesitation in Joe's office when the other man had explained that long-ago ritual, the flame and the darkening sky. Then, he'd felt so clearly Methos' nervous anticipation of the worst, steeling himself for their reaction but wanting to talk, *needing* to. And Duncan had wanted so badly for Methos to trust him...

This time, it was as if he'd reached behind the mask and touched Methos' true self, touched doubt and hope and wistful longing... Then Methos had smiled, and suddenly, Duncan couldn't be sure how much of that odd connection was actually Methos and how much his own desire for the other man, that amused grin throwing him into hopeless confusion. If Methos wanted him... why didn't he *do* something?

But Methos had. 'I'm moving in,' and it was no imposition, it was an offer, a chance, a possibility, the giving up of barriers if Duncan could find the courage to pull them down. He wanted to, wanted to find out whether Methos' casual attitude in the car on the way here had been another mask, wanted to find out just how deep their connection ran. The more he concentrated on it, the clearer it resonated between them, and he couldn't help wondering why he hadn't felt it earlier, why he'd ever wanted to shut this man out and give up such a perfect opportunity to *understand* Methos...

Although now he just wanted to get the other man alone.

Letting his eyes follow Methos around the apartment, watching as clothes were tossed into a suitcase and a laptop packed away with infinitely more care, Duncan found himself admiring the effortless grace of the man, the pure beauty of that long, lean form. Methos was as comfortable as a cat in his body, and in the confident set of his shoulders, the subtle tilt of his chin, it showed. He wondered what Methos would do if Duncan wandered over there right now, whether they should talk first or whether it might be safer to simply act and leave the discussions for after he had Methos snared...

//Snares. Damn...//

He supposed it was a tribute to Methos' powers of distraction that he'd forgotten, even for a moment, the traps they meant to lay. Gods, ghosts and demons-- and was he wrong to feel impatient with all this, to be hounded by a pervasive resentment? How had his life become so complicated, not just by his fellow Immortals, but by the unseen-- why did everything seem to conspire to turn his world into a battlefield? Why *now*? He had only just gotten Methos' *friendship* back...

...and he flashed again on Methos' pale face at Joe's, the halting, dreamy words delivered in a half-trance, through empty eyes, with shaking hands. He had *felt* it, remembered agony and desperation that teetered on the edge of despair, the darkness of memory creeping sluggishly into the light. And they were recollections perhaps best forgotten, of a creature best left alone. Except that it was coming, and not for Duncan MacLeod.

Methos had it all wrong. This thing, this nightmare... it might try for Duncan if he was convenient, but Methos was its target. Duncan *knew* that, as sure as he knew that Methos would refuse to see it, would be loosening his sword to meet a threat to the wrong man. And that scared Duncan. That scared him a lot.

From the moment the ghost of the old priest had appeared, it was as if a switch had been thrown on Methos' sharply-honed survival instincts. There had been no arguments that it wasn't their *problem*, not a single mention of warmer climes, unless it was Duncan meant to be on that plane. He'd spent years trying to badger Methos into admitting his own nobility, to tie him down to a code of honor Duncan could understand. Why then did this silent shouldering of responsibility disturb him so profoundly? Maybe he *was* guilty of wanting to change Methos... but what if those changes destroyed the man? What if this was the one time Methos would stay when he should run? There would be no one to blame but Duncan MacLeod.

"Would it help if I promise to keep my boots off the counter?" Methos smiled faintly, hovering just out of reach with his arms crossed in casual expectation.

"What?" Blinking, Duncan focused on the other man, whose quiet approach had gone unnoticed until he spoke.

"You're brooding again," Methos snorted gently. "You know, someone once told me that the gods send hardship to be overcome, not cherished," he added, grinning with some private amusement.

"I don't think you quite qualify as hardship," Duncan replied without thinking, and only realized how his words might be taken when Methos' smile deepened, lashes dipping over a bright, measuring gaze.

"Then I must be losing my touch," was all Methos said, and Duncan found himself both relieved and disappointed by the oblique answer. He wanted this, wanted *them*... but maybe this wasn't the time or the place. Not with such a deadly threat hanging over them. Not when Methos seemed more than willing to become 5000 year-old cannon fodder. All Duncan had to do was recall Methos' blind stare as his friend rose to challenge a ghost, and the memory of his own lost confusion and regret three months ago came rushing back, Liam O'Rourke's mocking sneer reminding him of the taste of despair. Surely Methos of all people wouldn't just give up...? Not when he'd seen so much, had so much left to see...

"Is anything wrong?" Methos frowned slightly, a sudden spark of intensity transforming his casual slouch to instant wariness.

"No," Duncan was quick to reassure the other man, finding a distracted smile. "Just thinking about this mess. And I don't care much for the idea of you playing bait to this thing again," he added with a scowl, glaring seriously at Methos when the Old Man began to chuckle.

"Me neither," Methos drawled pleasantly, lips twitching. "But do you have a better idea?"

"Not yet," Duncan snorted, "but give me time. We don't have to decide everything tonight-- I'm sure we can find another way to trap it, Methos..." Searching the other man's face, Duncan asked, "Are you sure this is something you want to do?"

He almost couldn't believe he'd posed the question. Methos was equally surprised; Duncan could tell by the tilt of those expressive brows, the way Methos tipped his head back to stare at Duncan down the bridge of his nose. Duncan had ordered Methos to stay out of his fights in the past, but he was usually trying to drag the Old Man *into* situations like this, not offering him ways out of one.

Something changed in Methos' face, dulling the bright glitter of consideration, and his voice when he answered was quiet and resigned. "You seem to be laboring under the impression that I have a choice," he sighed with a shrug. "If there's one thing I've learned, it's when *not* to fight. I think they've made it rather clear that they won't take no for an answer this time."

"The jackals?" Duncan frowned slowly, and from outside himself, he felt a teasing brush of suffocating apprehension, though Methos' nod was perfectly calm. Yet if he added together Methos' mercurial shifts of mood, the occasional start of surprise Duncan had caught, some of the things Methos *hadn't* explained... "Have you seen them *recently*?"

Methos' second nod came grudgingly, with a shrug and a quick, "Either that, or I'm going insane..."

"Methos, I told you, I *believe* you--"

"Maybe I'd rather *not* believe me, if it's all the same to you," Methos snapped harshly, spine stiffening with a jerk as he glared at Duncan, a challenge glittering in his eyes.

Biting back the quick response Methos had to be goading him to, Duncan tried to understand Methos' defensiveness, his need to disbelieve in the evidence of his own senses. Duncan would have expected Methos to be insufferably smug in these circumstances, gloating at having attracted the obvious attention of gods. Perhaps it was these gods in particular that unsettled the other man... the guardians of the gates to the Underworld. Gods of...

Death. As if Methos had been born to play that role, could never get away from it... was that what he feared? Yet at the same time, everything seemed to point to something traumatic, perhaps to Methos' first death, to pain unimaginable repressed for millennia. Taking a deep breath, Methos unfolded his arms and ran a tense hand through his hair, the other stuffed immediately into his pocket. The worn gleam of contrition in Methos' changing eyes made Duncan ache, his own swift anger forgotten. "What happened?" he asked quietly, and though Methos' shoulders slumped, the other man answered with a shrug.

"They were here when I woke up last night," Methos admitted reluctantly, head bowed as he bit his lip, staring down at his boots. The shiver that ran up Methos' rigid spine was quickly stilled, hidden by a shrug more forceful than the last. "I don't know what they wanted-- they just... they told me to 'guard...' "

"And you came to me..." Duncan held his breath as Methos glanced up, his hesitant expression distinctly uncomfortable. "Why?" he asked when Methos remained silent, schooling the wistful expression from his face.

"You're too important to lose," Methos replied after a moment, a strange, small smile ghosting his lips. Duncan wanted to push, wanted to challenge that glib response and drag something meaningful out of Methos, something he could hold onto with both hands as *real*...

Shaking his head absently, Methos turned quickly away, pulling books off the shelves above his desk and stuffing them into a new black duffel. "Remind me to dig out something for Joe to hand the Watchers, would you?" Methos called over his shoulder, stacking his journals with such swift care, Duncan could imagine him perfecting the move over centuries, becoming the master of the quick, clean getaway. Talking was obviously the last thing on Methos' mind. Maybe a touch would be better received? A kiss?

//A distraction,// he chided himself firmly, trying to force his mind to return to the deadly game of cat and mouse they intended to play. Starting with the Watchers' involvement. He didn't *have* to like it; the Watchers had been neck deep in this from the night Cooper had taped his Immortal's death, even before Methos had gone to Joe with his half-embarrassed questions. If they couldn't be kept out of Immortal business, then maybe they should be conscripted into service after all.

Laughing silently at himself, Duncan shook his head. //I'm starting to sound like Methos,// he mused, but it wasn't anywhere near as frightening a thought as it should have been. Methos would certainly approve... "What do you have in mind?" he asked Methos' back, remembering the other man's words to Joe, the possibility of forging a document for Dawson's benefit.

"I collect old manuscripts," Methos shrugged unconcernedly. "A note added here and there..."

Duncan stared at Methos, shocked and amazed. Methos, deface a book...? "But... but that's... that's a part of *history*, Methos," Duncan shook his head, well aware he was glowering with disapproval again.

"History changes all the time, MacLeod," Methos snorted, waving Duncan's objections aside. "It's not like I'm even really *changing* it-- think of it as adding to its scope. Besides, I wrote it. I can change it if I want to."

"One of your journals?" Duncan asked, mollified but incredulous. Would Methos really give up one of his journals for this? For Joe?

"No, just a history I wrote for a patron. He'd appreciate my finding a use for it after all this time," Methos shook his head, a fond smile smoothing out the lines of tension on his lean face.

Curious, Duncan tilted his head to the side, regarding Methos intently. "Who was it?" he asked, ruthlessly crushing a prickle of discomfort as he wondered who had caused Methos to smile like that.

"Alexander."

"The Great?" Duncan demanded, eyes wide. Was Methos having him on again?

"The Extremely Impressive, anyway," Methos grinned irreverently, slinging the duffel of books over his shoulder and grabbing the suitcase. "So, Maurice's?"

Maurice's. Methos was talking about lunch, he realized... and Methos had done it again, left him torn between being honestly impressed and completely suspicious, wondering all the while whether Methos' casual attitude towards the legendary figures he might or might not have known was all an act as well. It certainly fit in with his 'just a guy' persona, at least... if it was a persona...

"Sure," Duncan sighed, shaking his head as he got the door for the other man, locking it behind them. Methos' mood swings were going to be the death of him yet. Things had been so relaxed between them when they'd first arrived... He'd honestly expected to finally have it out with Methos about how the other man felt, what was happening between them, where Methos wanted to go with it. Duncan himself had no doubts on that score, which was a minor miracle in and of itself. He and Methos disagreed on so many things-- and yet Methos always managed to steer their conversations to friendly topics again before Duncan could get his footing and argue back with a will.

Climbing behind the wheel as Methos threw his things in the trunk, Duncan frowned up at the rear-view mirror, turning the memories of their spars, verbal and physical, over in his head. Methos' biting wit was renowned, but most of their arguments followed an easily-charted course when he thought about it. Methos set out his views as succinctly as possible when directly confronted, but he always changed the subject again as quickly as he could, consciously keeping things light.

But maybe that wasn't it at all. Keeping things *light*... The way Methos deflected the conversations back to innocuous themes might have less to do with maintaining a superficial relationship and more to do with simple tactics. Duncan had realized long since that those lightning topic shifts gave him no time to respond as he might have liked... but, unable to leap automatically to the defense of his views, he found himself going back later and turning their conversations over and over in his head, *thinking* about Methos' points rather than automatically digging in his heels.

Most of the time, there was no clear-cut answer, no Right or Wrong-- only personal beliefs. Perhaps Methos simply wanted him to examine those convictions more often, tossing out different possibilities and letting Duncan decide for himself. //And he says he's not a teacher,// Duncan snorted as Methos slid into the passenger seat.

That still didn't explain Methos' performance just now, retreating each time Duncan approached the confusion that was their relationship, shying away from his past and ignoring the reappearance of the jackal gods with a stubborn willfulness. Duncan was tempted to think Methos just didn't trust him... but maybe, in this case, Methos was only moving to protect himself from something he didn't want to think about, had never wanted to recall in the first place.

"Methos..." he began, turning to face the other man with a frown.

"Careful, Duncan," Methos shook his head, slumping casually into the seat with his knee braced against the dash. "You're going to owe me breakfast again at this rate."

"Breakfast?" Duncan blinked, groaning silently when he realized Methos had done it *again*...

"You and your talks," Methos sniffed, an amused smile playing at the corners of his mouth. And there it was again... that *look*, and Duncan *knew* he wasn't imagining the veiled invitation in those wicked eyes. Methos wanted it too, wanted this, wanted *them*, but there was something holding him back, a caution he couldn't seem to voice aloud. Maybe it was the situation they found themselves in, or maybe it was the old confession Methos had made, that commitment to an Immortal was just too permanent, too frightening. Wherever the truth lay, if Duncan wanted this, he'd have to play by Methos' rules.

Something told him it would be worth it.

"Is that why I owe you lunch?" he asked instead, smiling fondly to show he understood. Methos' lips quirked for a moment before he ducked his head, shaking it a little as he glanced up at Duncan again.

"No, lunch is for making me dredge up my sordid past while unfairly tempting a Watcher," Methos explained with a smirk, one brow arching in mock reproof. "I'd consider it a fair trade, wouldn't you?"

"So, all I have to do to get you to talk is feed you?" Duncan snorted, warming to the topic despite himself.

"No." Methos' grin widened, eyes slitting lazily. "But it's a start."

Damn, the man looked good like that, welcoming and sly at once, like a cat sprawled on its back with its belly left open and unguarded. Maybe it wanted you to stroke it and maybe it would bite-- but not *too* hard, not enough to discourage the game. Not just yet. "Ah," he chuckled tolerantly, lips twitching. "Methos?"

"Yes?"

"What are you doing for dinner tonight?"

If Methos' grin got any wider, he was in danger of disappearing behind it, the world's first Cheshire Immortal. "Whatever you want, I suppose," Methos admitted with a shrug, sinking comfortably down into his seat until his spine was curved as impossibly as his smile.

"Good," Duncan grinned back-- and he couldn't help it, he just *had* to reach out, wanted to stroke the lean strength of Methos' stomach, so invitingly bared, whether it got him clawed or not. He settled for poking Methos in the side, innocuous touch, and ducked when Methos yelped and punched out at Duncan's shoulder with a disgruntled snarl.

Methos settled almost instantly, blowing an imaginary wisp of hair from his face with a huff, eyes dancing. Watching Methos return to almost exactly the same position, a little more wary but just as blatant a dare as before, Duncan had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from laughing out loud. Methos had probably *invented* that little game and spread it to felines everywhere out of sheer perversity.

Not that it would keep Duncan from trying again. And again.

And again.

//Like over dinner, maybe,// he decided with a satisfied grin. There was more than one way to strip a cat...

And the curiosity had to be killing them both by now.

"Right through here," Methos grinned, jerking his head towards an old wooden door secured by a simple hook latch. Mac flashed him another smug grin as he followed, but Methos let it slide, rather too content himself to feel like needling the Highlander. Lunch had run on for longer than either of them had expected, and though they'd kept things light, they'd talked for hours over an endless stream of good wine and great coffee. It had been far too long since they'd done that, sat down to an impromptu bull session, and yet this time, it had felt... different. More meaningful, somehow, though their topics were as ordinary as ever-- the optimism of the Pre-Raphaelites and whether jazz could ever be superior to blues. Ordinary. Safe.

//I could take his hand and lead him,// floated quietly through his mind, //and he'd let me.// The image evoked was so serene: his own large hand wrapped in the other man's, strength to strength, like a pledge. He had known it for certain in the car, when that playful poke in the ribs had taken him not-quite by surprise: Duncan MacLeod was his for the taking.

Why, then, did that thought shiver his contentment with panic, leave him peering nervously into shadows? It wasn't Mac, he knew, and it wasn't even the Game, though that was something he'd have to deal with eventually. It was the timing more than anything... the memory of ancient eyes upon him, promising no happy endings, no safety at all. It would be just like Fate to hand him the ultimate happiness and snatch it away in a rain of blood.

With thoughts like that for company, it had been all too easy to retreat into a frank discussion of Billie Holliday and overdressed women in oarless boats. Maurice, kind soul, had kept the wine coming, bravely adding Charlie Parker to the mix with a half-embarrassed grin. Methos could see why Mac liked the restaurateur so much.

By the time they'd left Maurice's, most of the short spring afternoon had passed them by. It hadn't left them a lot of time to explore Kalas' old hideout, but Methos couldn't bring himself to care. He already knew what he expected to find here, after all. Flipping on the lights, Methos took two steps down the rickety wooden staircase and paused, tilting his head with a satisfied smile. "I knew this was going to come in handy," he mused aloud, preceding Mac down the dusty stairs.

The stone-walled cellar was achingly cold, their breath wisping around their heads in frozen halos as their footsteps echoed in the musty air. Jamming his hands in his pockets, Methos ambled toward the center of the room, glancing up at the arched ceiling with a bemused frown. Something about this place...

"You've been here before, then?" Mac asked behind him, and he shrugged once without turning.

"After you took Kalas out and the Watchers found the disk... I came back just before I left town and went over the place with a fine-toothed comb. Just in case he'd left any nasty surprises. Even then, I thought this place might be useful someday..."

There weren't many places to hide. That little wooden cupboard of a closet against the wall, the one where a Watcher had died. A door at the far end, old dark wood heavy with years of moisture, pulpy with rot. The eccentric architecture provided a few alcoves, a collection of sturdy stone columns to duck behind, while still being open enough to fight in. *Too* open. The voice of experience told him to write the place off, find somewhere better to build a trap-- but his instincts whispered for him to stay.

There should be a flicker of torchlight, he decided, narrowing his eyes until the harsh, glaring bulbs hanging overhead shattered into diffuse brilliance. The chill should mask the memory of heat, shadows gathering around a smooth, polished altar and the flanking presence of two hulking gods, their gilt eyes promising--

"No cover," Mac noted at his shoulder, and Methos glanced over with a start. "It'd be hard to spring a trap here."

"Mm..." Methos hummed noncommittally, hunching one shoulder.

Frowning, Mac's dark eyes bored into his, searching patiently for answers. "It reminds you of the temple, doesn't it?" Mac asked at last, and Methos blinked in surprise.

"Yes... in a way, it does," he admitted slowly. "I just... I have this *feeling*... Like they're close. Very close. It's as if I could turn and they'd be there, larger than life. Don't you feel that?" The weight of the jackals' unseen eyes seemed to press down upon him, and he thought if he just gave in, opened his heart and *reached*...

"Yes," Mac scowled, shifting uncomfortably. "It feels..."

//But the jackals didn't show up until *after*...//

"...it feels a lot like Ahriman," Mac shuddered convulsively, and as Methos felt the first lick of the approaching storm, the room was plunged into darkness.

"*Duncan*!" Methos heard himself shout, whipping about to face the stairs and tearing his hands from his pockets to grope blindly after weaponry. Not his sword this time. His gun. God, it was here, they were trapped, trapped in darkness and blind, and--

"Still-Heart," a gruff voice crooned from the darkened doorway, a furred whiskey-rasp almost pleasant but for the inescapable undercurrent of menace. Lighter-pitched than he expected. He could *feel* Mac on his right as he raised the .45, aiming for the source of that hated, long-forgotten name. One shot could silence that voice forever if it gave him the time to strike...

There was an ominous flicker of red in the darkness by the door, and he aimed for it without hesitation. Before he could pull the trigger, a livid, bloody snake of lightning flashed across the room, a bare instant before his right shoulder exploded in fire. The force of it spun him around as his arm went nerveless, the clatter of his own gun against the floor an grim counterpoint to his choked cry. "Methos!" Mac yelled above him as he went down, jarring his mangled shoulder. Fuck, what the hell *was* that...? There was a crawling over his skin like the blind twisting of worms, and he clawed at his wet, cringing flesh with a hiss, willing the burn and the revulsion away.

"I can still taste your blood, Still-Heart," the thing purred with relish above them, and as the shuddering prickle of crimson lightning faded, Methos groped more cautiously for his flashlight. The ringing scrape of a sword being drawn distracted him from the pain, but it was only Mac, standing guard. "I can still taste your flesh. All this time, I thought you were dead..."

Left-handed, he clicked the flashlight on with bloody fingers, playing the inadequate circle of light desperately over the shadows. As he searched for the source of his nightmares, he ignored the blade-ready Highlander looming protectively over him. "I've *hungered* for you, Still-Heart," the voice dropped malevolently, and into his jerky beam stepped something he'd thought long dead and buried.

The last child of Set was female, with huge, dark doe-eyes that could rival Duncan's and a collection of bird skulls knotted into her long red hair. Without those silent trophies, she would have looked like any other Parisian, standing mockingly confident in the armor of a leather jacket, one booted foot braced a step above the other. Sneering casually as she looked them over, her eyes rested with arrogant avarice on Mac before gravitating intently back to Methos. "Pretty," she chuckled, raising the hairs on the back of Methos' neck. "Will he share your judgment, Still-Heart?"

"*You don't judge me*," Methos spat, quivering with rage, pushing away the sickness uncurling in his gut. "We put you bastards down--"

"I survived," she smiled sweetly. "I returned to the fold. Bowed to the will of the gods and became their tool again. You witnessed it, Still-Heart. And look at you now," she growled through her grin, lip curling disdainfully. "The beloved of the gods has such red, red hands..."

His breath came more quickly as Mac shifted beside him. //Don't believe her, *please gods*, don't believe her...// If even Mac abandoned him now... But Mac brought his sword up a fraction more, edging closer to Methos as if to block a charge with his own body. Trusting, with a bulldog tenacity that drove a piercing ache through Methos' heart. "What about yours?" he demanded shortly, shoving the relief aside to be savored later.

"Ah," she purred, a scrap of tongue darting over carmine lips. "But how innocent is the vintage?"

With a start, he realized her eyes had rested on the flickering snap of his healing shoulder, avidly drinking in the stuttering sparks of his Quickening. "As innocent as mine," he snarled, steeling his voice, "and twice as blessed."

"Then the curse of your blood should unhallow me for good," she laughed, voice ringing in the darkness of the cellar.

//She's not right...she's *not* right,// he swore silently, desperate for someone somewhere to agree with him, for *proof*, but the gods seemed so distant now, as distant as they had been five thousand years ago when they had left him all alone to die--

"If that were true," he challenged coldly, "then why do the jackals still come to my call?"

The flicker of doubt in her eyes was its own blessing, but he didn't have time to pursue it. Lunging towards his gun, he brought it up swiftly, firing off two shots in rapid succession. Laughing again, the creature dodged easily, tripping lightly up the stairs with blinding speed as the beam of Methos' flashlight dipped and danced. "You won't keep me here that easily, Still-Heart," she called back at the door, a mocking lilt in her gruff tone. "I'm going to take everything from you. Those who guard-- and those who watch."

They heard the door bang shut above them, the skull-throbbing sensation of a building storm ebbing to nothing. Methos took a deep breath, rising shakily to his feet--

"Joe," Mac flinched suddenly. Methos jumped beside him, just before Mac took off up the stairs, sword in hand.

"Mac!" Methos yelped, cursing as he followed, half-sick with dread. Willful idiot *child*! Tearing up the stairs, the door caught him a glancing blow on his healed shoulder as it swung slowly back toward him, ricocheting off the wall Mac had slammed it against on his way out. If that damned Scot ran headfirst into danger this time...

There was no one on the ground level, no one outside as he homed in on Mac's buzz. Only Mac himself, staring wildly about on the sidewalk, sword thankfully tucked away. "Can you sense her?" Mac demanded, whirling to face Methos. "How the hell can she know about Joe?"

"Get in the car, MacLeod," Methos growled shortly, straightening his coat with hands that trembled minutely. The first faint smears of rose were bleeding across the sky as the sun sank below the glittering skyline, shadows lengthening all around them. Shivering, he thrust the remembered terror of nighttime firmly away, refusing to listen for that first roaring scream to split the grey air. "She must have been stalking us-- she's probably been in Paris since that first dream I had. And no. I can't feel her at all."

"Then where are we going?" Mac demanded. "Back to the bar?"

"Anywhere but," Methos muttered, stalking towards the Porsche. He felt terribly exposed in his blood-soaked coat, shocky and out of sorts. He wanted to lash out at the world, rip something apart with his bare hands, then hide under a very dark rock for a decade or two. "First we call Joe. If she *doesn't* know about him, we'd be leading her straight to him. And it's getting dark."

"So?" Mac frowned, yanking open his door.

"We *don't* want to chase her in the dark," Methos said, injecting such finality into his voice, Mac paused irresolutely, his face an agony of indecision. "Come on," Methos shook his head, opening the passenger door as he dug out his cell phone. "Head for the barge for now. I'll see where Joe is."

He was a little surprised when Mac obeyed him without further question, though that was just what he'd demanded the other man promise that very morning. The Highlander's jaw was clenched so tightly it had to hurt, his knuckles white on the wheel, but he started up the Porsche in silence, eyes dark with worry as Methos dialed Joe's number.

Methos only heard three rings before it was picked up, Joe's irritated, "Yeah?" a welcome relief.

"Joe, it's me," he began quickly, taking a deep breath as he closed his eyes, sinking down into the seat. "Where are you?"

"Adam? What's up?" He could hear Joe's frown clearly over the phone, and he didn't need the mutter and cough of other voices in the background to know Joe had company. He could write a book on Dawson's elaborate Adam/Methos code.

"Are you at headquarters?" he asked sharply, realizing the lion's share of this conversation was going to rest on his shoulders.

"Yeah, so talk fast."

"Do *not* leave there alone," Methos ordered, intensity hardening his voice more than he would have liked. "In fact, go to a safehouse tonight. Do *not* go near the bar for any reason. Don't go home, and don't go to the barge. That thing's in Paris already-- it's been stalking us, and I've been to the bar *four times* in the last two days--"

"You've *seen* it?" Joe demanded incredulously, shouting in Methos' ear.

"No, it sent me a telegram!" he snapped. "Look, she's been tossing around threats, and there's no way she won't come after you--"

"She?" Dawson interrupted again, and Methos nodded reflexively.

"Yes. It's a female--but don't underestimate her, Joe. You've seen what she can do. And don't go anywhere without an armed guard. We're going to be hunting her, but we don't have enough daylight left today, and we need to play it safe. No heroics, all right? We've got it covered."

"Covered how? You're using that spot?"

"No," Methos sighed, rubbing the wet material of his coat absently between thumb and forefinger. "She found us there. I don't think we're going to be able to trap her-- we'll have to hunt her the old-fashioned way. But *not* on her terms. And not at night. If we go running off half-cocked, we'll be doing just what she wants."

"Yeah, all right, I get the picture," Joe grumbled, the 'is it me or Mac you're trying to convince?' plain in his voice. Methos smiled despite himself, though it quickly fled. "So, what's the plan?"

"Regroup," Methos replied shortly, glancing over at Mac to make sure the other man was listening too. "Get an early start in the morning. There's still things we haven't tried. And listen-- have your people keep a close watch on their Immortals tonight, but make sure they're careful. She knows about Watchers, Joe."

"And just where did she find *that* out?" Dawson growled, but there was no accusation in his voice, only concern.

"She's been around a long time, Joe-- it's not that unlikely for her to have noticed you people along the way. I did. On the other hand..." This was going to hurt, he just knew it, but it had to be said. By *him*, before someone else could accuse him of it later. Not that Joe would like it either way...

"What?"

"She might've found out because of me. I don't know how long she's been following me-- she might've found out I was one of you, decided I had enough ties in the organization to make threatening you worthwhile..." If it was really him she was after, and all those other deaths... //That's egotistical even for me,// he chided himself firmly. //She didn't kill a hundred men just to let me know she was coming. She's a killer, that's all. And I'm just another target.//

Which was all he *wanted* to be. If he was wrong, and he *was* the cause of all this... Bad enough he'd dropped Kronos in MacLeod's lap once. He didn't think anyone would forgive him for this one as well. Not even him.

Dawson's impatient snort came without hesitation, and Methos could *hear* him rolling his eyes. "Then I'd get a refund on that early-warning system of yours, pal. And that still doesn't explain how she's supposed to know *I'm* a--"

"Your tattoo, Joe," Methos interjected quickly, a cold shock of relief eddying through him. He still couldn't believe they were standing behind him in this. He'd expected to pay for this solidarity in blood, but this time it came freely offered and it left him staggered at every turn. "You're not exactly careful about hiding it. She may even think you're *my* Watcher."

"Lucky me," Joe muttered, without much heat. "Look, can you give me a description of her?"

"Tall-- probably as tall as I am," he began, grimacing when he recognized the surprise he'd felt so many centuries ago, when he and Ahmose had been giants. "Dark eyes, long red hair-- when we saw her, she had bird skulls tied up in it," he added with a growl.

"Why bird skulls?" Joe asked reasonably.

"Ah...the ancient Egyptians believed a man's soul looked like a little bird with your own head on it. I assume she's bragging."

"Lovely."

"At least she wasn't covered in blood this time," Methos snorted, shrugging off the uneasiness that plagued him with a joke. "Her fashion sense just keeps getting better. Look, she *has* changed with the times, Joe. She's probably had to. She doesn't have the pack behind her anymore, and it's made her learn stealth. Tell your people not to take any chances, because they won't do it twice."

"I'll pass that along," Dawson replied gruffly, voice tight with concern. "Where will you be?"

"At the barge," Methos answered immediately. "I'm not letting MacLeod out of my sight, I promise," he added with a faint grin.

"Yeah, well, you'd better not," Joe grumbled testily. "And I want to hear from you first thing in the morning. If you're going hunting for this thing--"

"We'll keep you posted, Joe," he agreed with a sigh, wiping his bloody fingers on his jeans. Mac's upholstery was going to be shot. "Just get to that safehouse. And remember the guard. I don't want her getting her hands on either of you, all right?"

"Yeah, love you too," Joe snorted, surprising a burst of honest laughter from Methos. "Watch your back, Adam."

Grinning fiercely, Methos heard the real sentiment behind the innocent phrase, wondering what the Watchers around Dawson would have to say if Joe had said what was *really* on the tip of his tongue. "Sure," he chuckled easily, "always. And Joe?"

"Yeah?"

"Watch your head," he smiled sweetly, just for the pleasure of being hung up on by Joe Dawson, Watcher extraordinaire.

"He's at Watcher headquarters?" Mac asked the minute he lowered the phone.

"Yes. And he'll be spending the night at a safehouse," Methos shrugged, refraining from mentioning that Mac had heard enough to figure both things out for himself. Mac didn't want facts, Methos knew; Mac wanted reassurance, and he was more than willing to give it.

Mac's answering frown was troubled, and the Scot shook his head, bewildered.

"Safehouse? What do Watchers need a safehouse for?"

"Well...sometimes a field agent isn't as good in the field as he was in class. And some things are just unavoidable. When someone's Immortal catches on that he's being tailed-- or if the police find a Watcher at the scene of a crime, with or without a headless body-- they get him out as quick as they can. There are at least four different safehouses in Paris alone," he offered. "Joe'll be fine. They aren't all fools in that group-- and they know how to stay hidden. Not to mention, if he requests a guard to protect him from an Immortal... well, they won't be taking any chances."

"Wonderful," Mac scowled, but Methos could tell the man's heart wasn't in it. "And there's *nothing* we can do tonight."

"Not in the dark," Methos shook his head firmly. He wasn't entirely certain himself what the reason behind his passionate refusal stemmed from. Was he really that much a creature of superstition, shaped by the fears of a life he barely remembered? Or was it instinct, the same instinct that warned him *something* would happen in that cellar, the way he'd felt the jackals so close...

And he hadn't called on them. Hadn't even *tried*, not even when he'd thrown them in that creature's face as a bluff. A part of him stood aghast at his own thoughtless stupidity...

But what if they *didn't* answer? Maybe it wasn't his place to summon them, not after all he'd done. Maybe it was MacLeod that should send up that prayer, MacLeod the Champion, the true beloved of the gods. They had called him lost... told him to guard. And that, after 5000 years, was all.

"What about tomorrow?" Mac broke in on his despairing musings, and Methos lifted his head from contemplating his hands, red now in truth. Tomorrow...

"There's something I'll want to try," he said slowly, brows drawing down as he bit his lip. He was already more than half convinced it wouldn't work, but it couldn't hurt... "I'll know more afterwards." //I hope.//

"And this would be...?" Mac asked patiently, and Methos pulled himself out of his despondency with a shake. Mac was going to think he was losing it, and at this rate, the Scot would be right.

"At dawn tomorrow, I'll try and call fire again," he said simply, trying without much success to smooth the troubled frown from his face. "It's not exactly... safe. I mean, if it even works, I don't know what will happen-- and that's... It's what that thing feeds on. Fire. Power. I might draw her straight to me-- which might not be a bad thing," he admitted with a shrug. "And with the sun on the rise..."

"That makes her weaker?" Mac glanced over at him seriously.

"Maybe," Methos said slowly, scrabbling frustratedly at the barriers that still walled him off from his memories. "But I think... I think it also makes us stronger."

"Sa-Menthu," Mac hazarded uncertainty, but Methos shivered, scrubbing his arms at the mention of his old name. Couldn't he just be Methos now, and only Methos? Why did his past always have to dig itself up again and again, like a corpse that just wouldn't stay buried? "That thing," Mac said suddenly. "She called you 'Still-Heart.' What did that mean?"

Closing his eyes, Methos ducked his head again, fighting a stinging wave of nausea at the simple word. And it had started out such a gentle euphemism... "When the soul travels in the Underworld, it's called the Still-Heart. Because its heart has been stilled."

He could feel the terrified thunder of his heart against his ribs, beating life... But he had felt it seize, and stop, their dire threat coming true so many times-- making him the Still-Heart, the wandering soul, the dead man who never knew when to lie down. A hollowed-out carcass they had played with, like a cat with a dead, dry bird, living for his first pulse and his last. So lost...

"How do you feel about waffles?" Mac surprised him by asking, and Methos blinked warily over at the other man, shaking his head.

"Waffles?"

"For tomorrow morning," Mac explained in a reasonable tone Methos didn't buy for a moment. "It looks like I'm going to owe you breakfast after all-- because we've really got to talk."

Chapter Five

Handing Methos a beer as the other man sank gratefully into the couch, Duncan took a deep breath to settle his thoughts. Christ, Methos looked like hell. He was wearing one of his own sweaters now, a baggy, dark olive one that made his tired eyes shine golden, but Mac had seen the frighteningly wide stain of blood on the other before Methos had retreated into the bathroom to sluice off. Whatever the hell that thing had done to Methos, Duncan was just surprised the other man hadn't keeled over of blood loss on the spot. For a moment in the cellar, his retinas seared violet in the dark, he'd thought Methos had fallen for good...

//Get a grip, Highlander,// he warned himself firmly, and the voice of reason in his head sounded remarkably like Methos. They were fine. That thing, so frighteningly normal, so human, had just been playing with them. Taunting them with threats to Joe, throwing Methos' past in his face. The cold terror he'd felt in Methos then-- '*You don't judge me*'-- had shocked him to the core. That Methos could even *doubt* that...

And then he'd felt the relief when Joe hadn't blamed Methos for the threat to his precious Watchers, hadn't turned him away, and he'd understood.

It didn't matter that he'd accepted Methos for what he was, the good as well as the bad, because Methos himself had not. Even now, he expected Duncan to believe the worst of him, for his friends to wash their hands of him each time they were forced to remember his past. Methos had never asked for Kronos to hunt him down, had certainly never anticipated the return of the creature that stalked them now-- and yet he shouldered the blame wordlessly, waiting in stoic resignation to be punished for them.

//Someone once told me to judge the mettle of a man by his enemies,// he mused guiltily as he sat down beside Methos, watching the other man pour all his attention into the bottle in his hands. //At this rate, Methos should be a perfect saint.//

The absurdity of the thought snapped him out of his brood before it was well begun, and he couldn't quite stifle a chuckle. Surprised, Methos warily glanced up, frowning doubtfully. "What?" Methos shook his head.

"Just trying to picture you with a halo," Duncan shrugged amiably, earning him a pitying look that held a fading glitter of humor in its depths.

"I'm not even going to ask," Methos sighed, his expression tragic. "Well. Let's get this over with. What do you want to know?"

//Are you always this defensive?// popped instantly to mind, but he stifled it ruthlessly. The last thing he wanted to do was start a confrontation with Methos, no matter how much the other man seemed to want one. And 'defensive' seemed to sum Methos up nicely at the moment. "First things first," he began seriously, turning sideways and waiting for Methos to meet his eyes before continuing. "Whatever happens, I'm behind you, Methos. I need you to believe that--and if you can't believe my words, then *feel* it. I know you have me with you, in here," he smiled gently, touching Methos' heart as Methos had once touched his. "Just like I have you. That's not going to change, not if the devil himself comes looking for you."

Methos' chuckle was strained, and he dropped his eyes swiftly, hunching one shoulder. "If it's any consolation, I think this is the worst of it," he offered with false brightness, but froze when Duncan laid a gentle hand on his wrist.

"You're not listening," Duncan said softly. "It doesn't matter. If there's more, we'll deal with it when it happens. But we'll do it together."

With grinding slowness, Methos lifted his head, meeting Duncan's eyes as if steeling himself for combat. For a heart-stopping moment, Methos searched Duncan's face with a shuttered intensity, dark feline eyes glowing from within. Duncan couldn't feel Methos at all, nothing but a restrained blankness, like a man holding his breath as he listened for footsteps on the stairs.

And then Methos' hand covered his, a faint smile bringing the warmth back to that angular face. "All right," Methos nodded gently, giving Duncan's hand a brief squeeze, and Duncan's own relief came back to him doubled, Methos restored to his thoughts like feeling returning to a limb. "Together it is. But this... this isn't going to be a walk in the park..."

"I figured that out," Duncan chuckled, unapologetically cheerful, as if a huge weight had been taken off his chest. Reluctantly, he removed his hand when Methos let him go, his fingertips tingling faintly. "What *was* that red thing she hit you with? And what did she mean, you witnessed her return to the fold? Did any of that make sense to you?"

"Unfortunately... yes." Methos finished off his beer in a single gulp, setting the bottle aside, but when Duncan moved to fetch him another, Methos shook his head, motioning him back down. "No, I'm fine," Methos shrugged quickly, but he was frowning at his wrist where Duncan had touched him, as if already regretting the loss of contact. When Methos turned sideways to face Duncan, their knees bumped together, but Methos didn't pull away. "You have to understand, I didn't want to believe any of this..."

"I know," Duncan reassured him, resting his hand hesitantly on Methos' knee. "I told you, it's okay."

As if the contact had grounded him, Methos took a deep breath, shrugging once. "That thing with the lightning-- Ahmose knew how to do that, only his was white. But before you ask, it's not necessarily any kind of weapon against her. Like I said, she *feeds* off that sort of thing-- our power, our Quickenings... Hitting her like that would be like... like cutting off your own arm and feeding it to her," he shrugged again, subdued.

"I'd never... I didn't know we could *do* anything like that," Duncan admitted, awed by the possibilities.

"I know," Methos sighed quietly. "There just *aren't* any true adepts anymore, you see... everyone who could have taught these things is dead-- or they forgot they ever knew it," he added darkly with a self-deprecating smirk. "And I wasn't an adept anyway."

"What were you, then?" Duncan asked dutifully, though he had his doubts on that score.

"I... There's a difference between having a gift and being a conduit. I was... what she called me. Only I wasn't very good at it."

What she had called him. Beloved of the gods... But... not very good at it? "What makes you say that?" Duncan frowned, shaking his head. Something told him this wasn't the gnawing guilt of the Horsemen speaking, that whatever had led Methos to that broken existence had had its origins in a darkened temple, at the hands of monsters.

"I told you I called them to me," Methos began quietly. "Opened the Ways. But it wasn't... it wasn't that simple."

"Tell me," Duncan invited, watching Methos' gaze unfocus into the distance.

"Do you know... the worst thing is, if you didn't know what they were... they were almost beautiful..."

And as Methos' voice faded to a whisper, his horror swallowing them both, Duncan fell into the shadowed glass of Methos' eyes.

"Sing for us, Still-Heart," they crooned through hungry growls, and they were all around him, men with the smiles of beasts, beasts with the melting eyes of angels above a shark-toothed killer's grin. In the dim, dancing glow of the flames, the dark streaks that stained golden skin caught the light wetly, as if the blood still ran in never-ceasing rivulets over their flesh. From every side, he felt the sudden grasp of hard, possessive hands, a fist tightening at his throat, one in his hair, tugging his head painfully back as his clothing was stripped away--

Sharp as a blade, a clawed nail etched down his chest, and he tightened his jaw on the sharp sting of pain. "Still mortal," purred into his ear as his arms were jerked up behind him, curving his spine against the tearing in his shoulders. "So young... did they save you just for us, Still-Heart?"

The deliberate swipe of a questing tongue made him shiver, someone's mouth lapping the blood from his chest, but it was the hiss that followed that drove his panic beyond the bounds of reason. "Oh no. They saved this for themselves. *Taste*..."

He screamed as the first grinding bite tore through him, writhing against their merciless hands as they bore him to the floor. The cold stone at his back only magnified the hot kiss of agony, and he thrashed as desperately as a speared lion as they tore into him. Hands splaying through the rawness of his tortured flesh, they milked his shattering cries with callous greed, hungry for more. Dimly, he heard himself screaming for Ahmose, babbling a litany of gods until his voice cracked and bled-- and then he was silenced, a hard mouth covering his own as a hand wrapped around his throat, strangling his prayers. Fighting for air as his last breath was ripped from his lungs, he felt himself rushing towards a doorway he had almost forgotten, reaching with clumsy fingers for a gate that was just... out... of reach...

And fell short, tumbling headlong into--

Darkness. Open-eyed darkness in a frozen statue of unresponsive flesh, with the slow beat of a ponderous heart thundering in his ears like the throb of a far-off drum.

*Wake*, it said.

And his empty eyes closed.

And the world exploded in fire and pain.

Flailing in a daze, he felt the skitter and bite of lightnings over his skin, *true* lightnings, knitting him together in the face of agony. Just as Ahmose had been healed by his own divine fire. He'd grown into his Immortality at last, but it was a curse, not a blessing, shackling him to this wracked and whimpering form, enslaving him to his own torture. He'd never be free of them, never be *free* of them, even in death--

The purring growls of the children of Set wrested a terrified moan from him as they held him down, feeding off his fire as they had fed off his blood. The tug as they ripped the cool lightnings from him reached straight to his heart, wrapped icy fingers around his soul, and he understood then that they would take everything from him. He was the banquet, the sacrifice before the gods, delivered and devoured. Nakht sa-Menthu would never leave this room.

When the lightnings failed him, they stopped his blood again, and again they tore him open, glutting themselves in a never-ending cycle. He heard the screams as something thrust into the bleeding center of pain, as strange hands opened beneath the heaving arch of ribs, as every vein was traced with fire. But the screams were dying, and he was already dead. He no longer knew who he was, could no longer remember a time when he hadn't been here, spread out for their pleasure, stripped of everything but blood and broken flesh and pain. He had become nothing, the lost and wandering soul in shadow.

He was the Still-Heart.

Time lost its meaning. There was himself, the spilled and empty vessel, and there was the bright kiss of agony, the numb exhaustion of despair. There was himself, and there were the beasts. In the hollow wasteland behind his shattered chest, he felt the call of the gate at last, comfortingly close, sighing through his shattered bones like a caressing snatch of song. It sounded like memory, like dreamless sleep, like home. Blindly, he reached out with hands that had forgotten their purpose, forgotten everything but the *want* of this, and tore a hole in the veil of reality.

With a dull, booming stroke, the great heart beat again, shaking the floor beneath him. All around him, the pack looked up as one from their mindless feasting, stuttering growls dripping from muzzles painted with his life. Staring up into endless black, he saw the walls had fallen away, the waking world left far behind. They were in the belly of Aker, before the Lords of Amentet, in the presence of Osiris in the Underworld.

((**UNCLEAN**)) echoed in the air around them, the rattling last gasp of a parched throat underlying a clear, liquid tenor. Lifting his head slowly, the naked, nameless soul stared into the face of a god shrouded in funeral bandages, throned in a vast pavilion and attended by a grave, terrible company. There were two goddesses, one bright and pure as the moon, one dark as night, and dark-skinned twins with the heads of jackals, fierce Horus and his four sons. Aker's heart thundered again around them, and the hissing rasp of the Devourer of Souls shivered from the shadows at Osiris' back.

"Mired in the filth you cast off," someone snarled in the silent ring of the red pack, and they shifted around the Still-Heart, closing ranks. "You give us only hunger, Old Ones. *We will slake it*."

((**THIS IS NOT YOUR LAWFUL PREY**)) That was the jackals, speaking in tandem, and the dead man felt a burst of warmth rush through him, enough to raise him on his elbows with a distant smile. The jackals... he knew the jackals, knew the solemn weight of those bright amber eyes...

"You gave us leave to hunt by your silence," came the hissed reply, hackles raised in challenge.

((**WE GAVE YOU ROOM TO RECANT**)) The harsh scream of a hunting falcon as Horus raised his head, glaring balefully down at the pack.

A lean beast head thrust itself over the dead man's shoulder, satin-furred cheek smoothing against his in a parody of a caress. Even as he froze, the great russet head was melting, a man's sneering face snarling back at the gods, dark eyes glittering in a mask of blood. "We'd rather feed. How fresh is *your* meat, Old One?"

((**THEN JUDGMENT IS MADE**)) spoke Osiris with infinite sorrow, implacable finality.

And between one echoing heartbeat and the next, the sun came to the darkness of Amentet, shedding a killing radiance as he approached.

Bright Menthu stood in a blaze of light, hawk-headed, bearing a spear in one hand and a great curved blade in the other. Standing before the company of gods in the stately pavilion, he dwarfed them all, regarding the pack and the dead man like a falcon might consider a tangle of mice, savage eyes cold and measuring. Frozen, the Still-Heart stared up into the fiery core of godhead, pitifully aware of his own insignificance, of the irredeemable folly that he vaguely recalled had once named him the son of this being.

((**SO BE IT**)) Menthu nodded, his voice the thunder of mountains toppling, the boiling hiss of steam. Raising the huge spear, the god watched unmoved as the pack cowered and snapped their defiance, backing away and leaving the sprawled body of the Still-Heart alone in the no man's land between them. With a shattering crash, the butt of the spear came down on the icy, polished floor, shivering the walls, and the pack began to scream.

As clumsily as a newborn colt, the nameless soul rolled over, dragging his knees up to his chest and pushing himself away from the cold stone beneath him. When he lifted his head, crouched on all fours like a dog, he saw the red pack writhing in torment, clawing at themselves in a frenzy and ripping fur and flesh from bone. As he watched numbly, one seized and stilled, convulsing once and falling stiffly to the floor, dead.

"*Father*!" a voice scraped thin with agony wailed, a bloody beast muzzle at the edge of the pack thrown back in hopeless pleading. "Please!"

The clap of thunder as she was answered drowned out the monstrous heartbeat that marked off eternity in that lightless place, an immensity of shadow rising up behind the pack. Sooty-skinned and radiating a wet chill that shivered the cavern, Set stood the living antithesis of Menthu, the sun's hot glare falling into his darkness and lost.

((**NO**)) Set growled, meeting Menthu's harsh gaze with unflinching arrogance. The same subtle blend of delicacy and brutality that graced his children's forms was distilled in their maker, and the dead man found himself as drawn to the dark god as repulsed. ((**THIS ONE IS MINE**)) Set ignored the frenzied death throes of the rest of the pack as one lone female, smaller than the others, crawled jerkily to crouch at his feet.

((**THEY LACK RESPECT**)) Menthu objected as the others fell one by one.

((**THIS ONE REMEMBERS**)) Set dismissed his opposite's protest, and the ragged sounds of the last child of Set gasping new breath echoed around them. ((**SHE WILL RETURN TO HER PURPOSE**))

((**AND IF SHE STRAYS**))

Set's laughter shivered the Still-Heart's bones, the storm god's intense gaze fixing on him with almost affectionate mockery. ((**RAISE UP ANOTHER PLAYTHING**)) he crooned through a malevolent smile. ((**THIS ONE IS BROKEN**))

Menthu raised his spear again, gold eyes flashing ire, but Set faded away in a deafening peal of thunder, taking his last child with him.

Shaking, the lost soul staggered to his feet, hearing the padding tread of a god approaching at his back. It must be his turn to be judged. What if they found him wanting? He couldn't even remember the life he'd left except in fragmentary images, visions of pain and loneliness, hardening his heart as everyone around him died. Now that it was his turn...

Turning slowly, he lifted his head as his heavy, silent heart clenched tight inside him, staring up at the solemn eyes of a pair of immense jackals. ((**CHILD**)) they spoke together, and he shook his head, horrified though he didn't know why. He was no child of the gods. And he had failed. He was dead, but a nightmare still stalked the living world, to begin the terror again... ((**YOU WILL LIVE**))

The words made no sense. Live? Return to his failure, then... return to watch the world shatter around him, helpless to stop it. Again he shook his head, backing away as tears sprang to his eyes. Who *was* he? What atrocities had he committed to deserve this punishment? Why could he not have died for good if this was what lay before him? A shattered wreck: Set had said it, and he believed the father of chaos, could feel it in the empty spaces in his own mind.

((**YOU WILL HEAL**)) The voices of the jackals were melting soft, such sorrow in their velvet tones... As the tenuous membrane between the worlds rippled around him, he felt gentle hands on him, the cool, serene touch of the goddesses bringing a momentary peace, forgetfulness.

He woke on a cold stone floor, naked, ominous spatters of blood flung out all around him though his body was whole. Trembling, he rose shakily to his feet, reaching for the rags of a ceremonial robe with nerveless hands. He had no name for this place, no memory of coming here-- nothing but a soft-furred blankness and a disintegrating smear of dreams. It was as if he'd been born here, ripped bloody from this stone womb, though he *knew* that could not have been the case...

Something terrible had happened here. He could feel it in his bones, like the jerking pulse of his own heart--

//Dead,// he thought in a sudden rush of nausea, clutching his chest as his vision wavered. But who was dead? Had he killed someone? Had he been dead himself?

All he knew for certain was that he wanted to live... that he would do anything, *anything* to escape those dark halls again, the thunderous shudder of a vast creature's heart...

"No," he gasped, a mewling whimper that doubled him over in pain, and then he was staggering for the stairs, heading up, out, away. Creeping barefoot through a brightly-lit city, over a wall, and out into the desert. Heading north. Listening through his straining breaths for a cry in the night as he ran from his lost memories and the terrible gaze of those eyes--

Choking back a curse, Duncan ripped his eyes away from Methos' glazed stare, clenching his hands tightly around the trembling fingers wrapped in his own. He felt his own thoughts scatter and break, faltering as they limped along all alone. What he had seen... what Methos had seen... how... "Methos," he breathed hoarsely, forcing himself to look up again, steeling himself for the worst.

Methos' eyes were almost glowing, a feverish gold eclipsing the green. He didn't seem to be aware of his surroundings at all, not the barge and not Duncan. Untangling one of his hands from Methos', Duncan raised it to Methos' shoulder, shaking him hesitantly, then with more force. "Methos, come back now..." Nothing. Laying his palm against Methos' cheek, he leaned forward, speaking directly into the horror in those hallucinatory eyes. "Methos."

Electrified, Methos shuddered and jerked, his free hand coming up to grab Duncan's wrist in a steely grip. "Duncan?" Methos whispered, sudden understanding crashing over his face. "Oh gods..."

"What just happened?" Duncan shook his head, not dropping his hand. How had Methos withstood that terrible first death and remained sane at all? Duncan would have given anything to be able to go back in time and intervene, save Methos that torture-- if what he had seen had really happened. If he'd really *seen*... "Did I... did we just...?"

"The connection," Methos agreed, shaken. "I didn't think... I didn't know it would be like this..."

The bond they shared... He had thought it amazing to feel Methos at all, a strange sort of honor to touch this man so intimately. Now that he had some glimmer of the true scope of their link... Methos' eyes sharpened abruptly, and Duncan could taste the sick fear pouring off the other man in waves. "If this isn't what you want..." Methos forced through his dread, but Duncan stopped him swiftly, shaking his head.

"It's exactly what I want," he promised, pouring his heart into it until Methos' apprehension turned to awe. Methos was so beautiful like this, his barriers forgotten, his heart in his eyes-- and before the walls could come up again, Duncan leaned close and pressed a warm, gentle kiss on Methos' unresisting lips.

Closing his eyes against the sweetness of it, Duncan lost himself in the soft glide of their mouths, feeling Methos open to him with nothing held back. The smooth caress of Methos' tongue against his own, inviting him in as it teased a welcome from him, dragged a sigh of pure contentment from the depths of his chest. Methos' arms had twined around him, strong hands stroking over his back in slow, soothing passes, taking nothing not offered. Duncan had enough control yet to appreciate Methos' forbearance, but that wasn't what he wanted tonight.

Pulling back, he took Methos' face in his hands, dropping a kiss at the corner of that wicked mouth and planting another on the end of Methos' nose with a foolish grin. "I love you," Duncan murmured, and it was a tone that brooked no protests. "I want you. Show me what you like..."

Blinking, Methos' incredulous smile bled into joy, and an infectious glitter of amusement sparked in the deep emerald of his eyes. "You," he chuckled softly, warm honey over velvet. "I like you quite a bit."

"I'm glad," Duncan grinned back, heart straining against the sheer exultation of Methos' regard. "Why don't you show me what else you like?"

"I'd love to," Methos breathed and pulled him in for another kiss.

Dark and sweet, the taste of Methos was intoxicating, sending liquid shivers to the pit of his stomach and coiling tightly around his cock. Even Methos' smell was dizzying, the musk of something fierce and feral lurking beneath the civilized traces of soap and aftershave. The urge to simply devour him was nearly overpowering.

At the same time, it was pleasantly surreal, like begging for water and being given good wine. The strength that made itself known beneath his searching palms-- the long planes of a broad back, hard muscle where there should be softness-- racked his excitement paradoxically tighter. This was another man, uncharted familiar territory, this was *Methos*, but where he'd expected to feel nervous and foolish, there was only the joy of the moment. This was Methos. And he trusted Methos with everything he was.

Clever fingers were creeping beneath his sweater, thumbs stroking the sweep of his ribs and edging upwards, brushing lightly over the taut ache of his nipples. He heard himself groan into Methos' mouth, entire body leaping at the touch, and suddenly a kiss wasn't enough. He wanted to taste all of Methos, immerse himself in this man's body, learn the texture and responsiveness of every millimeter of flesh. "Methos," he breathed, pulling away to trace a line of hungry kisses down his lover's throat. His lover. Finally...

"Bed?" Methos hummed, arching into the sucking bite of Duncan's lips against his neck.

"God yes," Duncan laughed shakily and pulled himself reluctantly away. Methos' eyes were hot and wild, pupils devouring the green, leaving a corona of feverish jade. Duncan felt like he'd been dreaming of that very look for years. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he offered Methos his hand and was vaguely surprised when the other man took it, smiling gravely. No meaningless contests between them, he realized as Methos rose easily to his feet, no pointless displays of strength for dominance. Already, Methos felt like a part of him, a vital necessity, like his right arm or his heart. And if he reached out, just a little, he could feel the answering echo of that at the point where they joined, became One.

"Not just One," Methos smiled as he led Duncan towards the bed, edging backwards across the floor as if he knew the route by heart. "*More*," he chuckled, and the bright grin that flashed across his face lit up the barge, chasing the shadows away.

"More indeed," Duncan purred, freeing his hands to tug Methos' sweater over his head, tossing it aside to run reverent fingers over the hard planes of the other man's abdomen and the tight, dark buds of his nipples. Christ, Methos was beautiful...

"You're so literal," Methos grinned, attacking Duncan's own clothing with flattering determination.

"Is that a problem?" he teased as his own sweater went sailing. Sliding a hand between Methos' jeans and his stomach, Duncan worked patiently at the buttons of Methos' fly. Briefly, the tips of his fingers skittered off Methos' erection, and the other man hissed, jerking helplessly against the touch. Wait, the boots, he was forgetting about the boots...

"Oh no," Methos breathed a laugh. "If you want more, far be it from me to stop you."

"Bright boy," Duncan chuckled, giving Methos a gentle push. Sitting down hard on the edge of the bed, Methos fell back on his elbows as Duncan towered over him, grinning fondly. Methos' eyes were narrowed with lazy consideration, a challenge and a welcome, and shimmering with a love Duncan could scarcely credit even now. To be given this... it was a gift he couldn't fathom, could never repay. If he could just make everything else disappear for this one night, drive the hunted look from Methos' face and give him a moment of peace...

Dropping to his knees, he pulled off Methos' boots one at a time, smiling into Methos' swiftly-hidden surprise. He could do this. He *wanted* to do this, to map the fascination of Methos' flesh with the reverence it deserved. Wordless, Methos let Duncan trace his hands up denim-clad legs, settling briefly on the sharp wings of his pelvis. When he tugged gently at the belt-loops of Methos' jeans, the other man lifted his hips obediently, and Duncan pulled them down along with Methos' boxers, tossing them after the rest of their discarded clothing.

Naked, Methos was a work of art, a living masterpiece of matchless inspiration. Long and lean, he was a perfect balance of elegant grace and quiet power, every inch of him. Resting his hands for a moment on Methos' knees, Duncan ran his palms over the steely muscle of the other man's thighs, nudging them wider apart. Unselfconscious, Methos permitted himself to be shaped and shifted, welcoming Duncan's curious gaze with a smile.

The evidence of Methos' arousal rose shameless from a nest of dark curls, as finely sculpted as the rest of him. Duncan had never given much thought to this portion of other men's anatomy, had certainly never found one beautiful before. And yet Methos was just that: beautiful and proud, and it was all for him, this straining column that throbbed in time with Duncan's own flesh, still trapped behind his zipper. Hesitantly, he reached out, ghosting a feathery caress over fever-hot skin, wrapping his fingers around the base and stroking lightly with his thumb. What would it be like if he...?

Leaning forward between Methos' spread knees, he paused uncertainly for a stammering heartbeat before dipping his head, brushing a soft kiss over the warm silk Methos' cock. The skin beneath his lips was velvety soft, pulsing a heartbeat that leaped at his touch, a surge that shivered Methos' whole body. This close, the drugging scent of him filled Duncan's senses, urging him down again and inspiring his tongue to wantonness. Gliding slippery-smooth over the head of Methos' cock, he tasted salty skin and the faint bitterness of precome before he opened his mouth, taking Methos inside.

"Gods," Methos hissed, tensing under Duncan's hands, but when Duncan glanced up at the other man, Methos' face was solemn with concentration, an almost-pain of bliss staring back at him. His hesitancy evaporating, Duncan smiled with his eyes, realizing Methos' reaction had nothing to do with his skill and everything to do with who he was. He wasn't going to embarrass himself, wouldn't disappoint his lover; Methos wanted *him*, and that was all that mattered.

Slowly, he bobbed his head up and down, tongue playing with growing confidence over the thick shaft. Methos' eyes had narrowed to slits, head tipped back with his teeth fixed in his lower lip, breath coming in quick pants. "Duncan," Methos groaned softly, shifting as he reached to brush Duncan's cheek with gentle fingers. Duncan leaned into the caress, lashes fluttering closed until Methos' hand slid around to the back of Duncan's neck, urging him up. "Duncan... come here," Methos breathed, sitting up and bracing himself on one hand. "Let me..."

Blinking his eyes open, Duncan glanced up with a small tightening of his brows, only to lose himself in the adoration of Methos' smile. He allowed himself to be tugged up, sighing when Methos slipped free of his lips. Climbing to his feet, he chuckled when Methos hooked him by the belt, positioning him between Methos' knees. Down went his zipper as Methos' expression turned frankly anticipatory, a cheerful grin hovering at the edges of Methos' lips. Toeing off his own shoes, he stepped out of his jeans as Methos pushed them down, kicking them aside with his hands on Methos' shoulders for balance.

His hands tightened as Methos paused in mid-straighten, nuzzling contentedly against Duncan's erection. Velvet lips and the barest prick of stubble stopped Duncan's breath, released on a soft moan as Methos traced a hot, wet path up his cock. Swirling teasingly around the head, Methos' tongue spiraled downward without warning, his mouth closing over Duncan with a faint hum of pleasure.

In a long, slow glide, Methos lowered his head, throat melting around Duncan's cock as Duncan tried hard not to thrust into that welcoming tunnel. Raising up just as slowly until only the head of Duncan's cock remained inside his mouth, Methos did it again, devouring him with deliberate flicks of his tongue against Duncan's flesh. Combing a shaking hand through Methos' thick, dark hair, Duncan gave himself over to the deliberate, leisurely pace, intentions scattering as Methos worked his magic. Anything Methos wanted, he could have...

Coming up off Duncan's cock by torturous degrees, Methos glanced up, wicked eyes glittering intensely. "Duncan," he breathed lightly against Duncan's slicked erection, hot breath a dry kiss over straining skin. Duncan could *see* the hunger in Methos' gaze, wanting Duncan inside him, to be closer than One. Duncan would have traded skins with him at that moment, would have pulled Methos around him like a cloak and never let him go.

"Show me," he whispered instead, curving his palm to Methos' cheek and slipping down to caress the trusting column of his throat. "I want you in *me*, Methos. Please."

He'd surprised Methos again. Duncan could feel it echoing back from the other man, wonder and need twining together, roping Duncan in. So close... under the pad of his thumb, Methos' pulse fluttered swiftly, Duncan's blood racing to overtake it. If he leaned down, sealed his mouth over Methos', he could breathe Methos in, match each gasp as the world tilted around him. He was falling, and then there was softness, there was connection, *taste*--

"Duncan," Methos purred over him, dragging his lips from Duncan's to kiss a sweet, slick line down Duncan's throat, tongue soothing where teeth teased the vein. Duncan's hands slid down the long arc of Methos' back, settling on the hips that straddled his pelvis, grinding their erections together in languid thrusts. The sheets were icy cold under his back as sensation returned in a rush, staring bemusedly up at the ceiling as Methos slipped lower. For the first time in hours, he could hear the drone of Methos' buzz, like the susurrating groan of wind over the moors, rocking the trees. If he closed his eyes and just listened...

The sly caress of a tongue wrapping around his nipple distracted him, pulling him back from the edge of an unknown precipice. It was like wading out into the sea, the uncertainty of swift currents weaving around his limbs, but the tidal pull he felt was Methos himself. It was the bond, the link, the *anchor* between them, and if he fell, he would fall into Methos--

Arching into the wet heat that gloved his cock, he felt Methos' hands curl under his knees as his lover's throat milked his leaping flesh. Spreading his thighs obediently wider, he drew his legs up, holding himself open as Methos released him to lay butterfly kisses on the globes of his testicles, pulled up achingly close to his body. Catching his breath on a helpless moan, Duncan's head snapped back as Methos lapped a circuitous path downwards, circling his opening with deliberate strokes.

"God," Duncan panted as Methos' darting tongue probed at this most intimate of places, melting resistance and demolishing his control. He heard himself cry out as Methos' tongue pushed inside him, and he was gasping a steady stream of mindless encouragements as he tried to spread himself wider, deepen that incredible contact. Floating, Duncan felt his bones liquefy, the dim humming of Methos' Quickening becoming a roaring in his ears. A different touch sent hot jolts of ecstasy up his spine as Methos nuzzled the tender flesh behind his balls, two long fingers slicked with oil taking the place of Methos' tongue. Pushing up into that delightful pressure, he felt Methos' fingers stretching him gently, finding a tiny spot inside him that resonated joyfully with each stroke...

"Please," he begged, over and over again, so close to coming, so *close* he could hear inside his head the soft reassurances Methos crooned against his skin, something vast rippling around them and shuddering Duncan to the core. (*Please*...)

At the first touch of Methos' cock, Duncan's whole body relaxed, melting around Methos' invasion as if it would swallow him whole. The wave of hunger that slammed over him, the singing in his cock as if he could go on for days, the bright tingle of *life* skittering through every nerve, was familiar and incredible-- the shattering, hungry bliss that followed a Quickening, but they were both alive and whole. There were emotions, flickers of memory, the inescapable feeling of presence, of *Methos*...

"Oh gods," Methos groaned with a bliss that sounded like pain, sinking home by wary, gliding inches. "I can feel you... *with* me," he moaned, teeth clamped in his lower lip as his insanely green eyes narrowed to slits. The ache in Duncan's ass dissolved in slow throbs of pleasure as Methos paused, sheathed to the hilt in Duncan's body, hands braced against Duncan's drawn-up thighs. "Duncan..."

"I want this," Duncan murmured feverishly, thrusting himself up onto the spearing length of Methos' cock, the muscles of his ass clenching as Methos groaned through gritted teeth. "I want..." (You, all of you, Methos, let me *in*...)

There was no warning as the walls came down, only the thundering crescendo of their shared Quickenings pulsing in time, like an immense tuning fork growling a note low enough to shiver mountains. The terrible *power* that was Methos unfolded behind Duncan's heart, robbing him of breath as he was tangled in a complexity of feeling, love and fear and a bone-deep ache of need, a weary, unquiet wanderer howling for a home. (I trust you,) rang back from Methos, not 'I love you,' but something much more rare, a hesitant baring of frailties as Methos placed his soul in Duncan's hands.

And Duncan opened his own heart unreservedly, cradling Methos to him as he was embraced himself, weaving them together in a vast, unbreakable knot of joy.

"Duncan," Methos breathed, and it echoed around them in underwater ripples as Methos' fingers trailed a moth-wing caress over Duncan's lips, fluttered over the strong shape of his face. "I do love you..."

"I know," Duncan smiled, languid as a cat, until Methos pulled out of him with maddening slowness and began to thrust. Duncan had expected no real pain, not from Methos, but the ravenous *craving* his body felt for this left him almost delirious. Each long slide of Methos' cock inside him stroked across the heart of his ecstasy, bringing his own climax nearer as Methos drove their hips together in a ruthlessly gentle pace. Duncan writhed under him, wanting to *feel* the curbed strength of Methos' body, to lose himself in a pounding force that matched the ache of fulfillment behind his ribs. To get *closer*, topple every boundary between them and share the same flesh...

"Softly," Methos whispered and leaned slowly over, drawing Duncan into a kiss that closed a circuit with a flash of something beyond pleasure, beyond gladness, a pure rapture of completion. Duncan's cry was lost against Methos' lips as he arched up helplessly, his body spasming as his orgasm overtook him, feeling the pulsing throb of Methos' cock emptying itself inside him. Riding the wave of their shared bliss, Duncan clutched Methos to him tightly as the world threatened to fade away entirely, anchoring himself in the solidity of his lover's presence.

(*I love you*,) he murmured over and over again, only slowly realizing his face was buried in Methos' neck, lips pressed unmoving against damp skin. He was sprawled bonelessly, Methos' legs tangled with his as they lay curled together, a thin film of sweat and semen binding them together. He could get used to this. He could get used to this very easily.

"Good," Methos sighed sleepily, nuzzling into Duncan's hair. (Don't make me leave again...)

(*Never*,) Duncan swore vehemently, pulling Methos tighter against him. "Never." He'd never give Methos up. Not ever again...

But as they slipped reluctantly into dreams that twined and mirrored between them, Duncan felt the ghost of an old, old fear from Methos, one that tasted like repudiation...

And judgment.

Chapter Six

Methos woke with a start, the unfamiliar weight of a heavy arm draped over his chest leaving him disoriented. A large bed... the diffuse light of the barge in the early morning... the scent of Duncan MacLeod, all around him. On him.

Opening his eyes slowly, he blinked away the remaining traces of sleep, startlement turning to bemused delight. Mac's head was tucked between his neck and shoulder, face buried like a puppy burrowing for warmth. //So it wasn't a dream...// He and Duncan...

He and Duncan. They hadn't just made love. It sounded like an unforgivable cliche, but what had passed between them last night had been more than mindless rutting, more than a romantic evening. It had bound them tighter, joined them closer than before, until he hadn't been able to tell where he left off and Duncan began-- and it had been *soothing*, that melting of souls, it had been *comfortable*. And Duncan hadn't pushed him away. Duncan had *welcomed* him, without hesitation, as naked to Methos' touch inside as out.

The question was, did he *deserve* that open-armed welcome? With all he'd been, all he'd done... and now this, dropping a veritable demon on Mac's doorstep, being rousted by gods to guard the life of this most important of men. From the moment they'd met, he'd sensed it in Duncan, like the sun hiding behind a gauze of cloud: the power, the *potential*, to be more than merely Immortal, more than a good man with a long, long life. He hadn't known about Ahriman then, hadn't known that Duncan would be the Champion, but he'd known in an instant that if anyone had to win the Prize, he wanted it to be Duncan MacLeod.

The only thing that had ever shaken his faith had been the Dark Quickening, and even then, the unbridled darkness of Mac at his worst had been so... petty. A brute, bullying force with just enough strength to get itself in over its head. Mac simply didn't have the capacity for true evil. Not like Methos himself did-- and he hadn't needed a Dark Quickening to bring it out.

With infinite stealth, he slipped slowly away from Mac's comforting warmth. Sliding silently out of bed, Methos padded to where his jeans lay crumpled in the corner, casually tossed aside by an impatient hand. Tugging them on swiftly, Methos watched Duncan's sleeping face scrunch up in a distracted frown, one hand stretching out after his departed form. Gods, Duncan looked good... His tousled hair curtained his cheek as he pulled Methos' abandoned pillow to his chest, snuggling closer with a faint sigh. Stretched across the bed in the pale glow of dawn, he was the most beautiful thing Methos had ever seen.

He made sure the door closed quietly as he fled outside.

Breathing deeply, he turned his face to the east, ignoring the stinging of his bare feet as he stepped out on deck. The frost on the icy boards melted beneath him as he moved away from the door, shrugging into his sweater and running a hand through his hair. The sun hadn't quite crested the horizon yet, and the sky was sheathed in a thin veil of fog that hovered over the water like a ghost. It was going to be another clear day, sunny enough to remind Paris of spring, a perfect day for new beginnings.

Or the end of hope.

Folding his legs beneath him, he sat down on the deck, shifting as the melting frost soaked through his jeans. Ten minutes, maybe twenty, until sunrise. He remembered when the brave chant of an entire temple would have filled the air around him, singing up the sun with hymns of thanksgiving. He remembered a time when the rising of that great, fiery Eye was no sure thing, when anything might happen. It might lose its way, be devoured by a wolf, killed by its own brother. Anything might happen.

If you believed. And for a very long time, he had not. Not in the gods, not in destiny, in divine retribution or reward. Safer by far to doubt when all he could recall of his earliest years were nightmares that sent him howling up out of the darkness of sleep. To believe would have meant remembering, admitting that terror into his waking hours, and he had found a fragile kind of peace in forgetfulness. Freed from the anchor of his memories, he hadn't had to ask himself why the sight of a temple could make him break out in a cold sweat, why the idea of calling on the gods for anything brought a bitter smile to his face. Why he was so unutterably certain that he wasn't strong enough to be anyone's shield, that he was fundamentally flawed, a failure, abandoned by the gods.

The walls around his memory had strengthened every year, a slow accretion like the lengthening snarl of stalactites-- and for long, long centuries, he had let them stand unchallenged. If it occurred to him now and again that it was strange that he could remember every other facet of his life in incredible detail, he dismissed it each time with an uneasy laugh, made a joke of it and promptly forgot again. Like the shock that followed a mortal wound, so long as you didn't *look*, you could ignore it, pretend it wasn't there, or was just a dream...

Closing his eyes, Methos tipped his head back, wishing he could feel the sun on his face, hungry for light and warmth. He no longer knew what to believe. With the return of his memory, he no longer thought he had *failed* that night beneath the temple... but neither could he forget what had come after. He had become a demon himself, spread enough destruction to rival any child of Set, just as contemptuously fearless. Knowing himself cursed, he had waited to be struck down, but for a thousand years, all he'd received was the same silence that haunted his most stifling nightmares, until he had sickened even himself and walked away.

By then, he had known in his heart, like he knew the sun would rise in the morning, that the gods were dead, if they had ever existed at all. Somehow, that had brought him no comfort, but it had silenced the worst of his dreams. If there were no gods, then there were no shadows in the night, no screaming growls for his blood, his soul. Only men, and Methos knew better than any that men were horror enough. If he had known then what he knew now... If he had ripped aside what had hidden him from himself, a veil which had become as insubstantial as the shredding fog steaming off the water and as impalatably ominous as--

--smoke, like great dark snakes poised to strike, rising in thick columns into the sky, borne aloft by the screams of the dying and the raucous shouts of Kronos' mercenaries. The thick black pall shrouded the heavens above the temple as the city burned in the valley below, looted homes crackling into flame while the dead littered the streets.

//Maybe he's praying to hooded Edjo,// Methos grinned viciously to himself, eyes fixed on the serpent-snarls of ash twisting skyward, and threw the old priest down the steps. Watching the frail body tumble end over end, for an instant a different image swam before his eyes, a face seamed with wisdom and creased by smiles. Shaking his head, Methos dismissed it with a shrug. Probably some ragged old bastard he'd killed three centuries ago. Nothing that concerned him.

Skidding into the courtyard, the priest came to a sudden stop beneath a dusty boot, the heel planted squarely above his sternum. "Well, well," Kronos smiled, his face almost gentle with malevolent satisfaction. "Look who's come to grace us with his company. I'm honored to be in the presence of such *power*. Aren't you honored, brother?"

"Words fail me," Methos sneered, stalking down the steps. Kronos was wearing his most affable face, and it sparked a lean hunger in Methos, shivered up his spine like grey fire. Kronos was never more deadly than when he cloaked his savagery in smiles.

"Dogs!" the old priest gasped, glaring up at Kronos though his face had gone dead white. "Stinking dogs! May the earth vomit up your reeking carcasses, you sons of jackals!"

"That would be you, brother," Kronos grinned charmingly up at Methos, who narrowed his eyes over a brief, mocking smirk, tossing off a rude gesture that made Kronos laugh. Kronos knew how much he hated the wretched beasts... even if he couldn't remember where that unreasonable antipathy had begun. Maybe it was the way they skulked at the edge of camp, *watching* him, as if they couldn't distinguish between him and the meat they fed on. Or as if they expected something out of him. Insane thought. Kronos would just laugh if he knew what his so-reasonable brother was thinking... but he still didn't like jackals. He didn't *have* to know why. "But is that the best you can do, old man? We were told you had the gods at your call. Aren't you going to curse us?"

"The gods have already cursed you," the old priest spat, struggling beneath Kronos' boot. "Carrion sons of Set--"

"And Eblis," Methos agreed with curled lip, angrily shoving away a perplexing shudder that crawled over his skin.

"And Angro-Mainyus," Kronos added.

"Typhon."

"Sammael--"

"*Enough*!" the old man howled, shoving roughly at Kronos' foot. "The gods know your crimes! You've been marked-- the sickness of your souls stains the air around you. There will be blood on the scales when your hearts are weighed--"

"And you and your city will be dust before that happens," Kronos snorted disinterestedly.

"Starting with you," Methos growled through a sneer, raising his sword.

"You dare not!" the priest thrashed wildly. "Ra sees! He will strike you where you stand, burn the souls from your body-- the very *earth* will yawn open beneath you and send you screaming to Osiris!"

"*Let it*," Methos hissed, thrusting that image from his head, a dark, icy cavern before an immense throne. The sound of a thunderous heartbeat... Dreams, all dreams. Nightmares of scare-stories told when he was young-- and surely even he had been young once. And damn the old priest for unearthing it at all. "Let it!" he repeated, throwing his head back to challenge the sky with open arms. "Come then, strike me down! 600 years of killing, Old Ones! It's time to show your power! Here I stand, awaiting judgment-- weigh and strike, damn you! *Weigh and strike*!"

Kronos' fond chuckle broke the silence, and Methos could feel the weight of Kronos' fierce admiration in the other man's stare. "Maybe they're sleeping," Kronos laughed, smirking at the aghast expression the priest had turned on Methos.

"And maybe they're *dead*," Methos glared at the priest. "There's no god below the dirt, old man. There's only bones. And *I* am Death. Sacrifice to *me*, old man, if you want to live."

"Never," the priest shook his head slowly, distraught.

"Then your sacrifice is worthless," Methos smiled coldly and brought his sword down on that thin, frail neck.

Kronos stepped away as the blood arced out, but without haste, nudging the body with the toe of his boot as an afterthought. "Quick," he mentioned, glancing up at Methos as the stain spread, glittering wetly across the immaculate stone of the courtyard. "Maybe you believe in the gods after all."

"They're a plague," Methos snorted, wiping his blade on the priest's robes. "I'd rather dine with lepers than speak with priests."

"If the gods ever do strike you down, I want to watch," Kronos grinned, regarding Methos with avid eyes.

"If the gods ever strike me down, they'll get us both with the same thunderbolt," Methos smirked humorlessly, meeting Kronos' stare over the body of the priest. It was like catching sight of his own reflection in still water, a dark shadow that wore his face. Kronos was a man in love with chaos, feeding off the fear he sowed and reveling in the anarchic freedom of being beyond the reach of Law, of Death. For himself, Methos was a creature of order, ordered paths and ordered habits, and yet... Something in him wanted to strike out, dare the universe to ignore him at its peril, wanted to rattle the very vaults of heaven and see what shook loose.

//Getting close to three thousand years,// he mused silently as Kronos' smile widened, malevolent invitation and a savage fraternity Methos craved. To not be alone... //All this time, and I'm a scholar and a madman.//

"Methos," Kronos murmured, a low purr that set Methos' teeth on edge and wrapped a loving fist around his cock in the same breath.

The buzz of an approaching Immortal distracted them both, and they turned to see Silas lumbering in with a huge grin, axe slung over his shoulder. "Everyone's dead," he greeted cheerfully, then added with a shrug, "or surrendered. Is that the little priest who said he'd curse us dead?"

"The very one," Kronos agreed amiably.

"Didn't work very well, did it?" Methos added with a chuckle that made Silas beam. Even Kronos smiled more when Silas was around, Methos had noticed, and Caspian... Caspian snapped and prodded like an only child suddenly presented with a younger brother, jealous and resentful but grown attached in spite of himself. Such an odd little family he and Kronos had put together... "Take what you want," he offered, jerking his head towards the temple, still as a tomb behind him. "Then we burn it. To the ground."

"All right, Methos," Silas grinned, splashing through the old priest's blood as he headed for the stairs.

"For shame," Kronos shook his head in conspicuously shammed outrage. "A man who doesn't believe in the gods is dangerous."

Familiar praise. "A man who doesn't believe in the gods is a realist. 600 years, brother. There are no gods. Only us."

"Then let's remind them how to pray," Kronos laughed, reaching across the body to drag Methos in for a quick, harsh kiss, the taste of blood and ash on their lips. The easiest way of all to forget his dim nightmares, and perhaps the most pleasant: the attack of another's mouth on his, another's hands taking control of his body. He looked up as he felt the buzz of a fourth Immortal, striding up the hill as the glint off Caspian's bared sword speared his eyes like--

--the rising sun searing through the fog, a white flash cresting the skyline to the east of the barge. Blinking, Methos jumped when Duncan shifted, sitting patiently cross-legged before him on the cold, wet boards. "Duncan?" escaped him before he thought, and it was still strange to use that name in the light, more personal somehow than when he'd whispered it before. It was an acknowledgment of sorts, and Duncan's relieved smile made it all worthwhile.

"Did I interrupt anything?" Duncan asked sheepishly, making a vague gesture as he lifted a hand off his knee.

"No," Methos smiled reassuringly, shaking his head. "I was just thinking. Waiting for the sun to come up."

"Ah. Did you... did you sleep well?"

Methos felt his smile widen helplessly, and he knew his eyes were doing terribly revealing things by the way Duncan relaxed, swaying instinctively towards him. "Yes, Duncan," he grinned, his voice a soft purr. "I slept just fine."

Beaming foolishly, Duncan was a nearly irresistible temptation, his sleep-mussed hair an open invitation for Methos' hands. Like Methos, Duncan had stopped to slip into a pair of jeans, but the Highlander was shivering in the T-shirt he'd absently grabbed, his bare toes curled against the chill. Methos could picture it perfectly: Duncan waking to find himself alone, a brief instant of panic until he felt Methos close by, struggling into the first clothes he found. Dashing out to stop Methos from leaving, he would have found his lover staring blindly off into space, and had sat down before him without another thought, waiting for Methos to return. Or for the fireworks to start...

"The first thing Ahmose taught me was how to call fire," Methos mentioned casually, rubbing his palms on his thighs. If he was going to do this... who better than Duncan for a witness? And if he failed, he could teach Duncan how it was done, and see if the Highlander had any better luck at it. So long as *one* of them had the gods on their side...

"Did it take long to learn?" Duncan dutifully asked, shifting closer as Methos spread his fingers wide, then shook his hands in midair.

"Not really," he shrugged with a sigh. He was stalling. Again. "I could probably teach you, if you wanted... You're supposed to start young, before your first death if possible, but I think you could still learn it." Methos himself could probably still *call* the fire-- even Kronos could have, if he'd had the training. The only question was, would it come as a simple lightshow, tied to the earth-- or would it wing its way to the gods?

"And it's a kind of prayer?" Duncan asked quietly.

"Yes," Methos nodded once, glancing back up at the rising sun through the lifting fog.

"And you haven't done this since...?"

Since he had died and run away. "No."

Duncan was silent a long moment, then shrugged away the doubts that briefly crossed his face. "What happens if it works?"

"Well. Either we think pure thoughts... or we duck."

Duncan looked like he didn't know whether to laugh or protest. "Maybe if you sounded a little more confident here," Duncan chuckled disbelievingly, shaking his head.

"Duncan, I really don't know," Methos reminded calmly, his expression earnest. "She didn't lie. I *do* have red hands, I have *innocent blood* on my hands, do you understand? There was once a time when if I'd heard her on the hunt, I'd have had no doubts who she was coming for-- a thousand years like that. A part of me *must* have remembered, and when she didn't come for me..." Shrugging helplessly, he held Duncan's eyes with an effort, waiting for the condemnation sure to follow. To remind Duncan of what he was so soon after what they had shared was madness, but if Duncan was going to wake from this dream, Methos wanted it to be now, while he could still put his heart back together.

Duncan's brows drew down in a fierce scowl, but he leaned *toward* Methos, not away. "If she didn't come for you, then you couldn't have been hers to hunt," Duncan insisted, his eyes boring into Methos with an implacable certainty. "You told me yourself, they only hunt those beyond redemption, the ones even the gods couldn't stand to see. The man I'm looking at now doesn't deserve to be erased. If she'd killed you two thousand years ago... All of Bordeaux would be a wasteland, maybe all of France. Richie would have been killed by Kristen, or lost his head to Culbraith. I would never have come back from the Dark Quickening. If that isn't redemption, I don't know what is."

Gods, Duncan sounded so *sure*... He wished he could believe, take the comfort Duncan was offering, but from the very beginning... "I should have been stronger," he whispered, shaking his head in negation. Should have kept the memories, learned from them, taken Kronos' head the day they met...

"Methos, you *survived*," Duncan insisted, dark eyes softening when Methos flinched. "You kept your sanity and your will to live, when it would have been easier to lie down and give in. I don't know anyone else who could have faced what you have and done that. The past is gone-- but the fact that you're here now tells me just how strong you are."

Ducking his head, Methos regarded his hands with a deceptive calmness, flexing them absently. "And if they don't answer?"

"You won't know until you try," Duncan shrugged, more fatalistically than Methos would have expected. Though what he felt from Duncan... that was *confidence*, not apathy, resonating back at him, and something wistful and protective at once. *That* was his Highlander...

Wordless, he raised his hands, cupping them before his heart as he closed his eyes. Centering himself, he took a deep breath, feeling the cold air tingle in his lungs, the taste of river and fog and Duncan twining through his senses. Stilling his breath, he *reached*, feeling millennia drop away as the flame-hawk soared in his mind's eye and the shivering thrum inside his bones rose up swift and familiar, stronger than ever before. Duncan's startled gasp reached him as his closed lids flared red; he would be holding lightning in the cup of his hands, a true Quickening instead of the pale mist he'd called before, hungry and fierce and wild...

When he opened his eyes, he almost panicked, nearly thrust the miniature sun he held away from him, half-blinded by the glare. Crawling over his arms like incandescent cobras, thick snarls of brilliance pooled in the hollow of his palms, white-hot and pulsing hungrily in time with his heartbeat. This was nothing like Ahmose's fire... nothing like what he'd expected, nothing familiar or comforting about it. This was raw power, too much of it, power enough to kill--

--and he felt Duncan's hands settle beneath his, steadying him, a fearless offer of support and understanding and love. He *felt* it when Duncan's Quickening meshed with his, could see it in the sudden pulse of what they held, and a single thought flowed through both of them, (Give us your blessing.)

(Give us your blessing.)

Without warning, their brightness flexed once and shot heavenward, an arrow of white flame piercing the sky. Grabbing Duncan's hands instinctively, Methos watched its blindingly swift flight with his heart in his mouth, pumping an ecstatic joy along every nerve. It had made the leap, he still had it, or Duncan did, or *together* they did, had whatever it took to make their prayers heard, as if the bond they shared wasn't holy enough--

"Methos," Duncan breathed, hands tightening on Methos', and Methos noticed at last what Duncan had seen.

And felt his bliss turn to cold horror in a heartbeat.

There were no storm clouds this time, no sheltering darkness as the fog was burned away, seared by the maelstrom of light that coalesced above them. Crackling runnels of brilliance snaked off and wound their way back as the sky cracked open above them, a massive column of fire like the very heart of the sun hurtling towards them at incredible speed. Fire from heaven... the purest form of divine wrath, his punishment, his curse the death of Duncan MacLeod--

"*No*!" he screamed at the heavens, his voice shredding on desperation. Tearing his hands free, he surged up on his knees, foolishly trying to cover Duncan with his body in a pathetic last attempt to save Duncan's life before the hammer of light ripped them apart.

He felt the shock as they were engulfed, the water hissing all around them as the terrible radiance shivered the barge and sent a groaning rumble through the pavement beyond their moorings. Braced for a single, sizzling instant of torment, Methos froze when something cool touched his cheek, invisible hands stroking soothing caresses along his rigid body. Everything around them had turned white and gold, bathed in flickering foxfire, and when he cautiously lowered his eyes to Duncan's, his breath caught in helpless awe at what knelt before him.

He could *see* the warm glow of the other man's soul, his Quickening, melting through his skin like sunlight through gauze. It was like kneeling before an angel, named at Creation and taking shape from the Name, born of the white fire that was the breath of God. In the corners of his eyes, Methos watched the cascading light weave inward, circling them, enmeshing them in a million fleeting embraces as the unseen hands smoothed against them, drawing them closer together and closer again. Methos couldn't tear his gaze away from Duncan's, could only stare as those incredible eyes came nearer, shimmering gold flaring in their depths.

And then his eyes were slipping closed, because Duncan's mouth was teasing his own, a single, perfect kiss both passionate and chaste, a welcome and a claiming, making them whole. All the blessing he had ever needed was right here, wrapped in his arms, twined into his soul. He should have known... he could never have touched Duncan's heart if he was damned, if he was irredeemable--

(If we weren't the same,) Duncan's thought whispered across him, and he felt the other man's wonder, Duncan's daunted amazement and gratified satisfaction as he stared into Methos, who reflected back the light Methos had found in Duncan. The fire was sinking into their bones, returning what they had sent aloft in a dizzying rush of strength and power, fading slowly around them-- but Methos wanted only to drown himself in Duncan, to draw their oneness around him like a cloak and never come out. So long, he'd wanted this, so long...

And the light died unmourned as he buried his face in Duncan's neck, truly at peace at last.

Nuzzling at Methos' throat, Duncan grinned as the other man made a happy little sound, turning his face aside to stare out over the empty street beyond. In the distance, he could hear car alarms sounding off, jolted by the shudder that had rocked through the street when that divine fire had hit. *Someone* was going to come and investigate this, and they really should be gone before then.

If he could just keep his hands off Methos long enough to get them out of here...

"Methos," he cleared his throat, chiding himself as he wrapped his arms tighter about the ancient. "We need to get going before someone shows up..."

A warm tongue scoured his neck, sending shivers racing down his spine, but Methos' voice was regretful when he answered. "I know. At least it's still early-- if we'd tried this at noon, say..."

The streets were still fairly deserted, true, but there were always joggers, people on their way to work, Watchers. The thought left him cold, even as he was smiling, picturing some earnest kid with a telephoto lens falling out of a tree in shock. He couldn't swear to it, but he *thought* he might have another Watcher these days, though he didn't feel right about asking Dawson about that... If he did, then Methos' cover might be well and truly blown.

But they had time to worry about that later. "You need a shower," he offered decisively, pulling slowly away. He'd have liked nothing better than to stay in that warm embrace all day, but it would have to wait. It was just past seven, the morning sun haloing the barge in vivid golds, but Duncan's eyes were still dazzled by the pyrotechnics Methos had commanded. He had always *known* Methos was a man of vast power, but to see it laid bare before him, Methos holding the sun in his hands, shining like a god...

"We could save time if we took one together," Methos suggested with a sly grin.

"We'd just end up in bed again," Duncan chuckled, stroking the arch of Methos' cheekbone with his thumb.

"Fine," Methos sighed. "You first. I think... I think I'm just going to sit here for a bit..."

"All right," Duncan smiled, and forced himself to rise. It was harder than he'd expected; his legs wobbled just slightly, and the world sloshed and rattled around him as if he'd been up the whole night drinking. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling, just overwhelming, and he hoped it settled before either of them had to drive.

He had time to think while he was in the shower, trying not to dwell overlong on what having Methos in here with him would be like. Last night had been nothing at all like he'd imagined. He'd been unprepared for his own reaction to having Methos inside him, ambushed by the sheer bliss of it. When Methos claimed him, he'd felt like he was being remade from the inside out, melting in the friction of their bodies and transformed around the thrust of Methos' cock.

He'd wondered if that was just Methos, if he could possibly give his lover the same overwhelming pleasure Methos had given him-- but when Methos had opened beneath him, he'd been lost again, rocked by the unfettered sensuality of Methos' response. Every emotion, every twinge of passion and satisfaction was paraded unabashed across Methos' face, purred in breathless encouragement. It was like making love to an incubus, one that gave back each sigh he was fed. Already, Duncan knew he was addicted, but he didn't mind at all. Methos was a habit he never wanted to break.

Hurrying through his shower, he turned the water on as cold as he could stand it, gritting his teeth through a grin. He was acting like a horny teenager, after all... But he'd get used to it. He had great confidence in himself.

Methos was waiting for him when he escaped the bathroom, stripping out of his clothes again. "Oh, stop looking so tempting," Methos grumbled in mock-irritation as Duncan came over, helplessly drawn. The rasp of Methos' stubble was prickly against Duncan's smooth-shaven cheek, but that was wonderful, that was perfect... "Insatiable barbarian," Methos sighed, but Duncan could tell his heart wasn't in it. "Breakfast?"

"Fine," Duncan chuckled. "I'll cook. But we'd better get moving soon..."

"I know," Methos smiled faintly, humoring him-- but his eyes were dark with unvoiced plans, possibilities and concerns shifting behind the green. "At least this morning was good news. If I can still call fire... there are a lot of other things I can do. I can find this thing, Duncan-- and if it's gone to lair, it'll be a sitting target."

"Good," Duncan grinned, and laid another kiss on Methos' unresisting lips. "Go. Shower. I'll have breakfast ready when you get out."

Methos shook his head fondly, running a sly hand down Duncan's hip as Duncan backed quickly away with a grin. Stretching until his spine cracked, Methos ambled towards the bathroom unself-consciously nude. Duncan trapped a groan of frustration, captivated by that casual display and passionately disappointed that they had no time to indulge, that it would be a long, dangerous eternity before nightfall.

At the door to the bathroom, Methos paused with a smile infinitely wicked, well aware of the effect he had had on Duncan. "You know, I seem to have this sudden craving for waffles..." he offered innocently, shutting the door before Duncan could reply.

"Waffles. Fine," Duncan sighed philosophically. He was always going to be owing Methos for *something*, he just knew it... Not that he exactly minded. In fact, an eternity of cooking breakfast for Methos to pay back his supposed 'debts' was something he could learn to look forward to. Hell, Methos could even have the barge again, so long as Duncan got to stay there with him... "Do you still need a place to live?" he called through the shut door, and heard Methos' low chuckle just before the water turned on in the shower.

Glancing quickly at the clock, he decided he could just owe Methos for those waffles another day. The quicker they got out of here, the better; he wanted to begin their hunt as soon as Methos had recovered. As much as he loved the man, Duncan couldn't help feeling guilty about the time they'd let slip past them last night with that thing out there, stalking them and stalking Joe. And if the muffled sense of urgency coming from the bathroom was any indication, he wasn't the only one worried this morning. He hurried through a quick batch of bacon and eggs, tossing toast in to brown as an afterthought. And coffee. This was going to require lots of coffee.

One more darting glance towards the clock, and he broke at last, just as Methos was turning off the taps on the quickest shower Duncan had ever known the other man to take. Picking up the phone, he dialed Joe's cell number, frowning when it wasn't immediately answered. They *had* promised the Watcher an update in the morning, he consoled himself, feeling vaguely guilty about waking Dawson up this early. Not that it was *that* early... Seven-thirty was only early when you closed down a bar every night. Joe would forgive him this time...

If Joe ever picked up the phone. He hadn't left his cell somewhere, had he? //Maybe I dialed the wrong number,// Duncan told himself uneasily, hanging up and dialing again. On the third ring, he started to get nervous. By the tenth, his heart was an icy fist in his chest, and on the fifteenth, Methos nearly tore the door off the hinges coming out of the bathroom, a wicked-looking straight-razor poised open in his hand.

"What?" Methos demanded, glaring around the barge for enemies, the tension leaking out of him with agonizing slowness.

"Joe's not answering," Duncan said without preamble, and felt a heartsick gratitude when Methos nodded once, neither discounting the danger nor making light of it by offering false reassurances.

"Hang up," Methos instructed shortly. "I'll need the phone line."

Methos had emerged from the bathroom in nothing but a towel, and Duncan welcomed the distraction as Methos bent to dig through his luggage. There was something infinitely compelling about this single-minded face of Methos that he'd seen so rarely, all other considerations shoved aside in the crisis of the moment. *This* was the man that had survived 5000 years, and might just survive 5000 more. Would, if Duncan had any say in the matter. Methos might say *he* was too important to lose, but Methos was far more precious by far, the living embodiment of history and an indomitable will to live.

And all that deadly knowledge was at Duncan's fingertips now, his sword and shield. With *Methos* on the hunt... Joe would be fine. They would all be fine. Duncan could believe nothing less.

Methos commandeered the table for his computer as Duncan set out a breakfast neither of them felt like eating. Setting up his laptop with brisk efficiency, Methos hurriedly dressed while it was booting up, sliding into his seat as he pulled a sweater on over his head. Curious, Duncan watched over Methos' shoulder as the other man's fingers flew across the keyboard, dialing out, dialing in. Duncan considered himself fairly computer-literate, but the circuitous tangle of connections Methos was weaving had him lost. And since when had Methos been able to access Joe's email?

When the blue Watcher symbol filled Methos' screen, Duncan blinked in surprise. Methos had hacked the Watchers' system? "Somehow, I don't think Joe knows you can do that," he muttered quietly, shaking his head with a grin.

"Are you kidding?" Methos snorted, cutting through the organization's defenses with a battery of stolen passwords. "He'd *kill* me. Hack my head off with a blunt spoon or something. But listen-- security's tight when they go on alert, so if anything happened, it should show up right--"

There. Nested in a high-level subdirectory was a Security Log, updated daily. Methos had clicked on the most recent entries, and turned up a single chilling report.

/Containment crew dispatched to House 5 at 06:50. Clean-up to follow. Code Red./

And a scanned photo that stopped the heart: a dozen severed heads staring up at a long, white wall, bearing only a grisly mural. With loving dedication, someone had sketched a perfect series of bold hieroglyphs across the wall in blood, as precise as if carved from ancient stone. "Methos?" he breathed.

Methos went perfectly still, and Duncan grabbed hold of the man's shoulder to steady them both, wrestling with his own shock. That couldn't mean...

"That's... It says, 'Deliver me from the Watchers who bear slaughtering knives.' It's from the prayers..." Methos rasped hoarsely, swallowing hard.

She was laughing at them.

Methos came up out of his chair in a convulsive movement, stalking wordlessly towards his boots and coat. Perching on the very edge of the couch, he pulled on a pair of socks with quick, angry movements. "I know where that is," he muttered as he yanked the laces on his boots tight, his mouth set in a grim, white line. "He may not have been there..."

Containment crews. Clean-up crews. *Joe*... Shoving down a sick feeling of dread, Duncan shrugged into his coat, the katana a comforting weight at his side. Methos was right. Joe had had guards-- and Joe was a resourceful man. If anyone could have gotten clear of that creature, it was him. He wouldn't believe Joe was dead until he'd seen the body. "I'll drive," he growled, staring out the nearest porthole as if his glare could stretch across the city to that deadly house or find a beast where it hid. They had no way of knowing when she had struck: by the time the Watchers had discovered the attack, she might have been long gone. Of course... "What's a 'containment crew' to a Watcher?" Was there any chance she had still been there when they arrived?

"They bury the facts," Methos replied with a moue of distaste, rising to jerk his arms through his coatsleeves. "Their job is to keep civilians from realizing what's going on under their noses. They'll have sealed the perimeter until the cleanup crew arrived-- fielded questions if there were any, reassured the police, that sort of thing. But they'll be gathering evidence at the same time, very meticulous, so that when the cleaners come, they'll have everything their forensics specialists need to piece together the scene. Maybe we can use that," he shrugged, rummaging through his duffel and tossing a wicked-looking handgun at Duncan.

Ordinarily, Duncan would have refused, painfully aware of the dictates of honor. But he wasn't facing an Immortal in single combat. He was hunting a child of Set. Checking the clip, he tucked it into his waistband at the small of his back, returning Methos' sudden grin with a faint smile of his own. "All right," he nodded once. "Let's go."

Following Methos out the door, he tried not to wonder what they would find when they got to the compromised safehouse, whether it would be easier or worse to piece together what had happened from lurid photos or the mangled bodies themselves.

If they could get any information at *all* out of the closed-mouthed Watchers...

"Aren't you worried about them seeing us together?" Duncan felt obliged to ask as he locked the door behind him. Methos had talked about settling things with the Watchers before, but now the choice had been taken out of his hands, his time run out.

"They're going to have to get used to it anyway," Methos shrugged, his voice betraying not a twinge of apprehension. It actually took a startled heartbeat to parse what Methos *wasn't* saying: that he wasn't going to be leaving Duncan anytime soon. Glancing over at Duncan at the edge of the barge, Methos' intense expression softened into a smile, one corner of his mouth turning up helplessly. "Besides-- I have the feeling they're going to be too busy to ask many questions today. This will have hit a little too close to home..."

"No doubt," Duncan sobered, rolling his eyes as he followed the other man down to the street. Methos really did seem to have a pathological aversion to talking things out... "How did she find that safehouse in the first place?" he asked as Methos slipped between their parked vehicles, the ancient taking shotgun without protest.

"She must have found someone's Watch--"

Methos had frozen, staring in the passenger-side window of Duncan's Porsche with a curiously blank expression. Dashing for the car, Duncan pulled his door open with a hiss, glaring wide-eyed at what waited for him behind the wheel.

A man's head was propped neatly in the seat, blue eyes rolled up in an expression of mute suffering. A boyishly handsome man in his early forties, his square-jawed face and bright blond hair were spattered with rusty blood, long dry. Duncan couldn't have sworn to it, but he didn't think he'd ever seen this fellow before in his life.

But Methos obviously had.

"I don't believe this..." Methos breathed, his face tightening as his jaw clenched. "This guy... this guy's the European Security Director. He was working out of Milan..."

Where *she* had been, just last week. She knew *exactly* what she was doing, Duncan realized with a sinking heart, knew just who to target and when. She might have been planning this for years... "And he could tell her anything she needed to know," Duncan nodded grimly. "We'll take your truck."

"Fine," Methos shook his head, fishing out his keys. "Do you want me to..." Frowning suddenly, Methos paused, and turned slowly to face his truck, peering uneasily through the driver's side window. Duncan felt his own heart clench as Methos' face went dead white, a strangled, "Oh gods..." scraping from his throat.

Duncan felt everything go quiet as his heart skipped a beat, a fuzzed sense of dislocation settling over him. He could ignore the panic and rage and *guilt* he felt from Methos in that cottony fugue. Approaching the truck with numb steps, he opened the door slowly and closed his eyes.

Not a head this time, and that gave him hope, but the message left for them clawed ragged holes in his heart. Laid out neatly for Methos to find were a pair of well-cared for prostheses, still wearing a pair of familiar shoes.

Joe's legs.

The sick fury that boiled up inside Duncan tore him out of his haze, the whole world flashing briefly white before his eyes. The *violation* of that act... crippling Joe to taunt them, as carelessly heartless as if she'd cut them off herself. She had Joe, and she wanted to make damn sure they knew it.

And when they got him back, Duncan was going to make her *pay*.

"*Where*?" Duncan ground out through clenched teeth, knuckles going white.

"The safehouse first," Methos growled back, in a low voice that chilled Duncan's blood. The last time he'd heard it, they'd been fighting in a bar that had never existed while Fitz looked on from the sidelines... Methos at his most dangerous, all emotion bled away until only an icy malevolence remained, the cold face of a man watching an insect writhe on a pin. The voice Duncan used as a barometer to judge the depth of Methos' pain. "I don't want those vultures picking over his body."

*Body*? "You think he's dead?" Duncan breathed, his world rattling to the foundations once more.

"They never took prisoners," Methos said flatly, slipping past Duncan. Reaching in with unflinching hands, he gathered the prostheses up and moved them gently to the back seat with a careful respect that tore at Duncan.

"But that was when they had the whole pack behind them," Duncan insisted. "You said it yourself: she's had to learn stealth. If he's still alive, then every moment is going to count-- and if he isn't... he wouldn't have wanted us to hesitate. *I* believe he's alive. That she's counting on us to go after him so she can trap us, pick us off one by one. If she'd really killed him, she would've left *his* head, too."

His voice went hoarse as he said it, but Methos nodded once, meeting his eyes seriously. "All right. You have a point."

"And you said you can find her..." Duncan reminded hopefully.

"Yes. I can."

Duncan wasn't sure what he expected-- some kind of strange incantation, another shattering display of power like he'd seen just hours before. Instead, Methos closed his eyes, his breath evening out as his face went perfectly calm. There was a faint flicker of foxfire around him, there and gone like heat-lightning, so swiftly Duncan thought he'd imagined it-- until Methos opened eyes turned a brilliant, burning gold and nodded towards the south. "That way."

Looking over his shoulder despite himself, Duncan shook his head. "How...?"

"I can feel her if I try. If I reach for the storm," Methos shrugged, gaze darkening to olive, still far-distant.

Turning to face the direction of Methos' stare, Duncan held his breath, *listening* with a frown of concentration, reaching out with all his senses as if he could taste the same ozone flicker that had snagged Methos' attention. The same thing he'd felt in that cellar before the lights went out. There was almost something, a dim rumble of darkness, ancient and hungry, always hungry, a roiling malice too furious to mask--

"I feel it," Duncan whispered, almost losing the thread as he shuddered.

"Good," Methos said shortly. "You drive."

It was hard to pay attention to the traffic with that grating thrum battering at the edges of his consciousness. The streets slid by in a parody of motion, delirious as a fever dream. Part of him had expected to end up at the docks or the warehouse district, somewhere dilapidated and forlorn, but they ended up at the gates of a sprawling house, heavy stones shaggy with vines and moss, in one of the oldest sections of Paris. The windows gaped empty and dark, but the place looked merely unoccupied, not abandoned.

And the feel of an approaching storm hung heavily over the grounds, its fierce growl prickling over Duncan's skin like an electrical storm.

"She's here," Methos frowned as they drove past, circling around to park out of sight on a deserted side street. Duncan wasn't sure what good it would do; she could sense them better than they could her, if Methos was right. It was habit more than anything else, and the grave certainty that whatever happened here was unlikely to be settled with swords or guns.

"What now?" Duncan asked, watching Methos' solemn intensity solidify into resolve.

"We need to trap her in a single room. If we get her somewhere, she *can't leave*. No matter what," Methos insisted, eyes shadowed, fingers drumming nervously on his thigh.

"You're going to try it again," Duncan realized, a shiver of instinctive dread creeping over him. "Opening the Ways." Dragging everything around him into the realm of the dead.

"Yes," Methos sighed, shaking his head suddenly as if to knock an unwanted image loose. "If I can still call the fire like that...I can still do this. But it has to work the first time, because I don't think we'll get another shot at it. So if anything happens..."

"Nothing's going to happen," Duncan insisted firmly, scowling.

Methos' eyes bored into his, demanding nothing less than the truth between them. "Mac. If anything happens, short of her taking my head, trust me to get it done. You *saw* how I did it. Leave if you have to, but *one of us* has to survive to do this. You can come back and surprise her while she's busy if it comes to it-- she won't be expecting that kind of attack from you--"

"I can't do that," Duncan snapped, glaring fiercely. 'While she's busy'-- with *Methos*, the other man meant, and Duncan had already seen him go through that torture one time too many. He *couldn't* leave Methos to that again...

"Duncan, if you don't, and she escapes, it'll never be over," Methos said quietly, his soft voice disproportionately forceful. "We'll spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders, and one day she'll come back and we'll both be dead. It's that simple. I've *survived*," he reminded, meeting Duncan's stricken gaze calmly. "I'll survive again if I have to. But this ends here. Today. At any cost."

"You'd let her take my head if you had to?" Duncan dared, *knowing* Methos would be lying if he said yes. He could feel it down to his bones.

"No," Methos admitted, but his strange little smile did nothing to comfort Duncan. "But I wouldn't have to. Like I said, she doesn't know you can do it too. She'll keep you alive, as bait for me."

Swallowing hard, Duncan shoved down his immediate reaction to that idea, of being in the same position so many of his friends had found themselves in. Bait for an uncaring enemy. "How do *you* know I can?" he asked instead, nowhere near convinced of that himself.

"Because the light touched you too," Methos shrugged. "And besides... I can't imagine *anyone* saying no to Duncan MacLeod," he grinned swiftly and pulled Duncan in for an unexpected kiss.

Duncan would have liked to lose himself in that sweetness for the rest of his life, hanging on with a desperation he could scarcely credit. He couldn't remember the last time he'd *needed* somebody like this, as if they were his breath, his life. If he couldn't feel the same raw need echoing back at him, it might have been more frightening, but that it was *Methos*...

"We'll get through this," Methos promised with a smile, his lips brushing against Duncan's own as his long lashes slowly lifted. "And then I'm going to drag you off somewhere, just the two of us, until you're so sick of me it hurts. Just as soon as we're done here."

"It's a deal," Duncan breathed, forcing himself to relax the death grip he had on Methos' shoulders. "But I don't think Joe will forgive us if we don't come back. I can't imagine getting that tired of you..."

"Flatterer," Methos grinned, placing another soft kiss on Duncan's lips before pulling reluctantly away. "We'll see how romantic you are after you've spent a winter putting up with me."

"Anytime," Duncan challenged back and opened the door.

They ambled cautiously around to the back of the old house, painfully aware of the bright morning sun shining down on them, the utter lack of cover. If anyone saw them breaking in, they'd have the police as well as the creature inside to deal with, but there was no other way around it. They couldn't wait for nightfall, even if Methos would be willing to try it then. Duncan didn't claim to understand Methos' stubborn insistence on fighting during the day, but anything Methos was that adamant about Duncan was inclined to give in on. Besides, if their strength lay in the light...

//Ahriman attacked during the day,// Duncan reminded himself firmly, checking the street as Methos bent to peer at an ancient lock, rusted black, latching the back gate. //Not that he looked anything like the Set Methos saw... but he wouldn't have to, would he? And maybe that thing in there isn't asleep, isn't even resting. Maybe she's waiting... and what happens if she makes us choose between her and Joe?//

With a crumbling groan, the gate opened under Methos' patient touch, and the other man slipped in with noiseless speed, pocketing a set of lockpicks. Following, Duncan tried to filter out some of the oppressive tingling that dragged at their heels, wondering if he'd simply become more sensitized to it from concentrating on it so intently or whether the creature no longer felt the need to cloak her unmistakable signature. If he pushed it far enough away, he might be able to pinpoint her with a bit more accuracy, or at least know when she was coming...

Crouched behind a tangled wall of overgrown shrubbery, Methos glanced out at the silent house, dappled with shadows, innocuous and still. Jerking his head for Duncan to follow, he crept closer with an eerie grace, gliding across the grounds like some movie apparition. //He must be a terror by night,// Duncan thought with a strange pride, able at last to admire the deadly beauty of his lover. With Methos behind him, how could they fail?

With a long, slim strip of metal, Methos jimmied one of the windows open, soundlessly raising it with infinite patience. Scanning the empty room quickly, he motioned for Duncan to give him a leg up, scrambling inside with barely a rustle of cloth. Pausing with his back to the window, Methos went perfectly still for a moment, facing the closed door just across from them. Duncan could *see* the ferocity of Methos' listening stance, his breath stilled in his chest, Duncan's own trapped in his throat. Why didn't Methos just drag him *up*? Just before Duncan could panic and force his way in, or grab Methos and drag him back out, Methos shook himself quickly, half-turning toward Duncan with his hand extended.

"I think the coast is clear," Methos murmured almost too faintly to hear, reaching for Duncan's outstretched grip.

With a resounding *crack*, the door slammed open, its old brass handle burying itself in the thin wall. "Methos!" Duncan cried, but Methos had already spun, just out of reach, snatching for his gun or his sword as the Set-beast appeared grinning in the doorway. The hungry flash of fire that leapt from her hands gathered and struck too quickly to be evaded, and Methos slammed into the wall beside the window as it struck him full in the chest. Horrified, Duncan watched him slide to the floor in a rain of plaster and dust, his buzz flickering out as death overtook him.

Ravenous, a fraction of it snaked away, jabbing towards Duncan like a malevolent cobra, and he stumbled to his knees as it seared along his nerves in a convulsive shudder of agony. It was like the worst Quickening he'd ever known, only darker, sucking the life from him instead of deluging him with an unbearable overload. The gruff laughter from within stuttered in the veil of pain that fogged his senses, and he forced himself to hold onto consciousness with a frightening effort of will.

"This is between me and him, *Champion*," she sneered, unseen within the mockingly still house. "Come again, and I take his head. And your crippled pet Watcher dies. Walk away, and I'll face you tonight, single combat, your rules. On my father's name."

And then he heard dragging, pulled himself to his feet just in time to see her disappear into the hallway, carelessly hauling Methos by one foot. As if the rangy Immortal weighed no more than a child. And Methos was unquestionably dead.

//Appealed to my honor...// tumbled through his scattered thoughts as he forced a hitching breath through the tight band that constricted his ribs. //Because I'm the noble Champion... to give her time...//

Time to take Methos from him forever. Shuddering, he thrust from his mind the image of Methos being dragged away, the hollow wrongness of his lover's crushed chest, the blood trickling from his lips. Dead himself, Methos couldn't Open the Ways, couldn't defend against the enemy he had sworn he would survive. And that thing had appealed to Duncan's *nobility*.

Taking a deep breath, Duncan felt for the strength of the blessing they had received that morning and straightened, resolute. Heading around the side of the house, he glanced up once at the sun before drawing the gun Methos had given him.

If that thing thought he was some stainless hero, she was going to get a nasty surprise.

Chapter Seven

Gasping, Methos woke to a residual ache in his chest, nearly eclipsed by the singing tension that screamed up his shoulders to the tips of numb fingers. //Tied,// penetrated his fogged mind, and the realization that he'd been bound sent him rocketing up into full awareness, his eyes snapping open. "Methos!" he heard someone shout, but it was a male voice, familiar, easily dismissed. He wanted to know where *she* was...

He was in a cellar, he could tell that much: the stone wall was cold against his back, faintly damp, and the air stank of dust and mildew. The cobwebbed remains of what looked like a wine rack teetered against one wall, and the stairs that led up to a heavy wooden door were well-braced, heavy beams built to last. At the moment, he appeared to be alone, except for the figure crouched against the wall to his right.

No, not crouched. Sitting. Legless. "Joe," he rasped, something cold in his chest uncurling at last, bright relief slumping his shoulders until the pain snapped his spine up stiff again. "I thought you were dead..."

"Not quite," Joe grimaced, and Methos could see the shame in those normally-bright eyes, a helplessness Joe tried to hide. Dawson had one wrist manacled to a heavy bolt in the wall, joined by a thick length of chain, and the legs of his jeans were tucked emptily beneath him. Even if Joe had been left free, he would have found it difficult to loose Methos' hands, stretched far above his head until his whole body arched taut. The bitter self-recrimination in Joe's eyes was frightening, and Methos wished suddenly that there was something he could say to ease the pain he saw, that he'd made clearer in words what he'd tried to portray in his actions: that Joe was no less of a man for his loss.

"Joe," he began, but Dawson shook his head, quickly and fiercely, and Methos held his tongue with an effort.

"Nah," Joe growled, "I'm *fine*. Just a little bruised in the pride department. I'm not even sure how I got here. All I know is that Security Director Ayers decided he wanted a meeting with me and half the region late last night. We were waiting for him when *bam*, the lights went out--"

"He's dead," Methos said shortly, too conscious of their limited time alone to sugar-coat the situation. "She grabbed him in Milan, picked his brain and left his head on the front seat of Duncan's car."

"Damn," Joe muttered, slamming his free hand onto his thigh. "I should've known..."

"No way you could've, Joe," Methos sighed, shaking his head. "She had too much information, moved way too fast. There wasn't anything you could do."

"What about... what about the others?" Joe asked quietly, pleading with his eyes for good news. "I heard people yelling right before something knocked me out..."

Methos hesitated only a moment, but that was enough. "Dead," he murmured, but Joe's face had already fallen, sudden pain lashing across his aggrieved expression. "I'm sorry..."

"Don't be," Joe swallowed. "It's not your fault. She couldn't have had any idea you were friendly with the Watchers when she grabbed Ayers-- she must've wanted him because you're an Immortal and she thought he'd know how to find you. I'm sure we were just a *bonus* to her," he spat, but his heat wasn't directed at Methos. "She'd have gone after us anyway, once we wised up and started hunting her."

"Hunted by mortals," a rasping chuckle stiffened both men instantly. "Terrifying thought."

The door at the top of the stairs had swung open noiselessly, the dark cloud of her signature so all-pervading Methos hadn't noticed the gradual increase as she drew nearer. Sneering dangerously, the last child of Set stalked down the steps with deadly grace, bird skulls still rattling dryly together in her hair. If it wasn't for those surreal ornaments, she would have looked completely normal, beautiful enough to turn any head until the malice she radiated caught up with her admirers. Staring into those dark, melting doe-eyes, Methos caught an unmistakable flicker of madness behind the cold cunning, desolation at the heart of her fury.

Instinctively, he *reached*, grabbing with mental fingers for a doorway he could *almost* touch, but her hands came up in warning, red lightning flickering effortlessly across her palms and coiling up her arms. "Think, Still-Heart," she purred. "You'll be dead before you can try anything, and then I'll kill your human pet. Of course, just imagine what would happen to him if you managed to Open the Ways at all... journey into the realm of the dead, and you become dead yourself. He's not *like* you, Still-Heart. Poor, poor mortals-- I can only kill them once," she crooned, walking calmly down the steps while Methos hesitated, stricken. If he missed his chance... if he tried it and she killed him before he succeeded, and Joe died for nothing...

"Methos, she's going to kill me anyway!" Joe yelled, yanking at the chain. "What are you waiting for?"

"*He* knows," the creature smiled slowly, speaking to Joe but staring at Methos. "He reformed himself, you see. Got weak. Do you know why I didn't come for you or your little band, Still-Heart? Because we were *brothers*," she chuckled, slinking smoothly closer, her eyes mesmerizing. "Oh yes," she laughed at the horrified shake of his head. "You were just like me. And you'd left me all alone... how could I kill the only one who could understand? I felt the draw every day for a thousand years, Still-Heart... and I *reveled* in it. I wasn't *alone*," she hissed, her steps turning jerky, more lunges than strides. "There was *you*, Still-Heart... always and ever *you*..."

She was nose-to-nose with him, breathing hard, her teeth bared in a rictus of caged violence that trembled to be released. Almost, he could believe her, if only because his own soul still ached with the memory of how lost, how very alone he himself had been then... Almost believed, except for Duncan. "Only for a thousand years? Why didn't you kill me after, when I left the Horsemen?" he asked with studied nonchalance, meeting her wide, snapping eyes with a wrenching effort.

"You weren't *mine* anymore, were you? I reformed too, Still-Heart. Only lawful prey. Obedience and a life apart."

"All alone," he agreed, and steeled himself for the blow he knew was coming.

Her nails were sharper than they looked, tearing into his cheek as she backhanded him, snapping his head around and smashing his face into the wall. Seeing stars, Methos forced his head back up, working his jaw absently against the ache and feeling a ticklish trickle of blood before he began to sluggishly heal. "Because of *you*," she snarled, ripping his bloody sweater from his shoulders, eyes fastening on the fleeting snap of his own lightnings across his face. "You took them from me, everything I loved, and I had to cower to those cringing ancients, too soft and too scared to show their *mighty* power. Not enough to save *you*, was it, Still-Heart? The beloved of the gods, broken and empty."

"*Not* because of *you*," Methos taunted. "You were already cowering at the edge of the pack when I killed your brothers, led them right to their deaths. *You* just ran to Daddy and left them to die."

The moaning shriek that escaped her was raw agony, a wasteland of endless centuries with no company but the sound of her own voice, nothing but a hollow chill where the warmth of the pack had been. Nothing else would come near her, nothing else could stay. The quick deaths of the pack suddenly seemed kinder by far.

Jerking against the heavy manacles that bound him, Methos gritted his teeth as her claws sunk into his chest, tearing downward in sharp, hard tugs. "Rotting carrion," she hissed, leaning closer, her breath faintly sweet on his face. "I thought you were dead. I was *happy* when you disappeared and scattered your little band. There was no more temptation, no more *struggle* to obey those ancient fools. I could have gone on being their good little dog, cleaning up their scraps and filth, so long as *you* were gone. I thought your lovely Kronos had killed you at last..."

His start of surprise did not go unnoticed. "Oh yes," she sneered, "I knew everything about your 'brothers.' I watched you all the time, I *prayed* the gods would slip the leash and let me hunt you. But it was never *you*, it was the others I was called for, and I wouldn't do it-- not while those three could still drag you under, Still-Heart. A thousand years I waited, and then you were *gone*..."

Shaken, Methos pressed away, into the wall, desperate not to understand what she was saying. For a thousand years she'd let the Horsemen rage unchecked, just to have a shot at *him*? If it wasn't another lie, another game... 'Weigh and strike,' he had always cried to the heavens, arms spread wide to receive the thunderbolt, and never once had he understood the true import of their silence. They *had* weighed him, each time.

And let him live, to journey to this.

If he Opened the Ways, Joe would die. The Underworld, Amentet, was no place for the living, and Joe could only die once. And if he *let* Joe die, if he *killed* Joe, his friend, a man who trusted him... He had journeyed too far away from Death on a Horse to go back to that now. Even if Duncan could forgive him, Methos could never forgive himself.

//Please don't make me choose between Joe and Duncan,// he prayed helplessly, hearing the old, familiar silence as his answer. If Duncan could just get here, distract her, take her out long enough to get Joe free... Methos could weather anything she could do to him, for as long as it took. Anything, to give Duncan enough time to save them all... //When did depending on that become a good thing?// he chided himself fiercely, feeling suddenly, strangely naked, vulnerable-- but his thoughts were wrenched back to the present when the creature ripped her claws out of him, wrapping a blood-slicked hand around his throat.

"I'm going to bleed you dry," she growled against his cheek, lips feathery-soft. "You're going to die for me, over and over again. And you're going to *feed* me that old, old Quickening, Still-Heart, that fire you were so proud of, or I'll bring your beloved Champion down here and take his head, make you take his Quickening before I tear it out of you. Think how wonderful he'll taste for that one instant you have him, the last time you'll ever touch him. I felt it when you joined, two years ago. That's when I knew you were still alive. You have no idea what that was like-- I was looking for your darling Kronos and felt *you*. And oh, I fought it, Still-Heart, but 5000 years is a long time to wait..."

In the terrible silence that followed her words, Methos shuddered under the crushing horror that iced his veins. The thought of taking Duncan's Quickening, his life and soul, *taking* when just hours ago they had *shared*... He felt his stomach turn over, breath hitching on a choked snarl of bitter disgust, as Joe yanked suddenly on the chain that bound him. The harsh clatter centered Methos, and he took a deep breath, forcing the sickness down. There was no way he could take Duncan's Quickening. No way in hell.

A sudden slash of claws laid open his chest, and though he jerked against the unexpected shock of pain, he kept his teeth clenched on a scream. //Ride it out,// he warned himself, desperation steeling his spine. The glitter in her eyes reached down into him with shivering fingers, a hate so focused he could feel it pulsing between them as her hand tightened around his throat.

"Call it," she growled flatly, long fingers tracking the furrowed paths of his wounds, slick with his blood. A digging twist, and she gouged deeper, smiling as he twitched against her grip, his head tossing back and cracking against the unforgiving stone. "Call it, Still-Heart..."

Forcing a long, slow breath past the rebellious heave of his gorge, Methos centered himself, letting the pain flow through him. He could do this, for Duncan. For as long as he needed to. As her fingers clawed deeper, waves of agony cascading into the darkness he felt building inside him, he pictured the burning hawk against a cloud of ebony and called the fire to him.

Cloaked in the ebb and flux of cool lightnings, he felt a moment of calm, of peace, cocooned in a drifting warmth like sun on stone. He could almost see the play of sunlight on his closed lids, dappled coins of brilliance filtering through dark leaves, flickering against his face. He had always thought of a naked Quickening as a thing of destructive fury, but he was floating in a still center of quiet comfort, serene.

Warm lips against his chest shattered that serenity in a heartbeat, fastening on him with the hunger of a leech as a wet tongue probed at his healing wounds, lapping blood and fire from his cringing flesh. He could feel each heart-deep tug as she ripped the pale lightnings away, and he was gasping on a voiceless scream in seconds. He had forgotten what it felt like, like being flayed alive, like his *soul* was being skinned away in flinching strips. 5000 years of Quickenings, and he thought he could hear the rising cacophony of each stolen spark crying out inside him in a panic too overwhelming to be merely his own. And it was getting louder, getting closer, as if it was an outside force...

//Duncan,// he realized in a haze, insensible to the hands that were taking him apart, feasting on his pain, peeling his spirit out of his body in great bloody rents. Duncan was on his way, and if he could just hang on until then, if she didn't drain him dry, strip him of himself before Duncan got there-- //If she takes me, she can take Duncan,// flashed through the fog of his torment, and he didn't want to think about the bond, about how much of Duncan was in him and how much of himself Duncan might be losing. Or what would happen to Duncan if the Highlander was the only one that survived...

//As long as he survives,// Methos promised himself, and poured his heart down his death's ravenous throat. //As it was in the beginning is now and ever shall be,// he thought, and laughed, a sound indistinguishable from his quiet gasps of agony. There was an iron core of stubborn determination buried beneath the masks he wore like a snake's layered skins, unbent, unbroken, unshaken. *Methos* he had called it, the only thing that had survived the destruction of Nakht sa-Menthu, the only thing the creature feasting on him had never been able to touch. She could take all of him but that, his most hidden, secretive of souls. That part belonged to Duncan.

Instinctively jettisoning five millennia of strangers, he hoarded the parts he most truly called *himself* in a well of fire impossibly bright, deep within himself. Once she reached *him*, it would be over, but for now... Quietly, unnoticed as she continued her single-minded feasting, he reached out for salvation, found, and *touched*...

And then darkness pulled him under, drowning him in the thunder of a single massive heartbeat.

The old house was almost empty as Duncan crept through it, gun in hand. Ghosting past an occasional forlorn lump under a furred grey dust cover, his feet left sharp tracks in years' worth of grime. His only consolation was that he was not the first to walk these halls; he was following the prints the creature had made, both the clear mark of boots and disturbingly large pawprints of some huge beast, rivaling tigers in size.

Right now, he was following a blood-trail, slicking cleaner hallways where a man had been dragged. He had felt it when Methos revived, Methos' buzz returning full-force in the back of his mind, but it had been growing steadily weaker by the moment, at alarming speed. All he could feel from Methos was pain, no matter how hard he tried to break through, to *reach* the other man and lend him strength. If she killed Methos before he got there...

//Don't you dare leave me now,// he threatened through gritted teeth, panic slicing a cold knife across his heart. //Don't you *dare*...//

The smeared trail of blood led to a dim pantry, past empty shelves to an open doorway. There was a light on inside, and he could see a set of stairs leading down into what looked like a cellar, dark stone laced with cobwebs and wafting a faint smell of mildew to where Duncan crouched, listening intently. There. A gasp, and a rattle of chain.

Holding his breath, Duncan leaned around the side of the open doorway, just enough to peer into the cellar below. The friendly glow of electric light was no comfort. The sight that greeted him clenched an icy hand around his heart as a killing fury leapt up white-hot inside him. Joe was there, blessedly alive, but struggling futilely with a heavy length of chain, left to sit and watch as his friend was tortured a stone's throw away. And Methos...

Methos was strung up on the far wall, his head lolling back bonelessly, slicked and spattered with blood still wet. Shy trickles of healing sparks were jittering across his chest, slowly closing the gaping wounds that had been etched into his flesh, but they were fading, quivering almost reluctantly as Methos' breath rattled out of him in a last long sigh. The song of Methos' buzz was instantly muted, but the lightnings refused to return, snapping always just beyond the touch of the creature hovering beside him.

Crooning something unintelligible in her gravelly voice, the last child of Set stroked red hands over Methos' torso, sliding through slippery blood and teasing the edges of mortal wounds. "Wake, Still-Heart," she chuckled, lifting Methos' face and rapping his head smartly against the stone behind him. "If I have to *take* it from you, it'll hurt twice as much, I promise. Feed me your heart, carrion. I've waited too long for this."

"Get used to it," Duncan growled, spinning out into the doorway and bringing up the gun, firing two shots in rapid succession. She turned too fast for the first, and it burrowed into her shoulder, but the second pierced her heart as neatly as he could have wished. Charging down the stairs as she fell with a snarl, Duncan pulled out his sword, determined to take care of this once and for all. The hell with single combat: Methos had been right from the first.

Duncan was going to blow her head off and hack her into bits.

She was rolling before she hit the floor, diving for Methos' coat with a mad grin as uncanny as her grace. He'd shot her square in the heart-- she should be *dead* right now... He fired again as she paused, crouched over Methos' ruined trench coat, and though he saw her jerk against the force of the bullets, they seemed to make no impression on her whatsoever. Whirling, she turned and straightened, Methos' sword in her hands.

"Oh no," she chuckled darkly, stalking toward him with hungry confidence as he tossed the useless gun aside. "I'm much more difficult to kill than that. Did you think I was just another Immortal? Deluded child. You're the prey. I'm the hunter. And I'll make this *slow*... on both of you."

There was no warning as she attacked, only an instant of blinding speed and the glittering arc of fine steel. Duncan brought his blade up swiftly, but the force of her swing nearly deadened his arms as he blocked it, and he had to twist away from the next cut with a sudden, wrenching jerk. Fast. She was impossibly fast and far stronger than she looked, both attack and defense a risk against her. Now he understood why Methos had been so reluctant to hunt her by night, to *fight* her. If this was what one of them was capable of, he could barely imagine the destruction the entire pack had managed to cause. Nothing mortal would have been able to stand against them, not in a physical attack...

"Do you know what I'm going to do, Champion?" she smirked, purring a chuckle as she sliced across his ribs, just deep enough to distract him with the sting. "I think first I'll hobble you. Take your feet. And your hands. You can watch me with the Old One if it amuses you," she grinned, ripping into his thigh. Duncan almost stumbled, but he recovered with a silent curse, realizing she had no intention of pressing her advantage, playing with him like a cat with a broken-backed mouse. "I was going to feed him your Quickening before I killed him, but it might be more interesting to feed you *his*, see which of you wakes from it. Wouldn't it be perfectly charming if he overwhelmed you and woke in his dead lover's body? I'd like to see his face then, wouldn't you?"

Sneering coldly, Duncan thrust her words from his mind, refusing to imagine Methos dead, the horror of taking Methos' Quickening. //Wake up, Methos,// he prayed, dodging away from a vicious strike, his own slash neatly evaded. //I can't do this alone...// The very idea of him calling the kind of fire Methos had summoned, reaching out and Opening the Ways, was alien to him. He meditated and he fought, and though the two might occasionally overlap, he was no mystic. When he had seen his friends down here, trapped and in pain, his single, overriding impulse had been to charge to the rescue, cross blades with this nightmare and tear her apart. And now...

If Methos didn't come to shortly, they were all finished.

//Buy him time, MacLeod,// he snarled at himself, *focusing* on the fight and drawing strength from his desperation. Finding an opening as he put himself between her and Methos, Duncan darted in with a flurry of blows, noting with dawning hope that for all her speed, his opponent had hardly made a career of the blade. She was good, but no better than that, and if it wasn't for the alacrity of her responses, the game might have been over by now.

And Methos was reviving behind him. He could *feel* it.

The creature's ragged growl of irritation egged him on, driving him to attack and ignore the sharp ache of the wounds she inflicted. She had a decent guard, but her very speed left her open when he outthought her, darted aside or exploited a maneuver he saw developing. Block, retreat, feint, *strike*--

Something huge lashed through the room, an unseen current of electricity that trembled the air around them. The rain of dust falling silently from the rafters was the only indication that Duncan hadn't imagined it-- that and his opponent's sharp stumble of distraction, turning to glare with avaricious malice at Methos' limp form. The flicker of awareness Duncan felt from the other man was still dim, strained, but Methos was waking, of that he was certain.

And *something* was congregating in this cellar, drawn to Methos like iron filings to a magnet and sizzling the air with strangeness. When Methos woke...

The next vibration that shivered through the cellar raised every hair on Duncan's arms, and as a sudden burst of brightness flared at his back, he blocked the creature's swift lunge towards Methos with a tearing effort. She looked half-wild, her cool sneer evaporating in a grimace of hunger and hate, battering at Duncan to get to Methos. Her famished eyes were fixed over Duncan's shoulder, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Methos' face come up, tipping back to bare his neck as he rested his head against the stone, a human torch of impossible brilliance. Methos had called the fire...

The snap and stutter of Methos' lightnings strobed stark shadows across the cellar, and the static pull drew sparks from the air, flickering over Duncan's skin and sword. He caught a glimpse of Joe's stunned expression as he turned his opponent back again and again, but her feral assault consumed all of his attention. He couldn't let her past him. Methos was *not* going to die here. Not like this. Not as long as Duncan was still on his feet.

Another thrumming shudder washed over them, regular as a heartbeat, the irresistible temptation maddening their enemy. Snarling what sounded like a curse or a threat, she gathered herself with a coil of taut muscle, crouched low to the ground. Red lightnings flickered over Methos' sword and up her arms, and she stared only at Methos as she lunged past Duncan to strike--

Spinning into the cut, Duncan let her go, severing her neck in a single swift stroke as she darted past him.

As Methos' sword went clattering to the floor, the creature's body crumpled to a heap, as dead as any Immortal's. The head bounced once and lolled onto its cheek, dark eyes staring blindly. Warily lowering his blade, Duncan circled the corpse cautiously, watching for the slightest twitch as he edged closer to Methos, whose fire blazed up undimmed. In his experience, demons were much harder to kill than that...

"Not me," he heard Methos muttering under his breath. "Not me... not *me*..."

"Methos," he shook his head, turning to meet a pair of shimmering gold eyes without the least hint of recognition in their depths. "It's me, Duncan. Let me get you down--"

"Not *me*," Methos insisted in a dry rasp. "Joe."

"What?" Duncan frowned, glancing at the surprised Watcher out of the corner of his eye.

"Joe. Get him out of here. Get him *out*, Duncan, get him--"

"*Mac*!" Joe yelled, and Duncan spun instinctively, bringing up his sword.

The last child of Set was nothing but a red mist, clinging to the floor as her body unraveled itself, a thousand tiny darting glints winking bloodily in the crimson fog. *Not* dead. Not dead at all...

The mist compressed abruptly, and when it flexed outward, it took on shape between one heartbeat and the next. Slumped in a menacing crouch was a fantastic beast, huge, streamlined as a viper and built for raw power. Sleek russet fur gleamed over hard muscle, its delicate, fineboned head a mockery of its razored snarl. Like a nightmarish cross of hyena and gazelle, it was a bundle of contradictions, grace perverted and refined for terror, the perfect instrument of death.

"Oh gods," Methos moaned behind him, and Duncan reached out without thinking, resting his left hand on Methos' chest.

The fire that enveloped him was blood-warm, comforting, holding onto him with a cottony embrace that slid fur-soft up his arm. He felt it as the next stunning vibration came *through* Methos, felt the trembling connection to something vast. Methos wasn't reaching for the Ways. He'd already taken hold of the doorway between their worlds, become a conduit and a key, was holding them *shut* with an effort that threatened to shake him apart--

(Methos,) Duncan whispered into the fire. Twining together as one, he fed Methos' formless strength with his own, grounding them. (Do it. Open the Ways...)

Methos let go as the Set-beast leapt, the world falling away in a dizzying clash of thunder.

***

Everything seemed to be happening at once. Methos felt himself slump as the wall disappeared behind him, tumbling him into blackness, but Duncan's arm caught him, pulling him close to the Highlander's solid frame. The cellar faded, or unfolded, a miles-high arch of darkness unfurling above them as Aker's heartbeat boomed through the immense cavern. His hands were loose, his Quickening settling into his bones. Joe gasped on his right, face going dead white. There stood the sober pavilion, a ring of gods attending--

--and the Set-beast was checked in mid-leap by a solid wall of fire.

Shrieking as she twisted, snapping at the white-hot tendrils that snaked around her limbs, the creature tore herself away from the ebbing column of flame, regarding the gods with a heads-down crouch, cold-eyed and wary. Sagging against Duncan's side, Methos lifted his eyes slowly, feeling his spine pop and grate as he stared wearily around the cavern.

Eleven neat piles of bone lay dotted around them, smooth, streamlined skulls grinning up fiercely. The remains of the pack, and it was an ominous statement, a grim threat that was lost on no one. Eleven had fallen, and the twelfth had fallen from grace.

And here he was again, dead and not dead, witnessing the judgment on the last of a kind. He wanted to go to Joe, but it was too late for that. He could feel again the snapping of the tension that had kept their worlds separate, the touch of Duncan's *wanting* and Methos' own fear unknitting the worlds between them. He had tried to save Joe... the gods *knew* he had tried...

((**LOST**)) the jackals spoke together, but it sounded very different from the kind sigh they had hummed at him in his apartment. This was a snarl of icy fury, grim with implacable menace, and the Set-beast hunched with a growl under the razored onslaught.

((**JUDGED AND JUDGED AGAIN**)) Osiris agreed, his voice deadly. ((**THE TRUST IS BETRAYED**))

((**IRREDEEMABLE**)) a voice from the shadows chuckled, sly and faintly mocking, and Methos felt Duncan stiffen instantly. ((**AND WHO WILL HARVEST THE IRREDEEMABLE NOW THAT THE DESTROYER IS GONE**)) Set grinned, melting out of the darkness at their backs. ((**SHE IS THE LAST AND THERE ARE NONE TO TAKE HER PLACE**))

((**NO**)) Osiris objected, looking up into the darkness as a speck of light grew, became immense. Menthu, approaching fast. ((**THERE ARE ALWAYS OTHERS TO TAKE UP YOUR HUNT**))

Like the fire of blessing that had enveloped Methos and Duncan on the barge, Menthu came in a fury of light, nearly too bright to see. Glaring at his opposite, Menthu met Set's eyes for a long, silent moment, something unreadable passing between them. ((**SHE CHOSE**)) Menthu said at last, strangely calm, ((**AND ONLY BECAUSE OF YOU WAS SHE SAVED**))

((**THEN AS YOU LOVE ME O MY BROTHER**)) Set laughed, untroubled, ((**LET HER CHOOSE AGAIN**))

Methos felt Duncan jerk against him, but he laid a calming hand on the arm that held him upright, stifling the despair that rose up in his own heart. //I can't do this again... oh gods, I can't...// But he could see it before him, unspoken but clear, the link between these two proud gods. Menthu's brilliance beat back Set's darkness and Set's shadows battered at Menthu's white glare, but in the space between them, they were each transformed, becoming a sort of peace. They would fight, and struggle, and wage bitter war upon their opposites, but neither one could live without the other. It was indeed a kind of love. And because of this, Set would not be denied.

((**A CHOICE**)) Menthu agreed, but before Set could grin or Duncan speak, the sun god raised his spear, his hawk eyes solemn and fierce. ((**NEVER TO WALK THE EARTH AGAIN AND TO REMAIN FOREVER AT THE HEEL OF OSIRIS**)) Menthu decreed in a voice of finality. ((**NEVER TO HUNT AND NEVER TO LEAVE**))

Snarling still, the Set-beast stared up at her father, waiting for his next objection on her behalf-- but Set stared back at her with cool indifference, silent as stone. //That's it,// Methos realized with a shock of relief too huge to comprehend. //It's over...// She lived, but she was disarmed, tamed--

The creature's great dark eyes speared Methos once as she turned her back on Set, a long, slow look of consideration that shivered up his spine. If she wanted to survive...

The hunting scream that tore the stillness caused Methos and Duncan to jump as one, tensing against attack as the creature exploded into motion. But they were not her targets. With suicidal fury, she charged Menthu himself, bloody quicksilver bounding across the cavern, surging with terrible grace into an arcing leap--

--and shrieking as a hammer of white fire crashed down upon her, blistering her form to ash.

He had a brief, vague impression of a writhing shadow in the heart of the flame, destroyed even more utterly than the pack had been, but Methos winced helplessly away from the sheer brightness of it, shielding his eyes with a numb and shaking hand. Gods, he felt terrible... Duncan was the only thing keeping him on his feet, and he was struggling hard against the horror of it, the idea that there were *pieces* of him that were just *gone* now...

"Hold on," Duncan murmured in his ear, and it was strange, so strange, to hear a human voice in this place. Methos shuddered, eyes tracking slowly from Set's measuring gaze to the comforting eyes of the jackals, Menthu's glittering regard.

Slipping free of Duncan's steadying arm, he took a cautious few steps away, finding his balance with a concentrated effort. If he wasn't so damned *tired*... Lifting his head, he forced his spine straight, meeting them stare for stare. "Is it over?" he rasped quietly, his voice echoing across the cavern, rattling against the dry bones strewn at his feet.

((**YES**)) the jackals smiled at him, something like pride shimmering in their slitted amber eyes.

Over. Methos closed his eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath, though his heart was still quiet in his chest. After 5000 years, he had come full circle at last. "And we...?" he breathed, half afraid to hear the answer. That only Duncan would be going back from here. He was tottering himself, and he couldn't even look at Joe...

He felt Duncan catch him as he crumpled, but it was Osiris' gentle smile that filled his vision, Osiris and the goddesses that flanked him. Isis. Nephthys. He remembered... The jackals were coming closer, their sweet breath perfuming the air, laughter in their eyes. ((**YOU WILL LIVE**)) they grinned their canine grins, and he remembered the sorrowful words of his youth as if they were yesterday. ((**YOU WILL HEAL**)) he heard them add as the worlds shimmered around him, their joyful tone a stark contrast to the grim halls they haunted.

The cool touch of two goddesses mended the rents and fissures in his soul, knitting him back together and filling the empty places, reweaving his soul with skillful hands. He could *see* the fine webwork of power cocooning Duncan, Joe, making them all whole again, returning them to life-- and as Menthu's blessing filling him to overflowing, Methos found himself laughing helplessly, sinking into the strong cradle of Duncan's arms. "Don't tell me," he chuckled. "And I'll fight another day?"

Duncan hugged him tighter from behind, both of them collapsed in a sprawl on the floor of the cellar at Joe's side, all of them living, healed, just as they had been promised. "Damned right you will," Duncan smiled against his hair, while Joe shook his head, speechless for the first time Methos could remember. It wasn't every day a Watcher got to die and live again...

Sighing, Methos let his head drop back against Duncan's shoulder, smiling serenely up at the ceiling.

Over.

"Are you insane?" Methos demanded with wide eyes, finding a haughty sneer for the occasion. "It's probably eighty below out there. If you want to freeze your valuable assets off, don't blame me when I leave you for an uncultured barbarian whose 'valuable assets' in full working order."

"Methos," Duncan grinned, not buying it for a moment. "You love it. Now move it, or I'll toss you out in the nearest snowdrift."

"Well, if you're going to threaten me, I'll stay right here," he sniffed, turning back to his book. In his comfy chair by the fire. The roaring fire he'd started when the Highlander had been too *lazy* to get out of bed this morning, he grinned to himself, picturing it in vivid detail.

"Lazy!" Duncan protested, catching that image instantly. "You wore me out, you debauched, depraved... *tourist*!"

"Tourist!" Methos gasped, outraged, jumping to his feet. "I'll give you 'tourist!' I tramped these miserable hills before your clan even numbered a man and his sheep! Tourist indeed!"

"Good," Duncan grinned, ducking under Methos' guard and pulling him in for a kiss that left them both breathless. "Then you won't mind a bit of snow."

Chuckling, Methos wrapped an arm around Duncan's neck, biting once for good measure before he kissed the same spot. It would never do for Duncan to think he'd given in too easily, even if it were true. And *especially* if he had a sneaking love of grey, snowy days.

Worst of all, if Duncan knew all this, without ever asking.

But he'd promised to complain through the winter, and he intended to do just that, if only to reap the benefits of Duncan's methods of persuasion. He could even weather a Scotland winter, just this once. Now that they'd finally gotten snow instead of rain. The sun shattered off the drifts in a million glints of dazzling white, the old church Methos had bought two years ago cloaked in an icing of opals and diamonds. Even then, he'd had a mad idea of sharing this place with Duncan, though he had never expected to do so this soon...

"Sick of me yet?" he grinned over at Duncan, who was pulling the door firmly shut behind them, the wind whipping through his long hair.

"Oh, definitely," Duncan chuckled, pouncing without regard for the weather. "If I have to spend one more night in mindless bliss, I'm going to run out into the next blizzard, just you wait and see," he warned, running his hands up under Methos' sweater.

"Gods! Your *hands* are cold!" Methos yelped, but he moved closer, not away.

"Warm them up for me?" Duncan purred, batting his lashes.

"Letch."

"Tease."

"Scot."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Duncan pouted, and Methos threw back his head, laughing up at the shredding dove-grey clouds. Duncan just snorted, leaning in to nibble a hot line up the column of Methos' throat, wrapping his hands around Methos' hips to steady him.

"It means you're beautiful," Methos sighed, utterly content.

And high above them, the scream of a sacred hawk arced across the sky, blessing and benediction and shield.

end

Notes the Second: Feel free to skip over any of this you want, but if you're interested in where I came up with some of this stuff... read on!

First, the religion: From what I've been reading, in 3000 BC, things were a little different than the 'classical' Egyptian mythology most of us are used to. Horus the Elder was the High God for most of this period, but Menthu was a very powerful local god, whose worship was centered in Thebes and points south. (And of course I fell in love with the name, grin!) Set, at this point, was still considered to be merely the opposite of Horus, not yet the root of all evil, and was said to perform beneficial actions for the dead-- for instance, neither the dead nor the gods themselves would be able to ascend to the heavens if Set didn't hold the ladder. Interesting thought. Whenever I've been able to find them, I've used their actual titles, and the quoted material (as opposed to any prayers or forms of address my characters might rattle off spontaneously) is from the Book of the Dead and other sources.

The Set-beasts: On the one hand, you could assume they're simply chimerical, amalgams of many animals, and their actual legend, as well as the reason they're used for the head of Set, has been forgotten. I did come across one theory, that they were an animal so downright unpleasant they were hunted to extinction a very long time ago. Obviously, that struck a chord... Red is one of Set's colors--red animals became preferred sacrifices because of this fact, and even red-haired humans were said to be under the influence of Set. South was also said to be the area where these animals would have lived, and therefore South became his as well, or vice versa. The rest is my own twisted creation.

Quickenings: I'm going with the hypothesis that pre-Immortals have to have *some* kind of Quickening for Immortals to be able to sense them at all. The rest I just pulled out of my hat, going with mist instead of lightnings for Nakht's manifested "fire" because it sounded good. But I also started wondering why they couldn't be taught to *use* that even before their first death. And the link between the Voice and Quickenings, and... well, the moral of this story is "don't hand me unexplainable things, because I'll run with it." I think this got covered under the Fair Warning clause in my contract somewhere, but you'd have to check for yourself...

The Underworld: I found three or four different descriptions of it, but the one I liked best is the idea that it's in the belly of his *huge* double-headed sphynx named Aker. The whole heartbeat thing was just too perfect to pass up...

And that's probably about it... hope you've enjoyed!